When Agent McGinty of the Canadian Security Intelligence Service was called to Selkirk, Manitoba he thought it would be a simple case. Or at least he thought it would be as simple as it could be when investigating the possibility of a terrorist attack on the North American continent.
But the agent soon found out that he got more than he had bargained for. Who were those Guardians? What was this Conduit? And why was it so important? Patrick McGinty had the distinct feeling that this case was much bigger than he had thought. The fate not only of Canada, but of the entire world might hinge on his actions.

 

Chapter II: Answers and more Questions

 

The next morning started much like the previous day had ended. Patrick’s alarm clock did not go off. Instead he was awakened by Michael storming into his room hollering “Patrick McGinty’s Goat”. The power was still off, so there was no bacon and eggs and worse, there was no coffee with breakfast. Not getting his coffee, especially in the morning, always left Patrick in a very foul mood and Michael’s favorite song did nothing to lighten it.

On the trip to the station, Michael Doorman was driving this time, Patrick McGinty was brooding. Neither of the agents said more than two words during the short drive. The hydrant from last night had since been patched up, somewhat. A steady stream of water still came out turning the cordoned off area around it into a muddy pool.

Outside the RCMP compound some bum was playing the flute. He was actually playing quite well. But Patrick couldn’t for the life of him imagine what the guy was hoping to achieve out there at the edge of town. The place was not exactly crawling with people.

Pulling into the parking lot of the RCMP station they could already see a repair crew busying themselves with the doors of the side entrance to the station.

“Well, here we are”, said Michael. Patrick made some sort of non-committal grunt as a response.

With the side entrance cordoned off by the work crew the two agents walked around to the front entrance.

Near the front entrance the flutist was still playing. Patrick did not recognize the song. In fact he could not even tell what style of music it was. But it was beautiful and emotional. Agent McGinty was not normally prone to getting emotional over a song. He liked listening to songs, but that was mostly just to have some noise in the background. But the song this man was playing was, in one word, beautiful. The agent with the Irish name caught himself stopping to listen and while he listened he started to daydream. Agent Michael Doorman next to his partner had moist eyes. This of course was only because of the dust!

What was this man doing playing at a street corner? If he did not manage to get a big breakthrough with one of the record companies, and this man would deserve it, at the very least he should be playing in the pubs and bars. He would most certainly be a big hit.

When the two agents caught themselves starting to dance to the tune played by the beggar they decided enough was enough. It really was time to get into the compound and to start the day’s work. Going over to the flutist Patrick dropped a couple of coins into the bum’s hat. It was only when the agent took a second look that he noticed he had given the man two toonies. That flutist was good!

Just then Officer McFarland came running out looking sweaty and a bit red in the face.

“I telled yee ta take a hike!” the officer was yelling at the man playing the flute. From the anger on McFarland’s face agent McGinty deduced that officer McFarland had ‘telled’ that to the man numerous times already. Obviously even such beautiful music as this could not turn the senior officer’s frown upside down. The man with the flute kept playing and wholly ignoring the police officer, although he casually moved two or three steps further away from the main entrance of the station.

“G’d damnit!” Seamus McFarland was swearing reaching for but not actually drawing his baton.

“Oh would you let him be Seamus!” Detective Sarah Dostoyevsky said as she also stepped out of the compound, apparently solely in order to prevent the officer from doing anything rash.

“Good morning agents,” she then greeted McGinty and Doorman.

Detective Dostoyevsky had apparently learnt from her previous mistake and instead of a skirt she was wearing matching trousers today. Unfortunately she was a beautiful woman and she was still wearing high heels. She did not show any legs today, but the curve of her hip was enough to attract Doorman’s attention. His partner’s lecherous display was enough to make Agent McGinty blush in embarrassment. Doorman was an excellent agent and a great partner for McGinty. He was quick witted and analytical and with his military background McGinty knew he could trust Doorman with his life if it came down to that. But the man was chasing every half-way pretty woman he met. And although making a complete ass of himself almost every single time he seemed to believe that every member of the female gender was just waiting to meet him. He believed that even though over the last seven years – ever since Doorman had been recruited by the CSIS and become McGinty’s partner - McGinty had never seen the man actually scoring with any of the women he had approached. There certainly was a reason why Michael Doorman was a forty-seven year old bachelor and why he was doomed to spend his retirement alone and would still be a bachelor at age seventy-seven.

