22
Sokolov watched the faces of Samantha and Becky Sigurdsson. He could see the fear in their eyes. It was always the same with his captives. Their eyes would dart back and forth. They would breathe heavily; their chests heaving to take what they thought would be their last breaths. “I promise I won’t hurt you,” he said.
“And the gun is for—what, a party game?’ Sam asked.
“You make jokes, I like that in a woman.”
Sam set her mouth in a hard line. She wondered if this Russian would leave without killing them. The odds didn’t look good.
“What have you done with my crew?”
“We locked them in the engine room. They will be safe there.”
“Safe from you? I doubt it,” Becky said. “Do you plan to kill them?”
Sokolov lowered his gun and smiled. “We are only here for information. No one needs to die. You tell us where your Mr. McAllen and his friends are headed and we let you go.”
“How about if you get the hell off my ship and I tell you nothing?” Sam said.
“Not an option,” Sokolov said. “Here is what is going to happen.” He pulled out a switchblade knife. “I am going to cut pieces out of your beautiful granddaughter until you tell me.” He snapped the blade open. It shone in the light. He took its edge and sliced his hand. Blood dripped to the cabin floor.
“Ellesmere Island. They’re going to a research station to find evidence of a river that runs under the oceans. Maybe it will stop what you bastards are doing to heat the ocean. And you won’t find Barney there. He’s long gone,” Sam said. She hoped the last part was true. She wasn’t sure.
“Excellent. Now, that wasn’t hard, was it?”
“Okay, you’ve got what you want. Leave us alone,” Becky said.
“Oh no. You will be coming with us.” Sokolov said. “We have a little flight planned off the island.”
“You’ll never get us out of Bermuda without half the police force seeing you taking us away,” Sam said. “This is a small island. People will see us leaving. You’ll never get away with it.”
Sokolov grinned. “My dear lady, I have been involved in smuggling my whole life. Getting two people off this island is easy.”
He signaled to the Cubans who came at Sam and Becky from behind. They both struggled with the chloroform-soaked rags over their mouths but the fumes overcame them. They slumped to the ground.
Fuentes opened up two large nylon bags and fit each of them into one. He zipped the bags and with Rozales at one end, they hauled them down the gangplank and into the waiting van.
Darkness was falling. The lights had not been turned on in the harbor yet. Sokolov loved this time. The time between darkness and daylight, perfect to move someone with no one to notice. Once the two women were loaded into the van, he ordered Fuentes and Rozales to shoot the crew. He’d saved them until now, just in case he needed to torture them to get Sam to speak. You never knew how close a family was. One time he had had to kill two sons to get the mother to give up her husband. It was only when he threatened her daughter that she weakened. Turned out the mother didn’t like the sons but loved her daughter. He’d been doing her a favour by killing them.
They had no problems transporting the drugged women to the airport and getting them on the plane. The pilot only nodded at the unusual cargo. Sokolov called Morgan once they were airborne.
“I have Sigurdsson’s wife and his granddaughter,” Sokolov said when Morgan answered.”
“Good.” Morgan wanted to say it was about time Sokolov did something right but the man scared him. “Take them to our facility in San Francisco. What about my FBI agent Winston, and McAllen? Were you able to deal with them?”
“No. The opportunity did not present itself,” Sokolov said. He’d decided if Morgan pressed him on this he would personally land in Washington, drive to his location and shoot him on the spot. He found him that infuriating.
“I see. Did Sigurdsson’s wife know where her husband might be?”
“Yes, your FBI agent and McAllen and friends are heading to a place called Ellesmere Island. She tried to convince me her husband isn’t there but I think she’s lying. Why else would someone go to the ends of the Earth?”
Morgan punched up the name of the island on his computer. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “My god, it’s at the end of the Earth.”
“There’s a research lab there. I suspect Sigurdsson is there and has all the information you need to keep the drilling operation working. Do you have someone you can send?”
Morgan ran his mind over several of his assets and none of them were a fit for this. It would be impossible to send a team of FBI agents to such a remote location without arousing suspicions of the Canadian Government that would fall back on him.
“I don’t have a team that I could put together that fast. Do you have someone available?”
Sokolov wondered why they had even bothered to involve this man. “I have the perfect people for this—Russians. They are close by.”
Sokolov ended his call and dialed Volkov.
When Volkov answered he told him what he wanted.
“You’re serious?” Volkov asked.
“I’m very serious. It’s time we got them involved. They will be showing themselves inside of a week to ten days. Why not use them now?”
Volkov took a deep breath. “I don’t know if one of them is available at that latitude.”
“Are you kidding me? The Russian fleet is all over the Arctic. They’ve been under the ice all winter. The channels are completely open now. There will be no interference from the Canadians. Their small navy is a joke.”
Volkov nodded his head as he listened. He was right. The Russians owned the Arctic Ocean. The Canadians, Americans and those in Denmark and Greenland laid claim to huge territories, but the Russian Submarine fleet prowled the waters below the ice in the winter and above in the summer.
“I will make a call and let you know,” Volkov said.
