“In fact, there is every reason to believe that Professor McAllen is a terrorist. He is also on record for suing oil companies for the deaths of his children—who, he claims, died of leukemia!” Byron made the last statement in the most emphatic voice he could, and then let the phone crackle with the tension.
Bernadette was stunned by the information. She had only just begun to look into McAllen, and she had missed Cynthia at Synthetic Oil to find out what the young Americans had been up to. Their work logs would show their movements at each site, and someone would know what systems they had been putting in place. She needed to get this reporter off the phone and get to work on her own investigation. The links were starting to form. This was no longer a drug-related crime.
“I have no knowledge of that information, and our investigation is ongoing,” Bernadette said, using standard RCMP text. The unofficial term for this was mushrooming—keep them in the dark and feed them shit.
“Would you have any comment to make to the Anchorage Daily Mirror about the links between these four deaths and Clearwater Technologies, a company owned by Professor Alistair McAllen?” Byron asked. He had finally sprung his trap. This was the print that would hit the streets of Anchorage the next day.
“No, no comment . . . as I said . . . this investigation is ongoing and we have no comment at all,” Bernadette blurted out. She hung up the phone. Part of her wished she had never taken the call. She knew the reporter would quote her, and he would use his preamble and her “no comment” to his advantage. But the information about the deaths in Alaska was invaluable. She knew Chief Barnstead would see that, but only after he hit the roof a few times.
In the parking lot, Byron stared into his phone. His digital recorder was by his side. He couldn’t get the smile off his face. He placed a call to his editor and told him he was coming in with one hell of story—one probably in need of a front-page header. He had warm thoughts of LA.
Bernadette sat at her desk, reviewing her options. The information concerning Professor McAllen being a possible terrorist was a major concern. Where to take the information was another matter. She knew it should go straight to her commanding officer.
It was 5:30 p.m., and her boss would be at his usual Friday night place. He started with an early dinner at either a pizza or Chinese restaurant and then headed home to his big screen TV to watch NBA basketball. Barnstead was a diehard Toronto Raptors fan. He had mentioned twice that day that they were playing the Boston Celtics that night. Barnstead did not like to be contacted at home unless they had solved a major case, or had started a new one.
If she contacted him, and this turned out to be a dead lead, there would be a major shit storm. If this crime turned out to be a possible terrorist plot, and she did not contact him, her ass would be grass, and Barnstead would be the lawnmower.
Threats of terrorism or possible attacks on the oil industry were handled by the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service (CSIS), the American equivalent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. There was a CSIS branch in Edmonton, but getting them involved would take time. She wondered how much time they had.
Bernadette had a more home-grown solution in mind, one that was her trademark in her work—she would reach out to her local help. Pierre Beaumont, the director of security for Synthetic Oil, was the person she had in mind. Pierre and Bernadette had a little bit of history together. There was a quick “hook up,” some 6 months ago. A mutual attraction, a weekend in Vegas, then work got in the way. Neither of them were sure how to end it.. .they just let their relationship slip away.
Pierre answered her call. “Well, the illustrious Bernadette Callahan, to what do I owe this honor? I’ve been grilled by one of your detectives regarding Synthetic Oil Company and the tar pond murders, but I would welcome a grilling from you.”
Bernadette cringed at the greeting and wished caller ID had never been invented. “Hello, Pierre, no I won’t be giving you a grilling, but if ever you should need one . . .” she let the last words hang for a moment. “So, on a more serious note, I received a call from a newspaper reporter in Alaska. He claims he has confirmation that two murders up in Prudhoe Bay are linked to Clearwater Technologies.”
“Linked how?” Pierre had lost his flippant tone.
“He claimed that both the victims were employees of Clearwater Technologies, and he also claimed that Professor McAllen, who owns Clearwater, has developed a way to make water heavy—as in making it into polyester. The reporter went so far as to infer this McAllen is a terrorist. How am I doing so far?” Bernadette paused.
“You have my attention,” Pierre said. “So what else did he have on this McAllen?”
“Well, according to the reporter, McAllen was involved in a lawsuit against oil companies for the deaths of his children.”
“Shit, how did we miss this?” Pierre asked.
“Clearwater was a subcontractor for another company from Houston that was hired for the job but claimed it couldn’t take it on due to time constraints. They were contracted up in Alaska as well. We’ll probably report this coincidence to the FBI in Houston, but right now I think we need to address our own backyard.” Bernadette was typing “Professor Alistair McAllen” into her computer as she spoke; she needed to find out more about him.
“Bernadette, thanks for the heads up. I’ll get operations on this right away. We’ll have to shut down all of Synthetic Oil and any other oil sands operation that these people were involved in. If they’ve tampered with anything, we don’t want the plant operating in case it goes live.” Pierre was scrolling through his phone contacts as he spoke. He was about to unleash a shutdown that would cause a panic in North American oil, but it was his prerogative—his ass was on the line if Synthetic Oil was compromised. Explanations to a bunch of suits in a boardroom in Calgary would come later—he hoped he was right.
“Hey, you’re welcome. I hope this turns out to be nothing, but you know my motto—cover your ass.”
