Darren started to sweat. A large drop started on his brow and formed the first of several rivulets making a river into his eyes. He blinked several times. He did not move. After what seemed like forever, only the man in the Bush mask returned.
Then the Clinton and Bush-masked men motioned for Darren to lead them into the trading room. He walked ahead of them and pushed the door open with his shoulder. None of the traders noticed them as they entered. They were intent on their screens. The stock market was about to open.
The Clinton-masked man spoke up, his voice muffled by the mask. “Gentlemen, your attention please. Put your hands in the air while my associate collects your cell phones. Failure to do so will result in the last trade of your lifetime.” He punctuated his statement by firing a shot into the TV screen showing the Bloomberg channel.
The screen went blank and twelve traders stood in unison with their hands in the air. The Bush-masked man walked among them, picking cell phones out of their pockets and off their desks. He dropped the phones into a shopping bag he pulled from his briefcase then handcuffed each trader.
Not one trader said a word. They stared ahead in silence. They knew Ironstone’s trading methods were illegal and had expected the Securities Commission with police to come barging in at any time. They would have preferred the police to these men.
“Now,” the Clinton mask announced, “you will all walk single file into the lunch room.”
The stock traders, in their uniform black pants, white shirts, and multi-patterned ties, marched into the lunch room.
The Bush mask looked at Darren. “Where is the CCTV control room?”
Darren couldn’t give the information fast enough. “Sure, it’s in Mr. Stewart’s office, on the left side of the room, behind his liquor cabinet.”
“Excellent,” the Bush mask replied. “Now, if you would join your companions in the lunch room please, it would be appreciated.”
Darren walked into the lunch room with the other Ironstone traders. Some of them were shaking, some breathing heavily. One had a dark stain on his pants that produced a puddle on the floor—the others gave him room.
The masked men closed the door to the lunch room, removed the canister from a briefcase, and put on their chemical-warfare masks. They put the nozzle of the canister under the door and opened the valve.
Thumping sounds came from the lunch room—traders dropping to the floor. Then a hard thump, like a tree falling, signaled that Darren had dropped. They nodded their heads in their masks and headed for the offices of Randall and Duncan.
Randall and Duncan were on their knees, their hands on their heads in Duncan’s office, with Cordele in the Obama mask holding his gun with the silencer at their heads.
Parsons removed his chemical mask as he walked in the office. “The CCTV controls are in the bar.” He walked over, pulled a few bottles of expensive Scotch aside, removed the tapes, and turned the recorder off.
“I guess I can remove this now,” Cordele said as he pulled his Obama mask off. He watched Sebastian as he removed his chemical mask, put his hat back on his head, and placed his briefcase on Duncan’s desk.
Sebastian looked down at the two men. “Gentlemen, there is really no need to introduce ourselves. So dispensing with formalities, we have a proposition to make.”
“I don’t want to hear any of your fucking propositions. Get the fuck out of my office immediately.” Duncan sputtered the words. His face was a mass of blotchy red.
Sebastian cocked his head to one side. “Ah, the angry man. I love the angry man.” His words came out smooth and quiet. “But you haven’t heard my proposal yet.”
Duncan looked up at Sebastian. “Sure, tell us what you want—and we’ll tell you to fuck off.”
Sebastian brushed some lint off his Brooks Brothers suit and checked the shine of his dress shoes. He seemed ready to do an interview. “So, our proposal is simple—give us the passwords to your five main accounts. I’ve written them for you on this piece of paper.” He took a piece of paper from his coat pocket and presented it to Duncan.
“Fuck you. Neither of us will do that,” Duncan yelled. He turned to Randall. “Don’t give these bastards anything! You hear me? Nothing!”
Sebastian looked over at Cordele and winked. “We have our angry candidate. Shoot him.”
Cordele raised his gun and placed a round into Duncan’s head. Duncan rocked back and fell to the floor. His blood formed a pool around him. Cordele walked closer and then fired two more shots into him.
Randall looked at Duncan on the floor. Just moments before the man in the Obama mask had walked in the door; Duncan had told Randall he was fired. Duncan had had enough of his screw-ups — the polywater caper had been blown by Professor McAllen on television the day before, and the stock traders were running for the exits on oil. Oil prices were dropping.
Now this. Duncan lay on the floor. Randall could see the redness leave his face. Red blood drained onto the carpet, like he was leaking his anger.
“Now we have contestant number two,” Sebastian said with a grin. “Gentlemen, stand our next contestant up. I would like the passwords to the accounts.”
Randall was in a daze. The shots of the silencer rang in his ears. He knew he’d brought all of this here, right to his door, to this moment in time. The first time he had seen the fuck-you finger of the dead girl from the tar sands, he knew he was a marked man. The finger pointed at him. He could see his death now—it was calling him.
