Sarah sipped her coffee as she sat in the lounge chair. Carla sat beside her, and Luis took up a position beside Carla to be on the lookout in case Hensley should walk in the room. They had newspapers with them, raised up as they spoke as if discussing the day’s news that issued forth from USA Today.
Carla looked up from her paper. “How’s Hensley holding up?”
Sarah didn’t look up from her paper. She took a sip of her coffee. “He has a bit of a fever. That broken tooth of his is nasty, and he’s become a real pain in the ass. He doesn’t want to travel today. He said last night he wanted to stay another day.”
Valdes looked in Sarah’s direction. “Maybe Hensley wants a little more Sarah time—wadda ya think? He set his shiny white teeth into a smile, perhaps showing he was only joking. Sarah wanted to launch out of her seat and throw her coffee in his face.
Carla saw Sarah’s jaw line ripple with tension. “Valdes, how about if you do your recon from that chair over there” She motioned with her paper to a chair 20 feet away. “I’ll continue with the briefing from here.”
Valdes’ smile faded. He took his paper and coffee and moved out of earshot of both Carla and Sarah. Carla turned to face Sarah. “Look, I know Valdes is a bit of an asshole, but he does care for you. He’s totally pissed that you have to spend time with Hensley. He’s always mouthing off about how stupid the FBI is for putting ladies like you in this position.”
Sarah turned her paper, and took a quick survey of the room. “Yeah, I know, all the male FBI agents think this is a nasty detail, because none of them have to do it.” She leaned over slightly towards Carla. “You know how many times I’ve wanted to strangle Hensley in his sleep? When that son of a bitch wants to cuddle at night and cup my breasts just like my boyfriend Jonas—you don’t think I want to throw an elbow into his face?” A small unwanted tear made its way down her face—she brushed it away.
Carla dropped her paper. She wanted to touch Sarah, grab her, and give her a hug. She couldn’t do any of that. Words were all she had. “Look, girl, I know this is the bottom of the pit for shit details, but there was no other way we could get close and follow this guy.”
Sarah squared her shoulders and picked up her paper. “Hey, it’s okay, I’m over it. Big girls don’t cry. Do you have any more Intel on what the agency thinks these Eco Warriors are up to?
“We thought that maybe Hensley might tell you. The other members have disappeared. The agents tracking them lost them near Seattle.” Carla scanned the room one more time before looking in Sarah’s direction. “These guys don’t communicate by cell phone or use the net. This is the most low-tech surveillance I’ve ever been on.”
“Yeah, I hear you. Hensley won’t let me in on any of his plans. He moves the vials with the Bio Bugs into our room every night, and puts them under his bed. I have no idea how he communicates with the others.” Sarah took a sip of her coffee. “He did let on that in two days’ time they would commit a very large action—something that would get them noticed.”
“Does he tell you were you’re headed?”
“Nope . . . we get up every day, and I have no idea until the car is heading out of the parking lot. Sometimes we double back—sometimes we stop—he’s always watching the traffic behind us as I drive. He’s looking for cars or trucks that follow us to see if they’re tailing us,” Sarah said.
“We’ve been careful. We change the chase cars every 10 to 15 miles, and then rent new ones in each town. Has he had any suspicions?”
“Not yet—none that he’s mentioned, but when we get into the wide open Montana countryside, traffic on the roads is pretty sparse. I expect you’ll have a problem then.”
Carla stopped for a moment. A person who looked like Hensley walked into the room, she watched him meet with some other oil workers. “We already have a drone ordered and there will be Black Hawk helicopters a few miles back—he won’t see us.”
“I hope not, he’s been getting edgy lately.”
“What kind of edgy?” Carla looked directly at Sarah. She had to fight the urge not to touch Sarah’s arm.
“He goes through my stuff all the time, my toiletry bag, and even my tampons looking for tracking devices. He says the Fed could be planting stuff on us when we are out of our hotel room.” Sarah shifted in her chair. “He gives me these full body massages that he says are to relax me, but I can tell the way he touches me—he’s looking for the microchip tracking device under my skin.”
