Polar Bear Dawn

by Lyle Nicholson

  “Yes, yes, I did. And who removed the threat?”

  “I removed it,” McAllen said with a wave of his hand, not unlike a magician ending an act. He leaned forward into the computer screen for effect.

  “You did? You removed it?”

  “Yes I did. Now as for the oil companies saying there is a continued threat to the oil fields, that is a lie. That lie is costing the American and Canadian people millions of dollars a day at the gas pumps.

  “Why would the oil companies be lying?” Byron knew the obvious answer; he was reaching for sound bites and good newspaper copy.

  McAllen’s eyes narrowed as his words became projectiles at his target. “Why would they lie? As the speculators raise the price of oil, the oil companies add millions to their billions. Oil hit 140 dollars a barrel yesterday and they are making another 40 a barrel profit—nice business, don’t you think?”

  “Well, that would be true if they knew the threat had passed and they were saying it still existed . . . but . . .”

  “There is no but,” McAllen jumped in, his speech now rapid. “I deactivated the devices remotely on Saturday. I have solid intelligence that all the devices were located. The oil companies are feeding you bullshit to steal your money. Now, I got to go, so go do what you do— because I am done here.” The screen went blank.

  Byron was vibrating. He’d recorded the call of his career. He was back on top. He did a fist pump, grabbed his laptop, and ran out of his office and down the hall to his editor’s office. He repeated the words to himself as he raced down the hall: “Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up.”

  McAllen logged off Skype and closed his laptop. He turned to Sebastian. “Do you think he bought that?”

  Sebastian stood beside him, just out of sight of the webcam. “I think he was buying what you were selling.”

  Sebastian was now hardly recognizable. Instead of his previous Willy Nelson and Navajo shaman attire, he wore a blue Irish linen sport shirt, tan gabardine dress trousers with a black leather belt, and new black penny loafers. A black blazer rested on the chair in the room. He had also purchased a navy blue suit, white shirt, and striped tie, which were neatly packed in his garment bag along with a pair of dress shoes.

  Sebastian’s long gray braids had been the problem. They had dealt with them with a series of plastic pins that would not set off the detectors at airport security. Once the braids had been neatly compacted, they placed a dark blue Ivy hat on his head. He looked the height of old-guy fashion.

  They had also purchased a raincoat, silk scarf, and briefcase. Everything had been purchased at Brooks Brothers on El Paseo, with the exception of the briefcase. The briefcases at Brooks Brothers were $350 and up. Sebastian had railed at the cost, and he and McAllen had ended up getting a simple black case at Office Max for $49.95. Some things were not worth fighting Sebastian over, and McAllen knew when to stop getting him agitated.

  They were at the Embassy Suites in La Quinta, twenty minutes from Palm Desert. McAllen and Sebastian had shared one suite with two double beds the night before, and Grace was in her own room next door. They had worked quickly after the meeting with Margaret Ashley the previous day.

  Sebastian was cleaned up, dressed, and booked on a flight to New York that left Palm Springs at 12:58 p.m. After a short stop in Los Angeles, Sebastian would arrive in New York just after midnight and would meet up with Parsons and Cordele at the Ritz Carlton in downtown Manhattan. The Ritz was a large business and convention hotel, where the three men dressed in business attire would easily blend in.

  McAllen had placed the call to Byron to stop Duncan and Randall from transferring their money from their main account to their stock trading accounts. If they transferred money into their commodities trading account on Friday morning, Sebastian wouldn’t be able to access it. He had decided to use the Anchorage Daily Mirror reporter as Byron had looked overwhelmed in the previous week’s newscast with the pretty redhead. McAllen had seen the pain on Byron’s face. He also was aware of the time; Alaska was one hour behind the rest of America. They would have more time to develop the story.

  Sebastian hit some keys on his laptop and looked at McAllen. “So far, so good. The main amounts are still in their accounts waiting to be traded.”

  “You can still get at it, most of the 100 million?”

  “You bet, I just need a seat at the table, so to speak,” Sebastian said with a smile.