Randall looked at Sebastian. “If I give you the passwords, you’re going to kill me. Why should I do that?”
Sebastian opened his briefcase. He revealed a shiny set of kitchen shears and showed them with admiration to Randall. “German steel. You have to love German steel—just a cut above anything else on the market.”
Sebastian took a Montblanc pen off the desk, and in one motion, cut through the pen with the kitchen shears. There was no resistance— a quick “thwack” sound and the pen was in two, ink oozing on the desk.
“Now you, my friend, we’re not going to kill.” Sebastian looked Randall squarely in the eye. “From you, we do extractions. Dare I say a finger or two, maybe an ear, but we will start with your penis. I find all men are quite attached to their penises. Don’t you?” Sebastian looked down at Randall’s crotch.
“ My friends here will hold you while I remove your body parts until you provide us with the passwords. The body parts will be taken from here and dumped in the dog park at Central Park, or, you provide us the passwords.” Sebastian nodded to Parsons and Cordele, who grabbed Randall and pulled down his pants. He stood in his shirt and tie, with his pants and briefs at his ankles.
Randall squirmed against the two men holding him. “Fuck you.”
“Well, when I finish with you, you won’t be fucking anything. I plan to perform a ritual called a brit milah. The Jewish people call it a Bris— know what that is?”
Randall didn’t answer. He was shaking in fear, his eyes on the kitchen shears.
Sebastian began again. “Well, a Bris is the Jewish rite of circumcision, and, oh my . . . I see you were never circumcised. Quite unsanitary, some claim. Never mind, we’ll take care of that.”
Sebastian advanced on Randall as Parsons and Cordele held him in their iron grip. The kitchen shears lowered towards their target. Before Sebastian could perform the amputation, Randall was screaming passwords. They streamed from him like chants. He spit the numbers out as the only defense between the shears and his penis. Sebastian smiled, put the shears on the desk, and wrote down the numbers.
Sebastian moved around to the computer on the desk, careful to avoid the blood seeping from Duncan, and entered the passwords. He whistled softly as he looked at the screen. There was 102 million US dollars in the account.
He sent the money in groups of 10 million dollars to overseas accounts in Barbados, Bermuda, and Aruba. The money would only be there for minutes. He had already set up transfers that would rocket the money to three other coun
tries and multiple accounts before finally settling in Panama.
He made a separate transfer for Margaret Ashley, sending 30 million to the account number she had given him. Her money would be untraceable as well after bouncing through four separate countries and multiple banks.
When Sebastian had finished, he stretched out his hands like a pianist completing a masterpiece. He turned to Cordele. “You may shoot contestant number two now.”
Randall looked wild eyed. “But you said I’d live if I gave you the password.”
Sebastian looked at Randall with all the kindness and compassion he could muster. “Young man, the world lies, governments lie, Wall Street lies, and you have been told the ultimate lie—the lie about your life. You’re lucky that you’ve found this out at your young age. You will no longer live in darkness. May we have the gunshot please?” Sebastian turned to Cordele.
Cordele raised his gun and fired two quick shots into Randall’s head. Randall fell onto Duncan. Their blood mingled on the expensive Persian carpet.
The three men stared down at the two dead men. “Should I pull his pants up?” Parsons asked.
“Yeah, it’s the least we can do. He was a great contestant,” Sebastian said, dropping the kitchen shears into his briefcase.
They made their way out of the offices and down to the street, where they hailed a cab and went back to their hotel. The time was 10:00 a.m. There was some cleanup to do before they left. At the hotel, Parsons and Cordele changed into jeans and sport shirts—they were heading to Miami and then Jamaica. Sebastian changed into his travel slacks and blazer. He wasn’t ready to go back to his Navajo-shaman look—not just yet.
In Cordele’s room, they placed their weapons in a padded courier bag along with the kitchen shears and dropped the bag off at the concierge desk on their way out of the hotel. The package was addressed to Strategic Financial. The guns and shears would be destroyed by a company already paid to do so.
They took separate cabs to JFK airport. Parsons and Cordele went first, and then Sebastian. When Sebastian reached the airport, he checked in for his 3:59 p.m. flight to Seattle and went to the men’s room to make a phone call. He went into a stall and ensured there were no CCTV cameras around.
First he dialed McAllen. “It’s done—transfer complete.”
He then dialed 911. When the operator answered and asked what the emergency was, Sebastian gave her Ironstone’s address and said immediate assistance was needed, providing the name of the gas they had used. He asked the operator to repeat the name to ensure she had it right. Then he turned off his phone, took out the SIM card, and wrapped it in toilet paper.
