Climate Killers: Book 3. Bernadette Callahan Detective Series

by Lyle Nicholson

He pulled her tight, his hands slowly moving down her back, resting on her buttocks. He massaged both cheeks, pulling her into him. She felt how hard he was. “You know, I am feeling a little hot and sweaty, a shower is a great idea.”

  A few hours later, Bernadette was in her Jeep, for the two-hour drive to the airport in Calgary. She felt better, but unsettled. The sex was always great with Chris. It was sometimes what held them together. She wondered if it was enough.

  She stayed in a hotel that night near the airport and boarded the 6:55 am flight to Houston the next morning. Just as she was getting on the flight and about to shut off her phone she read a text from Chris: Sorry, Bernadette, I decided to take the job in Afghanistan. I leave for Kandahar tomorrow. We’ll talk soon. Love you, Chris.

  A flight attendant came by her seat. “Sorry, ma’am, you’ll have to turn off your cell phone. We’re about to take off.”

  Bernadette nodded, and shut off the phone. This felt like their relationship was ending. Could she get it back? Would she fight for it?

  She slept for much of the morning flight. On her arrival she looked around for Agent Carla Winston in the airport terminal. They’d agreed in a text to meet in front of Hugo’s Cocina in terminal D.

  Bernadette saw Agent Winston. She looked the same as when she’d seen her last in Mexico. She was African American. A trim little package, all of 5’5” with short black curly hair that showed signs of grey. She was dressed in a light blue casual pantsuit. It still said FBI, but on vacation. Bernadette thought she’d been uptight when she met her previously. It seemed nothing had changed.

  Carla Winston turned and saw Bernadette. Her facial expression was one of recognition, then disapproval. The scowl that formed over her eyebrows threw a line of wrinkles all the way up to her forehead. It was obvious to Bernadette that Agent Winston was not happy with her choice of partner.

  “Detective Callahan, I trust your flight was alright?” Winston asked in a monotone. She didn’t extend a hand for a handshake. She looked Bernadette up and down. Regarding her t-shirt, jeans and black boots as if she’d been subjected to a scan—and failed.

  “Ah, yeah, okay flight. But the food was awful. They got anything good here?”

  “Best tacos in the airport,” Winston said as she walked towards the restaurant.

  Bernadette watched Winston walk into the restaurant and muttered, “My, aren’t we the frosty little thing?”

  They took a table away from other diners and let their eyes peek at one another other over the menus. Winston put her menu down and stared hard at Bernadette.

  Bernadette cocked her head to one side. “Okay, Winston, let’s have it. You want to give me a big piece of your mind about something that’s pissing you off. I could see it from across the concourse. So, let it fly so I can enjoy my taco in peace after you get done your speech.”

  Winston’s lips went into a thin line. Her eyes narrowed. Her hands clenched and unclenched. “Okay, I’ll tell you what’s on my mind. I got a son, a hell of a good one. He’s studying to be an Engineer at the University of Virginia. And I have a nice condo in Fredericksburg, Virginia. I’m married to an okay man—no I lie, my marriage is on the rocks…but that’s not the point. I got an okay job with the FBI and I intend to retire in twenty years. You get me?”

  “Okay, sure. Nice bio by the way. But what exactly are you getting at—?”

  “What I’m getting at is the shit you pulled in Merida, Mexico, almost got your partner killed. I know I told you I couldn’t fault you for going by your instincts. You did get the antidote that saved the pipelines, but that could have gone the other way. So, here’s what I’m saying,” Winston leaned forward and her voice was a fierce whisper, “Don’t pull any of that crazy shit with me. I intend to go back home to my wonderful son and my useless husband—you hear me?”

  Bernadette picked up a nacho chip from the table and dipped it in pico de gallo sauce. “You’ve made yourself very clear. Now, how about we order lunch? That breakfast sandwich I had in Calgary is long gone.”

  Winston snapped her menu back open. She ordered the fish tacos and Bernadette ordered the Carnitas de Pato. It was duck with tomato sauce and tortillas. She thought about ordering a beer. She wasn’t on the clock, as they were just travelling, but from the cloud she could see over Winston’s head, she decided not to push it.

