plans of the Movement. However, he had been told that, for the sake of the Movement, such things must remain secret. Revolutionary organizations, Alex had been told, are secretive with good reason – they operate outside the law and threaten established governments and leaders. Governments use their considerable authority and means to infiltrate revolutionary organizations, even comic and inept groups, to gather information, plant disinformation, disrupt plans and the supply of resources, especially money, and to collect evidence of criminal activities for future use in courts. A revolution’s best defence against these types of intrusions is internal secrecy and compartmentalization of information, people, and plans. Any clandestine movement that works on trust is soon destroyed, often from within. Molly, the Movement’s leader, understood this rule very well. She trusted no one.
Alex until now had been kept in his own small box. He understood his operational task, was vaguely aware that other operations were underway at the same time he launched his, and that the Movement had some type of control centre on a reserve in Quebec near the U.S. border.
After he joined the NPA, he was moved irregularly from reserve to reserve across northeastern Ontario. Six weeks before he raided Petawawa, he was taken to a reserve on the Quebec side of the Ottawa River, and there he was given his orders and supplies and met his warriors. His “briefer,” who Alex concluded had a military background, though not a Canadian one, was obviously experienced and professionally trained – likely some kind of mercenary. From his accent, Alex guessed the man hailed from the southwestern U.S.
As the van rolled through the village, Alex could see a few small houses, a fence in front of them, older vans and pickup trucks in the driveways, a mix of Ontario, Quebec, and U.S. licence plates. A wide river spread in the distance. The HQ, he guessed – on the St. Lawrence? Seems, he thought, I’m about to move into a wider world – or maybe this is actually the end of the line for me, now that my job is done. What the trip to the centre meant in fact he had no sure idea.
Armed men at the window scanned the interior of the van, questioned the driver, and, after an irritated response, waved them on into the village. They drove past more small houses, kids, and dogs, not very far, but Alex paid little attention, focusing instead on making himself physically and mentally alert. After what seemed a couple of kilometres, the van stopped near a small building covered in dull-grey plastic siding; the driver killed the engine and more armed people crowded up to the doors.
The tall, sour man threw the driver’s door open, pushing them away. He stepped out of the van and spoke to a couple of older men in cheap camouflage clothes of the sort you could buy at any Canadian Tire store. They carried M16s which, Alex immediately noticed, needed a bit of maintenance. But the weapons, magazines in place, looked loaded, and so did at least one of the “Mohawk warriors,” as he soon learned they liked to be called. A quick survey revealed other armed people near the building, and they weren’t loafers. Their clothes and weapons were clean and they carried themselves in a soldierly manner. So there is a hard core to this outfit, Alex thought. And they’re the guys to watch.
One of the serious ones came forward, slid the side door open, ordered Alex out in a decidedly unfriendly manner, then pushed him aside and searched the vehicle’s interior, looking, Alex supposed, for a troop of Mounties. To the left of the grey plastic building, he noted a large Quonset hut, its curved walls supported by sandbag revetments about one and a half metres high and one metre deep. The entrance was guarded by more serious-looking people and draped with canvas to hide any light that might escape from inside at night.
The tall, sour man got back into the van and drove off, and most of the ragtag hangers-on drifted away and disappeared into the surrounding buildings. The new man in charge motioned Alex towards a small hut. A guard, no more than eighteen, in mismatched camo and an uncomfortable-looking army surplus store hat, stood in the doorway fidgeting with the trigger guard on his old army-issue FN rifle. That scared Alex a lot more than his admittedly ominous surroundings.
The serious man motioned Alex into the building and told the kid to watch him. Then, in one swift move, he grabbed the rifle from the boy’s hands and cuffed him on the head, sending his hat flying into the dirt.
“I told you already not to load this thing! Do it again without orders and I’ll kick the crap out of you. Understand?”
The kid nodded dumbly, bent slowly to pick up his hat but jumped back as his chief swiftly and expertly pulled the magazine off the rifle, snapped the breech open, emptied the chamber, and shoved the weapon back into his fumbling grasp.
As he walked away, he spoke over his shoulder to Alex. “Hard to get good help, captain. There’s a washroom in the hut. You’ve got time to clean up. Sonny here will get you something to eat. Grab a nap. No telling how long before they call for you – maybe tomorrow morning.”
Captain? Alex thought. He’d pegged the man without hesitation – or doubt – as a professional, a sergeant or warrant officer. But how did he know me? Do I know him? Uh, uh. He must have been briefed. Somebody here knows what they’re doing.
The kid opened the door and motioned with his empty rifle towards a bench in the corner. Alex sat down and dropped his small pack on the floor. The raid had been tiring and the nap in the van uncomfortable and insufficient. Alex suspected, however, that he wouldn’t get much rest in the next few days. Might as well shake off the stress hangover – hot water always worked – then grab what sleep he could.
Alex looked at the kid, slouching against the inside door, clearly unsure of what to do or what attitude to take to the person his boss had called captain. “Say, young fellow,” Alex said. “Did anyone ever tell you that cleanliness is next to godliness?”
The kid shook his head, more confused than ever. Alex stood up and made a move for his small pack. “I need a shit, shave, shower, and shampoo,” he said, and pointed towards the toilet room in the corner.
The kid waved his rifle vaguely. “There’s no shower.”
“That’s okay, son,” Alex said, slinging his pack over his shoulder as he crossed the room. “I’ll use the sink.” Please, God, he thought, don’t let him reload that rifle. If I’m gonna get shot, I want it to be on purpose and not by some amateur’s mistake.
Entering the bathroom, under the kid’s uncertain gaze, he unwrapped his shaving kit, stripped off, set clean socks, underwear, and a T-shirt on the back of the toilet, and sat down to do his business. He let the water run hot in the sink, shaved cleanly and closely, watching himself in the mirror.
His thoughts swarmed randomly. Who are these people? They seem …what? Tense, aggressive, suspicious? What next? Where am I? What am I expected to do? He stopped shaving and looked firmly at himself. Get a grip, he silently told his reflection. Stay quiet, assess the situation, find out what they want, then decide whether to go along. Refilling the sink with hot water, he took a facecloth and improvised a sponge bath, put his old clothes and his kit into the pack with instinctive neatness borne of long military habit, and went back into the room, startling the kid who lurched nearly upright. “I think I’ll get some sleep on that cot over there, if it’s all right with you.”
“Ah, sure, I guess so. No one ever tells me anything. They just yell at me.”
“Welcome to the army, boy. And remember: keep your finger off the trigger!”
Alex dropped on the cot and, suppressing questions he couldn’t yet answer, fell asleep immediately. The boy slouched into the corner chair baffled and seemed to ask his empty rifle, “Like who’s the guard and who’s the prisoner in this revolution anyway?”
Monday, August 30, 1300 hours
Chisasibi on James Bay
Joe Neetha was the senior Native Peoples Army “commander” in the Chisasibi area, and the only one outside the Committee besides Will Boucanier who knew the names and locations of the James Bay NPA “warrior cells.” Neetha’s family lived in the area of Mistissini where he grew up in the local custom. But Joe had been around; he’d travelled to Radisson, worked in a small store, then as a labourer for Hydro-Québec in town. There he’d fallen in with the native political community and