THE BRIDGE TO CARACAS (Volume 1 of The King Trilogy)

CHAPTER 47

It was a bitter cold morning, but the sun was shining, unobstructed by clouds. Snow crunched beneath the wheels of three dark blue Fords as they rolled slowly and in single file into the parking lot beside Mike's office, blocking the exits. Four men dressed in dark suits and overcoats emerged and walked briskly toward Mike's office. The largest of the four men opened the door and marched in, his companions following close behind.

Mike was startled but remained calm. "What's this all about?" he asked, assuming he was entertaining more CSIS agents.

The largest visitor withdrew his badge and showed it to Mike. "Are you Michael King?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Michael King, my name is Richard Morrison. I'm a detective with The Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I have a warrant for your arrest. You are charged with unlawful possession of a stolen substance, unlawful sale of a stolen substance, and the unlawful sale and disposal of a toxic substance. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you by the courts. Do you understand what I have just told you, sir?"

Mike nodded.

"I didn't hear you!" Morrison barked.

"Yes," Mike said. Two of the officers frisked and handcuffed him while he stood, stunned and silent. They led him into one of the waiting cars and transported him to the Don Jail in downtown Toronto. There, he was fingerprinted, photographed, and locked in a holding cell.

"Hey!" Mike shouted to the officer who had locked the door and was walking away. "When do I get a chance to call my lawyer?"

"In about fifteen or twenty minutes," the officer replied, refusing to turn or even pause.

The same officer returned to Mike's cell slightly more than an hour later. "Mr. King, we're now going to give you an opportunity to call your lawyer. Come with me, please." He unlocked and opened the cell, and then led Mike to a room with no windows and walls painted chalk-white. The room contained nothing but a gray metal table and two chairs, and on the table was a black telephone. The officer closed and locked the door behind them. "You may make your call now, sir," he said, his eyes locked on Mike.

Mike sat at one of the two chairs and proceeded to call Dan Turner. He was in big trouble and aware that only Turner stood between him and bigger trouble. He tried to remain calm. "Dan, please listen very carefully, I'm not sure how much time they're going to give me. I need your help. I was arrested this morning by the RCMP."

"Surely you're joking," Turner said.

"I wish I was. I'm really here, and I'm a goddamned prisoner in the Don Jail."

"What's the charge? I'm sure they told you."

"Unlawful possession and sale of a stolen substance, and unlawful sale and disposal of a toxic substance."

"Incredible! What do you know about it?"

"I don't know. Either somebody's set me up or I'm having a hell of a nightmare."

A consummate professional, Turner took immediate control. "Have you said anything to anyone?"

"Nothing."

"Good. Don't. I want you to remain absolutely silent. We certainly don't want to help those bastards in any way. I'll be there in an hour."

Turner met Mike in the windowless, white-walled room. He began the discussion after sitting on the only chair available. "I did a little scratching before I left the office, and I'm afraid the feds have a pretty good case against you," he said with his booming baritone voice. He leveled his hazel eyes at Mike in a deep, penetrating stare. "I want you to be completely honest with me. Is the case justified?"