He ended his call and sat back in the large leather chair on his private jet. He’d been brooding over the departure of Willa Flowers before this phone call and this gave him something to focus on.
His next phone call was to Russia. Every Mafia head had at least three top Russian officials on their payroll. A Russian official could be bought for one million Rubles. That was less than 18,000 USD. But they wanted this every month now. What annoyed Volkov was that the officials were getting involved in offering krysha, the Russian word for roof that meant protection. This had been the sole domain of the Mafia. He hated competition.
Volkov chose only those who listened to his instructions, took bribes and didn’t flash their money around. A new anti-corruption department had been established some years ago. Only those who were stupid or went outside the good graces of the Russian Mafia ever got caught in corruption scandals.
Volkov had chosen Anatoly Polzin, who checked all the boxes he was looking for in a high-ranking official. He was in the ministry of defense. He was middle aged, not too much of a social climber and kept to himself. His needs were simple—ten million Rubles per year and his daughter was sent to a top university in the USA with her full tuition and all of her expenses paid. Money flowed to Polzin through his wife who was set up as a public relations consultant and did nothing but go for lunch with her friends in Moscow. It was nice life for both of them and Volkov ruled them.
Polzin answered his phone after several rings. “How may I help you?” he said once Volkov identified himself.
“Is this line secure?”
“Yes, as secure as it can be in the Ministry of Russian Defense.”
“I want you to send a submarine to Ellesmere Island in Canada.”
“Okay, and what is it to do there?”
“There is a research lab there, The Polar Environmental Atmospheric Research Lab. Have the crew take all their data in regards to rivers under the ocean, and to capture any scientist that fits the description of a picture I’m go
ing to send you,” Volkov instructed.
“Ah, you do realize that the Canadians will not like this, and they have an intelligence base several hundred kilometres away,” Polzin said.
“When your men come ashore have them do so without insignias or markings. It worked in the Crimea, it will work there, and you can deny that the sub ever landed,” Volkov said shaking his head. He couldn’t believe this high-ranking bureaucrat hadn’t thought of this.
“And, what will we tell the Russian Prime Minister and President when they come looking for a head to chop off?”
“Let me worry about that. I’ll take care of you. Haven’t I always been your krysha?”
Polzin sighed audibly over the phone. “Yes, Volkov, you have always been my roof and given me protection. However, this could have international implications.”
“How is your daughter doing at university?”
“She is doing well. Top marks in her law faculty.”
“And your wife? Enjoying her lovely lunches with her friends?”
“Yes, yes… of course… but—”
“There is no but. You will send a submarine to this island immediately. They will land, and do as I ask.”
“And if they meet opposition?”
“Kill everyone. You can claim it was terrorists. Goodbye.” Volkov said.
Volkov hung up his phone and sat back in his leather chair. In a few weeks time, Russian ships would be landing on the shores of America to give them aid. The massive Antonov Cargo planes capable of carrying 150 tons of food would be landing in the American mid-west. The optics would be wonderful. Russia would be saving America from the largest drought in its history. Russian soldiers would serve arm in arm with Americans to quell riots and bring peace.
Volkov smiled as a shapely air attendant brought him Vodka. No one would know the Russian Mafia had orchestrated all of this and the Mafia would rule America inside of six months. He would offer a krysha to all who needed it. And everyone would need a roof for protection. He’d make sure of that.
23
Bernadette looked at her phone to see their route north as the plane reached altitude over Bermuda. Their charter jet would take just over two hours to get them to Montreal. Sebastian had ordered cold weather clothing for the four of them in Montreal when they arrived. Bernadette was impressed that he thought of everything.
Then, they had a three-and-a-half hour flight straight north to a little place called Iqaluit in the territory of Nunavut. There they had to say goodbye to their luxury jet and take a little six or eight seat propeller plane, called an Otter, to the final destination of Ellesmere Island. If you needed to fly to a desolate and cold destination, the Otter was your plane.
Winston sat across from Bernadette. “You seem wrapped up in your phone. Anything interesting?”
“I’m looking at our travels. It’s going to take us about eight hours and three different airports to get us close to the top of the world and most of the time we’ll be going straight north,” Bernadette said.
“You ever travel that far north?” Sebastian asked.
“Nope, I’ve been a tree line girl all my life,” Bernadette said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Winston asked. She looked out the window and back at Bernadette.
“We’ll be going into what we Canadians call the Barren Lands. There are no trees there. You may see a few low-lying shrubs and rocks, but there won’t be a tree anywhere.”
“How do people live there?” Winston asked.
“Well, the Inuit as they’re called, which means ‘The People’ have been happy to live there for thousands of years. Until, civilization and warming atmosphere destroyed their ice. They relied on it to hunt for seals. Now, much of the ice is gone from there. As the ice disappears, so too does their way of life.”
“A life of hunting seals in freezing conditions… isn’t that a life they’d want to get rid of,” Winston said. “I mean, look, I’m all for tradition and such, but my god, the temperature up there hits minus 50C. Who’d want to live up there?”
