Polar Bear Dawn

by Lyle Nicholson

  Her college life had been simple. She had attended the Presbyterian College in Clinton, South Carolina, excelling in business administration, economics, and political science. But it lacked intrigue—she had always wanted to know what was behind the closed doors. The tedium of life had pushed her to work in the Central Intelligence Agency and deal with other people’s lives as they danced with death.

  Now, she was behind those doors, creating the intrigue, and she wondered if she had gone too far. She caught a glimpse of herself in her dining room mirror. She thought she was looking old—well, older. She was dressed in a purple velour track suit, something she had sworn she would never wear as it was for old people. She realized she was there—old. Get used to it, she thought. She got up from her chair to open the balcony door; cool desert air with a slight smell of sage wafted in.

  She had some serious thinking to do. Starko had sent Cordele a text before he died to tell him that his laptop had exploded in flames. Parsons confirmed the same information.

  The obvious answer was that McAllen was sabotaging the mission. She understood sabotage. That was her main business—that and eliminating people. What she could not understand was why McAllen would scuttle his own mission. They had been so close to activation—was it revenge against both the Wall Street boys and her team?

  Margaret understood revenge. They had killed four of McAllen’s team. She thought McAllen was more mission driven than people oriented. Perhaps she was wrong. There was something more she had seen in his profile that nagged at her intuition. She had been in human resources for years with the Agency. She needed to read people, especially those put into battle. She always knew who would cut and run and who would stand and fight no matter the odds. McAllen seemed like the latter.

  This was the same man who had destroyed the assault on the beach on Galiano Island. The report was of .50 caliber sniper fire, M16s, and improvised explosive devices. This man was capable of anything.

  Freddy and Frodo had been running searches for McAllen and had come up with thin air—he had vanished somewhere off of Canada’s West Coast, somewhere in the hundreds of islands there. He could be anywhere. Spending time and resources on him was no longer a priority.

  Margaret made up her mind to eliminate Randall Francis and Duncan Stewart as she watched the sun rise and the hummingbirds sipping from her feeder for their morning breakfast. The project they had brought to her was ill conceived and carried out with poor intelligence on their parts. She briefly thought that perhaps she shared some of the blame for the intelligence part, but she put that out of her mind. Clients were responsible for the work they brought to her.

  They had paid 5 million and owed her another 5 million; she would cut her losses. The mission had cost 2 million since it started, in November of the previous year—that did not matter now. There was 3 million left over, tax free of course, and that would have to suffice.

  The elimination of Randall and Duncan would be a matter of honor for her company and would show her competitors in the black operations industry that her company was not to be trifled with. It would be a reminder to others, like the medieval practice of heads on pikes at the castle gate.

  It would also be good for morale. She poured herself more tea and went to her desk. She did not doubt that Cordele and Parsons felt somewhat abused by events. This would provide some closure. The one thing that Margaret had learned in years at the CIA was the importance of keeping employee morale high.

  She closed the blinds as the desert sun streamed in. To set the plan in motion, she needed to tell a lie. She normally tried to keep lies to a minimum as they were hard to control once they were out there. CNN had reported that no devices had been found. Perhaps that was true, but McAllen had destroyed the radio control devices. Ironstone did not know that. She stirred her tea, replaced her spoon, and picked up her phone.

  After flipping on the voice synthesizer device on her phone, she dialed Randall in New York. He answered immediately. “The package has been delivered” was all she said before ending the call.

  She needed some time to get Cordele and Parsons in place—the lie would keep the Wall Street boys busy. Busy until her men got there. She dialed Cordele’s number. She looked at her watch. It was now 8:30 a.m., and she wondered where the time had gone.

  Cordele picked up, his voice coming out of sleep. “Hello?”

  “Cordele, I have a job for you, one I think you will like,” Margaret began. She spoke slowly, the voice synthesizer making her voice sound deep, masculine, and commanding.

  “Will it be in a cold place?” Cordele sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes, realizing it was his boss on the line. He had just returned to his apartment in Portland. He planned to head to the big island of Hawaii that afternoon, but his boss always took precedence. His boss still instilled fear in him.

