Frank decided to be less asshole, more polite. “Well, I am delighted to be working with you, Joanne.” He smiled.
“Likewise.” She smiled the same I-do-not-mean-it smile and picked up a magazine.
“So, have you been in Prudhoe before?” he asked. He was not going to let his charm record be tarnished by this square peg of a woman.
“Yep, Prudhoe, Barrow, Nome, and every other place in between— when they die, I fly.” With that, she put in her iPod headphones, threw him one last smile, and buried her head in her magazine.
Frank was left with a frozen smile on his face. He had been categorically shut down, and he had to let his smile shine for just a few seconds more to alleviate the humiliation he felt. Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six.. .yes, that’s good enough. He moved his gaze back to the window. They had lifted off from Fairbanks and turned straight north.
9
Security Officer Jason Cummings Was in trouble. Troy wanted to meet with him—he was booked for 1500 hours. “Just a little sit- down to discuss this morning’s events,” Troy said. Jason had felt Troy’s dark brown eyes—they had accused him. His stomach would not hold down food.
His nausea had started right around the time he had received a simple offer: he was to flip the recording switch on the CCTV cameras for about sixty minutes. A man had explained he wanted a little late-night magic, his words, with a certain tall French Canadian girl and did not want to be seen entering her room on camera.
These extracurricular affairs happened in the camp, but as long as they were kept quiet, they were tolerated. Marriages broke up, new linkups happened; it was the way of life in the Arctic. Close quarters, far away from home, shit happens.
Jason was offered a grand for the service. He’d thought, a grand, sixty minutes? That’s some good French stuff this guy is after, but what the hell, a grand is a grand, and flipped the switch.
When the murders happened, he knew it was the same guy who had asked him to flip the switch had committed them. The one thousand dollars made him an accessory. If Jason told his superiors, he implicated himself. He wouldn’t be just fired, he’d get a record, and he couldn’t let that happen.
Jason was a failure in the eyes of his father, a twenty-five- year veteran of the Bakersfield, California, police force. His father waiting for grandchildren and feats of glory from his son. Jason was twenty-five years old, tall, and overweight. His face was a mass of pimples, his hair a brush-cut brown. He was a nondescript person who could fill a large space, but when he did, you weren’t sure if he was there.
He had failed at college and had been cut from the football team for being too timid. The quarterback got tired of being run over by the offense when Jason was on the line. He excelled at video games. A true basement kid who, if left alone with his beloved Halo, Star Craft, Vanquish, or Dragon Quest video games, would never deal with the real world.
His father, the decorated policeman, had had a different idea. He had gotten him a job with a security firm, pulled some strings, and then got him this plum position in security on the North Slope of Alaska. There was sixty-five to eighty-five thousand a year to be made. His father had told him to keep his head down and his nose clean, and in a few years, he could come back to California, where they would set up a security firm together. He would no longer be a basement kid and instead, someone who might stand out in a crowd. But he’d blown it. His stomach gurgled its disappointment.
His cell phone buzzed. It was the man who had bribed him. “Sweeten the offer,” the text message said.
Jason texted back, “better b extra swt.”
“100K.”
Jason was stunned. If it was true, with money like that, he could get out of security for good. To hell with his father’s security business. But this has to be a trap, he thought. The killer is trying to lure me into this even deeper. But if he has the 100K on him? His stomach was churning even more. He swigged a coke, but it wouldn’t settle down.
“Let’s meet,” was the next text Jason received.
Alarm bells pounded in Jason’s head, his heart was pounding, and he had to think things through. He needed a way out.
“Sure, where?”
“Men’s room, Cor C, 10 min.”
Jason flipped the switch on the CCTV monitor for corridor C. He could see the men’s washroom clearly. The killer was nowhere in sight. He formulated a plan: he would race to the washroom, get ahead of him, and shoot him the moment he entered. He would tell everyone he had figured out this guy was the killer. He would get the killer, get the credit for the takedown, and make his father proud.
He had seconds to make his plans. He called another security guard to take his place in the monitoring room, saying he needed a bathroom break. Then he checked his weapon and strode out of the room.
There was no one around as he turned into corridor C. Most of the workers had returned to their rooms or had gone to the gym or TV room. No one knew how long the lockdown would be.
Jason could see the washroom as he entered the corridor. It was halfway down the hall, between the lounge and the library. He flipped the safety off his sidearm and slowly opened the door inward and to his right. The bathroom had five stalls, a bank of urinals, and five washbasins. He peered under the stalls and saw no feet. I made it here first, he thought.
That was the last thought he had. The killer had been waiting for him behind the door, perfectly positioned out of Jason’s view.
Jason only saw a blur. In an instant, the killer hit him hard with two blunt instruments, and then snapped his neck. The killer dragged Jason’s body into a stall, and sat him on the toilet and pulled his coveralls down. He wanted others to think the toilet was in use, which would give him more time—time was always of the essence in killing. The farther away from a kill you could get, the better. He took Jason’s cell phone as his last few texts would be in there, and then he locked the door and climbed over the stall. He had hid a parka and hard hat in the washroom trash can. He put these on and was careful to avoid the CCTV cameras as he walked down the hallway.