Bernadette pursed her lips and put down her phone. “I can’t explain the love that some people have for their land. I’m only half native, and sometimes I feel like I just want to live inside the forests and on the lakes. It something that resides in you and it’s hard to explain.”
“Well, I’m African American, and you won’t get me longing for the jungles of Africa,” Winston said. “Hell, I don’t even like the parks of Washington DC.”
“Those are the most dangerous,” Sebastian said.
“Amen to that,” Winston replied.
Bernadette picked up her phone and scrolled through messages. “I think we got a problem.”
“What is it?” Winston asked.
“I got a text here from Anton at CSIS that the Bermuda Police discovered the crew of The Nemo II were murdered on their boat.”
“Oh my god. Do you think it was Becky and Sam? I can’t believe we left her there,” Winston said.
“Look, we don’t know for sure. The report said they found several victims shot in the engine room.” Bernadette said.
Winston looked towards the back of the airplane. “Do we tell McAllen?”
“No, we wait until we know more. I’m going to ask Anton for more Intel.”
“That also means someone knows where we’re heading.”
“Yep, from one shit storm to another. Happy days,” Bernadette said.
24
Mellissa Ackerman left the Canadian Security and Intelligence Services building to call her contacts. She picked her usual spot, a Tim Horton’s Donut shop three blocks away. The trendy agents never came here. They frequented Starbucks a block from the building. This donut shop was full of working people from warehouses across the street and truck drivers and contractors in denim jeans and boots covered in dirt.
Mellissa loved the place. The crullers were covered in sweet frosting and the maple creams oozed with enough sugar to give her a headache. She loved it, called it her ‘buzz.’ She bought a cruller and a maple cream and large double cream double sugar coffee and found a table beside a group of young electricians who were talking loudly about last night’s hockey game. You couldn’t get better cover for a covert operation.
She dialed Lisa at Homeland Security and when she came on, she muttered, “Three way, sub rosa.”
“I’m on it,” Lisa said.
Mellissa put her phone down and picked up her cruller. She bit into it and savored the sickly sweet icing sugar wending its way around her tonsils. She sipped her coffee and waited. Their ‘sub rosa,’ code was an ancient code of secrecy meaning ‘under the roses,’ in Latin, where all things private were once spoken. Lisa would be hurrying out of her office with her burner phone and Tina would be doing the same. After Mellissa had consumed her cruller, her phone rang.
“I got a big juicy one, girls,” Mellissa said.
“Did it come from your dreamboat, the Italian hunk?” Lisa asked.
“You got it.”
“What did he smell like this time?” Lisa asked.
“Old spice aftershave and pasta with a hint of Parmesan Reggiano cheese,” Mellissa said.
“Oh my god, I could rub a guy like that all over me,” Lisa said, her breath audible over the phone.
“Easy, Lisa,” Tina said. “You’ll be making your panties wet again.”
“A girl can fantasize,” Lisa insisted. “Now, what have you got?”
“Okay.” Mellissa looked to see if the group of electrical contractors was still deep in their hockey game discussions. “Listen up ladies. We have to go total black on this. No one can know what you’re investigating. I have it on authority from my dreamboat that his people in the field will be compromised. You copy that?”
“We copy that,” the girls said in unison.
“Okay then, I’m going to be sending you profiles of three billionaires, all of them have been in trouble with the US government for playing with government contracts,” M
elissa said.
“Any of them get caught, do time, or get their hands slapped?” Tina asked.
“Nope, nothing. They lawyered up and walked away.”
“That figures,” Lisa said. “With lots of money you get to do lots of crime and get away with it. They have anyone else involved?”
“Yes, there was someone named, Sokolov, you’ll find he’s a Russian Mafia, but we’re more interested in his boss, a guy named Illy Volkov.”
“What exactly are we looking for?” Tina asked.
“Any companies that the three little piggy’s set up—sorry that’s my pet name for the three billionaires—and any connection to a guy named Volkov. I found a record of him meeting with the three piggy’s recently,” Melissa said.
“Anything specific?” Tina asked. “Like what do we think they’re into?”
“You have to promise me you won’t breathe a word of this,” Melissa said.
“It’s in the vault. Now, spill,” Tina said.
“Okay.” Mellissa dropped her voice low, even though it mattered little to the men discussing last night’s hockey game. “We think all these people are trying to do something to the Earth’s oceans. As in, they are trying to raise the temperature.”
“Shut the front door.” Lisa screamed into her phone. “Seriously? You’ve landed the big score, the big investigation.”
“Oh, yeah.” Mellissa took a triumphant sip of her coffee. “We are in the biggest of the big investigation. It doesn’t get any better than this.”
“Okay, this time, maybe I wet myself a little,” Tina, said. “This is ridiculous—but wait, we can’t take credit for it if we link all these people to climate change. How shitty is that?”
“I know, ultra shitty, but that’s what we do for our dreamboats. That’s why we stay up at night watching Netflix and eating Rocky Road ice cream.”
Climate Killers: Book 3. Bernadette Callahan Detective Series Page 13