Wayne Grady, Louis Hamelin
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October 1970. Two kidnappings. One dead. A crisis unlike anything the country had ever seen — here is the story behind history . . .
Thirty years after the October Crisis, Sam Nihilo, a freelance writer whose career is in a slump, is drawn to the conspiracy theories that have proliferated in the wake of the events. While investigating the death of one of the FLQ hostages, Nihilo sees his life consumed by an inquiry that leads him further into a flurry of facts, both known and newly discovered. Soon, secret agents, corrupt police officers, politicians, and former terrorists of the Front de Libération du Québec form a mysterious constellation around him, and at the centre lies a complicated and dangerous truth.
In the tradition of Don DeLillo’s Libra, October 1970 is a thrilling fictional account of the events that shaped one of the most volatile moments in recent history.
Île-des-Sœurs. The access road is too easy to block off. If anything went wrong, we’d be the ones who were trapped.” Lancelot turned toward Pierre Chevrier, who was thinking. “If it were up to me,” Chevrier said, “I’d take an English. You know why?” He jumped to his feet, took the pointer from Lancelot’s hand, and pointed at the chart. “Look. It’s as clear as a page of music. Travers is the real deal. He plays bridge. He’s as punctual as an Englishman in a mystery novel. The commercial
without ever turning his head, invited him over. There was no small talk. After a few moments, Gode said: “I can’t believe I actually told you all that . . .” “Right, but there’s still something I don’t understand. Why did you leave your car in a field, right next to the military base?” Godefroid lit himself a Montana. His hair hurt, his face was grey. He’d aged ten years. Sam also ordered a café negro, as well as a glass of orange juice, and, after thinking about it, a bottle of water. Gode
sweat-stained scarf around the young woman’s forehead. She then helped her slip under the weight, balancing it on her back. And as Marie-Québec began to rumble forward, the old woman bent down behind her and, one hand on her ruined back, held up the multicoloured cotton bag. And the weight, on her back, the weight of the wood, the weight, felt good. As Marie-Québec bent forward, sand to her ankles, and walked, it was as if the weight had always been there. Like the heat of the sun, and the cool
that she, too, was lying awake with her eyes wide open. “You’re not asleep?” “No.” A pause. “I heard something downstairs . . .” Samuel listened. “I don’t hear anything.” “Someone’s there, down there, downstairs . . .” “Hmm.” She had gone from hearing “something” to hearing “someone,” and the change was not lost on Nihilo. The classic scenario left him with no choice. The shotgun was in the next room, where he had set up his office. It was leaning against the wall at the foot of the
“Never.” Sam read The Seagull. Then he read it again. He thought about it. “When Trigorin sees Nina and the seagull that had just been shot,” he wrote, “he instinctively perceives it as a symbol, he imagines the whole story right there: Nina free as the air beside the lake, seduced by Trigorin’s idleness, condemned to a death of the soul by something as useless as Treplev’s gunshot. The idea of the ‘short story within the play,’ which takes the place of the ‘play within the play,’ means that