Jason Cummings, now dead, had failed for the last time. There would be no further disappointments for his father in California to deal with.
10
CORDELE WALKED BACK INTO HIS room at the Captain Cook Hotel and began to slowly take off his down parka, unwind his scarf, and pull off his lamb’s-wool-lined boots. He had walked only five blocks back from the restaurant where he had eaten lunch back to the hotel, but his face was frozen from the bitter cold. It began to thaw, and his flesh felt like it had just been taken out of the freezer, the skin tingling as blood vessels surfaced in the warmth. Cordele still could not get over the cold. His last mission had been in Singapore, and he had stationed himself at the luxurious Raffles Hotel and watched on his laptop as an operative took out an objective in Thailand. He missed his silk shirts, linen trousers, and loafers without socks. This cold was ridiculous in Anchorage—but he had to admit they had good restaurants, and good wine.
His head was pounding from the extra glass he had consumed. He hadn’t wanted to leave the cozy little restaurant with its wood fire and warm ambience, partly because the last text message from the Arctic Oil Camp had informed him that the security guard had been eliminated. Things were getting messy.
The other text he had received over lunch was from his boss in Seattle, telling him to check his computer for the coordinates of a job they had to do. “Job” usually meant “kill.” Cordele suspected who it would be. He ordered coffee from room service and went to his computer. Exactly as he suspected—Professor Alistair McAllen was the job. The message gave him the coordinates of the island some forty miles off of Vancouver and informed him that it was necessary to have the job done by 0700 hours the next day.
Cordele knew the reason for the urgency. The professor would be looking for progress reports from his two people in Alaska and the two in Canada. They were all dead. What the professor could do to screw up the mission obviously no one knew, but neith
er Cordele’s boss nor the Wall Street guys wanted to find out—they just wanted him dead.
When room service brought him his coffee, Cordele was looking over the Google Earth maps of Galiano Island and lining up what assets he would need. He poured a cup, sat back, and looked over the logistics, his specialty. He knew he could call upon Parsons and Fuentes in Fort McMurray for the job. Parsons was an ex—Canadian Army soldier, two years out of Afghanistan, and Fuentes, well, he was some muscle they’d picked up somewhere out of Juarez, Mexico, who would kill anyone for money.
He sipped his coffee. It was good and strong, and his headache from the wine was dissipating. He reminded himself to go back to his one glass of wine with lunch rule and picked up the phone. He looked at his watch: it was 3:15 p.m. in Fort McMurray. Parsons picked up on the third ring.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Cordele asked.
“No, no, just some afternoon hockey on the tube is all. What’s up, my son?” Parsons answered.
Cordele did not care for the “my son” crap, a term of endearment among east coasters, but he took it from Parsons because he was genuine. He actually liked the guy. “So, we have some more cleanups to do down there in Canada. Are you at your computer?”
“Yep, right here looking at it.” Parsons poured himself a coke, took a swig, and gazed back at the screen.
“This needs immediate attention. We need to take out the professor. I’m sending you the coordinates. How soon is Fuentes back?”
“I expect him in the door any minute. He phoned about an hour ago to say he was on his way back from the Synthetic Oil site.” Parsons let out a soft belch with his answer.
“Good, you’ll be catching a flight to Vancouver followed by a boat across Georgia Straight to a little beach landing on Galiano Island. I’ll have some local talent pick you up at the airport, and I’ll be sending you all the logistics for the mission and a picture of our target.”
“What kind of talent?”
“Asians.”
“Ah, Christ, trigger-happy mothers!”
“I take it you don’t like Asians?”
“No, love ’em. Love Asian women, Asian food, even Asian beer, but Asian boys like to spray their weapons all over the place. They make a mess. Now, if you could get me some nice Native boys, they like to creep up all nice and quiet like. One shot, one kill, nice boys.”
“I don’t have contacts with Natives. I got Asians. That’s what you’re getting, and you’re in charge of them. Make sure they know that.”
This time, Parsons belched loudly after his swig of Coke. “Sure, sure, Asian kids, I’m in charge, got it.”
“And send me a list of what weapons you’ll need, as well as body armor.”
“Armor? I thought we were dealing with a professor? Did he just develop a set of teeth we don’t know about?”
“No, I just like to provide anything you think you’ll need.”
“Well, for a beach landing, I don’t want seven pounds of body armor strapped to my chest, especially if I have to do any swimming. I‘ll tell you stories of my previous beach landings over a beer sometime, and how much I never liked any of them,” Parsons said as he typed in the airline’s website address to book his flight.
“Okay, we can communicate about everything else you need by text in your travels. Let me know your status as you board your flights. I’ll be in touch.” Cordele hung up and got back to the real problem at hand: boats, guns, and his Asian team—it was going to be a long day. He thought he might need more coffee.
As Parsons was hanging up, Fuentes walked in. He was removing his many layers of clothing and smiling. “Hello my friend, what’s up? Let’s go get some beers and celebrate. This shit caper is done.”