“Mike, we’ve got work to do,” McGinty tried to convince his partner to just let it be for once.

But it was already too late. Agent Michael Doorman was already setting himself up again to become an ass without an ass-hat. Of course Sarah too was behaving like a schoolgirl right then. Most certainly Agent Doorman was not the object of her adoration. In fact she hardly noticed him as she was lost in a daydream listening to the flute and gawking at the man like a cheerleader at the star of her school’s football team.

McGinty supposed the young man playing the flute might be considered attractive by women. He never quite understood just what women were looking for, except that whatever they were looking for his partner Agent Doorman was not it. But he knew that a man like the flutist held a certain allure to women. The flutist was of average height for a man and was well built, obviously working out when not playing the flute. He had somewhat unkempt, but washed wavy blond hair and was sprouting a day old fluff around his chin. So the man obviously knew how to use a shower. Always the detective, McGinty also noticed that while the man was wearing somewhat dirty and un-ironed clothes these were not clothes that never saw a washing machine either! This man was not usually begging. Of course it may be his first attempt to do so. Not seeing a threat in the man’s actions the CSIS agent folded his arms before his chest and waited for his partner and for the RCMP detective to stop acting like children so the three of them could get back to work.

The flutist too seemed to have noticed Detective Dostoyevsky and started playing a merry tune. Agent Doorman took this as an invitation to ask the detective to dance. Asking a woman to dance the Doorman way meant he put his arm around her waist attempting to whirl her around. The detective was not too thrilled by his advance, quickly liberated herself from his unwanted touch and pointed out that she did not know how to dance.

“Alright children, we have do work to do,” Patrick called out to them clapping his hands in order to stop this situation from deteriorating any further.

The flutist gave an amused smile before getting back to working magic with his instrument, but at least Agent McGinty had been successful in distracting his colleagues long enough to remind them that they were government employees, had work to do and were supposed to be a model of morality and proper behaviour.

“She likes me,” Doorman whispered to McGinty.

“She is not interested in you,” McGinty answered.

“Just playing hard to get,” Doorman replied with conviction.

“G’ mornin’ agents”, one of the officers greeted them as they entered. Officer Nigel Brown was one of the officers the CSIS agent would still have to interview, with or without Captain Bouvier’s consent. But that could wait. First he wanted to find out if Detective Dostoyevsky had anything new for him and he followed her to her office.

Inside Patrick’s mood lightened considerably when the detective with the platinum blond ponytail offered him a steaming cup of coffee as he entered her office. Patrick looked around; all the lights were still off, all the computer screens black.

“Prescott has brought in a little gas grill”, Dostoyevsky answered McGinty’s unasked question. Officer Prescott Daniels; once again the agent was reminded that he still had a lot of work to do, including interviewing the four officers who had been present at Zack’s arrest.

“God bless the man,” Patrick said while inhaling the aroma of his coffee. Did he ever need this cup!

“Rabbi Wiesenthal is on his way from Winnipeg, he’ll be arriving later this morning. Unfortunately nothing is working here, so that’s the only good news I have for you”, the blond detective reported.

Patrick inquired about Zack, but decided not to see him right away. Instead he asked for the files of the rape case and of the raid on Selkirk Mental Health Centre to be brought to his temporary office, which luckily had a window, since none of the lights were working this morning.

He was mulling them over as Doctor Bouchard arrived and offered for her to read them through as well.

That case seemed rather clear cut. Zack had held Jane, this was not her real name, but her real name was still a mystery to this day, captive in his house in Muddy Creek. Reports stated that she had been tied to a chair in the living room of the house. Until this case had made national news Patrick, like most people in Canada, had never heard of Muddy Creek, Manitoba. Now the entire nation knew of it. Unfortunately, this did not help explain any of it though. It was apparently proven that Zack had had sex with Jane.

Apparently Zack’s wife Elspethwas an accomplice. Yet somehow it had been decided not to arrest her or even bring her in for questioning. Patrick knew he would have to correct that oversight and also talk to Elspeth Schuster. He asked Detective Dostoyevsky if she could arrange that for him.

