Arctic Floor

by Mark Aitken

  ‘I guess not,’ said Gallen. He’d been in Washington for a week and had spent his own day with the National Security Agency’s WMD team, of which Aaron Michaels seemed to be one. He’d been asked to sit in on the Florita sessions and pick the lies or the half-truths in her story and they were now into the third day of the interview. But he wanted to be back on the farm helping Roy, and he didn’t like sitting behind one-way glass. He felt like a pervert.

  ‘And by the way, Gerry,’ said Aaron, as Florita rolled her eyes and told the investigators she’d already answered the question four times about her commercial relationship with ProProm, the Russian company making the nuclear power plants. ‘I’m sorry about those questions concerning Harbour Light Inc.’

  ‘Harbour Light?’ Gallen couldn’t recall the name.

  ‘You know: Chase Lang’s company? It was your good fortune being rescued by those special forces guys.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Gallen. ‘I have nothing to hide. I don’t know Arkie’s full name and I don’t know why Chase is operating an Arab crew in North America.’

  ‘They were out of line,’ said Aaron of the investigators. ‘They know Ahmed Masri—they just wanted to see how you knew him.’

  ‘Why don’t they haul Chase Lang in here?’ said Gallen with a smile.

  Aaron smiled back. The CIA and the Pentagon used people like Chase Lang for off-the-books weapons and deniable crews. Washington investigating Chase Lang and Harbour Light was as likely as a real inquiry into Halliburton’s military base pricing or the actions of Big Oil in west Africa. It wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘So, I’m out of here?’ said Gallen, trying to stand but wincing at the pain in his leg.

  ‘Sure,’ said Aaron. ‘Anything I can do for you?’

  Gallen thought about it. ‘You can tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘What was Oasis Energy about? I mean, really?’

  Aaron laughed and put his hands on his hips. ‘In simple terms?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Okay. An aggressive Canadian oil explorer with one truck and three employees makes a find in Alberta when he’s nineteen years old. He sells the lease to Chevron and soon realises that if he’d kept the lease and drilled it himself, he’d have made twenty or thirty times what he made by selling the lease.’

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘That’s him,’ said Aaron. ‘So this young Harry’s in a hurry. He attracts a secret source of capital and with his next find, builds his own drilling and pumping infrastructure and gets real big, real fast. After decades of doing this, the Berlin Wall comes down and suddenly the race is on for Arctic oil—the race to control the sea floor of what could be the source of our hydrocarbons well into the twenty-second century.’

  ‘So where does Ivan Bashoff come into this?’

  ‘Bashoff is a gangster who has bought into Russian oil and gas but he knows that the Russian government won’t ever let him get too big. So he helps Reggie Kransk set up the Transarctic Tribal Council, basically incorporates it and waits for a big North American fish to bite—a big, greedy fish that thinks it can control Arctic oil by controlling indigenous territorial interests.’

  ‘They made Florita their agent?’

  ‘They made her an offer,’ said Aaron. ‘You heard her interviews— we’ll help you become the CEO of Oasis, and if you do, you can have three per cent of the stock.’

  ‘They honoured that?’

  ‘Sure did,’ said Aaron. ‘It was sitting in escrow before Harry was killed. Florita’s a lawyer, remember.’

  ‘Why blow up Florita, if she’s your agent?’

  ‘The Bashoff clan didn’t, and neither did Reggie’s council,’ said Aaron. ‘We think it was the Israeli crew. They don’t want that oil field opened up, especially not with US interests in it.’

  ‘Which is the part I don’t follow,’ said Gallen.

  ‘Harry Durville’s secret financiers, way back in his early twenties? Probably our friends in Langley, arranged through all sorts of nominee funds, controlled by lawyers and accountants all over the world. The Bashoffs thought their merger with Oasis gave them control, but the Israelis knew better. They knew that merger put Washington right in the middle of Arctic oil.’

  Gallen nodded. ‘And if we’re up there, why would we bother with the Middle East?’

  ‘If you see it from Tel Aviv’s perspective, it makes sense.’

  Behind the glass, Florita stood up and left the room.

  Aaron offered Gallen a handshake. ‘One final thing, Gerry.’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘Would you mind dropping in to the cafeteria on your way out, buy a Sprite or something?’

  ‘I got nothing to say to her.’

  ‘So, let her do the talking.’

  Gallen smiled, shook the hand. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Florita was sitting on her own at a Formica-top table, chewing on a sandwich and reading the Washington Post, when Gallen started feeding coins into the drink machine. She waved him over and he collected the can, took a seat.

