Climate Killers: Book 3. Bernadette Callahan Detective Series

by Lyle Nicholson

  Volkov entered the room in his usual late fashion. His presence commanded attention. He was built like a prizefighter with a dark brush cut, wide set eyes and a broad face. When he entered a room, his eyes prowled. He did it like he was entering the lair of another animal. He looked for weakness in others.

  He stared down Zhao and Yudhoyono, both men flinching and dropping their eyes. Volkov was elated. He locked eyes with Willa. She looked back at him. He put all his concentration into his stare. He’d made Russian Generals shake with this look. A mafia strongman once wet his pants with this stare. Willa stared back at him and smiled. Volkov dropped into the vacant chair, and set his gaze on the two men. He was put off that Willa had taken the head of the table, it should have been his, he was after all the major player, and he was the one leading the pack. His name in Russian meant wolf—what was this woman thinking?

  “Has everyone been brought up to date?” Volkov asked.

  “No,” Willa said. “I thought you’d do that for us, Illy.”

  The name Illy hit like a punch in Volkov’s gut. He was not used to being referred to in such patronizing tones. This lady would need some taming. He would do it tonight, after he’d dealt with this meeting.

  “Okay, let’s get started,” Volkov commanded. “The one billion dollars that you each put into this project has been put to good use.” He looked around the room to see if the others had assimilated his words. Deep in his soul, he thought these billionaires were trash. These were pawns that would be used and disposed of.

  “How exactly? Have you been spending our money?” Zhoa asked.

  Volkov stared back at him, his eyelids closed slightly as if he was finding a target on that soft Asian body, “We have put together three underwater drilling sites in the Pacific Ocean in strategic locations to provide the maximum increase in temperature to the ocean currents that affect the climates of North America.”

  “Really? I thought you’d flushed our one billion down the toilet, because so far the temperature of the planet has gone up only a few degrees. Everyone, even the stupidest school boy, or politician, knows you need to increase the climate’s temperature by four degrees to have any real effect,” Yudhoyana said. He’d now lost his fear of Volkov. His money was involved, he feared losing money more than this Russian.

  Volkov poured himself a glass of water; his large fingers gripped the glass tightly, but the thick crystal glass withstood his death grip. “These things take time. What we’re doing is unparalleled in history. For a group such as ours to change the climate of the Earth in such a short space of time, takes exact measures.”

  “I understand you’ve been so exact that you’ve lost the chief scientist who was leading the project? Isn’t it true that Professor Sigurdsson is no longer on the project?” Zhoa asked. He was emboldened by Yudhoyana’s attack on Volkov. This project needed to be brought under control. It was his one billion dollars at stake, not this ridiculous Russian who looked like a washed-up boxer.

  Volkov’s massive hand slammed down on the mahogany table. The crystal glasses bounced. “Enough!”

  He rose out of his chair. A large vein pulsated in his neck. “This project will make you richer than your wildest dreams. My people will see that everything is brought under control.” He realized he was panting, out of breath. He sat down again and smoothed his jacket.

  “I realize there have been some difficulties. This Professor Sigurdsson, will be returning to the project shortly. You will have your four-degree rise. In a very short time the Earth will be in throws of panic. Crops will fail, governments will fall, and you, my friends will profit from your knowledge of when we cool the Earth again. Any more questions?” Volkov asked.

  “Yes, I have one,” Willa said. “Just who are all the people you work for. You’ve never told us that.”

  “That, my pretty lady, is not something that you need to know,” Volkov said. He winked at her moving his left foot in her direction. Their feet met under the table. Her shoe was off; it caressed the top of his pant leg. Good, he thought, she is hooked. He would take care of her tonight.

  Willa smiled. “Okay, Illy, we’ll take your word for it, for now.” She turned to the other two at the table. “Gentlemen. I suggest we give Illy and his people one week to show us results, then if not—"

  “Then what?” Zhao interrupted.