  “Somewhat cold—the job is in New York. But I want to fly Parsons and you to Miami first. We will put you up at the Four Seasons in downtown Miami until it’s time for your mission.” Margaret paused and waited for Cordele’s reply.

  “What’s the job?” Cordele let out a soft sigh.

  “Eliminate Stewart and Francis at Ironstone,” Margaret said.

  Cordele ran his hands through his hair and looked at his clock. “That actually sounds like rodent extermination.”

  “Do you know how to reach Parsons?”

  “Yeah, he’s in St. John’s on the East Coast of Canada, probably deep into a barrel of rum by now. I’ll call him right away and get him moving.”

  “Sounds good. Look, you boys have been through a tough ride. The fee is double, and we throw in one week at a five-star, all-inclusive resort in the Caribbean.” Margaret purred softly. It was all about reeling him in now.

  “Can you make it two weeks? It was really cold up there.”

  Margaret almost spilled her tea at Cordele’s request. She covered a laugh. Never let them know you have a sense humor, she thought. Not these guys. “Sure, you got it.”

  She ended the call and made notes at her desk. By Tuesday afternoon, the men would be in Miami. They could rest for a few days. The flight from Miami to New York was two-and-a-half hours. They would take care of Francis and Stewart and then fly back the same day. Margaret would put them up at a five-star resort and would probably have to pay a few hooker tabs, but it would be worth it. She would have two relaxed and happy employees for her next mission.

  She promised herself a ten-day cruise when this was over. on Celebrity or Holland America out of Fort Lauderdale would be nice, she thought. She could afford Silver Seas or Oceania cruise lines, the ones where you were pampered by your own personal butler, but she made it a point to never show her money—living modestly was her best cover.

  The large antique hall clock chimed 9:00 a.m. There was a breakfast date with her friend Myrna at Sherman’s Deli on Country Club Drive. All of the morning’s plans made her hungry. She backed her gray, five-year-old Toyota Camry out of the driveway and decided that this morning, she would have waffles.

  Randall stood in front of Duncan’s large desk. Duncan had his back to him as he watched his row of monitors. Six monitors streamed stocks and commodity prices. One monitor was tuned to CNN.

  The large wall clock showed 9:45 a.m., Monday. The last monitor was tuned to the New York Mercantile Exchange. The crude oil trading pit and a small clock below it counted down the minutes until trading opened. Crude oil traded from 10 a.m. until 2:30 p.m. Eastern Standard Time.

  Randall cleared his throat. “I just got word from our contact. He said the package has been delivered.” His voice came out in a squeak, his nerves now frayed by the fine line he walked between Duncan’s anger and acceptance. He had been raked over the coals since Saturday—Duncan called this venture a colossal fuckup.

  He now hoped the 5 million paid to McAllen to install the polywater and the 5 million to the black ops company to activate the polywater had actually worked. They were betting millions more on the outcome.

  Du
ncan slightly turned his head to reply to Randall. “So why aren’t CNN reporting problems with Alaska and Canada? The vials were supposed to be instantaneous. They should have shut everything down by now—wasn’t that the scenario we bought?” The back of Duncan’s neck was turning bright red, the first sign of his anger. Randall could see the bright glow of his red forehead in the window.

  “Sure . . . sure . . . instantaneous. . . but the professor said it could take up to a week before it reached critical mass and propagated through the geological strata, thereby trapping the oil.” Randall was speaking as slowly as he could, trying to squeeze the squeak out of his vocal cords. It worked.

  “Ah yes... your wonderful professor. Too bad he isn’t here to answer questions.” Duncan turned to face Randall. “You’re saying that if in fact the vials have been injected, that by this Friday at the latest, the oil in Alaska and Canada will slow to a trickle, and all hell will break loose, and we will profit like mad pirates?” He added the last words with a smile.