“You’re right, CYA is always a good policy,” Pierre said.
“You got it,” Bernadette replied and hung up. She had more digging to do, and calling the police in Alaska was now on her list. Her stomach growling told her she had missed dinner. Her doughnuts were long gone, and she had a few hours of work to go. She reached in her drawer, pulled out her stash of gummy bears, and then picked up her phone again to start dialing.
Pierre stared out his office window after hanging up the phone. His office was in downtown Fort McMurray, and from the sixth floor, he could see the lights of traffic returning from the oil sands mining operations back into town.
Pierre looked older than his forty-two years. Wrinkles of worry had shown themselves around his eyes five years back, and his dark black hair was turning prematurely gray and thinning both at the hairline and center of his head. The early ageing had coincided with the year he became director of security with Synthetic Oil Company and moved to Fort McMurray.
He had started in the security industry as a consultant, fresh off a ten-year stint with the Canadian Military Intelligence Corps. The pay had been great, the accommodations good—no Quonset huts or canvas tents in Bosnia or Yemen or dealing with armed factions shooting at him.
The oil sands were different. Pierre had to deal with Greenpeace, and any other organization that saw fit to launch a protest at one of the oil sands sites. Greenpeace protestors had breached security at other plants and chained themselves to trucks. They had showed up to protest a tailing pond pipeline. They made themselves into a security and public relations nightmare. Pierre often longed for his days back in the heat of Yemen. He knew who the bad boys were, and if protesters ever showed up anywhere, the protesting never lasted for very long. Lawyers were few in the sand dunes.
Pierre picked up his phone and called Lance Gregory, the vice president of operations. Lance was a real prick—obstinate, opinionated, and officious, but in a crisis, there was no one better. Pierre calledLance’s cell phone. He knew he would get hold of him. In the
oil industry, people did not answer their cell phones only when dead. They slept with them.
Lance picked up on the first ring. “Lance Gregory, operations.” He said it as a statement, not a greeting.
“Lance, Beaumont here. I’ll be quick. The tar pond murders look like the prelude to a terrorist attack on our plants. I need your engineers to shut down the plants and examine everything that a company called Clearwater Technologies installed in the past three months.” Pierre waited for the reply he knew was coming.
“Fuck! Who let the pricks in there?” Lance yelled into his phone.
“That’s for another time. Right now, I need the technicians and engineers going over every inch of the plants looking at what these people installed. If they’ve put anything in place to damage our plants, we need to get at it.”
“Okay, I’ll have the plant engineers on it yesterday. I just hope the fuck your right—know what I mean?”
Pierre knew exactly what Lance meant. The costs to the oil sands were going to be enormous. Just their plant alone shipped six hundred thousand barrels a day south. At a price of one hundred dollars per barrel, it was a sixty-million-dollar-a-day loss for every day the oil stayed where it was. Five more plants could be in danger. He was either going to get another raise for saving their collective asses or have his ass handed to him.
20
The Stock Traders At Ironstone Investments had one eye on their screens and the other on the breaking news on CNN. Another screen was tuned to Bloomberg Investment News. The room was dark; the multiple screens provided the only light they needed.
The finger from the tar ponds broke onto the news at noon. The traders who traded oil commodities knew instantly what to do—they started shorting shares in Synthetic Oil stock, basically betting that the stock would drop. And they had little grins on their faces when the stock did just that. They didn’t care about someone’s death—they were making money.
Other traders in the room were betting that demand for West Texas sweet crude would rise over Canadian crude. There were always sentimentalists in trading, but a good trader took feelings out of trades. “Trade with your balls, not your heart,” some said.
Duncan and Randall watched the traders from behind a one-way window in Duncan’s office. They felt like bystanders at the scene of an accident. An accident they had caused. Duncan’s phone rang; he could see by the number it was the black ops contact from Seattle. He gave Randall a look of sheer disgust as he punched the intercom button.
“Gentlemen,” the voice on the speaker began, “I will get right to the point. We need to detonate the devices immediately. My people are in a compromised situation.”
Duncan hovered over the phone. His forehead turned a bright red as a gauge of his anger. “I would say compromised is putting it mildly. The whole fucking world knows something has happened. What happened to Professor McAllen? Has he been dealt with?”
A slight pause on the phone was the only indication that Duncan’s words had any effect on the speaker. “Your professor has escaped,” the speaker said, and then, in a more commanding tone, continued, “I wish to report that your Professor McAllen mounted a sophisticated attack on my men. I do not know where you received intelligence about this man, but we found anything but an unarmed professor.”
Duncan turned his glare from the phone to Randall. Randall needed to deflect Duncan’s wrath.
Randall leaned forward into the speaker phone. “So where is McAllen now?”
“That is of no concern at present. You need to activate the devices and my team needs to leave the area. We will deal with McAllen after the primary mission is accomplished.”
Duncan hit the mute button on the speaker phone, and his eyes narrowed as he focused on Randall. “You dumb ass. You brought Professor McAllen and this bullshit project to my door!”
He hit the mute button on the phone again. “Can you give us until the end of the trading day Monday? We’re not in position yet with some of the contracts and stocks we need to purchase.” He glared at the phone while giving Randall side glances. He did not know where to place his anger the most.