  Willa winked at Zhao. “We are not without our resources. I’m sure Illy and his people would not want to incur our displeasure.”

  Zhao smiled at Willa. He had no idea what she meant. He’d made his money from real estate and commodities. There was nothing in his experience of dealing with Russians’ or anything as illegal as what they were doing. He was hoping this tall Ms. Flowers had a plan. He hated the idea of seeing one billion dollars disappear without a decent return.

  Wilhelmina Flowers adjourned the meeting. They wandered off to their own rooms. There would be no meeting for dinner in one of the many fine dining rooms in the hotel. They would each have dinner on their own, in their own suites with a butler bringing them a sumptuous meal as they contemplated whether they’d just been involved in the biggest losses of their careers.

  They couldn’t write off this loss. They’d funneled the money into this project from various sources to be untraceable. If this failed, at best they’d be in jail, at worst, and this was the very worst, the world would find a way to make them pay for this crime with their lives.

  12

  Volkov paced in his hotel room. He’d placed a call to Pacific operations but needed to wait until they rose to periscope depth to return it. A few moments later his cell phone rang. It was Andrew Drummond, the captain of their submarine and manager of the drilling operation.

  “What progress have you made with the drilling?” Volkov asked.

  “Oh, aye, we’ve made progress, but not the kind you’d like to hear about,” Drummond said. He was a Scotsman from Glasgow with a thick accent that sounded to Volkov more pirate than Scottish.

  “What do you mean? You’ve been drilling for two weeks. The other locations report another thousand metres drilled. What’s the problem?”

  Drummond was silent for a moment. “As I’ve told you countless times, Volkov, we’re drilling blind. Oh sure, my boys can run pipe to the centre of the Earth if that’s what you wish, but I’ve no idea whether I’m about to tap into the mother of all volcanos or a wee thing that will fart no bigger than a sparrow. You get my drift, man?”

  Volkov’s large fingers gripped the phone. He breathed deeply for a second. He wanted to fly to where Drummond was and rip his vocal chords out. “Yes, I think I get your drift.”

  “Aye,” Drummond continued, “Sigurdsson had the calculations. Without him, this is an expensive operation that’s burning money.”

  Volkov winced at Drummond’s words. This operation had cost three billion so far. They were close. They’d bought three submersible drilling platforms, and a crew of twenty men manned three used submarines, that had to be continually resupplied by a surface ship.

  Sigurdsson had stowed away on a resupply ship, slipping away before someone noticed he was missing. He’d left a note saying he was going to drown himself. No one thought to check the supply ship before it docked. Volkov was positive there was collusion in getting Sigurdsson off the submarine. Had he bribed someone?

  Volkov raised his voice slightly. “Drummond, I need you to keep drilling, do you hear me? And, I want you to keep venting the hot volcanic gases that are coming out into the ocean current. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, clear as mud. Now, when do my men get some time off? They keep getting notices of all the money in their accounts, but they can’t get at it until they get off this bloody rusted out tin can you have us floating in,” Drummond said.

  “I’ve told you, they will all get paid handsomely for their work when it’s done. Then they can access their accounts. As a matter of fact,” Volkov said with a smile, “I’m going to authorize an extra fifty percent raise to everyman on the
boats. And, Drummond, I’m putting you in for a one hundred percent raise.”

  “That’s most kind of you, I’ll pass the message along to the lads…now, when can I let them know they’ll be getting on land to spend all the cash?”

  “Very soon. I expect inside of a week,” Volkov said. He ended his call and poured himself a large Vodka. He had no intention of paying the men. They were sending each of them a weekly notice of how much money was in their accounts for their work, but told them they couldn’t touch it until the work was completed.

  Every week ten thousand dollars was placed into their accounts. It was a bogus transfer that did not exist. Volkov would have a cleanup team make one final trip to the submarines when the drilling was done. The submarines would be sunk to the bottom of the ocean and the drilling equipment destroyed. The men on board would be blamed for the world’s catastrophes.