“Look, you need to be careful. The moment you think your cover is blown; you take this guy down and bring us in. We don’t need him trying anything on you.”
“As in trying what? The guy is 100 pounds soaking wet. I could throw the little jerk across the room.”
Carla paused before she said; “I hope you can do that in your sleep, too.”
Sarah bit her lip. “Look, I’m in this for the long haul. We need to follow this guy to the leaders of the movement and get all of them at once, take them out of equation.” She put her paper down and got up to leave. “I’d better be getting back to the room. This thing should be over in a few days.”
Carla watched Sarah pick up another coffee and head towards the elevator. Valdes came back and sat beside her. “That is one tough lady.” Carla said.
Valdes stared in Sarah’s direction. “I’m sorry if I was out of line with her. I have an older sister about her age—I don’t like what the Agency is making her do.”
“No, none of us rank and file does, but the bosses think this is the big plan—get in close and destroy these guys from the inside.”
“Did you tell her what we found out about Hensley?”
Carla stared at Valdes. “No, I didn’t tell her.”
Valdes leaned towards Carla, his voice down to a whisper. “You don’t think she should know we found Hensley’s DNA on a dead female FBI agent—the one who was trying to infiltrate his group six months ago?”
Carla looked away from Valdes. “This thing is over in two days. If I tell her about the previous agent, she’s liable to kill Hensley the next time he tries to touch her. She’s tough, but she’s also volatile right now. I have to handle her carefully.”
Sarah balanced her coffee as she slid the key card into the door of the room. The lights were still low. She assumed Hensley was still sleeping. She closed the door softly behind her and walked quietly into the room. She didn’t notice Hensley wasn’t in bed.
Hensley came at her from the bathroom as she walked past. He threw his arm around her, and put her into a chokehold. “Bitch—where the hell you been all this time—who the hell you been talking to?” He was breathing heavy. His arm was shaking.
She dropped her coffee and instinctively grabbed his arm with both of hers. She had to keep her airway clear—stop herself from choking and passing out. “I was down getting a coffee . . . I wanted to let you sleep.”
His breath was hot, his voice a strange whisper. “I woke up the moment you left—it takes 45 minutes to get a coffee?” He tried to squeeze harder, but Sarah pulled his arm forward, denying him the leverage around her throat.
“The place was packed with oilmen and tourists; I found a place in the lounge and read the newspaper.” Everything in her screamed to stay calm, she’d been placed in a chokehold numerous times in training. Her instinct was to throw her left leg behind his, pound him with her right elbow and throw him to the floor. A quick punch to the solar plexus or throat would end this in a second. It would also reveal her cover.
Hensley tried to squeeze harder. “I should end you right here bitch, just leave you right here . . .”
“Who’s going to drive the car? You need me for that.” Sarah blurted out the words. She had to reason with him. He was groggy half the time with the painkillers he was on, and couldn’t drive. She hoped he saw the logic. In one more second she would have to get out of this chokehold.
Hensley weakened his hold, “Aw shit—Becky, I’m sorry.” He softened his arms, held her in a hug. His hot breath
nuzzled into her neck.
She wanted to throw him more than ever. A quick flip followed by a life-ending punch to his throat. Fighting the urge harder than ever she said, “Honey—it’s okay. You’re just stressed from the pain . . .” She patted his arm, and kissed it softly as he let go.
Sarah supported Hensley as she took him back to the bed, put him under the covers and cuddled up behind him. In a few minutes he was snoring. She wondered how long she would be able to keep this up before she snapped.
16
It took a full day of pushing paper and helping the other detectives write up warrants before Bernadette was free to leave for Edmonton. She had to go over to Harvey, and let him know she was leaving for a few days and take him Sprocket to look after.
Harvey never minded looking after Bernadette’s dog, her place, her lawn, and probably would have looked after her life if she let him. The last item, Bernadette found tempting, but that was not going to happen.