  When lunch was over, a quiet affair, with little conversation, they went their separate ways. Boarding time was several hours away. Bernadette decided to find somewhere quiet to see if she could send a text to Chris and Winston said she had some correspondence to catch up on.

  When Bernadette came out of the restaurant she noticed a crowd milling around the departure lounges. The departure screens for many flights showed CANCELLED. A small script below said due to excess heat.

  Bernadette pulled out her cell phone and punched up the local Houston temperature. It read 125 Fahrenheit. She’d read a report those smaller jets like the Bombardier CR7 couldn’t fly past 118 F. The flight to Managua was on a Boeing 737-800. Its heat limit was 126F.

  Bernadette looked at the time. It was 2:00 pm. Hopefully, a thunderstorm would develop and cool things off before they took off at 5:30 pm. Excess heat made it impossible for the jets to get lift off on the runway. As North America was heating up, more planes were being delayed or cancelled for days on end until the heat waves passed.

  She didn’t know if she could stand being delayed for hours, or days, with the frosty Agent Winston. She went in search of a newspaper and coffee. Maybe find a quiet place to send a text to Chris. She wanted to write it when she was more composed. Her first response had been to send him a WTF! She needed to rethink that.

  Carla Winston watched Bernadette make her way down the concourse before heading in the other direction to make a phone call. She needed to report in. There was nothing about this mission she liked. That she’d been chosen to accompany Bernadette Callahan was strange, the person who was her superior on this mission was stranger still.

  Adam Morgan had been in the office of Congressional Affairs, and then was transferred over to the Counter Terrorism group. FBI agents normally didn’t drop down into the trenches where Winston was. They rose up the chain.

  She’d met Morgan a week ago when this mission was discussed. He’d said he’d receive word from the ‘highest level,’ how this had to proceed. But what was strange was all their meetings had to be away from the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

  Their meeting had to be kept secret. There were leaks in the department he’d said. He gave her a separate burner phone that couldn’t be sourced back to the FBI.

  Morgan wasn’t an easy man to like. He made furtive movements with his eyes. They bounced around when he spoke, never looking at her directly. Slim, with a thin face and pointed chin that did nothing to instill any confidence in the words that came from his small mouth, he dressed well, almost too well for the FBI and always had manicured fingernails. Maybe that’s what put Winston off the guy. Who in the FBI would get a manicure? Who had time?

  She dialed his number. He picked up right away. “Agent Winston. Have you met with your contact?”

  “Yes, I’ve made contact. I’m in Houston, we board in a few hours for our next destination,” Winston said. She couldn’t believe how much this man annoyed her.

  “Good… listen, there’s been a slight change of plans.”

  “How slight?”

  “You are authorized to eliminate Professor McAllen once he’s given you the location of Professor Sigurdsson,” Morgan said. “Detective Callahan may be eliminated as well.”

  “Who authorized this?” Winston said, looking around to see if anyone was listening in.

  “This comes from the highest levels,” Morgan said. “Professor McAllen has been deemed a high value target. Detective Callahan let him escape FBI custody in Mexico. She’s believed to be working with McAllen.”

  Winston couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She’d never had this briefing before she left Wa
shington, despite reading the file on Callahan from the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service. Why hadn’t they seen anything criminal in her activities? There was no mention of a connection between Callahan and McAllen.

  “Okay, I understand what you’re asking, but you realize I have no weapons on this trip. The Nicaraguan government would not authorize either of us to have any firearms in our luggage.”

  “The person you’re meeting in Managua will have a weapon for you. He will be discreet in handing it to you.”

  Winston sighed quietly. “Okay, I got that.” She was hoping the lack of weapon would have scrubbed the command to kill Callahan.

  “Winston, I can’t stress how much this will advance your career if this mission is a success. If you fail… well let’s not talk about that…”

  “Yes, sir, I understand,” Winston said. She ended the call and headed for the ladies’ washroom. The elimination of Professor McAllen was understandable. Detective Callahan’s kill order was outside her pay grade. What if she didn’t do it? Would they fire her for insubordination? She felt sick.