  Volkov made sure each man on the boat had emails and links to numerous terrorist groups. He loved how his mind worked.

  His next call was to Sokolov, who answered on the second ring. “Where are you?” Volkov asked.

  “I’m in Miami, waiting for my package,” Sokolov said.

  “How soon?”

  “Not sure, I lost contact with my courier. There is a hurricane here. The delivery is late.”

  Volkov massaged his forehead, he hated these delays. “ I just thought of something. When you get the package. See if you can get some extra insurance for it, before you bring it home… you understand me?”

  “Perfectly,” Sokolov said. “I’ll contact our FBI agent, he should be good for something besides whining. I’ll find out where Sigurdsson’s nearest relative is, and if they are dear to him. It seems everyone’s heart melts a bit when I’m about to cut off a loved one’s fingers.”

  Volkov thought Sokolov was brutal even by his own standards. “Good, get it done, and tell me when you have our package.”

  He put his phone down and gulped the rest of his Vodka. The doorbell of his suite rang. He hadn’t ordered anything from room service. As a precaution he pulled out his switchblade knife, holding it behind his back as he peered through the peephole.

  He smiled as he saw Willa standing outside in a bathrobe. Tonight he would teach her how to be more submissive. He opened the door wide and grinned. “Ah, nice of you to visit.”

  Willa breezed into the room with a flourish as he closed the door. She shed her bathrobe.

  Volkov let out a gasp. She stood before him in a leather corset with metal studs. She pulled out a riding whip and smacked it hard on her hand.

  “Well, Illy, now who’s been a bad little boy, lately?”

  “I have,” Illy said weakly. “Where did you learn… who told you I like these things?”

  Willa smiled, her eyes shining with a wicked glint, “I spent some time with your favorite girl in Berlin, Jana. She taught me so many wonderful things I almost went over to the other side.” She brought the whip up, tracing it down his lips then down his body, resting it on his thigh.

  “But… I don’t know if I want to do this… with you…” Volkov said. He didn’t move the riding whip. Willa ran it over his crotch. He let out a small moan.

  “Why don’t we see how it goes, Illy? I was told by Jana that I was her best student.”

  Willa slapped his thigh with the whip. She kissed him hard on the lips, biting his lower lip and caressing his crotch, she pushed him towards the bedroom. He went willingly.

  Volkov had no idea how she had found out about his perversions. Everything would have to wait until she had assumed control over him and brought him to climax. If she had learned from his lovely Jana in Berlin, then tonight would be magnificent. Tomorrow, he would dominate the world again, but tonight, the skinny rich bitch would give him everything he desired.

  13

  Sokolov dragged heavily on his cigarette and dropped it to the ground. He didn’t have the prizefighter look of Volkov. He was short and slim, slightly balding with soft blue eyes and thin lips. To most he wouldn’t look like a threat. He had been schooled in Combat Sambo, the Russian form of mixed martial arts. He’d been good at it. So good, that few wanted him as a sparring partner. He watched the wind blow his cigarette away and pulled his jacket collar up. He’d been here with his men, waiting, all day for his captive to be delivered.

  He hated waiting. But it had been in his training from his early days in the KGB to his career in the Russian Mafia. You waited for things to develop; sometimes it took months or years. In this case, the waiting was changing by the minute. The hurricane was approaching. The city was being evacuated. The hurricane had been upgraded to a category 3 and news reports said it might hit a 4 with possible wind speeds of 200 kph. This wasn’t good. Neither was the situation Sokolov was in.

  The staff of the executive hanger wanted to send Sokolov on his way so they could evacuate. The jet that he’d hired wanted to leave. They had orders from their owners that their plane was in danger if they stayed longer. Bribes no longer worked with these people. The airplane crew was tied up with the hanger crew. His men stood guard over them. They’d been told they’d be untied and set free once they reached their destination.

