Polar Bear Dawn

by Lyle Nicholson

  “Yeah, I know, but sometimes Alaska justice is the best kind,” Troy said. He was still looking at the bear, the body, and the blood. His own body started to shiver as he finally started to feel the cold. “We best get back inside and let the troopers deal with this mess.”

  “Did you happen to get any ID on the helicopter that Starko was trying to get into?” Mueller asked.

  “Nah, I was too busy dealing with the bear. You might want to call in about the helicopter, but there are lots of helicopters up here, so they may have to go after all of them.”

  “Yeah,” Mueller replied. He looked over at the state troopers, hoping they had heard the conversation and would act on it. His hand was now hurting badly. The adrenalin rush of the chase was over. He wanted warmth, his hand looked after, and some really strong coffee. Mueller realized he had almost been killed. They had found the suspect, now dead, and they may or may not have stopped the terrorist plot.

  He decided he would retreat to the warmth of the camp and seek out the medics for his hand. He decided to contact the RCMP detective who called him from Canada and give her an update on what just happened in Alaska.

  25

  On Monday, Bernadette Was In her office at RCMP headquarters, Fort McMurray. She had arrived early at the detachment, after her usual stop at the Tim Horton’s drive-through. The drive-through was open twenty-four hours, and they knew her well. Her morning ritual was a large double cream double sugar coffee with a whole wheat bagel and strawberry cream cheese.

  This morning she had added a honey cruller and a maple dip—for later. Later... arrived about a half hour after she finished the bagel. The honey cruller was history. The second doughnut she had pushed to the far side of her desk. She was ignoring it.. .for now.

  The weekend had been long. The CSIS had arrived from Edmonton mid-afternoon on Saturday, and another team of intelligence officers were on their way from Ottawa and would be in Fort McMurray by noon. She would need inordinate amounts of sugar and intestinal fortitude to put up with all the meetings.

  Bernadette had been in a closed-door meeting with two young intelligence officers for all of Saturday afternoon and most of Sunday. They had debriefed her on all of the calls she had had with the media in Anchorage and her discussions with Detective Mueller in Prudhoe Bay, as well as her talks with Pierre Beaumont at Synthetic Oil.

  The two young officers had both been bright, well dressed, and detailed to a point that made Bernadette want to scream. She was detailed herself in her investigations, but the two officers had taken things to degrees she had never experienced. They had wanted to know every nuance of every conversation, every small detail of what she thought the other person meant, and how exactly she had come to her conclusions.

  The one intelligence officer was Antonello De Luca, and he went by Anton. He was a good-looking Italian Canadian in his mid-twenties with dark, curly black hair, dark chestnut eyes and smooth brown skin. He could have come off some Italian pizza commercial. The other intelligence officer she thought just as yummy. His name was Alexio Alexandrou, and he went by Alex. He was an athletic and handsome Greek Canadian. The CSIS was churning out good-looking men. If they hadn’t been so damn detailed, she would have found them even more attractive; however, she thought she might have a cougar complex, and had decided to keep her hormones in check.

  She had given them the details of her phone call with Detective Mueller regarding the death of Frank Starko in Prudhoe. The death by polar bear had only mildly amused the pair. They had been more interested in Starko’s background.

  Alex was a computer science graduate. He had gotten a bead on Starko in seconds and found that Frank Gregory Starko was an ex marine with an exemplary record. He had risen to the rank of sergeant and did tours in Iran and Afghanistan, and then he had been hired by several private security firms, where he was well paid. Banks recorded hundreds of thousands of dollars deposited into his account. His money usually left quickly to pay his credit card bills, which he racked up in Thailand during holidays.

  Alex had then done a search on the hotels that Starko had visited. The websites all came up with images of young girls in various states of undress. It was easy to see Starko’s vacation interests.

