Volkov laughed. This is exactly what his lovely Jana in Berlin used to do to him. Willa had probably left the Please Make Up The Room sign on the door to ensure he was awakened.
His mind glanced over the memory of last night. Willa had been exceptional. She’d brought him to new delights that even Jana had never dreamed of—or dared. At one point she’d strangled him, taking him to the brink, then bringing him back. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d had an orgasm.
He sighed deeply as he thought of it. This would make it much harder to kill her when all this was over, but then some of the best things in life must pass. He pulled open his drawer, took out his phone and dialed Sokolov.
The phone rang many times until Sokolov finally answered. There was the sound of wind in the background.
“Where are you?” Volkov asked.
“I’m in a UPS van driving down the highway,” Sokolov answered.
“What! Where’s Sigurdsson? Why are you not in the airplane heading for San Francisco?” Volkov screamed into the phone.
“McAllen showed up in a helicopter, shot my men and stole my plane,” Sokolov said. “He must have overcome my men in Key West and found out our plans. He must die.”
Volkov drew in a breath and closed his eyes tightly trying to assimilate this piece of information. “Do you know where McAllen took your plane?”
“Yes, I called the idiot FBI agent and he had a way of tracking someone on the plane. It’s headed for Bermuda.”
“Really, you lost your plane and your men and you’re calling the FBI agent an idiot. Do you have a plan now, or have you decided to deliver the packages in the UPS van?” Volkov said putting a hand to his head and massaging his temples.
“Yes, I have found a plane at another airfield outside of Miami and another team of men. I’ll be leaving inside of thirty minutes.”
“Good. Do not screw up this time. You know what I do to people who fail me?”
“…Yes, I do. I will not fail,” Sokolov said, his voice trying to sound strong.
Volkov ended the call. He picked up the hotel phone, ordered breakfast then dialed a number on his cell phone.
A voice answered, “Admiral Fairborne.”
“It’s me, Volkov. Are you in a secure area?”
“Yes.”
“Is the present climate change causing the amount of disruption we expected in the US government?”
“Absolutely. Congress and the Senate are blaming each other, and the President can’t get them to agree on a course of action. Of course, half of them think this is all some kind of fake news brought on by either the Republicans or the Democrats or some right or left faction. I’d say the USA government has ground to a standstill, it’s become redundant.”
“Excellent. What is the military doing?”
“They are waiting for the President to make some kind of a decision. Right now, the Atlantic fleet is on high alert, but that’s only to provide aid to the Eastern Seaboard that’s about to be hit by one hurricane after another. The army is fighting forest fires, and the air force… well most of it can’t fly because the temperature is too hot for their jet engines.”
“Perfect, Admiral,” Volkov said. “You will be remarkably rewarded in the new America that is created once we turn the temperature down. It is people like you who see the future, and know how to correct it. I will call you again with further instructions.”
Admiral Fairborne put down the phone and breathed a sigh of relief. He had done everything they’d asked of them. He’d provided the information they needed and he would be rewarded in the new America. He smoothed his hair and straightened his uniform. He still looked good for a sixty-two-year-old naval man. He was formerly the head of the US Atlantic Second Fleet that had been dismantled in 2011. In his mind, an Admiral without a fleet was not an Admiral.
He looked up at a painting in the hallway of his Annapolis home, there, prominently displayed was a portrait of his ancestor, Sir Stafford Fairborne of the British navy. Sir Stafford had cleared the British coast of pirates and taken part in the glorious revolution of 1688 that instigated the overthrow of King James II of England by a union of English Parliamentarians with the Dutch, the Prince of Orange. The successful invasion of England with the Dutch Fleet and army led to William III of England with his wife Mary II, James’s daughter to produce the bill of rights of 1689.
Admiral Fairborne ran a soft cloth over the four stars on his shoulders. Once this was over, he’d be Admiral of the American Fleet. He had officers ready to assume command at several bases. Once the government fell, his men knew what to do.
The Russians would be invading, but to establish a new order, which would set America back on its true path again. And he, Admiral Fairborne, would go down in history, just like his ancestor. He smiled up as the picture of Sir Stafford Fairborne and walked out the door. He had much to do to get ready for his big day.
Volkov walked out of the shower and devoured the breakfast of eggs, bacon and biscuits he’d ordered. This was almost all going to plan. Yes, they needed Sigurdsson for the final details, but they’d find him.
Then, they’d turn up the oceans a few more degrees and America would suffer like never before. There would be crop failures and a heat wave that would kill hundreds of thousands and the seas would invade the low-lying cities on the American coast.
The great climate holocaust would call for drastic measures. Already the American government was almost powerless. The Russians had offered to help but at present they were being rebuffed. But for how long would the Americans hold out?
Volkov smiled at the American psyche. Sure they were tough in battle, strong warriors, but when their media showed their civilians dying in the streets they’d lose their resolve and call in the Russians to help. He knew Russians would suffer with the heat of Climate Change as well. But to him, Russians were born to suffer. They would handle the heat, the forest fires, and the rising waves. Once they saw that this was to defeat America, they would understand and accept what they’d been through.