Harvey greeted Sprocket as the dog came through his door, and they played together as if long last pals had been reunited. Bernadette had heard a rumor that Harvey took Sprocket on strolls past the hangouts of ladies, the Tim Horton’s, the local beauty shops. Walking slowly by with Sprocket, Harvey used the good-looking and friendly German Sheppard as his conversation starter.
There were always rumors in a small city like Red Deer, but Harvey had no end of lady friends, and Sprocket, of course, was not saying anything. Bernadette had given Sprocket one last hug, then a big one for Harvey and hit the road late Tuesday afternoon. Her usual small bag was in the back of the jeep with five days of clothes and her workout gear.
She met up with Anton late Tuesday night, caught up on their investigation of what was now called the Pipeline Terrorists, checked into a hotel near the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service and didn’t sleep well that night.
Bernadette had never been inside the CSIS building. This was Canada’s version of the CIA. They were in charge of Canada’s security, the gathering of intelligence for worldwide threats. They had analysts for business crime, cyber crime, and any other crime they could dream up. She, on the other hand, responded to the usual violence of a personal nature.
The building she was about to visit the next morning was all about people or groups of people in nations that wanted to do violence to Canada. She tossed and turned until 4 in the morning, hit the Gym at 4:30, and was ready for Anton when he showed up at the hotel at 7 a.m.
The CSIS building was nondescript; most people in Edmonton would not know it existed. There is no address for it on the CSIS website. You work there, or get invited there only if you have clearance.
Bernadette’s clearance got her into the outer offices where she found a sea of mostly young energetic faces. The scene before her looked like a professional business office. Everyone was in some kind of business attire; clusters of people examined data on laptops, and poured over white boards filled with local and worldwide threats.
Anton guided her down a series of hallways and to a boardroom. She felt out of her depth here. A sense of panic gripped her. Here were the brightest young men and women brought together to analyze crime threats using technology, and she worked on instinct and intuition. She had worn her best jeans and freshly pressed t-shirt—she stood out like a shoplifter at Wal-Mart. She swallowed hard as they entered the Board Room.
Bernadette sat in a boardroom with Anton De Luca and three other CSIS agents waiting for the arrival of Security Chief Patterson. There was no hiding Patterson’s dislike of Bernadette, which she found a relief. She could be with straight him. As long as she was not insubordinate, she would be fine. CSIS was once an offshoot of the RCMP, and even though some of them dressed casually, there was still a sense of order that belied a military organization. They were Canada’s defense against terrorism, and they took it seriously.
Patterson breezed in, made cursory hellos to everyone that seemed to include Bernadette and began, “Here is where we are. The FBI lost the other group of these Ghost Shirt Eco Warriors, and they only have visual on Talbert Hensley, who is in the company of a female FBI Agent in deep cover.” An aide to his right handed him a sheet of paper.
“We have a report that these Eco Warriors or Terrorist is funded by an Aaron Barteau, formerly of the very wealthy Barteau Chemical family. His father died and left him billions. Somehow he developed a conscience, and instead of funding clean water or clean air projects—which we of course would heartily endorse . . .” Patterson looked around the room for effect. “. . . He has put money into these crazed Eco Terrorists to rain havoc on industries in North America.”
An aide punched some keys on a laptop, and a picture of Aaron Barteau appeared on a television panel in the front of the conference room. Anton leaned forward, “Do we have anything that ties this Barteau to our group?”
Patterson shook his head. “The FBI has a lot of hearsay. There were some meetings between some suspects, some people they think are members and this Hensley guy, was staying at a hotel close to Barteau. We think they had a meeting, planned this purchase, and planned their point of attack from his place in Maine.” Patterson looked over the paper in his hand. “Unfortunately, Barteau was only recently a suspect, so they have no recorded surveillance of the meeting.”
