by Mark Aitken
‘This some kind of tribal thing, for good luck?’ said Gallen, amazed at the artwork.
‘Nah.’ Billy waved him away. ‘It’s pretty, that all.’
Gallen couldn’t help but ask the question. ‘You guys have boats, skidoos and jet skis, planes. Who still needs a sea kayak?’
‘Don’t need it,’ said Billy. ‘But my people are practical people.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, brother. You go on the plane or the jet ski, you don’t know how that works, you’re not connected with that, so you’re apart from your environment, understand?’
‘I guess.’
‘And when you’re on the sea, you want to feel connected to her, not apart.’
They drank tea, Gallen itching to get back to the hotel. The way they cured the wood and used bone and tusk, skin and gut to put the kayak together was fascinating, but he wanted to be on a plane.
Excusing himself, he tried to shake Billy’s hand, but the man held it up in the international sign for ‘wait’. Bustling out of a back room, Sami came to Gallen, put a loop of gut string around his neck and kissed him in a hug that involved being held by the elbows, a sensation he hated. Gallen grabbed the walrus tusk carving on the end of the gut string. It was the size of a matchbox and by the look of the yellowing bone, it wasn’t new. It depicted the head of a polar bear, tiny lumps of anthracite for eyes.
‘That a bear?’
‘City people think the bear is a killer,’ said Billy. ‘To us, the bear is a survivor—on sea, land, ice and in all weather, she can live.’
Gallen looked at his talisman. ‘Survivor, huh?’
Billy shook his hand. ‘Be safe, Mr Gerry.’
~ * ~
Winter organised the baggage loading, walking the suitcases and bags through to the rear luggage compartment of the Challenger jet.
‘Where’s Durville?’ said Gallen, as Winter re-emerged on the tarmac, the morning taking forever to be warmed by the watery sun.
‘Sleeping it off,’ said the Canadian. ‘Florita slipped him a Valium.’
Captain Martin fired the plane and Gallen joined the pilots in the cockpit. As they swung away from the tiny terminal, giving them a view of the endless white, he saw something beside the airport building.
‘Any glasses in here?’ he asked, and Martin reached down beside him, coming up with a mid-sized set of Nikon binoculars.
Concentrating as the Challenger made for its take-off position, Gallen scoped Reggie’s convoy in the car park but there wasn’t much to look at. Reggie and his bodyguard had moved into the tiny terminal to wait for their plane.
Sweeping the snowbound airport as the Challenger turned for its take-off run, Gallen’s eyes focused. Was it a black SUV, parked behind a snow bank? He thought he saw a set of field-glasses looking straight back at him from the front seat.
The aircraft turned away from the SUV and Gallen pushed through to the cabin.
‘Kenny! Take a look through the window.’ He thrust the glasses at Winter. ‘Check the black SUV beside the terminal building.’
Winter pointed the binoculars through the cabin window, his fingers dancing slowly on the adjustment buttons. ‘Can’t see anything, boss.’
Taking back the field-glasses, Gallen searched the snow bank but couldn’t find the SUV.
‘Abort the take-off,’ he said, raising his voice so the captain could hear. ‘Bring it into the hangar.’
Winter found his explosives detector and for the next half-hour they went over the plane and through the bags, checking in the lavatories, the galley and the large luggage compartment itself, which was situated behind the aft washroom. The captain and co-pilot even pulled on their parkas and checked the undercarriage and landing gear, looking for anything that wasn’t supposed to be there.
When they decided to try again, Reggie and his party were boarding their own private jet.
‘Thank God for some engine noise,’ said McCann as they took off one hour late and climbed into the blue. ‘That Durville ever stop snoring?’
~ * ~
Two hours out of Kugaaruk, Gallen was roused from his reverie as Durville woke with theatrical stretches and groans.
‘Chrissakes,’ said the oil man, staggering to his feet, hitching up his jeans and making for the aft washroom.
Moving down the plane, Gallen took a seat opposite Florita, noticing she’d let her hair out of the bun. ‘He’s back with us, I see.’
‘I only gave him half a Valium, but it helps with his hangovers.’
Gallen kept it casual. ‘He talking about the meeting, his drinking with Reggie?’
‘He just woke up, Gerry,’ she said, a small smile creasing the side of her mouth.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m curious about this Reggie and his posse.’
‘He’s TTC. But he’s from the other side.’
‘Other side?’
‘Of the North Pole,’ said Florita. ‘They’re all Inuit, but Reggie’s from the Siberian side, while Kugaaruk is the Canadian side.’
‘Reggie’s Russian?’ said Gallen.
Florita chuckled. ‘I’m not saying anything, Gerry, ‘cept that Reggie comes from the other side of the Pole is all.’
The hissing sound from the washroom rose above the twin jet engines. Durville was having a shower.
‘Any ideas why someone would be glassing us on the runway this morning?’
‘Glassing?’
‘Using field-glasses to observe us.’
‘Oh, you mean binoculars. No, Gerry, I have no idea. I didn’t see this vehicle.’