  “Is Grace still sleeping?” McAllen motioned to the other room.

  “Last I checked. That Ashley woman near talked her head off last night after we all got together. I’ve never seen someone light up from tequila like that. Didn’t know it was a truth serum,” Sebastian said. He closed his newly purchased fashionable garment bag, which he insisted he would include with his checked luggage on the flight.

  “Yeah, that was special last night. You think this will go all right? This hookup with Ashley’s guys in New York?” McAllen looked at Sebastian. He had put him in danger before back in Vietnam, but he was always by his side—his backup. This time he would not be there.

  “No worries, as the Aussie’s say. But do I need to purchase something for my meeting with the Wall Street guys?”

  “You need a gun. You’ll get one in New York. I ordered you a 9 mm with a silencer—compact, nice and light. Parsons and Cordele will have it waiting for you.”

  “Hell no, guns just kill people. I need something special. I saw a kitchen implements store when we were shopping at Brooks Brothers. We can stop there on the way to the airport.”

  “You need something at a kitchen store?” McAllen said. He had no idea what Sebastian needed there, but it was getting late in the morning, and they needed to go. He picked up Sebastian’s bag and they headed out the door.

  Margaret woke to a massive hangover. After her conversation with McAllen and halfway through her second margarita, she had been introduced to Grace and Sebastian. Sebastian no longer seemed scary, and Grace, well, Grace had given her the warmest hug she had ever had. The hug from Grace was not just warm, it was comforting and not just comforting...it was soothing. Grace was this large force of a woman who smelled of herbal concoctions and warm bread. Margaret had never trusted someone so completely.

  They had talked for several hours over dinner, which included another margarita, and somehow they had driven her back to her place. Now here, this very morning, she felt she was either at the lowest point in her life or at the start of a new beginning. Perhaps the tequila had cleansed her.

  Margaret drank several glasses of water with a herbal concoction that Grace had left her. She instantly felt better. She composed herself, looked in the mirror, and saw an aging lady too old for the work she was involved in. With resolve, Margaret went to her desk, switched on her voice synthesizer, and called Cordele in Miami.

  Cordele was happy, and why shouldn’t he be, Margaret thought. He’s using my money. The seafood was great, the wines and the hotel were excellent, and Parsons was enjoying himself. Cordele thanked his boss several times.

  Margaret took the compliments, let them subside, and launched into a brief description of the new associate they would be taking into the hit on Francis and Stewart and why they were involving him. Cordele needed to know they would be aligned with McAllen.

  Cordele was wary at first. McAllen was a worthy adversary, and he knew that in high-stakes espionage and sabotage, allegiances could change quickly. When his boss offered an extra half million for the job though, he jumped onside. Cordele loved money and feared death. The right amount of money always calmed his fears of death.

  Margaret could have given them an extra million each, but it was the law of diminishing returns. Give them too much, they disappear. Give them just enough, they spend it and come back for more.

  Cordele loved the plan. Actually, he loved the money—the plan was secondary. He agreed to leave a day early, which would be that night. A flight out of Miami would get them to New York at 11:40 p.m.
They would go to the hotel and meet Sebastian when he arrived—there was no need to be seen meeting each other at the airport, where there were too many CCTV cameras.

  Margaret ended the call, turned off the voice synthesizer, and ran her hands through her hair. The only people in her organization who knew her identity were her IT boys, Frodo and Freddy. Now McAllen and his people knew about her. She was exposed. How much can I trust McAllen, she thought? She had only trusted herself up until now, had done everything on her own. This was new. She felt uneasy for the first time in years.

  McAllen dropped Sebastian off at the Palm Springs Airport for his flight to New York. McAllen had insisted he fly business class so he could sleep. Sebastian had accepted the upgrade.