Bernadette hated to state the obvious, but it was there. “So, basically, all we have is the FBI following this guy, and hoping he meets with some contacts they can arrest that will lead them to Barteau, and bust this group?”
Patterson looked across the table at Bernadette. His eyes squinted with the obvious tension he felt in answering her question. “Yes . . . yes . . . that is exactly what we have . . . at this moment.” His mouth moved as if he wanted to say more. Anything more to improve their situation, but there was nothing—he dropped his head back to his paper. As if some new hidden message would appear there.
A young aide piped up. “Well, we do have the search for Professor McAllen to deal with.”
Patterson threw the aide a nasty look. Anton shifted uncomfortably in sympathy for the young man’s lack of tact.
Patterson looked up; the item was on the table. It needed to be discussed, but it was painful to him. He had already thrown Bernadette off the case because he thought McAllen was not a factor in this case—and now he was a vital part of it.
Patterson cleared his throat, “Ah, yes, Professor Alistair McAllen.” The aide punched keys on the laptop and the professor appeared on the screen. The professor actually looked scholarly, a small smile graced his lips as he stood with a group in cap and gowns at a university function.
Bernadette swiveled to look at the picture. “Don’t you have anything more current on him, something in the past year before he fled Canada?”
“We don’t know if he fled Canada,” Patterson interjected.
Bernadette swiveled back to face Patterson. “I can assure you that McAllen is no longer in Canada.”
Patterson leaned forward in his chair; his words came out slowly. “And, just how, Detective Bernadette Callahan, can you assure us that McAllen is no longer in Canada?” He added a slight smirk.
“He sent me a postcard of himself and his friends on a beach. The postcard had a Mexican stamp on it. I turned it over to CSIS over a year ago. It seems no action was taken on it,” Bernadette said. “I think he was just playing games after he escaped capture last year.”
Patterson blurted out the words. “Postcard . . . he sent you a postcard? Well then, I guess we start combing all the beaches of Mexico, as I understand everyone here could use a holiday, I presume we start as soon as possible,” Patterson said. He looked around the table to bring all of the others into this obvious amusement.
“You don’t have to waste your time on that—I know where he is.” Bernadette stared down the end of the board table. This felt like poker to her; she was waiting for Patterson to call her hand.
Patterson shook his head in disbelief, smiled at the others seated at the table. Most of them smil
ed back except for Anton. “You know where he is? Well then detective, perhaps you would share this amazing intelligence with us.”
“He is somewhere on the Yucatan peninsula,” Bernadette said. She leaned back in her chair, faced Patterson directly and laid her cards on the table. “The picture on the postcard was white sand beaches, something you see in that area.”
“And white sand beaches in Puerto Vallarta, or Huatulco did not rate in your assessment?” Patterson widened his eyes at Bernadette as if he was speaking to a three-year-old.
Bernadette smiled, “Well, you’re right they would have . . . until I saw the sign under a large magnifying glass in the background.” She leaned back in her chair; satisfied she had annoyed Patterson enough. “The sign was pointing to Tulum. That is, as I am sure you all know an ancient Mayan site.”
Patterson leveled his gaze at Bernadette, his shoulders hunched up, his displeasure obvious. “And when were you going to share this information—I assume you’ve known this for some time? McAllen has been a fugitive and wanted by this agency since last year.”
“Actually, Sir, I only discovered it this very morning; I had given the photo to agent De Luca here a day after I received it which was over a year ago, but never had examined it closely. Agent De Luca lent me one of your high-powered magnifying glasses and there it was.”
Patterson pursed his lips, “Okay, granted you have a postcard of McAllen from Mexico. We can start our search there to find out where he is now . . .”
“He’s still there,” Bernadette interrupted.
“Why do you think that? This man is a wanted felon for attempting to sabotage North American oil. Why do you think he would send you a postcard from Mexico and then stay there? This man is supposed to be a learned professor—why would he think we’re that stupid?”
Pipeline Killers: Bernadette Callahan. A female detective mystery with international suspense. (Book 2) Page 11