  ‘Hi, Gerry,’ she said. Gallen noticed a few extra lines around the dark eyes, and a paler face than he remembered. She was still good-looking, but tired.

  ‘What they got you for?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Interviews about the Ariadne, the nuclear power plant, the Israelis, Harry Durville, Reggie,’ said Gallen, ripping the tab on his Sprite. ‘Basically nothing.’

  Florita laughed, her teeth flashing briefly. ‘Actually, me too.’

  ‘They told me you were working for the Bashoffs, the Russian crime family. That ain’t true, is it?’

  She looked at him, begging for understanding. ‘I did nothing wrong, Gerry. They wanted me in the CEO’s chair because they liked my ideas and I wanted to push the nuclear power angle—it’s the way of the future. In ten years they’ll be amazed that someone could have been arrested for it, called a terrorist.’

  ‘I see . . .’

  ‘And I had no idea Harry would be killed. Harry was going to hand over to me anyway. And besides, I was on the same plane that got bombed. Remember?’

  ‘I remember.’ Gallen didn’t have the heart for intrigue. The fact that Aaron and his friends were listening made him feel creepy and he decided to end it. ‘Anyway, it was nice meeting you, Florita,’ he said, standing with pain. ‘I hope it works out for you.’

  Florita looked down at her hands. ‘You’re not going to tell me off?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Doing it for the money.’

  Gallen grinned. ‘I did it for the money too, Florita.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I wanted to stop the bank foreclosing on my family’s farm. So I took the gig.’

  A tear ran down her cheek. ‘You did all this to make up a few mortgage payments?’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  She sniffled as she shook her head. ‘That’s so . . . so . . .’

  ‘We all have our reasons,’ he said, not hating her. ‘We all need a creed.’

  ‘I did it for the money, Gerry. I’m talking about four hundred million dollars.’

  ‘Must be nice.’

  ‘You’re walking around with a bullet hole in your leg; your guys risked their lives to save me in that snow. You’re not angry about that?’

  ‘No, Florita,’ said Gallen, turning away. ‘It’s what we do.’

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER 71

  Colorado’s spring sunshine poured out of clear skies. Gallen sipped on a cup of beer as he watched a man on a black stallion stumble through a jumping round, already with too many penalties. The program for the Douglas County No More Snow event listed the next rider as Yvonne McKenzie, on Peaches.

  ‘She’s up,’ said Gallen to Yvonne’s daughter, Lyndall. ‘Next rider.’

  ‘She’s going to be so good, I just know it,’ said the child.

  Sitting on the other side of Lyndall,
Kenny Winter leaned forward on his seat. ‘I’m liking our mare, boss,’ said the Canadian, jiggling his legs as the struggling rider made more mistakes. ‘There’s nothing out there Peaches can’t do with her eyes closed.’

  Roy arrived with a tray of beers and a lemonade for Lyndall. The announcer gave the score to the previous rider as the rails were replaced, and then he announced Yvonne McKenzie.

  When Peaches stalked into the arena, all plaited and dandied up, Winter stood and made a long shepherd’s whistle, making some of the champagne picnickers turn and stare. Gallen stayed seated, feeling something he hadn’t experienced in a number of years. His chest relaxed, the anger evaporated and he smiled.

  He was feeling pride.

  ~ * ~

  Yvonne sipped on her third beer, her second-place cup sitting on the picnic table in front of her, her hair loose now that she’d taken the pins out. The giant beer tent was filled with horse lovers and the barbecues were churning out steak and potatoes.

  ‘And you, Mr Gerry,’ said Yvonne, smiling at him like she used to at high school. ‘Old Roy’s just given me the lecture about you and me.’

  Gallen blushed. ‘Tell him to shut up. Whatever he told you is wrong or a lie.’

  ‘He had a theory, that an old dog’s better than a young wife.’

  ‘Shit, Dad!’ Gallen called across the tent to where Roy was in the middle of a conversation. ‘I’m sorry about that—he knows better than to talk that way.’

  Yvonne pushed her hair back. ‘So old dogs and young wives, huh?’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ said Gallen, not wanting to get into it, especially knowing that Lyndall was nearby.

  ‘Well?’ said Yvonne. ‘What’s the difference?’

  Gallen could sense Winter turning away, abandoning him. ‘It’s nothing, just Marines humour.’