He dressed in linen pants and fine Hawaiian silk shirt, admiring his features in the mirror. He knew in time the Americans would cave over this tsunami of climate change he’d created with his Russian colleagues. Some were government, but most like him, were Russian Mafia. They would make a new order all right, an order that would produce more power and money than any of the world had seen.
Volkov walked out of room on the lookout for Willa. He needed to thank her for last night. In the new world order, maybe he would make her his slave, if he didn’t kill her. Then again, who knew what would happen? They might have need of some of these billionaires in America, perhaps to show them how to really get the most out of what America had to offer. He whistled a tune as he walked down the corridor of the opulent hotel. Everything smelled of fresh cut flowers. He breathed deeply and smiled.
Willa Flowers was on her plane, toasting her domination of Volkov with a rare early glass of champagne. The island of Lanai disappeared as her jet climbed into a bank of clouds and she turned her attention to her computer. In front of her were the list of companies she wished to take over once the climate catastrophe had reached its climax.
There were major food companies that were already losing share value, they’d be a steal in a week, plus forest products, at the rate of forest fires, their production was shut in. She had placed a large order to buy the controlling shares in three of them. Inside of a week she’d have two more. And then, there were the airlines. So many of them couldn’t fly with the extreme heat that many would soon have to file for bankruptcy.
Her own plane was heading to Panama City, a safer bet during this heat wave crisis in the USA. She’d wait for the temperature to return to normal before she’d set foot on American soil again. By then, she’d be one of highest ranked billionaires in the world. She smiled, sipped her champagne and settled down in her large leather chair.
18
Getting Becky off the plane without a passpor
t was a problem that Bernadette solved by finding a spare flight attendants uniform and getting Becky into it. That was the first hurdle, and then it was to have her use the flight attendant’s passport.
“Oh my god, this girl is Polish and she’s blonde,” Becky said, walking behind Bernadette towards the passport control desk in the charter terminal.
Bernadette turned to Becky, “Look, you’re a flight attendant. You don’t have to say anything. Smile a bunch and flash your eyes at the customs agent. He’ll turn to putty.”
“Ah… the customs agent is female,” Becky said, motioning to Bernadette with her eyes.
“Uh, oh, yeah, okay, well then… say nothing, make like you don’t understand English so well,” Bernadette said.
Becky rolled her eyes and followed everyone to passport control. The customs lady was even easier than they thought. She glanced at their passports and waved them through.
Winston, Sebastian and McAllen followed and they met outside the small terminal where taxis and limos were pulling up looking for passengers.
“We don’t all need to meet with Becky’s grandmother,” McAllen said. “I think Sebastian and Winston need to go in search of a few clothing items, then Sebastian can find us another plane out of here.”
Sebastian shrugged. “Where are we going after this?”
“No idea. I’ll know more once I meet with Sam. I don’t think we’ll be more than a few hours.”
“A few hours?” Winston asked. “I thought you said this lady was somewhere out in the ocean.”
McAllen winked. “I lied, Becky told me in the helicopter that Sam’s research ship is docked in Hamilton Harbour, a short cab ride from here.”
“And you lied—why?” Winston asked.
“I liked the look on your face when I told you we were headed out to sea again,” McAllen said.
Winston walked away muttering invectives regarding McAllen’s possible lineage.
Bernadette touched Winston on the shoulder as she turned away. “Look, get us some underwear and I could use a few t-shirts, and maybe a light shell jacket in size medium, and a few toiletries like a tooth brush would be nice.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m now the den mother for a bunch of people on the run from the law, oh wait, I am the law. You know if someone had remembered to get our suitcases out of the truck that went underwater in Key West we wouldn’t have this problem,” Winston said.
“You’re right, they would have washed overboard on the dive boat,” Sebastian said.
McAllen hailed a white taxi van and jumped in the back with Becky and Bernadette. They pulled away from the airport, the cab bumping along in the left-hand lane, and the driver asking them all kinds of questions about their ‘vacation on the island.’
McAllen quieted the driver with a response of “they were on the island for some serious business matters.”
The driver turned up his radio and let them talk.
“You want to tell me why we couldn’t have contacted this Sam by phone from somewhere in Miami?” Bernadette asked.
McAllen turned to look at Bernadette; he lowered his voice as Becky was in the back of the van. “Look, Becky has no parents. Her mother died when she was young and her father passed away last year in a diving accident. Sam is Becky’s only close relative who will look after her.”
“Okay, I guess I’m fine with that. I’m a big believer in family, but that still doesn’t answer my question as to why we couldn’t have found the information from this Sam person over the phone, and you could have told her we were coming.”
“Oh… well… there is one small thing,” McAllen said looking out the window.
“And what small thing is that?”
“Samantha Sigurdsson hates my guts.”
“Oh, that kind of small thing.” Bernadette looked out the other window and tried to relax. It was times like these that she needed to breathe and absorb the scenery. It calmed her mind for whatever craziness McAllen might bring later.
The taxi van moved slowly along the narrow road. Houses shuffled by in bright colours of green, blue and pink, with the occasional white one with green shutters thrown in. White washed brick walls melded into white picket fences then a wall of green. Some pine trees, almost unrecognizable from her native Canada appeared, then the ubiquitous palm trees, in every size and shape dotted the road.