  “Basically yes,” Randall replied as he felt the tension in his body release. For some reason, his butt cheeks had been clenched ever so tightly in the anticipation of an ass kicking. He relaxed.

  “Okay then.” Duncan’s color went back to excited red instead of angry red. Randall was the only one who could read the difference. “We bet long on oil. Do our call options in the pit in the 140- to 150-a-barrel range. We start picking options for Friday’s close. Damn this could be good.”

  “I’ll let the traders know we are going long and aggressive,” Randall said as he turned and made his way out of the room. He started to breathe again when he shut the door to Duncan’s office.

  Randall was doing mental calculations, something he did to calm himself as money was better than yoga breathing. With Duncan now on side, they would bet very aggressively on oil. They would buy 100 million in options, and the cost would be 10 million in insurance on the bid. If they were right, they would make ten times their bid. If wrong, Randall knew he had better be on a plane out of New York. There would be no second chance from Duncan.

  Professor McAllen watched the boats go by in the channel below. From the high perch of the cabin, the boats looked small. They appeared and disappeared in the early morning mist. Two resident eagles circled overhead, slowly wheeling from mist to sunlight. They were in search of breakfast—anything small that moved was on their menu.

  He turned to look back into the great room of the cabin. His third cup of coffee was going cold in his hand as he surveyed his companions in the room. They were at their individual desks, and soft music played overhead. Another Grateful Dead album—Sebastian’s favorite band. Strains of “I Know You Rider” sounded mournfully from the speakers: “Gonna miss me when I’m gone . . . the sun’s gonna shine in my back door.” Sebastian’s musical interests were locked in 1970.

  A low fire popped and wheezed in the stone fireplace; the dog slept in front of the hearth. The large dog only moved occasionally—its muzzle, then a paw, to prove it was alive.

  Percy was glued to his monitors that tracked satellites overhead, watching for any activity on his firewalls. Theo, who had been awake since 3:00 a.m. to watch the Tokyo Stock Exchange, had multiple screens tracking stocks and oil options. Sebastian was at his desk with his head phones one listing to his numerous sites.

  He was wearing a Navajo shirt that Grace had given him and a large, ornate silver necklace with blue turquoise stones that he claimed came from a New Mexico medicine man. The necklace was supposed to ward off evil spirits and keep the breath of death from his door. McAllen thought Sebastian was now adding bizarre to paranoid and surfing the edges of his own reason. McAllen hoped Sebastian did not take to wearing war paint.

  Grace was in the kitchen again. Whole grain breads and muffins emerged from the oven and stews of mussels, clams, and fish bubbled on the stove. The men had never dined so well or felt so good.

  McAllen saw Sebastian rock his head back. His whole body went stiff—he had heard something on the headphones. He had been listening in to the cell phone conversations of the Wall Street boys and the black ops people for days.

  McAllen walked over slowly, placed a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, and asked, “What’s up?”

  Sebastian took the headphones off one ear and looked up. “Well I’ll be damned. The black ops senior citizen in Palm Springs just sold out the Wall Street Boys.” His silver and turquoise necklace jangled in his excitement.

  “How? What did you hear?”

  “She just told them the devices had been activated, and based on all the other cell phone conversations we’ve heard, her people know the opposite.”

  “What do you think she’s up to?” McAllen waited for Sebastian’s reply as he knew his paranoid scenario would be something they could work from.

  “I think she’s had enough of them. Probably pissed about the bad intelligence they had on you; hold on, she’s back on the phone with Cordele . . Sebastian put the headset back on and raised a hand to all those present—as if the people he was listening to could hear him.

  “Shit.” Sebastian dropped the phones around his neck. “That little lady is putting a hit on the Wall Street boys.”

  “What?” Percy jumped up from his screens of stock quotes. The New York Stock Exchange would not open for a few more minutes. He came up behind Sebastian.

  Sebastian turned slowly to his companions, who now all stood around him. “So . . . these people do eat their young.” His grin flashed one predominate gold tooth.

  “Did she say when?” Theo asked as he gulped down one of Grace’s super fiber muffins. He was spraying crumbs with his question.