  Sebastian got out of the car, dressed in his Brooks Brothers travel clothes. McAllen thought he cut the image of an elderly businessman on his way to do a big deal. And actually, he was. Sebastian took the item he purchased from the kitchen store and placed it in his checked luggage, then handed the luggage to the skycap. His briefcase was empty; he told McAllen he would fill it with magazines and some sundry items at the small gift shop before security screening, as an empty briefcase would be suspicious.

  McAllen nodded to Sebastian and threw him a small phone. “Here, this is a throwaway phone that we activated on a bogus address. Use it to let me know how things go.”

  Sebastian grabbed the phone and put it in his jacket.” Yep, I’ll give you updates on our big score. By the way, that Skype call you made to Alaska—you need to move locations soon.”

  “Why?”

  “I used some software to mask your laptop’s IP address, but a sophisticated tracer will find you in time. They take about forty-eight hours, and the kids they’re hiring at the FBI are getting good,” Sebastian said, concern edging his voice.

  McAllen put his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “God, I love your paranoia. It’s what keeps us safe. No worries, Grace and I will check out from the hotel this afternoon. I know just the place for our next location. So, see you back in Canada.”

  30

  Sebastian’s Flight Arrived A few minutes early. It was Friday, 12:32 a.m. He had slept most of the way from Los Angeles to New York, waking briefly for the in-flight dinner before nodding off again. For Sebastian, sleeping before a mission was never a problem. In Vietnam, they would wake him just before battle.

  He collected his luggage at baggage claim and stopped only to put his kitchen-store purchase back into his briefcase. He liked to keep his implements of persuasion close.

  The line outside for cabs was not long. He joined the line, gave the cabbie his garment bag, and got into the back of the cab. A light snow was falling. The airport smelled of jet fuel and too many bodies. The cab smelled of mild curry with a hint of rose water. Sebastian preferred the smell to cologne. The cab driver, an East Asian, played soft Indian music on the radio. Sebastian closed his eyes and relaxed as the cab made its way to the hotel.

  The taxi deposited him outside the Ritz Carlton a half hour later. The doorman greeted him. He was smiling high-end hotel charm—not effusive, just efficient and welcoming. Sebastian walked upon a sea of marble floors to check in and within minutes was whisked to a junior suite.

  It was 2:00 a.m. Sebastian hung up his suit in the closet, ensuring his dress shirt would not get wrinkled. Then he called Cordele’s room.

  “Hello, Cordele speaking.” He voice was very alert, very awake.

  “I’m here,” Sebastian said.

  Sebastian went to their room, just down the hall from his. He left his hat on and still wore his blazer. He felt formal but did not care. The door opened, and a tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed man smiled at him as he entered. “Hi, I’m Matthew Cordele.”

  Cordele motioned for Sebastian to enter. He pointed to a large hulking man on the couch. “This is John Parsons.” Parsons did not get up but gave a nod of acknowledgment.

  Sebastian sat down in an armchair opposite Parsons and surveyed the room. Two small suitcases and two briefcases were in the hallway. They traveled light. He knew Parsons had previously been with the Canadian Special Forces in Afghanistan and Cordele with some kind of supply squadron with the US Forces. He wasn’t sure what they knew about him.

  Parsons stared at Sebastian. Sebastian stared back. Cordele finally broke the silence as he cleared his throat. “From my talk with my boss, we understand that there is some information you need to get from the gentlemen we intend to take care of today—is that correct?”

  “Yes, that is correct, “Sebastian answered. He was still locked in a staring match with Parsons.

  “You’re trying to get a password—is that right?” Cordele ventured.

  “Yes, a password.”

  “And, you expect them to just give this to us before we kill them?”

  “Yes, I do expect them to give us the password, and as for killing them, I always kill the angry one first,” Sebastian answered.

  “The angry one? Why’s that?” Cordele asked. He sat down in the other armchair. He was looking at Sebastian, who was still in the staring match with Parsons.

  “Angry people never give you much—you need to take them out of the equation.”

  Cordele liked the answer. He poured himself some coffee they had ordered from room service. “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”

  “Yeah, a few times,” Sebastian answered. He looked briefly in Cordele’s direction, and then back at Parsons. Sebastian was enjoying the staring contest.

