Chapter 6: Road to the Future

I couldn't blame Natasha from being curious. She wanted to know what I was going to do with myself. I didn't have a job and I didn't express any plan to go look for one. I had to convince her that I wasn't about to sponge off her. I would pay my way ... and then some, if she'd let me. I wondered if she thought I might be involved in some criminal activity, despite the fact that on more than one occasion, I had assured her I was not.

She went off to work on Monday morning and gave me a spare key to the apartment. She only had one underground secure parking spot, so I was forced to use the street for the time being. That made me very uncomfortable, particularly in an area when car theft was a common occurrence.

I made a couple of decisions when she had left for the day. First, I stopped at a large shopping mall and bought a cheap sport bag. Next, I found a secluded place in an area some distance from the apartment. It was an abandoned industrial site. I made sure I was out of sight when I removed the Glock, the ammunition and the five remaining bundles of cash. Everything went into the sport bag.

After finding a small ceiling hatch in the hall closet in Natasha's apartment, I put the bag up there, making sure I left no evidence that I had been there. Then, I went back to my car and started searching out car dealers in the area. I found several, and after perusing their used car inventories, I bought a nearly new Nissan Maxima in trade for the Taurus and some cash. I used Taggart's compensation fund for the first time.

By noon hour I had my stash secured, and a new car, fully licensed and insured. I decided to drive into the city as see just what Vancouver was all about. I discovered that it was all about traffic. By trial and error I found Grandville Island and spent most of the afternoon there. I headed back for Natasha's place just before five.

When I let myself into her apartment, she was already home. I was greeted like a man just coming home to his wife. A nice big kiss and a "how was your day?" I told her about the new car and she wanted to see it. She liked the Maxima. Very sexy, she thought. She drove a fairly new VW Beetle Convertible, a chickmobile in my opinion. She made a nice, simple dinner for us with a glass of wine to complement it, and we sat down to eat.

When I tried to talk to her about my looking for an apartment, she wouldn't hear of it. As far as she was concerned, I was staying with her. I thought about it, voicing my concerns about her privacy, giving her some space, and my being someone new in her life, but it was to no avail. She was determined, and to tell the truth, I wasn't that upset. I was looking forward to continuing our intimate relationship. I had a lot of catching up to do.

It took me a little while to track him down, but I finally located an old acquaintance of mine from Interpol. Harold Sinden had retired to start his own private investigation firm in Vancouver. He was a very cool, savvy operative, and if he ran his business like he performed his job, he would be a monster success. He called his agency Orca Investigations, and their number was prominent in the yellow pages.

"Harold Sinden, please," I said to the receptionist.

"Who may I say is calling?"

"Just tell him it's Rocky."

I heard her switch the call, and after a moment, the ring tone.

"Colin? Is that you?"

"Yeah. Back from the dead, Harold," I chuckled.

"Bloody hell, mate! It's good to hear your voice. Where are you?"

"I'm here."

"Can we meet? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, so far. No sign of problems. Fancy a pull at a local?"

"Took the words right outta me mouth, son. Pig and Whistle at half three?"

"Fine, see you there," I agreed, and hung up. Old habits die hard: short phone calls with little unnecessary conversation. I picked up the phone book, checked the yellow pages for downtown pubs, and found The Pig and Whistle. I tapped in the address on the Maxima's GPS screen, and set out following the voice instructions.

Harold had changed very little in the nearly ten years since I'd seen him last. His British midlands accent had faded some. Tall, over six feet, lean, gray combed back hair. Cold blue eyes that saw everything. He held out his hand to me and pulled me in for a hug. He was that kind of guy. Cold when he had to be, and warm when he allowed himself to be. I trusted him above anyone I knew. Only Anwar Muktiar, Denis Simard and his wife Cassie ranked at the same level of confidence.

We took a seat in the far corner of the room. There were few people in the bar at mid-afternoon and we could talk in relative privacy.

"How are you, Colin," Harold asked as we ordered our drinks.

"Not bad. Angry, as you can guess, but otherwise, not bad."

"I'm still shaking my head about how they dropped you in it. Their best operative and they treat you like dirt. Thank god Taggart's gone."

"Taggart's gone! What the hell?"

"Of course, you wouldn't know. Sorry. They gave him a golden parachute. It might as well have been made of lead. He didn't last a week."

"What the hell are you talking about Harold?"

"He dropped dead of a heart attack working in his back yard. His wife was with him. He was gone before the paramedics got there."

"Shit! Miserable bastard can still get to me, even when he's dead."