10

Toronto, Canada

Mount Pleasant Cemetery in Toronto comes across nothing like the dull and enclosed concept of European graveyards. Here, no high dark and sinister walls, but rather an airy fence that allows views to pass through. No straight gravel paths dividing neatly aligned long gray or brown marble tombstones neither. In fact, if a triangle if often used to build the large North American cities, with a striking geometric contrast compared to the winding little streets of European capitals, their cemeteries, on the other hand, are real parks. Wide tarred avenues wander through well-maintained greenery. Passersby stroll leisurely, shielded from the sun by the foliage of numerous trees, venerable and some imported from distant lands. Classic old continent horizontal tombstones seem rare. Here, a simple stele suffices to welcome engravings without the necessity of a long slab. All sizes, all colors, and several types of rocks thus receive varied epitaphs from all denominations.

Besides its North American aspect, Mount Pleasant Cemetery feels quite unique by its situation. It is hilly, bordering a few ravines and other parks that constitute Toronto's "green belt." A verdant valley that flows for miles and of which the cemetery appears as a natural extension. Thick, well-maintained grass simply covers many graves. One wanders from stele to stele without fearing the taboo of walking on a tomb. In the avenues, regulars jog, parents stroll their newborns in prams, students read peacefully, sitting on benches, all amid families mourning their lost loved ones.

The extent and tranquility have allowed forest wildlife to reclaim its rights. The dull fur of the inevitable squirrels contrasts with the bright red or blue of cardinals and blue jays. More surprisingly, a few groups of raccoons and coyotes have made their home in this green valley. They can sometimes be spotted at dawn or dusk in the cemetery's remote areas.

Near one of the ravines entrances, in the higher part of the burying ground, are the commemorative plaques for those cremated, who own neither a grave nor a stele. Around a wide artificial multi-tiered fountain, embedded in the parapet or on a low wall, line up hundreds of bronze frames. They appear no larger than a standard sheet of paper, on which families have been able to have a final word, a phrase, or a drawing engraved in memory of their dear departed.

Although English in origins, Brian Wessler was nonetheless a Canadian at heart, and his wife decided to place a plaque in his name here, while his ashes would be scattered upstream of the Thames.

For a week, Jeremy had stayed with Sarah to provide all the possible support through the painful preparations she had to endure. They organized the funeral and cremation together. Jay had each time offered a solid shoulder for the widow to dry her tears. Sarah had drawn on her strength of character day after day, and with her friend's presence, she had gradually regained her composure. The placement of the commemorative plaque represents for her a final gift to her husband's memory. For farewells, she had now accepted. For a mourning that, far from being over, would nevertheless continue with more serenity.

She stands, tall and proud, in front of the wall where one of the cemetery's employees is about to remove the small somber burgundy velvet curtain that shields the newly sealed plate from view. No ceremony, Sarah wanted an intimate moment. Only the closest Canadian friends were invited to the cremation, and the English family will be gathered for the ashes scattering. But for the commemoration plaque's unveiling, she only wished for Jeremy to be by her side. For the occasion, she wears a discreet dark city dress and let her hair down in the natural mane her husband so appreciated. He still has his ponytail tightly tied and is sporting jeans, a black blazer over a white T-shirt, and a pair of sneakers the same color. "Because that's how Brian saw you," Sarah had told him. "I don't expect Jay to wear a suit, even for his own funeral." Her spouse once joked.

The employee solemnly removes the bronze tube that serves as a curtain rod. He moves away silently, taking the velvet drape and its support. Sarah approaches the engraving thus revealed and runs her fingers over the stamped characters: "To my lovely husband who left his flower without a Bee." Jeremy recalls the couple's beginnings, "the bee and the flower." This nickname was born because Brian had chosen as his pseudonym the first letter of his name, "B." And Sarah... Sarah could only be a flower by his side...

They remain silent for a moment, contemplating the plaque, each lost in thought. Then, after a few minutes, a blue jay lands on the top of the wall. The sun reflects on the brilliant, almost metallic azure of the feathers on its neck and wings. It lets out a brief caw, raises the black crest on its head, and fly away. This acts as a signal, the two human beings come out of their reverie and stroll off without having to consult each other.

They first walk side by side along a small path of slabs that winds through this cemetery's narrow loops part. They reach a large paved artery, on which a few cyclists ride unhurriedly. There, they start to talk, exchanging memories of Brian while letting the gentle slope and the random tarred lanes interlacing guide them, without a real destination. After several minutes, they laugh. Jeremy tells with great gestures about Brian's learning of French, with the inevitable mistakes that followed, and their first in-person encounter after years of remote collaboration. That day, Brian had found nothing better than to wear a T-shirt imprinted with the Union Jack "so you will recognize me easily," he had written in his last message to Jeremy.