  “So, you’re one of McAllen’s people,” Parsons finally said.

  “That’s right. I’m with team McAllen,” Sebastian fired back.

  “Did you happen to man that .50 caliber sniper rifle back on Galiano Island?” Parsons asked, his gaze level with Sebastian’s.

  “That was me,” Sebastian answered with just the hint of a smile.

  “You’re a pretty good shot,” Parsons admitted. He was not smiling.

  “Obviously not good enough. You’re still alive.”

  Parsons laughed and looked over at Cordele. “You know, I like this little guy—he’s got balls of steel.”

  “Okay, now that we’ve made the proper introductions, let’s get down to work,” Cordele said.

  Sebastian sat forward. “Do you have a layout of the building?”

  Cordele placed a notebook computer on the coffee table and swiveled it so they could all see. “This is an old building, with a reception desk just for the financial company on the east side. The west side of the building, which houses Ironstone, has no CCTV cameras in the elevators or the hallways.

  “What’s the reason for the lax security?” Sebastian asked.

  “I think Ironstone didn’t want any of the potential clients or themselves on tape. They have cameras inside their offices. We’ll have to find the controls when we get inside.”

  “So we go in with disguises?” asked Sebastian.

  Parsons picked up a bag from beside the couch. “Here, take your pick.” He presented three masks: presidents Bush, Clinton, and Obama.

  Sebastian rolled his eyes. “I’ll take anyone but the Republican. Now, how do we neutralize the rest of the people inside? I understand we have some stock traders and a security guard.”

  Cordele turned to Parsons. “Show our new friend our latest toy.” Parsons went into the bedroom of the suite and came back with a small canister and two chemical-warfare-style breathing masks. The canister bore what looked like Russian writing.

  “This is Kolokol-1, the same kind of knockout gas that the Russians used back in 2002 to neutralize the Chechens who took hostages in the Moscow theater siege.” Parsons tapped the bottle. “There’s enough in here to knock these guys out for up to six hours.”

  Parsons held the bottle up to the light. “Now, my rudimentary Russian tells me that it may cause nausea, diarrhea, dizziness, etcetera— you know — the usual stuff.”

  Sebastian looked at the canister. “Didn’t some of the hostages die from the effects of this
stuff?”

  Parsons stared at the canister for a second and then said with a grin, “This is the new-and-improved version. The guy who sold it to me promised they had made a better batch.”

  Sebastian raised his hand. “Okay fine, but let’s keep our killing to the targets.”

  “Absolutely,” Cordele said. “This is a surgical strike with minimal harm to non-combatants. Isn’t that what they say in the military?”

  “Perhaps now they do,” Sebastian replied. “Back in my day, we would kill them all and let God sort out the innocent.”

  Cordele suppressed a chuckle. “Yeah, Nam was pretty bad. So, Gentlemen, it is now 0300 hours. We hit the streets at 0830 hours. Get some rest and be ready to roll.

  31

  Darren, The Security Guard at Ironstone Investments, looked tough, a mountain of a black man who had stuffed his large features into a poor-fitting sports coats and gray dress pants and wore a look that said “piss off.” A shaved head, sunglasses, a ring in one ear, and a large caliber gun protruding from his jacket made his statement.

  Three men wearing president masks and carrying briefcases and handguns walked into the reception area—pointing their weapons at him. Darren raised his hands in the air. His momma never raised no fool.

  The short man, wearing the Clinton mask, asked if everyone had entered the office for the day. Darren nodded yes. The man then removed Darren’s large weapon from his jacket and put a set of plastic cable tie handcuffs on him.

  The Obama mask locked the door, and the Bush mask asked Darren which door led to the trading room and which one led to the offices of Randall Francis and Duncan Stewart. Darren nodded to the trading room and then to the offices.

  The Obama and Bush-masked men left in the direction of the offices. The short, Clinton-masked man remained with Darren and motioned for him to sit. Darren did not have a problem with that.