  ‘Gerry Gallen isn’t scared of a little joke is he?’ she teased, sipping at the beer.

  ‘Okay, but it depends on who you ask.’

  Yvonne frowned. ‘So it’s not a joke?’

  ‘No, I’ve seen thousands of answers in latrines all over the world,’ Gallen said, before clearing his throat. ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘Tell me one.’

  He hesitated. ‘It’s more a male thing, you know?’

  ‘Don’t be shy,’ she said, resting her chin on her hand.

  ‘Okay,’ he said carefully. ‘An old dog never asks for more than you got.’

  Yvonne spurted beer and laughed. ‘You men!’

  Winter turned and joined in. ‘When an old dog shits on you, he don’t need no lawyer.’

  Gallen leapt in again. ‘An old dog will let a sleeping man lie.’

  ‘An old dog don’t cost you more than you earn,’ said Winter.

  Yvonne laughed so hard she cried, and when she recovered she had her hand inside Gallen’s arm. ‘It’s good to be back, Gerry,’ she said.

  ‘I’m starting to get that,’ said Gallen, smiling. ‘Just starting to get it.’

  They were interrupted by a commotion at the bar. Looking over, Gallen saw Roy in the centre of it. Hobbling across the trampled turf on his busted leg, Gallen forced his way through the throng and finally got to his father, who was handing out trays of beer and whisky to the bar.

  ‘What are you doing, Dad?’ said Gallen, trying to keep his voice down.

  ‘Shouting the bar, son,’ said his father, smiling ear to ear. ‘Everyone! This is my son, Gerry. Fought for this great country!’

  The freeloaders raised their drinks and the roar went up.

  ‘Dad, stop it—we can’t afford this,’ Gallen said, turning to the bar manager and gesturing a throat-slit with his finger.

  ‘Yes we can,’ said Roy, fishing something from his pocket and handing it over.

  Opening it, Gallen saw a Wells Fargo Bank receipt from an ATM located on the back of a truck outside the tent.

  ‘So what?’ he said, trying to get his father moving away from the bar.

  ‘Read it,’ said Roy, pointing at a group of people and nodding at the barman for more drinks.

  Looking again, Gallen saw the farm account and then the balance. ‘There must be a mistake,’ he said, heart speeding up. ‘We’re not fifty thousand in the black; we’re seven hundred thousand dollars behind. You been messing with the line of credit?’

  ‘There’s no mistake, son,’ said Roy Gallen, the booze making him smile for the first time in a long while. ‘I just called the bank—it was deposited yesterday. There’s no mistake.’

  Backing away from the growing crowd of free drinkers, Gallen wandered back to Yvonne’s table, stunned as he read and reread the ATM receipt. And then something occurred to him.

  ‘Yvonne,’ he said, eyes darting around the beer tent, ‘you seen Kenny?’

  ‘I saw Mr Kenny ten minutes ago,’ said Lyndall. ‘He said goodbye to me over there.’

  Gallen followed her finger to the tent entrance. ‘Goodbye? What did he say? ‘

  ‘He said stay in school, go to college.’

  Limping on his aluminium crutch to the entrance, Gallen exited into the warm dusk, searching for his friend. Dust hung in the air as Chevs and Fords hauled horse trailers out of the Colorado Horse Park. There were too many people, but Gallen moved as fast as he could with the procession.

  After three minutes he stopped, the pain too much to keep walking. Sweat poured down his back as he heaved for breath. There was no chance of finding Winter—the man had simply disappeared.

  As Gallen turned around for the beer tent, he saw something on the other side of the road: a white straw Stetson and an old Carhartt jacket with worn elbows. Kenny Winter was leaning into the passenger side of an old Chev Silverado, and then he was opening the door.

  ‘Kenny,’ yelled Gallen. The Canadian didn’t hear him, so he tried again, feeling weak and hoarse.

  The white Stetson bobbed up and then that impassive cowboy face was staring at him across the traffic on the South Pinery Parkway, chewing slowly on gum.

  They stared at one another for three seconds. There was too much to say and not enough time. So Gallen just lifted the ATM receipt and yelled, ‘Thank you.’

  The Canadian stared and then saluted. The Silverado’s door slammed and the old truck found a gap in the traffic and headed east.

  An old man disturbed his thoughts. ‘Looked to me like you got yourself a first-class salute there, Mister,’ said the old fellow. ‘Officer are you?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Gallen, the dust making his eyes water as he watched the truck disappear. ‘I’m a farmer.’