July 16th, 2006<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was a dark and stormy night. Her white skin was seared with the painful marks of his love-making. He had been neither pleasurable nor gentle and her purse was lined with his payment. He hadn\u2019t even bothered to take it back. She was clearly an amateur who just didn\u2019t know the importance of staying in control, of keeping her new customers at bay until she knew what buttons could be pressed\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGod damn-it<\/em>.\u201d Already the weak Tim Horton’s coffee was cold and a dark film swam along its edges. Peter knew that the editor wouldn\u2019t accept anything so trashy. Karim Mawad was tough and rightly so. He had built the magazine from a massively in-debt student-run newsletter full of communist, pro-Che Guevara bullshit to a moderate left-of-centre social justice magazine revered from universities to Wall St. There was no way Mawad would ever print such drivel. But the puzzling story surrounding the death of a very public and publically disliked social activist was something that belonged in such trashy drugstore novels.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Although wealthy and well-respected Shari Stein Sinclair\u2019s death was surrounded in a shroud of mystery. Why on earth would she be in the dank neighbourhood of Jarvis & Dundas at such an hour? And why the leather outfit and paraphenalia more in line with show-jumping horses than someone being groomed for the next leader of the NDP? Was it a set up? Had some crazy right-wing pro-Capitalist think tank tried to discredit her latest report on the Israeli occupation of Lebanon? Israel was hardly popular for it but killing an activist to cover something up? Why bother in this day and age of instant information – a movie or sound bite could travel around the world in seconds. The theory verged on retarded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFucking hell<\/em>\u201d cursed Peter as the cigarette he had been holding burned his middle and index fingers. He hadn\u2019t noticed its heat until it had already seared his finger. In haste he had thrown the burning filter to his desk to land on a photo of Shari and a hole had burned the photo right next to her heart. In anger he stubbed out the cigarette and lit another.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The police were investigating her last known whereabouts – a run down gay hangout named Pembrooke Castle<\/em>. Long ago its location was secret amongst the LAMBDA community due to law enforcement officials raiding and arresting members for improperly soliciting very young boys.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Surely an intelligent reporter like himself could figure this out. Earlier with some well placed bribes and some unauthorized computer access he had obtained all the clues that the Police had gathered. If he could figure it out before they did, Peter felt he just might get a raise out of that cheapskate editor of his.<\/p>\n\n\n\n His computer had her emails for the week past. Some high placed Nigerian public official was in regular contact with her about a possible transaction of some spare government funds. Would someone kill over that? Peter noted the man\u2019s email address to perhaps transfer the money to his account. For that kind of money the risk seemed minimal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n No the real question was why a hot little number like that would only charge $85 for something that would go for triple, even in that part of town. Peter took a long inhale in remembrance. No way that sort of thing comes cheap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n What if the Nigerian email was actually some kind of code? What if the money being transacted had nothing to do with getting interest payments while Nigerians thought up ways to spend the money? Peter reread the emails looking for clues.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Thank you for getting back to me so quickly. The money is available to be transferred right away but a fee of $85 needs to be sent before it can be released to cover wire payment costs. I am unable to pay this myself because it would leave a paper trail that would indicate to the authorities what I am doing. Please send the money via Western Union to account #3882227 and on its receipt I will send you a cashier\u2019s cheque for $87,831,091 for you to store in your 4% savings account for 8 months (or $2.3 mill for us to split as previously agreed). Please send a email once you have sent the money.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n If his theory were true he could forget about contacting the Nigerian. There probably wasn\u2019t a Nigerian at all, the \u201cNigerian\u201d was probably code for an Israeli informant who had assisted her with her report. Peter hadn\u2019t actually read it yet but it was really thick and would require a lot of time to read. He had been putting it off for weeks now after Shari had sent it to a friend named Jared who promised he wouldn\u2019t show it a soul. Except for Peter of course. Jared had described how detailed the report was with actual internal Israeli memos that, if released, could destroy support for the entire Occupation. Oddly enough he hadn\u2019t heard from him for a while even though they were supposed to meet for lunch. Jared had simply not shown up without so much as a phone to say why.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Peter took a sip of the stale coffee which instantly extinguished his lit cigarette still hanging in his mouth. In frustration he spit out the unlit cigarette and looked over at the report. Heaving it up he flipped through the pages. The text was beautifully printed making use of different fonts and using bold, italic and even underlining. While reading Peter slowly walked over to the window. The curtain was drawn and the glass was foggy from the humidity of the night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Some movement drew his attention. On the window a red dot was illuminated and could be seen on the glass. Balancing the report on his chest and with his left hand, he carefully rubbed the foggy glass to try and erase the odd red dot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Glass shattered. Peter was lying halfway across the room completely dazed and confused. Dust was everywhere and slowly Peter realized the window was open. But the pain in his chest kept him from moving. He closed his eyes and tried to regain his breathing. It seemed like he lay there for eternity. Police sirens could be heard in the distance. Two police cars raced along the empty 401 to get to a Police Ball on time. A silencer had been used and no one had been called.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Eventually Peter rolled over. The report and its 4 inches of high quality paper had somehow stopped the two bullets that had been fired at Peter\u2019s chest. Amazingly he didn\u2019t have a scratch. \u201cWho would do such a thing?\u201d he thought blandly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He glanced at his watch. It was almost time to go to work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhere\u2019s the goddamn effin\u2019 article on Shari Stein Sinclair Peter<\/em>?\u201d. Karim Mawad\u2019s dreads were tied in a pony tail in an effort to look both European and hip.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut Karim I was SHOT! Look at this report! There\u2019s two Israeli Uzi bullets embedded in here! I think they\u2019re trying to kill me!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI think you shot the report yourself just to come up with that dumbass excuse! But I\u2019m simply not buyin\u2019 it\u201d Karim returned with fiery. \u201cYou\u2019re a low level uninspired reporter without a shred of inspiration and that\u2019s hardly a reason to kill you. Unless you\u2019re me<\/em> and you\u2019re tired of putting up with your bullshit<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNow clear off your desk and find somewhere else to work. I hear they have an opening at the Star. They\u2019re always looking for made up articles about the Israelis. I\u2019ll give you a personal recommendation myself to that communist dimwit Jack Brianson if you like – just get out of my office!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Peter stumbled out of his editor\u2019s office unsure of what to do. If whoever was trying to kill him found out they hadn\u2019t succeeded, they\u2019d surely be after him again. His only hope was to find someplace safe. Someplace they couldn\u2019t get to him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Within hours he had booked a flight to Beirut.<\/p>\n\n\n\n