  “Yeah, she wants Cordele and Parsons to fly to Miami and then to New York to whack the little fuckers on Friday,” Sebastian said as he flicked muffin crumbs off his desk. He followed the movement with a scowl at Theo.

  “Cool,” Theo said. He gulped to reduce offensive muffin spray. He understood Sebastian’s scowl.

  McAllen paced back and forth and then stopped in front of the other men. “Gentlemen, this bit of information could be an opportunity for us. Any ideas?”

  The men looked at each other, and then Percy, Theo, and McAllen looked at Sebastian. He was the one to come up with the weirdest ideas; it was just his nature. Being paranoid made him think more than just outside the box—more like outside the universe.

  “Hell yeah,” Sebastian screamed. The other men jumped back. Sebastian wheeled back to his computer and began pounding his keys and bringing up screens. “See this,” he said, pointing to the screen in the center. “These little pricks have millions of dollars in their accounts. I estimate it’s somewhere in the 100-million-dollar range, and all I need is a password.” Sebastian wheeled back around to them. He looked like someone who had received the best Christmas present in the world.

  “How’d you find that out?”

  “Simple. The bug I had you put on that creep Randall Francis’s cell phone when he was at your place led me to all his email and Internet accounts. The little shit liked to be Mr. Big and trade from his cell phone. One account led to another, and bada bing bada boom, I got every account.”

  “So we’re going to steal it?” Theo asked.

  “Hell no... not if these guys are going to get whacked. Their money goes to their estates, and then the US government steps in with a whole bunch of lawyers and accountants who pad their pockets first, and then a whole shitload of money ends up in estate taxes. You know the government will just spend the money on devices to spy on their own people,” Sebastian said in a pained voice with a look that said he would be doing the people of America a service by taking the Wall Street boys’ money.

  “Okay, we just need to get to New York, get in the room before these guys get killed, convince them to give us their pass codes before they die, which I’m sure they will, and get away unseen. Am I missing anything?” Theo said.

  McAllen put one of his long arms around Theo’s shoulder. “You, unfortunat
ely, do not know of my well-thought-out master plan.”

  “Which is?” Theo asked dryly.

  “We’ll make it up as we go. The best ones work out that way. Sebastian, we’re going south, off to America. Grace you want to come along?” McAllen shouted to Grace.

  “Sure, I just made enough muffins to last a week. We should be good.” Grace wandered in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

  “Good, Percy, you keep working the stock portfolio, and Theo, keep an eye on the listening post and keep us informed as to what’s going on with our little Palm Springs lady and the Wall Street boys. I’m going to pack a bag.” McAllen turned and headed for his room. He felt a plan developing. He would need a partner, and he knew exactly where to find the one he needed.

  “Just one more thing,” Sebastian called out. “If the Wall Street boys think the polywater has been activated, they are going to bet heavily on oil prices rising—they could lose a good portion of the 100 million before we get there.”

  McAllen stopped in his tracks and wheeled to look at Sebastian. “You know, you’re right. We need to get the message out. I think I know someone who could do it for us. We’ll talk more on the way.” He turned and left the room.

  27

  Bernadette Was Running Late. She had spent hours putting together the briefing notes on the Clearwater employee murders for the CSIS and then reviewing the numerous cases of Fort McMurray mayhem that had washed up on the shores of the RCMP detachment that weekend.

  The RCMP detachment was an outpost of law and order overseeing a demographic of predominately eighteen- to thirty-year-old males employed by Big Oil. Their penchant for stupid was fueled by alcohol and drugs. Young people claimed they could get crack cocaine faster than pizza on the streets of Fort Mac. Some called it Fort Crack.

  There were the usual stabbings, but only one shooting (RCMP officers were always happy that Canadians did not have better access to guns) and only one bar brawl with numerous casualties. Many an oil company personnel officer would be visiting the hospital or receiving sick calls the next morning. Broken arms and gashed foreheads were the norm. None of them would lose their jobs; they were needed to run the plants.