“Gentlemen,” the voice continued in an even tone, “you will not have any time if my team is discovered with the activation devices.”
Duncan now placed his gaze firmly on Randall. He now knew whom to hate the most. Through clenched teeth, he barely articulated, “Very well then. Activate.”
“Thank you, gentlemen. It has been a pleasure doing business with you. I will monitor the events and let you know when the team will be traveling back to the area to set the second set of devices.” The voice hung up.
The silence in the room was deafening. Randall stared at the speaker phone, hoping it had a portal that would transport him from the room and the wrath of Duncan Stewart.
Duncan’s forehead was turning brilliant shades of red. If he were a thermometer, he would have popped. “Do you know this fuckup will potentially cost us millions of dollars?” He was holding both sides of the desk. His knuckles had turned white.
Randall’s head snapped up from the phone. His eyes focused on Duncan, as if he had just seen him. “We will make it back when we reverse the process. I assure you that this will work.” He steadied his gaze.
“What about McAllen?” Duncan asked. He was starting to breathe heavily. The heavy breathing combined with the bright crimson forehead made him no longer look like a scary figure—just a figure who looked scared.
“McAllen escaped, sure, but he’s on the run. There’s no way he’ll mess with these black ops guys. These guys are pros. He probably got off a lucky shot—the element of surprise. That shit happens. We got this thing. We have the device that controls the polywater.” Randall was talking fast. He was trying to convince Duncan as much as he was trying to convince himself. He could feel his existence hanging in the balance of this project. He had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable.
Randall stared up at Duncan. He was looking at his fierce gaze, waiting for him to throw him out of his office, which would be an escape. The tension in the room pressed down on him like a vice.
Duncan finally broke the tension. “We have one hour of trading left today. See what positions you can get before today’s close.” Duncan turned his back and walked over to his computer screens; commodities, stocks, futures, bonds streamed across the screens. He was no longer in command of events; he no longer had the oil men by the balls. His balls were now in a vice, and he didn’t like the feeling. He adjusted his pant leg.
Randall walked stiffly to the door, fumbling the knob with his clammy hands. He somehow made it to his office. Rivulets of sweat proceeded slowly inside his shirt, making their way past his waistband and down to his shorts. There was no mercy. The sweat was bathing him.
In his office, he closed his door, turned the lights low, and breathed in deeply; he closed his eyes and tried to relax. When he opened his eyes in the sanctity of his office, there on the television was the full-screen view of Alisha Sylvester’s finger. The finger was pointing at him. He could hear it, and it had a voice. It was saying, “Fuck you, Randall Francis, you caused all this.” And he knew he had.
Margaret considered the problem of Professor McAllen. She wanted him found. The decision of what to do with him would be hers. She made a list of assets that she would utilize in the hunt on a legal pad on her desk, including her two computer geeks in Boulder, Colorado.
In a very fashionable condo in Boulder, Frodo and Freddy had a mass of computers that they used to tap into the surveillance satellites of the NSA, CIA, FBI, and the US Customs and Border patrol. Margaret would get them to tap into the big Kennan “Keyhole-class” reconnaissance satellites and look at each one as it passed Galiano Island. McAllen’s boat might be somewhere in the traffic of fishing boats and freighters. They knew what time Parsons had escaped from the beach. Now they would look for any boat that had left the area after that.
Margaret looked out her window. The Santa Anna winds were blowing the pal
m trees. A hummingbird came past her window for a final pass at the flowers—his nightcap, she liked to call it. She looked back to her notepad and added one last note: “Decide what to do with the clients at Ironstone.” She put her notebook away; it was time to meet the girls at the clubhouse for martinis.
21
Professor Alistair McAllen And The SFOSBs were sitting in a large room in a six-bedroom cedar log cabin perched on a secluded island some three hours by boat from Galiano. They had chosen this new site for their operations some three months ago—McAllen had forecasted that things might get hot in their mission—he had been right.
Their new home overlooked a channel from a sheer drop of granite cliffs. A winding pathway led down to the boathouse, which hid the boat Grace had picked them up in the previous night. Computer terminals in the large living room were linked to satellite dishes hidden in the trees. A lazy spiral of smoke curled out the chimney, and an Irish wolfhound sprawled in front of the doorway outside.
Theo had found the cabin some months ago, Percy built an addition to the boathouse that was big enough to conceal the Bayliner, and Sebastian installed the technology they needed in the cabin: computers and software that tracked satellites, and decoders, analyzers, and tracking devices that gave them all eyes and ears all over the planet. Sebastian had been a techno geek before it became a catch phrase in the twentieth century.
Sebastian’s other hobby besides mixing music (he had worked with the Grateful Dead, Janis Joplin, Stevie Wonder, and half of the other wonders of music that were now either dead or retired) was “spy stuff.” He had started quite simply, when he suspected one of his wives, in his multitude of marriages, to be cheating on him. The more he implemented high-tech spy apparatus, the more obsessed he became with learning about it, until he had bugged his cars and every room in his house. He was finally left watching only himself to see if he could catch himself doing anything weird. All his wives had left him.
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