  Both Alex and Anton had smiled at Bernadette. The man’s hobby was obvious—pervert. What was also obvious was that Starko was some kind of plant. He had been put there in the role of shuttle driver for the Arctic Oil Company. His reasons for murdering the two Canadian technicians were still a mystery, but the murder of the security guard at the camp was obviously a cover-up.

  Bernadette explained to the young intelligence officers how Starko had committed the murders with the espresso tampers, and they had to explain the tampers to her when she asked what they were for. She liked her coffee two sugars two creams. The caramel macchiato fancy stuff got in the way of good doughnuts.

  They had had trouble finding any background information on Emmanuel Fuentes. He was what they called a shadow. He had no record other than one that had been created for him: a Mexican national born in Guadalajara in 1973 who had been employed by Clearwater Technologies as a supervisor and who had a degree in natural science from the University of Guadalajara.

  Alex had then done a facial recognition search of Fuentes, and with a soft “Bingo,” had turned to Anton and Bernadette with a smile. “We have a winner.”

  Bernadette and Anton had stood over Alex as he pulled up the true identity of Fuentes: the screen showed one Augusto Fernando Moreno. He’d been born in 1973 in Guadalajara, and that was the end of the similarities. His list of prior convictions dated back to 1983, when at the young age of ten, he was involved in gang activities. His crimes ranged from drug running to arms smuggling to suspected murders of several competing gang members.

  “Looks like things got too hot for Augusto and he decided to cool his heels in Canada,” Anton had said as he scanned the list.

  "So why were two really bad guys hanging out with four nice kids doing supposed environmental work?” Bernadette had asked.

  They had all agreed after an exhaustive weekend of searching records and looking into the backgrounds of the four dead Clearwater Technologies people that there was no reason for them all to be together other than to plant the polywater. Therefore, they reasoned that the Clearwater employees were all in on the crime.

  Bernadette had gone to sleep on Sunday night thinking about the officers who would have to inform the parents of the young victims that they had been part of a crime against industrial Canada and America. The media would not be gentle.

  Now, at 8:30 a.m. with little rest from the weekend, Bernadette walked into the conference room, her notes and large coffee mug in one hand and cell phone in the other. Anton and Alex were already there, seated on one side of the table. Beside them sat Pierre Beaumont, Chief Barnstead, and the lead of the Edmonton Security and Intelligence Agency, Jeffery Patterson.

  Patterson looked every bit the poster boy for the CSIS. He was tall, with perfectly styled hair and mustache. His jaw line showed a slight wrinkle line, indicating he might be in his late forties.

  Bernadette had not seen Patterson all weekend. He had been locked in meetings with Chief Barnstead and Pierre. They only acknowledged her with their eyes as she entered and then went back to their muted discussion.

  Bernadette sat with Anton and Alex. They gave her a knowing wink and went back to the laptops in front of them. Large Starbucks coffees were at their sides, and they were typing furiously. Chief Barnstead looked at his watch and signaled to Bernadette to close the conference room door. She only mildly disliked him for that.

  "Well, thank you for coming in this morning, as I know many of you also put in many hours on this case over the weekend,” Barnstead began. He looked over at Bernadette, giving her a brief bit of recognition for her part in the case.

  “It seems that according to the report from Mr. Pierre Beaumont, all the devices that could inject this polywater into the tar sands have been located—
is that correct?” Chief Barnstead looked to Pierre on his left.

  “Our engineers reported that all the sites that the Clearwater Technologies people entered have been checked, and ten devices with vials attached were located.” Pierre looked quickly at Bernadette and flashed a smile. He wanted to add his thanks to her for the information on the devices, but he knew she had walked a fine line by informing him before her chief.

  The chief smiled at the group at the conference table. “Then it looks like we have saved the world from an oil shortage crisis.”

  “There is something that I think should be noted, and this was brought up by Anton.” Pierre said. “The vials were attached to a radio transmitter, not a timer. We assume someone would have needed to be in range to activate them,” He passed around a photo of the devices that they had found in the plants.