During the raid on the Mental Health Centre, Zack had been caught. This case was clear cut as well. It was clear cut at least for the purpose of getting a conviction. Unfortunately it was a lot less clear cut about the man’s motives. All of the information there was from experts and doctors, not much from Zack himself, least of all a confession.

“I don’t think he raped her,” Doctor Josephine Bouchard suddenly said.

“What?” Patrick asked.

“I don’t know if this is important for you, but I don’t think he raped her,” the doctor answered with her French accent.

“The case of rape and pedophilia was quite clear,” the agent answered and continued to study the files himself.

“He had sex with her. But he didn’t rape her.”

“She was a vegetable; if he had had sex with her he raped her, besides she was underage.”

“Can you get tapes of the interrogations of the rape case?” the doctor asked.

“I probably can, if you think it helps. But the rape case is not important. I need to know who he is working for.”

At this point Detective Dostoyevsky stuck her head into the room. She apologized for the interruption and informed Agent McGinty that Rabbi Wiesenthal had arrived from Winnipeg. Patrick asked to see him right away. There was no reason to take more of the Rabbi’s time than was necessary. And besides, looking through the files of the rape and abduction cases had proved to be another dead end for the agent.

The Rabbi was almost as tall as Patrick, but that was where the similarities ended. The agent wore a white shirt with the top button open. It needed to be ironed too. Rabbi Wiesenthal wore a well ironed shirt, suit and tie. Where the agent was almost bald, the Rabbi had a full head of salt and pepper hair, as much of it as could be seen underneath the kippa anyway. The agent had a thick white mustache which was dwarfed by the Rabbi’s thick graying beard reaching well down to his belly. Patrick McGinty had round, sunken eyes with big dark rings around them. The Rabbi had almond shaped eyes that seemed full of life and joy behind the thick round glasses framing them.

“Good morning Rabbi Wiesenthal. My apologies that we made you come out here.”

“It is not a problem agent. I’m glad to offer whatever assistance I can offer. But I see Selkirk seems to have the same problems as Winnipeg with the electricity.”

“You’ve noticed that have you?” Patrick asked sarcastically and snickered. “There might still be some hot coffee to be had, if I can offer you some?”

“If I could get some water instead?”

Patrick asked for a glass of water to be brought to the Rabbi. Then he got right down to the reason why the spiritual man had been called to the Selkirk RCMP station.

“You are of course familiar with the Muddy Creek rape case?”

“Well yes, the good Lord has given me eyes and ears. I don’t think anyone in Canada is unfamiliar with that particular case by now. A tragic story that was, and a lot of political upheaval. But I thought that case has been solved already, hasn’t it?”

“That case was solved,” Patrick answered, but he could not help but wonder about what Doctor Bouchard had hinted at just before. Had it actually been solved?

“But the suspect is also a suspect in another case. He may be part of a terrorist organization.” The Rabbi briefly appeared slightly alarmed, but then calmly asked, “Is it something that might involve my community?”

Patrick could not tell and told that to the Rabbi, “I’m afraid I cannot answer that yet. As far as I can tell he may be Jewish himself.”

“Oh,” the Rabbi said with a rising eyebrow, “I can tell you he was not part of my community. When his picture was shown on the CBC it was the first time I saw the man. So I’m not sure how much help I can be,” said the Rabbi and took a sip of his water and then took off his glasses to clean them with a cloth he produced out of the breast pocket of his suit. It seemed to be a well programmed movement and the man probably did not even notice anymore that he periodically did this.

“Do not worry. I do not think he was part of any community in Winnipeg. I’m having problems figuring this guy out. My question is more general. Does the term ‘the conduit’ mean anything to you?”

“I can give you a definition of a conduit. But I’m sure you do not need a Rabbi to read quotes out of a dictionary. Is it supposed to mean something else to me?”

Patrick knew he had reached yet another dead end. If it were anything from the Jewish religion a Rabbi would certainly know all about it. Frustrated he explained his reasoning to Rabbi Wiesenthal. He owed the man that much after making him come out here from Winnipeg. The agent explained to the Rabbi, that Zack was referring to this conduit with great awe.

“And you thought it may be something religious,” Rabbi Wiesenthal stated, absently scratching his impressive beard, “What exactly did he say?”

