Chapter 5: Welcome to Frogtown

An hour later, Kit and Bahn were speeding east, in the Prius, on Autoroute 40. Bahn had jotted off an email to FBI Special Agent Lester telling him about the suspect and his possible plans for Justin Trudeau. He had hoped that Lester could dig up more information on Davenport for him.

A quick check with the Canada Border Services Agency turned up that William Davenport had passed through the Fort Covington crossing just before noon that day so they had missed their opportunity to have intercepted him there.

On arrival in Quebec City, they checked into adjoining rooms at the Le Chateau Frontenac, above the Terrasse Dufferin on the rue des Carrieres. The old hotel was an elegant but imposing, fortress-like structure, capped by a high, green, metal roof and adorned with decorative turrets and arched windows on its, castle-like, brick facade. Most of its rooms featured magnificent views of the passing St. Lawrence River far below.

At the registration desk, Bahn and Kit stood behind a slender woman wearing a blue, pleated skirt and sporting a red blazer and matching beret. At her side was a restless preteen girl, in a yellow jumper, who was holding her hand impatiently. As the woman, who spoke perfect English, inquired of the indoor pool hours, the girl asked her, in a thick French accent, "Auntie Renee, whare 'as couzen Steph-fanny gone?"

The woman looked down at her niece, smiled patiently and told her, "She ran up to the room to change into her suit already. We'll just have to catch up."

A painfully quizzical expression now came over the little girl's face as she looked up at her aunt and inquired, "Catch-up? Like you poot on zee poo-tay-toes?"

"No, dear," she said wearily, as if tired of her niece's constant questions, "it's a totally different thing."

Bahn and Kit both laughed as the two walked away and they stepped to the desk. Bahn signed the guest card and, in a secretive voice, told the receptionist, "I'm Inspector Bahn with the CSIS and this is Kit Cassidy of the RCMP. We're here on official business and were told to expect access to all of your hotel information."

"Certainly sir," she replied, looking at his registration card. "We've been instructed to give you complete cooperation."

Wasting no time, Bahn stepped behind the counter to access the hotel's registration system, looking for William Davenport's having checked in. At the same time Kit went over to the hotel office to check surveillance videos of the hotel and the city cameras, located on the street, for Davenport's image. Finding nothing, she rejoined Bahn behind the large registration desk.

"He's not registered," he told her, "but that doesn't mean that he hasn't done so at another hotel nearby."

The registration system also turned up that Justin Trudeau was not a guest of the hotel and, after CSIS inquiries, it was discovered that he was at his family home, in Montreal, and planning on spending a quiet, Easter weekend with his wife and their two children. Just to be safe, an extra detachment of unobtrusive security was put in place around his residence.

Even though time was running out on them, Bahn realized that they had been on the go since lunch and needed a respite. He took Kit into the hotel's Le Saint-Laurent Bar & Lounge where Bahn ordered club sandwiches, for both of them, as they sat at one of the tables close to a window overlooking the St. Lawrence and the huge, illuminated, bronze and granite statue of Samuel de Champlain, looking back at the old city from his lofty perch.

As their sandwiches came, along with the tonic waters Bahn had ordered, Kit asked, "So what do we do now?"

"I'm not sure. We know Trudeau isn't his target but that doesn't mean that someone else, who's staying here, isn't. We can check the other hotels in the area. Maybe Davenport didn't give his wife the exact location of where he was heading."

Just then there was a heavy hand on Bahn's shoulder and he turned in his chair and looked up at the face of a lanky man, with a head-full of blonde, unkempt hair and light-blue eyes, who looked to be in this early forties. His most notable feature, as he looked down at Bahn, was his friendly, though crooked, smile.

"Hamilton Bahn?" the man in the grey tweed sport-jacket asked.

"Yes," Bahn replied, standing now.

The stranger held out his hand, stating, "I'm Lester. Sam Lester with the FBI."

"Yes," Bahn said, smiling in recognition and taking his hand to shake it. "We talked earlier today. Please have a seat."

Lester took a chair and sat, smiling now at Kit.

"I'm sorry," Bahn quickly offered, "this is Kit Cassidy with the RCMP."

"A Mountie, eh?" Lester said to her, taking her offered hand and grasping it sideways for a moment before asking, "So where's your red coat?"

She laughed. "I [I]do[/I] have one, but only for parades. I have the brown Stetson, that goes with it, too. And even a black fur busby for Winter."

"I'll bet you look spectacular in it," Lester commented. "I can see that red's your colour."

"So why are you in Quebec?" Bahn interrupted. "The FBI has no jurisdiction over here."

"I know that. But my chief got on the horn to me, saying that someone high-up in your government wanted total cooperation, from us on this, and he ordered me to get on the stick and run down this Davenport fella and then report here to you."

"And did you run him down?"

"Yeah," Lester announced, "went through a half dozen leads before tracing him to where he was. Flagged down a couple of the provincial Security de la Quebec cops and they nabbed him at a brothel, north of Montreal, in Becancour. Seems our good Mr. Davenport sells bibles and religious supplies ... crucifixes and prayer books and beads and such. He also has a taste for the hookers of French Canada and crosses the border as often as he can to get laid."

"Is that so?" Bahn asked.

"Yes. And was his face red when they caught him in the act. Seems [I]Mrs.[/I] Davenport isn't in on his little ... hobby ... and he sure doesn't want to be found out. The john-darms ran a thorough check on him and found that he was never in Toronto or Ottawa or ever out west in Winnipeg. His story totally checked out so they let him go - squealin' all the way - back home to the missus."