  Adam Morgan smiled when he hung up from Winston. Maybe they could get this back on track after all. Sigurdsson should never have escaped. But then, he was dealing with a group of bunglers and half-wits who could barely follow a proper order.

  When Sigurdsson was brought back in and the operation was brought back on line, he’d get rid of those who didn’t meet his standards. This list was long. Agent Carla Winston would be one of the first to go. That was already planned in Nicaragua.

  He dialed a number and heard the long-distance exchanges click in. Matvel Sokolov picked up the phone. “Adam, you have things ready for us.”

  Morgan winced. He hated to be greeted informally by someone who he considered beneath him, especially this Russian.

  He’d found him when he was in the Office of Congressional Affairs. Matvel was working hard to entice members of Congress and the Senate to give favorable contracts to Russian companies, all owned by the Russian Mafia.

  Matvel was good, but Morgan had been better at finding the collusion and bringing in several congressmen who’d swelled their bank accounts. One such congressman was Lawrence Derman. He rolled over so quickly he couldn’t get his information out fast enough.

  Derman and Sokolov were what Morgan needed. He added a retired and unhappy Admiral Fairborne to his mix and he was set. North America had no idea what they were in for.

  “I have everything ready for you, Matvel. Take them all out. You understand. I want no one left to make a report of what happened.”

  “I have hired the very best,” Sokolov said. “There will be no survivors.”

  3

  The flight to Managua from Houston was three hours. The plane was crowded. Mostly Nicaraguans who’d had enough of the heat and were heading home for some cooler temperatures.

  Managua wasn’t that much cooler at 28C, with 60 percent humidity, but compared to Houston, this was 20 degrees cooler. Bernadette looked out the window as they landed. A soft blue lake mirrored the mountains and the volcano.

  They walked out of the airplane into a small international airport with a mass of humans in the throes of trying to find luggage and family. The presence of heavily- armed security seemed to keep everything in check.

  The humid air felt heavy. All around them, they heard Spanish spoken in rapid-fire sentences. Bernadette’s Spanish was rudimentary; her second language was French. She turned to Winston. “You understand Spanish?”

  Winston rolled her eyes. “I grew up in Virginia, and I slept through my Spanish classes in High School.”

  They stood there, clutching suitcases, scanning for any signs of the person who was supposed to meet them. A stocky man with a head of black wavy hair and long side burns jostled his way through the crowd and made his way towards them.

  “Senora’s, encantado de concerte, me nombre es, Elvis Calderon.”

  Bernadette looked at Winston. “Is this the guy we’re supposed to meet?”

  Winston pulled out her phone and scrolled through her texts. “Yep, it’s really Elvis Calderon.” She looked up at Elvis. “Hola, Senor Calderon, you just got the extent of my Spanish—do you speak English?”

  “Ah, si, senora, I speak English very perfectly. Please excuse me. Now, may I take you to a hotel close by? You must be very tired from your journey. We will continue to Granada and Lake Nicaragua in the morning.”

  “Not happening,” Bernadette said. “We want to meet our contact in the morning. That means we drive to Granada tonight. Did you not get that in the briefing?” she asked Winston.

  “Uh huh, that’s what I got. Elvis, you best get on your phone and find us a hotel in Granada, ’cause we’re not on vacation. We mean to be finished with our business by tomorrow, and be back on this plane heading home. You comprendes, Elvis?” Winston asked.

  Elvis’s hands fanned out in front of him. “Si…Yes, I understand. I have a good friend at Hotel Dario in Granada. I make a call.”

  A few minutes later, Elvis returned to say he’d arranged rooms for them before escorting them out of the crowded terminal to his SUV. The next two hours were a blur of traffic. Elvis chatted non-stop about Lake Nicaragua, how beautiful it was and how the Chinese wanted to make a canal similar to the one in Panama.

  “The President of Nicaragua, once told the people that he would never dream of making a canal across our beautiful country and defiling our lake—but the money the Chinese offer, I think it is too much for him, and the business people in this country—they are too easily bribed,” Elvis explained.