Patrick recounted what had happened in the interrogation so far. After Patrick recounted Zack’s outburst about that even the Nazis had not managed to kill the conduit he thought he saw some recognition in the other man’s eyes. But the Rabbi did not mention anything. Perhaps it was just the reference to the Nazis that caused the spiritual man to get thoughtful.

“It could still be some messianic movement of one of the more orthodox sects. Although if there were ‘another’ Messiah, especially if there were one here in Canada, I’m sure I would have heard something about it. Are you sure you got the right religion? Could this conduit be some concept from one of the other religions?”

Patrick shook his head. Another Messiah? The Catholic in Agent McGinty could not accept such a notion. But he did not call the Rabbi here to start a religious debate.

Anyway, he was not sure of anything, except that Catholicism did not have a conduit of any kind in its dogma. And he was quite certain that it didn’t belong into any of the protestant branches of Christianity either. He did not know much of the Orthodox Christian Church and less about Judaism, Islam or any of the far eastern religions.

“It could of course be,” he admitted.

“You are right with one thing though, Szachariah Schuster is a Jewish name… but ‘conduit’ doesn’t mean anything to me. I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t mean anything to any of us. Well thank you for coming out here, even if it turned out to be for naught.”

“I’m sorry I could not be of more help.”

Patrick made a comment to the effect that this was hardly the Rabbi’s fault as he shook the other man’s hand. Watching the Rabbi leave the agent shook his head. Once again he was back to square one and he was quickly running out of ideas. At least the lights suddenly turned on. Of course that meant the AC started playing its little game again too. But at least now the computers were working again. Asking Detective Dostoyevsky to call in a First Nations medicine man, an Imam, Priests and Ministers of as many Christian factions as she could think of, a Buddhist monk and any other far eastern Priest she could think of and any ‘whack job’ of any sect she was familiar with, he started looking over the tapes of the interrogations again. Someone would tell him who or what ‘the conduit’ was!

Patrick officially requested that also the tapes of the previous cases involving Zack were brought to him. Maybe the psychiatrist could still find something interesting in them.

There had to be something he had missed so far. There just had to be! Agent Patrick McGinty did not fail in an investigation; especially not one with such high stakes as this one. He never had failed in an investigation and he was not about to start with that now!

About an hour later the almost bald agent was rubbing his temples. A shallow and persistent headache was pestering him and he could really do with another cup of coffee. But alas the gas had run out of the camping stove and the coffee machine unlike the lights had not decided to suddenly work again. He had not found anything new and now was hoping that Doctor Bouchard had been more successful in looking at the tapes of the other cases.

But before he could discuss her results with her he had another interrogation with Zack scheduled.

Just before he entered the interrogation room the agent heard a jolly tune being played on a flute. That man was certainly persistent if nothing else. He really should consider playing in the local pubs. But this was none of McGinty’s concern. First there was Zack. Dark almost black hair on his head with the almost empty stare into nothingness Zack was still wearing the same shirt as on the first day. It was rather wrinkled by now. Seeing his suspect stare as usual Patrick lost his temper. He slammed his hand down onto the table. Anyone who knew Agent McGinty also knew that this was the equivalent of someone else throwing a tantrum. Patrick certainly got angry at times, especially when he did not get his coffee. But usually he controlled himself. He rarely openly showed his anger. Some of the water spilled out of the untouched glass standing next to the suspect. Zack’s eyebrows rose slightly at the surprising outburst from the agent. But as usually the man said nothing.

“Who are you? Who are you working for? Why do you want to kill everyone?” Patrick was yelling at the prisoner. Patrick was actually yelling at another person! Even if it was a criminal he was facing, this was something Patrick McGinty just simply did not do. Or at least it was something he had not done until this day. More than a little surprised at this sudden turn of events Richard Carmichael, the public lawyer at Zack’s side, harrumphed. A bit at a loss of what to do the man took off his round glasses and cleaned them before he spoke, “I must ask you to hold your temper and refrain from yelling at my client, Agent McGinty, or this interrogation is over.”

Patrick opened his mouth to apologize and left it standing open at another unexpected turn of events.

“It’s alright. Do not blame the agent. This is a very difficult time for all of us. My name is Szachariah Schuster. I’m a member of the Muddy Creek community. I do not work for anybody except for God. I am a Guardian. None of us intends to kill anyone,” Zack said, grabbed the glass and spit into it, “Will this do?”