Gallen looked away. His anxiety wasn’t always something he could substantiate.
‘What about Reggie’s men?’ he pushed. ‘They wanted to come into the meeting.’
‘Perhaps they wanted to sit down, get warm.’
‘They were armed.’
Florita looked out the window.
‘You know Reggie’s senior bodyguard? The big Russian?’ said Gallen.
‘No.’
‘You seen him before?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘In Vlad.’
‘Vladivostok?’
‘Like I said.’
‘What’s his name?’
Florita sighed. ‘Gerry, I don’t know his name. The only reason I know yours is that we coordinate Harry’s schedule.’
Gallen nodded. ‘Could you find out for me? It would help.’
Florita nodded too, looked back at her paperwork, nothing else to say.
‘Okay, then,’ he said, standing.
Durville burst out of the washroom as Gallen took his seat opposite McCann. There was a kerfuffle, and rather than twist to see what the commotion was about, he gave McCann a soft kick.
‘What’s the fuss back there?’
Squinting through a half-closed eye, McCann focused on Durville. ‘He’s waving something around, looks like a BlackBerry.’
‘Look at this thing,’ Gallen heard Durville say. ‘A phone covered in abalone. I love these Eskimos. A BlackBerry covered in seashells? I love it.’
It was when Durville said the phone was a gift from one of the tribal members that Gallen felt his pulse roar in his ears. As he lurched from his seat, he almost collided with Winter, who was also heading for the oil man.
~ * ~
CHAPTER 18
The abalone-encrusted BlackBerry glinted in Winter’s hand.
‘This came from Reggie?’ said Gallen, looking down at Durville, whose rough confidence was gone.
‘Gave it to me last night,’ said Durville, slurping at coffee. ‘Told me it was a special gift from the first nations. There a problem?’
‘Sure it was from Reggie?’ said Gallen.
‘Sure as shit,’ said Durville, his breath smelling of booze. ‘What’s this about?’
‘We were under surveillance at the airport,’ said Gallen. ‘Not Reggie’s people—another car, mile away from the terminal.’
‘That a bad th
ing?’
‘You glass me when I’m packing a plane and readying for takeoff,’ said Gallen, ‘then, yeah, that can be a bad thing. Can mean you want to see what I’ve found in the bags, where I’m searching, see what I’m worried about.’
‘Shit,’ said Durville. ‘I didn’t think, I—’
‘Don’t matter now, sir,’ said Winter. ‘Please tell me: have you used this phone?’
‘No, I just found it in my jeans when I took a shower,’ said Durville. ‘Forgot all about it.’
Winter carried the device back to his seat, handing it to Ford.
‘What’s goin’ on?’ demanded Durville. ‘What’s he doin’ ?’
Gallen put a hand on the overhead racks, leaned over his employer. ‘Kenny’s got a detector. We’ll see if there’s any explosive.’
‘Explosive?’ said the oil man, mouth hanging open. ‘Holy shit.’
‘Let’s wait for Kenny,’ said Gallen, trying to quell the man’s nerves. ‘It could be nothing.’
Looking to the front of the cabin, Gallen saw Winter and Ford hunched together, the beeps of the detector quite obvious above the roar of the engines.
‘What’s that?’ said Durville, sitting up. ‘What’s that sound?’
Gallen moved towards Winter. ‘Can we turn down the sound?’
Winter hit a button on the wand. ‘Okay, boss. Mike says it’s RDX.’
‘Fuck,’ said Gallen, rubbing his chin as he looked at the sparkling BlackBerry sitting on the fold-down table between the Canadian and the Aussie.
Winter took his voice lower. ‘We’ve also got a live circuit.’
‘But it’s a phone. Of course there’s a circuit.’
‘The circuit’s live,’ said Ford, ‘but the phone is switched off.’
‘So?’
The Aussie took a quick look over his shoulder. ‘So, there’s explosive and it’s wired. It’s live.’
Kneeling, Gallen looked at the BlackBerry. ‘What have we got, and what do we do?’
‘We used to see these in the Gulf,’ said Ford. ‘We’d cuff the tangos, collect the collateral—the phones, laptops, files, maps, address books.’
Gallen nodded. He’d loaded a lot of that collateral in the field. ‘Were they wired for the phone’s switch?’
‘I asked you a question, Gerry,’ said the oil man, coming down the aisle, glass of Scotch in his hand. ‘What the fuck is going on?’
Standing, Gallen tried to get Durville back to his seat, but the man stood his ground, fronting Gallen with his chest.
‘‘Less I missed something, Gerry,’ said Durville, ‘I employ you, not the other ways around.’
Gallen stayed friendly. ‘I understand how the money flows, but right now my job is to secure everyone on this aircraft. I need you to sit down, sir.’
‘The fuck you telling me to do on my own fucking plane?’
‘Sit down!’ said Gallen, eyeballing his employer. ‘You wanna sack me in Edmonton, you go right ahead. Right now, let us do our job.’