  Bernadette looked at the photo. The device had six vials attached in a ring to a small black box, which was obviously the transmitter. “So what was the transmitter supposed to do?” she asked Anton.

  Anton looked up from his computer screen. “From what I have determined, the device had a simple release mechanism—nothing too complicated. A radio wave would open three of the vials, which were supposed to activate the polywater, and there were another three vials that were supposed to reverse the process. We took the vials and confirmed this.”

  “So, we have a terrorist who wants to limit North American oil and then reverse the process?” Bernadette said. “I’ve never heard of a benevolent terrorist.”

  Anton gave Bernadette an amused look. “I see your thinking, but perhaps this was not so much terrorism as manipulation of oil. If these people could cause a stoppage and then turn it back on again, they would stand to gain in the markets.”

  “Interesting . . .” Bernadette said. She was leafing through her notes. “Here is a very interesting note from my conversation on Saturday with Detective Mueller in Alaska. He claimed that just before Frank Starko fled from the Arctic Oil Camp, a laptop in his room had caught on fire. He said it had some kind of radio device attached to it. We also have a report that came in late Saturday from Fort McMurray Airport. Someone left a laptop under a truck and it exploded—a radio control device survived the fire.”

  “What do you think that means?” Chief Barnstead asked. He knew he should let Bernadette go with her intuition, as her instincts were usually right.

  “It seems someone has been sabotaging their own project. If the devices were radio controlled, then they should’ve been activated just after the four Clearwater employees were murdered. Wouldn’t that make sense?” Bernadette looked around the room at the other officers. She was amazed these men could not see clearly what had become clear to her.

  “Well perhaps you could clarify your thoughts for us,” Barnstead said. Bernadette took this as code: It is not remotely clear to him.

  “Okay, here is how I see this from the timeline of events.” Bernadette sat up in her chair, arranged her notes, and squared her shoulders. She felt as if she was getting ready to launch. “We have two murders of Clearwater Technologies employees in Prudhoe Bay last week on Wednesday, followed by two more here on Thursday morning.” Bernadette paused to ensure they were following.

  When they all looked up from their notes and laptops, she began again. She loved an audience. “Then we have the killings of a Clearwater employee and two Asian lads linked to Vancouver gangs on Galiano Island, and this is followed by the death of a person trying to escape capture by American authorities after a laptop with a radio device catches fire. Is everyone with me so far?”

  They all nodded in agreement. Patterson was now looking only faintly interested. He seemed to be one who wanted to be leading the team, not being led by Bernadette.

  “So, what I see is that these people who were trying to manipulate oil were either not on the same page or else someone decided to take over the project. I don’t see why else you’d have dead people on Professor McAllen’s doorstep on Galiano Island. If they had all been content with doing their jobs, we would’ve been no wiser as to their actions.”

  “You think they all double-crossed each other,” Chief Barnstead ventured.

  “Absolutely, and I think the threat is still valid until we have Professor McAllen in custody.” Bernadette said.

  “What makes you think that?” Patterson asked. He was now giving her his full attention.

  Bernadette went back to her notes. “Here is something that I found about Professor McAllen. His war record shows he was with the Americans in Vietnam. He was trained in Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and attached to the Special Operations Command. His records show two tours and that he excelled in Operation Commando Hunt, which was on the Ho Chi Minh Trail. His specialties were search and destroy missions—I’m still trying to reach his commanding officer to verify some of his records, but this guy sounds far too wild to be a mild-mannered professor.”

  “What do you suggest his motives are? “Patterson said.

  “I think you have a bona fide nut job on your hands, and he’s not done with messing with world oil. He is on record for suing large oil companies for the deaths of his children.” Bernadette looked Patterson in the eye and held his gaze.

  Chief Barnstead broke the tension with a slight cough. “Detective Callahan, I thank you for your insights into this case; however, all files will now be handed over to these officers from the CSIS as they’ll be taking it from here.”