“I... er ... yes... I mean... actually a swab from the inside of your mouth would be better. If ... if you would agree to have this done? And if you would officially allow us to take your prints?” Patrick stammered and frantically waved for his colleagues to bring in the needed equipment, not believing what was happening and afraid that Zack would change his mind any second now. Of course the agent did expect that neither the prints nor the DNA test would lead anywhere, or Zack would not be offering them so freely in the first place. But the real question was: why now?

Zack’s lawyer was obligated to inform his client that without a court order he was not required to give a DNA sample or his finger prints. Patrick did breathe a big sigh of relief when Zack stated that he knew, but that he would volunteer his DNA and his prints.

After the prints had been taken and the DNA sample had been sent to the laboratory Patrick faced Zack.

“Why don’t we talk about ‘everyone going to die’ Zack? What can you tell me about that?”

“Which part of that did you not understand Paddy?” Zack answered and almost sounded angry, as angry as the CSIS agent felt. Just because he was finally showing some cooperation did not give this man the right to get familiar with him.

“You did say you would call me Zack and I could call you Paddy,” Zack stated as if he had read the agent’s mind, “but if you prefer I will call you agent instead.”

The agent had to admit that he had said that.

“No that’s alright, call me Paddy,” he answered. Zack could call him whatever he wanted to call him, as long as he kept talking and did not start staring into nothingness again.

“Who is going to die? Why are they going to die?”

“Everyone dies... everyone... I failed. My parents should have smashed my skull when I was born. I failed and now everyone will die...”

Now Zack was talking, but what he said did not make sense. Perhaps the man was insane after all? But Patrick had to try and get as much out of his suspect as possible. He had to be certain Zack was not just playing him. He had to be certain that this was not just some elaborate ploy to deliberately cloud his mind and distract him from the case at hand.

“What did you fail at Zack? What were you supposed to do?”

“I’m a Guardian,” was the answer the suspect gave, as if that explained everything. It did not explain anything to Patrick. He needed more than that.

“A guardian of what Zack? What did you guard?”

“My ancestors protected the Conduit against the Babylonians, the Egyptians, against peoples you have never even heard of, against the Romans, the Vikings and against the Spanish Inquisition. My great uncle took the Conduit’s place in Auschwitz-Birkenau, most of his brothers and sisters and sons died smuggling the Conduit out of Germany. We came here. We thought we were safe, out in the middle of nowhere, not bothering anyone, avoiding contact with everyone... we thought we were safe. I failed. The Conduit died without an heir... and now we are all going to die, because I was the worst of the Guardians ever. I failed, and the world will pay the price for my failure. It has already started. I failed...”

“What are you talking about Zack? Your people, are they some end of the world cult or something? Are you going to kill everybody because this Conduit died?”

“Why would I do that Paddy?” Zack asked sounding more than a little angry, “Why would I or the other Guardians kill anybody?”

“You tell me! You are the one who keeps talking of everyone dying!” Patrick shot back and for the second time today yelling at the man.

“I didn’t say we would kill them!” Zack yelled back.

“You are right, you didn’t say that. In fact you didn’t say much at all so far!” said Patrick as he jumped up out of his chair slapping the table again.

The situation threatened to get out of hand as a loud thud and a swear made both men look at the defence lawyer picking himself up off the floor, around him the broken remains of his chair.

“The world is falling apart,” Zack stated and then returned to his catatonic state where he stared into nothingness. Once again Patrick could not convince the man to say any more.

“Run the prints and the DNA,” Patrick, still agitated, snapped at his colleagues even though he was convinced that it would be another dead end.

“And get me some coffee!”

 

“Tell me you got something for me Josephine,” Patrick demanded as he stopped the psychiatrist and profiler. He still had not gotten another cup of the black brew and although Zack finally had spoken, what he had said did not help the agent one bit.

“I think I can tell you who that conduit was, but I fear I still cannot tell you what exactly that means, or what Zack was talking about today. I can tell you that he believed every word of it though. Including when he said he or these guardians would not kill anyone,” Ms. Bouchard answered. Her French accent seemed to be a bit thicker now than earlier this morning.

“Alright, who was the conduit?”

Perhaps the answer to this question will clear up a thing or two at least, Patrick thought wiping the sweat of his almost bald head. The air conditioner was once again turning the inside of the station into an oven.