Durville didn’t back away one inch and Gallen waited for a punch or at least a poke in the chest, but it didn’t come.
‘Okay, Gerry,’ said Durville, his jaw clenched. ‘You do your stuff, then you come report to me. I’m sitting right here.’
Gallen kneeled beside Ford and Winter. ‘So, a bomb is triggered if we switch on the phone?’
‘No, boss,’ said Ford, his blue eyes sparkling with adrenaline. ‘The tangos realised we were on to that by the end of oh-three.’
‘And?’ said Gallen.
‘They started installing timer switches,’ said Winter. ‘Cheap circuitry from a digital watch will do it. Small, reliable, don’t need much battery.’
‘They can go off any time?’ said Gallen, hissing with stress.
‘Once put a hole in a Navy IRB,’ said Ford, talking about the rigid-inflatable craft that Navy commandos used to board ships. ‘It was an IED sitting in the spine of a ring-binder file. They’re simple systems but this’ll put a hole in the cabin.’
‘Can we open it? See what the timer says?’
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said Winter as Ford shook his head.
‘Booby-trapped?’ asked Gallen.
‘About ninety per cent likely,’ said Ford. ‘All you need is one extra wire, that pulls across the detonator terminals when you open the case.’
McCann leaned over Gallen’s shoulder, whispering, ‘I vote we get the thing out the motherfucking door, tout fucking suite.’
Gallen looked at Winter for guidance. ‘Kenny?’
‘Get the captain to take her down,’ said Winter. ‘Everyone get strapped in and I’ll throw the thing out the door.’
‘How much time we got? ‘
‘No idea, boss. Mike’s right. These things are simple timers. Could go off any minute.’
‘Okay,’ said Gallen. ‘I want Durville and Florita in the washroom, door locked. Kenny, that’s your job, and if he argues, drop him.’
‘Okay, boss.’
‘Mike, I want you in the cockpit with the pilots, keeping them calm, talking them through it, okay?’
‘Got it,’ said Ford.
‘Break out the parkas and thermals,’ said Gallen, pointing to Ford and Winter. ‘Get your people in every layer you can find.’ Turning to McCann, he smiled. ‘Donny, you’re gonna help me throw a bomb out the door.’
~ * ~
The Challenger jet had dropped low enough that Gallen could see the crests and valleys of snow and ice as they screamed past at a relatively slow four hundred mph.
After talking it over with the captain, Gallen had decided to throw the BlackBerry out through the forward cabin door just behind the cockpit and on the left of the aircraft. It would have been safer to dispose of it through the cargo door under the left turbo-fan engine, but the cargo door was a ‘plug’ type—once it was pushed from inside, it was gone and the plane would be depressurised all the way to Edmonton. They might save themselves from a bomb, but they wouldn’t have enough oxygen and the sub-zero temperatures would turn the plane into a freezer inside of one minute. By using the forward cabin door, they could at least reseal the plane.
Gallen needed to have enough freedom to open the main hatch, but he didn’t want to be sucked out of the plane. So they fixed a cargo strap around his waist which connected to the lap-belt of a forward-facing seat behind him. McCann would be belted into the same seat and he’d control the tension on the cargo strap, but if he couldn’t hold on, the lap-belt should hold.
Gallen stood in front of the hatch, thinking about the directions from Captain Martin: the lever had to be extended fully upwards to open the cabin door. The pilot had completed his instructions with a small stutter. ‘Then you have to push, which will be hard at this speed. While the inside and outside pressure equalise, the door will fly open and try to suck you out.’
Gallen focused on the arming lever but could see only Martin’s eyes—eyes that revealed the captain thought the whole idea was madness.
Martin’s voice crackled over Gallen’s radio earpiece. ‘We’re flying at two hundred feet. Now’s as good a time as any.’
Turning, his arctic gear cumbersome in the warmth of the cabin, Gallen gave McCann the thumbs-up.
‘I gotcha,’ said McCann, giving Gallen a wink. ‘Let’s get it done.’
Taking a deep breath, Gallen put his hands on the down-facing lever, feeling McCann put some tension on the cargo strap.
The lever came up easily; as it reached its open point and clicked into place, Gallen felt the cargo strap pull back on his waist. He was scared, but felt safe with McCann at his six.
‘Okay, Donny,’ he said into his mic. ‘I’ve got it up, now I’m gonna push this fucker out.’
‘I gotcha, boss.’
Gallen felt the cargo strap solid against his belly, pushing up slightly against the abalone BlackBerry that was sitting in the front pocket of his arctic parka.
He shoved, but the door wouldn’t budge. Gallen re
positioned his feet and pushed with his body weight. Still nothing.
‘Think like a defensive tackle,’ said McCann and Gallen shifted his feet again, this time putting his legs and hips into it, not just his arms and shoulders. The door gave slightly and an unholy hissing started from the crack, turning to a high-pitched howling as he got it open three inches. As he pushed more and got it to four inches, he flinched as a siren screamed. The emergency lights went on in the cabin and oxygen masks fell from the capsules over the seats.