  This was not going well. He’d have to kill all the personnel in the hanger before they left and kill the pilot, co-pilot and flight attendant of the plane if they did not agree to a large bribe once they landed. Hell, he’d most definitely have to kill them anyway. He took bribes, hated giving them.

  He looked over the tarmac. Not a plane was in sight. He heard a helicopter approaching. The sound grew louder. Suddenly it appeared over the top of the hanger. It was descending.

  Sokolov looked for his men. They were inside the hanger. Had his team in Key West commandeered this helicopter? He took a few steps towards it then held back. Something didn’t feel right. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his gun.

  14

  “Is that Sokolov on the ground?” McAllen asked as the helicopter descended.

  Bernadette looked at the picture she had on her cell phone from Anton, and at the man on the ground. “Yep, that’s our guy.”

  “Weapons out, everyone,” McAllen yelled. He looked at Becky. “You stay in here.”

  Sebastian pulled out the dry bag and passed around weapons to Winston, McAllen and Bernadette. The pilots in the cockpit were too busy landing the helicopter to notice what their passengers were doing.

  “Uncle Mac, I’m not leaving you.” Becky said. Tears welled in her eyes.

  Bernadette could see she was panicked. She grabbed her hand. “It’s for your own safety. We’ll have the helicopter take you a safe distance out, then call them back when it’s all clear.”

  “What if you get hurt?”

  “Hey, it’s four against one,” Bernadette said. She squeezed Becky’s hand and gave her a wink.

  The helicopter dropped to the ground. McAllen forced the door open and jumped out drawing his weapon. He yelled for Sokolov to put his hands up.

  Sokolov drew his weapon. He dropped into a crouched position and fired at McAllen. His men appeared out of the hanger. They opened fire with machine guns. Bullets hit the helicopter’s engine, it began to smoke. Bernadette pushed Becky out of the helicopter in front of her and lay covering her on the ground. The pilots jumped out of their cockpit.

  Sebastian crawled over to Bernadette. “We need to get away from this chopper before this thing blows up.”

  A stream of bullets sprayed the tarmac in front of them.

  Bernadette looked at Sebastian. “Which way do we go?”

  “Count to five after I throw this,” Sebastian said. He pulled a percussion grenade out of his jacket, armed it and gave it an overhand throw. It arced high and landed in front of the hanger entrance. The grenade exploded. It was all noise. But enough noise to disorientate their attackers. Bernadette pushed Becky towards the side of the hanger. It put them out of the direct firing line.

  Bernadette chambered a round in her gun. She needed to get Becky t
o some kind of cover then help deal with the attackers. She looked up to see a man come around the corner with a machine gun. He raised it to fire at them. His chest exploded. He slid to the ground, his gun falling beside him. Bernadette looked over her shoulder. Winston had dropped the man with her high caliber handgun.

  “That girl can shoot,” Bernadette said to Becky who lay beside her.

  The entire hanger was erupting in small arms fire. Machine gun fire was coming from inside the front door. McAllen, Sebastian and Winston were returning fire from the tarmac.

  Bernadette saw a side entrance. She picked up the machine gun of the dead man on the ground and looked at Becky. “Can you shoot a hand gun?”

  Becky took the gun from Bernadette; “The bullets come out the pointy end, right?”

  “Shoot only the bad guys. You got that?”

  “Sure, these are the same bastards that killed my friends. I’m accurate with a spear gun. I’ll be happy to put a hole in one of them.”

  “Good, aim for the centre of the body. Just like you would a fish,” Bernadette said. She motioned to McAllen with hand signals that she was going in the door.

  She checked the machine gun, it was loaded—she slipped through the door. Four men were taking turns returning fire inside the hanger. Sokolov was on the far side.

  Bernadette raised her weapon and fired at the three men in front. One went down, the other two whirled and fell back. Sokolov stared at her in surprise then jumped behind a counter.

  A percussion grenade bounced in the front door and exploded with a bang and echo that reverberated through the hanger. Smoke filled the air. A second later, McAllen, Sebastian and Winston appeared. They shot the two men.