Parsons looked up from his computer. “Cordele just called. You need to get a small bag packed. We have a little road trip down south.”
“Si, finally we get some warmth.” Fuentes was beaming.
“Not that far south, my friend. We’re going to Vancouver. Take your rain coat and a vest. We leave in an hour for the airport.”
Fuentes face collapsed in a serious frown. “Man, it’s so hard to catch a break in this fucking cold country.”
“Hey, you get to kill someone while we’re down there. Don’t be so sad.”
Fuentes’s face went back to a smile. “Okay that is what I live for. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” He left the room to pack.
Parsons went back to his computer and booked them on flights to Calgary, then on connecting flights to Vancouver. There was a direct flight to Vancouver but they wouldn’t make it in time. He booked separate seats so they would not be seen together. Fuentes would drive his truck to the airport, and Parsons would take a cab. They planned to be back by the next flight.
He would leave “Do Not Disturb” signs on their doors—the controls for the devices were in Fuentes’s room.
In his room in Anchorage, Cordele had lined up his Asian connections in Vancouver—three gang members who were in between a drug run. They had fast boats and access to weapons. The best approach to the island looked like a boat ride from a place called Steveston Harbour. The drive to the harbor from the airport was about a half hour, and with a half hour to get across the channel, they would have plenty of time to get the job done and be back in time for breakfast.
Cordele disliked unnecessary deaths on a mission. He had been against bringing on the personnel the professor had chosen. As the deal would not have gone through without them, and the money was huge, his boss, and Ironstone had gone along with the professor’s wishes. Now, the young contractors were dead, and they were about to eliminate the professor. This was a sad case of greed over good sense, Cordele thought.
He closed his laptop and looked at his watch: 3:30 p.m. Alaska time. He had sent all of his information to Parsons, and he was tired. He decided on a trip down to the hotel pool for a quick swim, shower, and steam. Then he would head back to his room to monitor events. It would be long night, and an even longer morning, he hoped everything worked out well for his team of killers.
Cordele’s boss sent an email with final instructions to kill professor McAllen, and then entered the estimates for the costs of the proposed execution on an Excel spreadsheet. Flights, guns, and the Asian gang members would all be added to the client’s bill at Ironstone Investments.
Cordele’s boss was very exact and very precise in determining costs of missions. Cordele’s boss was, in fact, a woman. She was Margaret Ashley, a retired Central Intelligence Agency personnel director. Margaret was in her mid-sixties, five foot six, had red hair, and was well dressed. Her home was in a Palm Springs gated golf course community, just off Country Club Drive.
Margaret had begun her black ops business after getting what she called a “piss-poor pension and god-awful HMO” to look after her medical needs. Before receiving a cheap TIMEX watch and a small farewell party at an Olive Garden restaurant, she had developed a plan. After thirty years of running personnel and putting “assets” in place to do missions, Margaret knew which assets had enough of an attitude problem to work for real money—assets like Cordele and Parsons, who had been in the military and had been somewhat less than exemplary in their duties, yet extremely able to help her with her needs.
Margaret had also recruited two IT boys, whom she called Frodo and Freddy. Both of them were capable of more adventurous tasks than they had been given at the bureau—their aptitude tests had screamed it, but the Agency had never picked up on it. Margaret had.
She had moved her two bright young lads to Boulder, Colorado, put them in a condo with the latest computer and spy equipment (all paid for by the last of her pension funds), and they were in business. The boys found businesses that required a little extra assistance in getting contracts basically by tapping into their emails. Margaret then utilized a voice-altering device that provided her with a man’s commanding voice. Her calls were also rerouted from her home in Palm Spring to a phone in Seattle.
Ma
rgaret’s business did extremely well. She was doing what the CIA had done but was getting paid for it. Instead of altering other nations’ paths by killing key government officials or agents, Margaret merely helped businesses in the international field get what they wanted through bribery or elimination of competition. Margaret was impressed by how good business was. She provided a niche service—a concierge service of killers to businesses.
Margaret’s black operations had made millions per year in the past five years, and she found a ruthless side she had not known she possessed. She was able to order any elimination her clients requested, and she ordered the same for any field agent who became unruly or too hard to handle. The years of frustration she had experienced in having to treat people with kid gloves due to human rights issues she now dealt with in an instant—a bullet to the head and a shredded file.
The situation she was now dealing with in Alaska and Canada was a problem. Targets were being killed to clean up mistakes, not to advance business. Margaret hated mistakes and hated misjudging people. The clients at Ironstone Investments were turning out to be a poor choice.
She looked at her watch; it was 3:45 p.m. She headed towards her garage, opened the door, and got into her golf cart. She had a bridge game with the girls at 4:00 p.m. and then dinner with some friends at six. She would be monitoring the kill of the professor in the early morning, and so she made a mental note to have only one martini with dinner.
11
Detective Mueller watched from the window as the plane descended towards the runway at the Deadhorse airport. The time was just past 11:00 a.m. and the plane was late—something the captain did not apologize for. A low, gray light broke to the south and the expanse of the Arctic came into view.
Polar Bear Dawn Page 4