Free The Golden Mountain Murders by David Rotenberg

didn’t follow that but he smiled anyway – it seemed to be what Robert wanted.
    “The problem is that each of these Crowfeet roads feed into and out of each other. So once you are in Crowfeet land you should be able to find any Crowfeet address. That’s the theory.”
    “And the practice?”
    “Not always so simple. For example, I gave your Beijing handler 1249 Crowfoot – no road, boulevard, crescent et al. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he’s still looking for you.”
    “He’ll find me quickly enough. He’s no doubt already reported me at large.”
    Robert shrugged.
    Anxiously, Fong asked, “He’s not hurt, is he?”
    “No, Fong. I’m a lawyer not a terrorist.”
    “That is a kind of terrorist in some people’s eyes.”
    “In yours?”
    Fong paused. He stirred his coffee. “Terrorism takes many forms – hope, but a few.”
    Robert didn’t know what Fong meant. Suddenly he wasn’t completely sure what much of anything meant. Why had he come first to Calgary and now to Banff? What the fuck was he doing altogether? But all he said was, “Huh?”
    Fong looked Robert straight in the eyes. “If you stood at the top of a building whose lower floors were on fire – what would you do?”
    “Wait for help?”
    “And if the building was tall enough that you knew no help could get to you?”
    “No way down?” Robert was suddenly fully engaged.
    “None.”
    “I’d wait until the heat got to me then I’d jump, I guess.”
    Fong looked at Robert with something akin to wonder in his eyes. “Would you?”
    “Jump? Would I jump, yes.”
    “Would you?”
    “Yes. Fong?”
    Fong didn’t answer. He looked out the window at the mountains – snow-covered crests, trees clinging to life at every jutting. Then he shook his head.
    “What, Fong?”
    “Agnes’s special coffee tastes like dark water.”
    “Ah, New York City coffee has come to the great Canadian West.” Fong looked back at him, a question rising to his lips. Robert beat him to it, “Never mind. So, would you jump, Fong?”
    “No, Robert — I’d fly.” He almost added: like the guy from the Trade Towers but didn’t because he wasn’t sure either of Robert’s reaction – or his own.
    Robert nodded. A path of perception opened and Robert in a simple synapsal flash knew why he was in Banff, Alberta, wearing a suit, a tie and an overcoat, and he knew that he had one thing left to do in his life – fly. Fly fly fly at the end of the day.

    The old assassin waited patiently. He’d made himself wait all day, so waiting for a few more minutes didn’t bother him. In front of him in the line were a young American couple with two children. One was asleep in the arms of her mother; the other was pulling hard at the coat of her father. She had clearly had enough for one day.
    “Now what?”
    “You’ll like this, Beth.”
    “I won’t. I didn’t like the other stuff we did today, why should I like this?”
    Because it’s like candy, the old assassin said to himself as he felt the tug of his own desire for something sweet. That “tug” was now very much like an addiction, he knew. How odd to have an addiction at this point in one’s life. He’d heard that Brezhnev, the former Soviet leader, had had a serious smoking habit and that he had been given a silver cigarette case with a timer in it as a present by the Swiss ambassador. The timer was set so that Brezhnev, at that time the second most powerful man in the world, could only open the case and get to his cigarettes on the hour and the half-hour. Those who were in the know realized that if they wished to get anything from the old bear they had to schedule their meetings either just after the hour or just after the half-hour. If not, Brezhnev hardly followed the conversation because his concentration was fully on when he could get his next cigarette. An image leapt into the assassin’s head. A desperate military man rushes into Brezhnev’s office screaming: “Missiles are