Murder in Focus by Medora Sale Page A

years, one way or another,” Higgs said. “Here and in the army. Not that there’s much use for an intelligence officer here these days.” He stared bleakly into his coffee, as if he had reliable information that it contained cyanide but he was going to drink it anyway.
    â€œI’m surprised you didn’t move over to Intelligence at CSIS, then. When it split off. So you could continue in the same area.”
    â€œSurprised, eh?” Higgs gave Sanders a speculative look. “Can’t desert the old service,” he said. “Not after all these years. Let the younger men start off there. Good training for them, off on their own.” He pushed his half-full cup away. “No offense, but I was sorry not to see Flanagan come up from Toronto.”
    â€œOh, do you know Flanagan?” said Sanders, who was also pretty sorry Flanagan hadn’t come.
    â€œFlanagan and I go way back,” said Higgs, staring at the concrete block walls of the cafeteria as though the lost years were floating behind them somewhere. “We were in the Mediterranean together. Then he went off to Toronto, and I ended up here. Why did they send you? Do you do intelligence work?”
    Sanders shook his head. “Homicide. I once tried going under cover but, you know, no matter how you dress, if you’re my size people take one look at you and say ‘cop’ and that’s it. I walk into a poolroom and in five minutes there’s no one there but me and the cockroaches. Not even the owner. So I went into Homicide, where people expect cops to look like cops.”
    Inspector Higgs appeared not to be listening. “Then why send you?”
    Sanders shrugged. “Beats me,” he said. “Maybe they were expecting a few bodies to float up.”
    â€œYou’re joking,” Higgs said. “Aren’t you? Nobody’s really expecting any trouble this week, are they?” His look of pop-eyed nervous anger had altered in some way in the last few minutes, and if Sanders hadn’t known that they were sitting in one of the most secure places in the civilized world, he would have said that it had been replaced by fear.
    â€œI wouldn’t know,” Sanders said casually. “You’re the specialist.”
    Sylvia looked up as Ian MacMillan walked into the office escorting a dark-brewed, fierce-looking man whose eyes were hollow with fatigue. In spite of his relative lack of height, he made MacMillan look pallid and effete. Sylvia smiled briskly, pushed a button on her telephone, and stood up. “He’s waiting for you,” she said. “Coffee?”
    â€œPlease,” said the stranger. The voice arising from that broad chest was unexpectedly muted.
    Deschenes appeared in the doorway to his office. “I would like to thank you for coming all the way out here on such short notice.” He held out his hand. “It is
Mr.
Hoffel, is it not?”
    â€œMister will do, Superintendent,” he said. “And Inspector MacMillan was a most efficient chauffeur. It was no trouble.” As they were speaking, MacMillan herded them unobtrusively into the office, sat down behind them, and took his notebook from his pocket. Hoffel glanced rapidly back and frowned.
    â€œWhat we’re interested in, Mr. Hoffel—” Sylvia’s entrance with the coffee interrupted Deschenes. He sat back and waited for her to pass cups around.
    MacMillan’s voice cut through the rattle of china. “What we’re interested in,
Mr.
Hoffel, is finding out what in hell you’re doing here—why your government decided to send you instead of the usual bodyguard types. I mean, why the whole bloody Austrian secret service, or whatever you call it, here in Ottawa?” MacMillan waved Sylvia out of his way with an angry gesture.
    Hoffel pivoted slowly around in his chair and looked at MacMillan before turning to speak to Deschenes. “We had hoped to make my