"So, of course, instead of choosing a quiet location, we meet in a public place, like the idiots we were," Jeremy recounts. "And what could be easier to spot in Paris than the Eiffel Tower?"

Sarah nods, waiting for the rest of the story.

"I arrive on the esplanade, and there, horror, hundreds of English soccer supporters, all dressed in some variation of their national flag! As keen on sports as we were, neither Brian nor I had realized there was a France-England match that day... More than an hour wandering through that vibrant crowd before I finally spot a tall guy in the Union Jack's colors waving his arms in circles as if he wanted to fly. It was Brian imitating the bee making 'Bzzz, Bzzz'..."

"No!" exclaims Sarah. "He never told me that."

"Certainly not his finest moment," adds Jeremy with a grin. "I think I picked him up just in time before he was institutionalized."

They burst out laughing, then Sarah stops, still smiling, but with a distant gaze, absorbed into the memory of her husband. Jeremy immediately follows up, not to let a long and heavy silence settle: "Well, we keep going, we keep going, but I have no idea where we are now!"

The question provides the expected effect and Sarah comes out of the reverie that is winning her over to turn and gaze around her.

After a moment, she shrugs her shoulders.

"Not a clue."

They've arrived at the lowest part of the cemetery. At the very end, a discreet gate with double doors leads to a fallow field along a narrow stream. Near the gate, the path ends in a small roundabout to allow hearses to drive back.

"We're at the bottom of the cemetery," concludes Jeremy.

"Hmm, it doesn't give onto the street, I believe we'd better go back up a bit if we don't want to get lost in the meanders of the 'green belt.'"

As they turn around, looking for which of the three lanes they could have arrived on, Jeremy notices a silhouette in the shadow of a tree, a hundred yards upstream.

"Do you think it's that way?" Sarah asks, wondering if Jeremy recognizes the path.

"Hmm? Uh ... not sure, no. Haven't we already crossed that guy at the crematorium?"

Sarah discreetly glances towards the silhouette.

"I don't know. However, I believe I saw him near the fountain when we went down, why?"

Jeremy waves his hand in a sign of indifference. "Bah, it's nothing. I don't want to bother you with that."

"Jeremy?"

"No, really, it's nothing. I learned the other day that my mobile phone is wiretapped, I'm just imagining things, that's all."

"Wiretapped? But why?"

"I don't know, it's nothing, I assure you... Industrial espionage probably, the competition tries to find a little more about my company? I'll deal with it when I get back to France, don't worry. Forget it... I shouldn't even have mentioned it."

He heads down the path that leads up to the mysterious shadow. Sarah follows him without a word. Up there, the man disappears behind the large trunk of the tree under which he was standing a few seconds earlier.

Sarah catches up with Jeremy.

"Maybe a paparazzo?" she ventures. "I'm no national star, but as a regional news anchor..."

"Nah, no camera, and paparazzi don't wander around in three-piece suits."

They continue to walk up the slope, trying to pierce the darkness under the foliage of the majestic century-old oak. But the man seems to have vanished.

"I'm getting paranoid," he sighs when they reach the tree. "Probably just a random bloke roaming in the park."

They resume their ascent without thinking about it anymore, and emerge onto the artery that leads to Yonge Street, once the longest street in the world. It stretches close to 1,250 miles from the shores of Lake Ontario to the American border. From the waterfront where the towers of Toronto's financial district crash, the street goes straight north to the much quieter banks of Lake Simcoe. It then veers southwest to skirt the Great Lakes to the small town of Rainy River, on the Minnesota frontier.

Opposite the Davisville subway station, Jay and Sarah enter a "Second Cup," a more intimate coffee franchise than "Starbucks." The hot chocolate, Jay's favorite drink, also tastes much better there. As they place their order, a dark figure stops on the other side of the front window, casting a quick glance in their direction.

Busy indicating their choice, neither of them pays attention to the man who enters the cafe. A light-skinned African-American barely taller than Jay, well built, all dressed in a luxurious black suit and overcoat, wearing shiny brown shoes that reflect the room in distorted arabesques.

As Jay searches the pocket of his jeans for a twenty-dollar bill to buy his chocolate and Sarah's coffee, the man steps in.

"Permettez-moi de vous les offrir," he proposes in a deep perfect French voice, tinged with a hint of Acadian accent perhaps. Hard to be sure on this single sentence's only inflections.

Before Jay can protest, the mysterious figure pays the note and grabs the two cups. Without losing his composure, he continues:

"We need to talk. A less public place if possible... I suggest the Wessler residence, in, say ... fifteen minutes? I'll bring the drinks," he adds, lifting the two cups clearly in view.