  Bernadette and Winston made polite noises from the back seat. The incessant chatter of Elvis stopped them from having to talk to each other. They both thought that wasn’t a bad thing.

  After passing the intercity mode of transportation—school buses painted in different colours—and threading their way around potholes and near misses with large trucks, they arrived in Granada.

  The Hotel Dario was a quaint colonial building, painted in green and white to highlight the columns that tried to make it look more elegant than it was. They were shown into small but nicely appointed rooms with ironclad bed frames and wicker rocking chairs. They agreed to meet downstairs for dinner to discuss the following day.

  The dining room was busy at 10 pm. Winston scanned the place. “I forgot the Latinos eat late. You hungry?”

  “I could eat road kill right now,” Bernadette admitted.

  They were seated, ordered some drinks and they squared off again, both eyeing each other as to who was going to lead this discussion.

  Bernadette coughed slightly, “Look, how about if I fill in some spaces on what I know of McAllen and his group of merry men. I expect they’ll all be there.”

  “Why don’t you fill me in on the all part?” Winston said, taking a drink of water and staring at Bernadette.

  “Okay. We have four former special forces men from the US military. They served in Vietnam together. McAllen was their platoon leader. Every one of them has a special skill and, although they’re many years retired if they exercise those skills it makes them dangerous.”

  “How dangerous?”

  “Percy Stronach was a demolition man, Theo Martin was a weapons expert and Sebastian Germaine was a sniper. McAllen excelled in tactical maneuvers that made him a threat to the Viet Cong on the Ho Chi Min trail.”

  “You think they’re all armed to the teeth on the island?”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it. Several years ago, McAllen had one of his little science experiments go wrong. He pissed off some big-league Wall Street guys that had paid him big bucks to sabotage North American oil fields so they could make even more money,” Bernadette said.

  “Yeah, I read a file on that. He had oil fields in Alaska and northern Canada stopped up for a few weeks. I heard there was some kind of fire fight on an island.”

  “It was a one-sided fire fight. McAllen’s boys took the attackers apart. He had deadly crossfire from M
-16s and a sniper rifle. He drew them into IEDs and blew them to pieces. Only one attacker made it off the island alive.”

  Winston took a long swallow of water. “You think that’s what we’re up against tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I think we’re going to visit a man with a lot of fire power. The reason he’s in Nicaragua is he’s paying some nice ‘tourist fees,’ as in bribes to the local government. Both our governments don’t want to go through the legal wrangling to get him out quietly, and no one wants to go in hard due to the body count that would happen if they did.”

  “So, how do we play this tomorrow?”

  “We go in soft as two lambs to the slaughter,” Bernadette said. She smiled and raised her beer in a toast to Winston.

  They parted ways after dinner. Bernadette went to her room, logged into the hotel’s Wi-Fi and looked for anything from Chris. The time difference between them was ten and a half hours.

  There was nothing from Chris as he was probably in transit. He’d said he’d left yesterday. The flight would be from Calgary, then probably to Frankfurt and then would it go to Kandahar… or would he fly to Kabul first?

  She knew Kandahar was dangerous. Two American soldiers had been killed there in July, and there’d been an attack on the Afghani army base back in May. It was a dangerous place. What the hell was he thinking?

  Bernadette put her iPad away and turned out her light. The fan overhead was pushing air in her direction. Tomorrow would bring its own dangers, which she needed to be alert for. Sleep would be a blessing but she knew it wouldn’t come.

  Carla Winston lay on her bed hoping she’d get a text from Morgan to countermand the directive to kill McAllen and Callahan. The one for Callahan hadn’t been a direct order—or had it?

  She’d killed several terrorists in the line of duty. But they’d been armed, they’d fired at her, she’d fired back. She’d won the shoot-out. This was different. This was execution.

  She felt good that Elvis had not handed her a weapon on arrival. No weapon, no problem. If Elvis didn’t do his job, she couldn’t do hers. She was about to turn off her light when there was a knock on the door.