  The shock that Bernadette felt went right to her gut. She instantly felt the extra doughnut she had inhaled that morning and wanted to throw up. They were taking the case away from her—one of the biggest cases she had ever worked on was being yanked, and there was nothing she could do about it. She tried her damnedest to show no emotion. She merely looked over at Barnstead and made an attempt at a grim smile, saying politely, “I’m sure they’ll do a fine job from here on in.”

  Pierre looked at her, there was something he attempted to say, and then stopped. Bernadette closed her notepad and picked up her coffee mug. There was nothing more for her to do. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a large quantity of notes to get ready for you.”

  “There is one more thing,” Patterson added. He raised his hand as Bernadette was about to leave. “We have been in contact with the FBI in both Alaska and Washington. We will be providing a report to the press stating that we haven’t found any bomb threats or devices of any sort, as yet.”

  “Why is that?” Bernadette blurted out the question before she had time to think.

  “We’ve decided to watch the international oil exchanges in London and New York to see if anyone is making large oil plays. We think someone will be betting the devices have been activated and will try to profit from it. Hopefully they’ll make large enough moves that they’ll show themselves.”

  Patterson suppressed a smile as he looked at Bernadette. He had known all along they were taking over the case. He had let her rattle on about her instincts, which he would note in a margin somewhere and hand off to a junior officer to check out. If they were correct, he would take credit for them and move up in the ranks.

  He’ll probably move up in Ottawa, Bernadette thought, where the other ass kissers live.

  She maintained her smile until she got out of the room and closed the door. On the way back to her office, the frown that descended on her face announced to all other officers that they should steer clear. She was given a wide path.

  When she got to her office, she closed her door, found the one doughnut she had left for later, which was now, and attacked it with a vengeance. Sticky sugar and coffee were a momentary solace.

  The phone flashed with a message waiting. She picked it up and listened. She had called Professor McAllen’s former commanding officer from Fort Bragg at his address in Boca Raton, Florida, and had left a message the day before. He had not been at home.

  A very nice, southern female voice had left a long message. The caller was the daughter of Colonel James Brigham, and sh
e was awfully sorry the retired colonel could not reply to the questions of the RCMP detective from Canada as he was on a cruise in the Caribbean and would be back in Boca Raton in a week. She would let him know to call the detective then, as “Daddy,” the colonel, did not like email and would not use the expensive cruise ship phone.

  Bernadette put the phone down. She knew, and everything in her knew, that she should turn this information over to the nice young lads from CSIS. She just did not feel like it. Perhaps later—she knew she was playing like a dog not giving up a bone, but that was how she felt. It was her bone.

  Her cell phone buzzed. It was Pierre. He was still in the meeting and sending her a text.

  “Can I buy you dinner tonight?”

  What the hell, she thought. No flame like an old flame. She texted back, “Sounds great, how about the Keg Steakhouse downtown?”

  “7:00 p.m., meet you there.”

  Bernadette went back to her notes. She needed to get them in order for the CSIS team and then supposedly let them go. She decided to make a copy of them and then see where things went from there. They were taking her off the case, but she was not even close to letting it go.

  26

  Margaret Had Been Awake Since 5:30 a.m. She’d had another restless night. In her dreams earlier that week, the finger of Alisha Sylvester pointed out of the tar sands—not at her, but at the sky, as if there were an answer there. Then a vision of a polar bear dancing on Starko’s body took over the vision of Alicia’s skyward finger. Cordele had called her on Saturday night with the news and the details about Starko’s death. The dreams were too much. Being awake was easier.

  She made tea and sat at the window of her Palm Desert villa to wait for the sun to rise over the Santa Rosa Mountains. On mornings like these, she wondered how a nice girl from a God-fearing, Presbyterian-Church-going family could carry out her life. She had grown up in Annapolis, Maryland, where her father was a naval officer and her mother a navy office administrator.