The Bellemare Scandal

"Peace is a difficult thing to measure. It's a bit like counting the people who didn't die, in wars that never happened"

-Neil Halloran. _______________________________________

Quebec City, November, 1995

I had fallen asleep early that night, somehow managing it despite the deafening protests on the street below. I told myself I always wanted to live downtown, what a mistake that was. The protests were now in their third week, and the catchy chants had lost their flavor. My nightstand was quickly turning into a makeshift pharmacy, crowded by various drugs my psychiatrist had prescribed the months before. First trazodone, then zoloft, then ambien. None of them were enough to completely silence the nightmares. What they did do is lower my reaction to them and "take the pain" if you will.

When I discharged from the Royal 22nd Regiment in 1992, I immediately took a job as a War Correspondent with CBC. My parents, although proud of me, reacted with the same hush criticism as when I enlisted. They were separatists, and observant Catholics, intellectually hostile to the UK for their handling of the crisis in Northern Ireland and their perceived "oppression" of the Québécois. I regarded most of this as nonsense, at the time that is.

I was dispatched to Bosnia in 1994, attached to French military forces on the outskirts of Sarajevo. The correspondence lasted only 2 months, but the nightmares have persisted long since then. It was these events overseas that produced my collection of psychotropic medication. Funny enough, my deployment to Somalia was less eventful then my time in Bosnia.

The Canadian Army was in a state of minor disarray in the closing years of my enlistment. The Royal 22nd Regiment was predominately francophone, and recruited almost exclusively from Quebec. Ironically, we were the largest infantry regiment in all the land forces.

During our peace keeping mission to Somalia, two soldiers in the Airborne Regiment killed a Somali teenager in Mogadishu. The attempted cover up would lead to the retirement of the regiment, and a 25% reduction in military spending.

This event, along with the segregation of francophones in the army, would prove disastrous in the coming years. BBC reporter Clive Harper would credit these two factors as the reason behind the large gains of the Free Quebecois Army in the early months of the war. The Royal 22nd Regiment would serve as the backbone of separatist forces during the mass defections in early 1996.

But at that time, the night I awoke, none of us saw any of it coming. None of us wanted it to come.

I glanced over at my collection of orange medication bottles, grabbed the remote, and turned on the TV. The light from the screen beamed back at me like the headlights of a locomotive, illuminating my bedroom. The volume drowned out the cars on the street below. A replayed news report from earlier that morning caught my eye. The caption at the bottle of the screen read:

"Parliamentarian Eugene Bellemare found dead, breathing new life into referendum protesters"

"Who the fuck is Eugene Bellemare?" I said out loud.

There was a knock at the door. I laid in my bed for a moment, perplexed that anyone would be at my door, irregardless of the lateness of the hour. The people who knew my address was less than 10. I rotated my legs from beneath my blanket, off the edge of my bed, and poked around until my feet landed in my slippers. Did I imagine the knock? Maybe. But I suppose there's only one way to find out. I arose and made my way to the door.

I stood there staring at it, for what felt like several minutes. I walked close enough to look through my peep hole, there was no one. Perhaps some neighborhood kids playing a joke? I opened the door quickly. My eye caught a drone flying away above the building across the street.

"What the fuck?" I said aloud. What was this? I looked down at my feet.

There was a small brown package directly in front of me. No postage stamp was visible. A single layer of masking tape law across the two top flaps, loosely concealing whatever was inside. I bent down and took a closer look. The damn thing felt empty. I picked it up and brought it into my apartment, maybe I ordered something and don't remember?

I set the mysterious package on the kitchen counter, retrieving a knife from the cabinet next to the stove. I sliced the tape with one stroke, opened it and glanced inside.

A single piece of paper lay inside the box, partly secured by a piece of scotch tape.

"Why the fuck didn't they just send a letter?" I thought.

I tore the paper from the scotch tape, undoing the single fold. It was a note, written in English, presumably addressed to me.

"For the story of a lifetime, meet me at Café Pékoe tomorrow at 8:00 AM.

-The whistle blower"

What? What story? This has to be a prank of some sort?

I didn't sleep much that night. I awoke early and pondered if I should go to the coffee shop or not. It was only a 5 minute walk from apartment. But who was I to meet? What did they want? My curiosity got the better of me. I grabbed my keys and left.

I ordered a large black coffee once I arrived. The cafe had two isles of booths, with a privacy wall between each isle. I glanced around at the other customers. Just a young couple and an old man reading a newspaper, probably not the whistle blower I was looking for. I took a seat at one of the booths and waited. I locked eyes with the clock above the cash register, 8:07. I called my office earlier and said I wouldn't be in until 9:00, but it was a 20 minute car ride.

I felt the interior of my palm with my other hand. They were sweaty. Perhaps a large coffee wasn't the best thing to be drinking. I gripped it so that the heat would dry my hand.

Just then, I heard the bell chime. Someone walked in. The privacy wall blocked my view, but a figure in a large black coat made his way in my direction, taking a seat in the booth opposite mine, the privacy wall blocking us from seeing each other.

"Hugo Donprey?"

He spoke. His voice was deep and raspy, how the hell did he know my name?

"Yes?"

"You're a journalist with CBC correct?"

I couldn't tell if he was from Quebec or not. He spoke English, but there was no accent that I could trace.

"Yes" I replied.

"Are you aware that the Quebec independence referendum was defeated last month?"

"Yes, narrowly" I said.

"And are you aware that Eugene Bellemare was assassinated in his home in Ontario 2 days ago?"

I took a moment to collect my thoughts.

"Assassinated? The report said he died of a drug overdose."

"What if I told you that was a cover up?"

I didn't respond. Who was this man and what was he going on about? He broke the silence once more.

"Eugene Bellemare was made aware of a plot by the CSIS to directly mettle in the referendum result. This operation was approved by the Prime Minister's Office and the Governor General of Canada. Mr. Bellemare had planned to take it to the Supreme Court."

"That sounds like nonsense. And why should I believe you? Who are you anyway?" I demanded.

"You don't need to know who I am. Just let the people know, Hugo."

The man threw a yellow document folder over the privacy wall, before quickly walking toward the door. I stood up to see if I could get a glimpse of his face, but he darted out of the cafe and across the street, masking himself with the hood of his coat.

I stood there, made eye contact with the man reading the newspaper, presumably about the ongoing protests. I looked down at the yellow folder, which landed just beside my coffee. A red stamp reading "classified" was visible on the upper portion. Under that, and in black, were the words "Vive la révolution!"