With that, he turns and casually exits, pushing the door with his foot, a beverage in each hand.

Jay gazes at Sarah, dumbfounded. The surreal scene unfolded in less than twenty seconds during which neither of them found anything to tell. After a minute, Jay decides to break the silence.

"That's the guy from the cemetery, right?"

"It seems so, yes."

He looks towards the street where the man has disappeared.

"What's his problem?"

"Jay? Maybe we should head back home?"

Jay hesitates for a moment, then displays a dismissive gesture. "Yes, you're right, let's go. I'm curious to know what he wants from us."

Perplexed, they exit the cafe and return to Sarah's car. They drive up Mount Pleasant Avenue northward, leaving the eponymous cemetery behind them, then turn onto Eglinton Avenue to reach Bayview and enter Sarah's neighborhood. After just a few minutes, they pull into the driveway in front of the Wessler house, where a heavy brownish Ford is already parked. The black suit awaits, leaning on the hood, the two hot beverages perched on the roof.

Upon their arrival, he straightens and picks up a polished leather briefcase that was lying at his feet until now.

"Mrs. Wessler, if you would kindly open the door. Mr. Baltac? May I entrust you with the cups?"

He indicates his briefcase with a meaningful gesture to justify that he can no longer care for this task himself.

Sarah opens the door while Jay shoots a dark look to the intruder. However, he decides to grab the drinks without starting any conversation.

Once inside, the man continues to behave with ease, as if their meeting was the most casual thing. Jay toys with the idea of vilifying the stranger. But he chooses to play along, which, without prior consultations, seems to be Sarah's decision as well. She remains serenely calm in the face of this situation.

The intruder settles unashamedly in an armchair of the living room without being invited and opens the briefcase on his lap. Jay places the cups on the entryway's side table, knowing full well that neither Sarah nor he will touch them now, and sits on the couch. Sarah chooses the other armchair facing the man in the suit. The visitor clears his throat and takes out a beige cardboard folder on which a name turns up, printed on a small white adhesive label.

"Brian Wessler, alias 'The Bee,' specialty: Reverse Engineering. British."

He drops the dossier on the coffee table's glass surface with a nonchalant yet calculated gesture for its effect.

He then slips out a second file from his briefcase and, like a salesman hawking his wares, resumes to reel off his information without further formalities.

"Paul Rodriguez, alias 'Mosquito,' specialty: Graphics, logos, and demos. Spanish."

The folder also lands on the table, quickly joined by a third as the visitor continues.

"Sergey Kagda, alias 'KryptBoy,' specialty: data encryption. Russian."

A fourth dossier smashes onto the pile with a door-slamming noise.

"Allan Vaughan, Alias 'Ante,' specialty: Communication and network. American."

The man stops and turns to Jeremy. "Do these names ring a bell, Mr. Baltac?"

Jeremy smiles at his interlocutor. No point in denying the obvious. "Of course, I know these names, or rather their pseudonyms. What did you expect me to say? That I pretend I never heard of them when the next file you have probably is mine?"

One last cardboard folder slams down to join the pile.

"Jeremy Baltac, alias 'SdS,' specialty: Information security. French," concludes the strange character.

"What exactly do you want from me?" Jay asks. "I assume you know very well that apart from Brian, I haven't kept in touch with these people for over twenty years. In fact, you just informed me of their real names just now..."

"I know," retorts the man unfazed. "However, we have forgotten one member of your group, and an important one at that..."

"Phoenix?" Jay inquires in a metallic voice for fear the intruder might allude to the Doctor.

"Thomas Andrews, alias 'Phoenix,' American programmer and co-founder, with yourself, of your little hacker team 'RoTP' — 'Rise of The Phoenix'... Touching, almost poetic if you ask me... Mr. Andrews died in a car accident in 1999, a few months after the dissolution of your group."

A brief silence threatens to settle, Jeremy decides to break it. "Listen, whatever it is you want to accuse me of, Sir? ... I didn't quite catch your name..."

"I haven't given it to you," articulates the man in the suit clearly.

"I see..." emphasizes Jeremy, rolling his eyes. "Whatever you have in mind, we always operated in the public interest, warning companies and individuals of the flaws we found... As for Phoenix, I didn't even know his real name until five minutes ago, if you insinuate that I had something to do with his death..."

"I don't care about your past hacker activities, Mr. Baltac," the stranger interrupts. "Whether they were commendable or dubious matters little to me, and I know you have nothing to do with Mr. Andrews's disappearance. What I don't know, however, is why the members of your brotherhood are being murdered one after another..."