The background to all of this was a blue green sea that dazzled in the bright sunlight. It lapped upon the rocky beaches and the white sands. Dropping its waves on the shores, it sighed ever so slightly before retreating again.
She was caught in a trance at the beauty of the island. Part of her wanted to dream she was on vacation. The van would stop in front of nice hotel and she’d get out and meet Chris out front. They’d go up to their room and make love for the afternoon then come down for a swim. She was feeling hot when the van stopped.
She broke out of her trance to see them parked in front of a sixty-metre long research vessel with a deep blue hull and orange wheelhouse. A bright red crane was on the stern with a large winch. The name on the side read, Nemo II.
McAllen got out of the taxi, paid the driver and motioned for Bernadette to follow Becky and him up the gangplank. Bernadette wondered what kind of reception they’d get.
A tall woman with bright red hair stepped out of the wheelhouse. She was dressed in t-shirt and jeans with deck shoes. The way she moved along the deck and shot down the ships stairs you’d have assumed she was part monkey, she moved with such agile grace. She planted herself in front of them.
“Grandma Sam,” Becky said.
“Oh my god, Becks it’s you. I didn’t recognize you in the uniform.” Sam picked Becky up in a bear hug and smothered her with kisses.
McAllen stepped forward. “Hello, Sam.”
Sam dropped Becky and threw a punch so hard into McAllen’s jaw that it spun him backwards. Bernadette was able to catch him before he tumbled down the gangplank.
Sebastian and Winston made their way by cab to the shopping area of St. Georges, one of the main cities of Bermuda. The cab ride didn’t take long; it was longer standing in line to exchange money into Bermuda Dollars.
The people of Bermuda liked their own currency or plastic but Sebastian had no plastic. Credit cards were too easy to trace. They used a central booking service for their private plane service that charged an offshore account. The rest was in cash. He always carried a large amount of cash.
They first shopped at a local store, bought some underwear, t-shirts and jeans for themselves and McAllen and Bernadette, then, Sebastian saw a store that caught his eye.
“Follow me, Winston,” Sebastian said leading her down Water Street.
Winston followed behind as fast as she could. She was amazed at how fast this little guy could move. How old was he, seventy? He was damn quick for his age. Winston thought.
They arrived at The English Sport Shop. The place smelled expensive. Winston felt out of place. Her hair was a mess, her trousers and shirt had needed changing for over two days and she was sure she smelled bad. Sebastian walked up to the line of fine linen pants and polo shirts. He smiled at the store clerk that thought some shipwrecked old man had walked into his store.
“Ahem, may I help you?” the clerk asked with an icy tone that showed his apparent disdain for this vagabond image in his store.
Sebastian looked at the man; he was dressed in proper Bermuda shorts in bright green and a polo shirt in a pale blue. “Not if you’re fixing to have me wear clothes like yours,” Sebastian said pulling three pair of linen pants off the pile. “Here, put these in the fitting room for me. I’ll want four polo shirts and a linen jacket, no bright clashing colours. I don’t intend to stop traffic on my way out of here.”
Winston smiled at Sebastian’s manner. The clerk, his name was Donald, went red in the face and began putting aside clothes for Sebastian.
Sebastian looked at Winston. “And find the lady something in some nice slacks and tops as well.” He winked at h
er.
Winston and Sebastian left the shop forty-five minutes later looking like they’d just stepped off a cruise ship.
“You always do things like this, Sebastian?” Winston asked.
“Like what?”
“Well, do whatever comes to your mind.” Winston was walking beside him as they made their way to a seaside bistro for lunch.
Sebastian waited until they were seated in the bistro, and ordered some wine before he answered. “You know, I used to be a real pain in the ass. Like a stickler for details and regulations.”
“Like me?” Winston asked.
“Oh yeah, like you, but even more so,” Sebastian said as he sipped the wine the waiter had poured. “I found ways to tie myself in knots with wanting to please everyone, to make them all happy and it didn’t do a damn thing for my own personal peace.”
Winston sipped on her wine. She’d now gone over to the other side. No longer caring about regulations or drinking on the job. Especially working for people that were trying to kill her.
“So, I should be more like you and cut myself some slack,” Winston said.
“No, you should be yourself and set yourself free,” Sebastian replied. He leaned across the table. “You know, you’re a very attractive woman, there’s no reason why you got to put all this scary vibe out there that pushes men away.”
“Me, I don’t do that… do I?”
“Oh, yeah.
“Really?”
Sebastian tilted his head, “Look, I don’t know if you know my past—”
“The one where you were a stone cold killer?”
“No, not that one. I was a sound engineer for some of America’s greatest rock and roll legends after the army.” Sebastian buttered a roll and took a huge bite out of it.
Winston sipped her wine and regarded this strange little old man over her wine glass. “I didn’t know that. Whom did you work for?”
“The greats, Janis Joplin, The Eagles, and then of course my special guy…Marvin Gaye.”
Climate Killers: Book 3. Bernadette Callahan Detective Series Page 10