He flushed it down the toilet and watched it swirl. He did the same with the disposable telephone. It did two laps before disappearing.
Sebastian grabbed his briefcase and walked out of the stall. A large man in a suit and raincoat was shifting nervously from side to side. It was obvious he needed the toilet in the worst way. Sebastian looked at him, smiled, and thought the man should get some of Grace Fairchild’s high-fiber muffins.
Parsons had never shot a man at close range before. The sound of the bullets entering the two stock traders’ heads had put him on edge. In the military, the targets were across a field or in a mountain range. You fired at them with everything you had and checked the body count.
Cordele had calmly put rounds in Duncan’s and Randall’s heads as one would an animal being put down. Parsons found himself shaken by the sight. In that frame of mind, as he and Cordele shuffled through the check-in line, Parsons saw a police officer approaching. He had a piece of paper in his hand and was looking at Parsons and Cordele.
Parsons grabbed Cordele by the arm and yelled, “Run!” Cordele was a lighter, smaller man than Parsons, and suddenly he was being dragged through the airport terminal past a sea of terrified passengers.
Cordele would have reasoned with the police officer. He probably would have looked over the piece of paper the officer had produced and come up with numerous reasons why they were not suspects. But that possibility was gone. Parsons had made them look guilty, and all they could do was run like hell. The police officer yelled, “Stop or I’ll shoot,” which both men knew was not going to happen in a crowded terminal.
They ran down the escalator, taking the stairs two at a time until they reached baggage claim. The taxi stand was just outside. Between them was a sea of black-shrouded Arabic women in full chador. Their men pushed baggage carts piled high with suitcases and were surrounded by young children holding hands.
The sea of black parted, and Cordele and Parsons pushed on down the center. A lone police officer stood in front of them dropping into a crouching position, his gun aimed at their chests. He yelled, “Halt or I’ll shoot.”
Cordele pushed Parsons from behind, like a quarterback attempting to rush a tackle and using his blocker as a shield. A shot rang out. Parsons dropped. A second shot and Cordele spun to the ground.
The sea of black-shrouded women disappeared with their entourage of men, children, and baggage. They had just arrived from Iraq—killing was nothing new to them. They had thought America might be different.
Parsons felt his breath leaving through the hole in his chest. Cordele on his left made no sounds— he was gone. Parsons knew enough of battle wounds to know he wasn’t far behind. He heard some words, almost from a tunnel. “You son of a bitch, Santos, these aren’t even close to the men you’re after.”
McAllen and Grace sat on the patio of Margaret’s home in Palm Desert. The late-morning sun was warm, golfers were teeing off, and a plane flew overhead, leaving a vapor trail in the clear blue desert sky.
McAllen closed his cell phone and turned to Margaret. “Margaret, you’re 30 million dollars richer than you were yesterday. What do you think of our partnership so far?”
Margaret was sitting in a lounge chair beside Grace, who was giving her a shiatsu massage on her hand and arm. Margaret had never had one. Grace pressed and released on her hands with her fingers, where her chi was supposedly out of balance. It felt good—perhaps she was right. She smiled back at McAllen. Yes, everything felt good so far.
32
Bernadette Walked Into Her Apartment, took off her heavy, down parka, and flipped off her Sorel boots in the hallway. Two papers, the National Post and the Edmonton Journal, were wedged under her arm with a large protein shake she had purchased at the health club. Today was the day for a new health regime, starting with two hours at the gym to release the effects of the doughnuts—she knew she was fighting a losing battle.
She surveyed her apartment. Today, Saturday, was clean-up day, laundry day, and shopping-for-food day. The apartment was adequate in size—715 square feet with one bedroom and one bath. The rent was $2,200 per month, which would be fine if it were in New York or Chicago, or even Vancouver looking over the water. This was in a quiet neighborhood in Fort McMurray.
Bernadette could purchase a one-bedroom condominium in Fort McMurray for a little over $325,000. It didn’t seem right to her. If she were going to buy something, it would be a house. A decent house in Fort McMurray was in the $650,000 range. A mobile home went for just over $300,000. She also thought that Fort McMurray was only temporary. Although temporary had become three years, each year, she had felt only a little more connected to the place. Maybe next year she would buy something.
Dropping the papers on the kitchen table, she opened the refrigerator to get some water. The refrigerator revealed a few slices of leftover pizza, three eggs, one apple, and milk with a questionable expiry date. The emptiness screamed “shopping trip needed!” She got the water and slammed the fridge door shut, ignoring the emptiness.
To make room, she moved dirty dishes from the kitchen table to a pile that was resting above the dishwasher. The dirty dishes waited patiently to be placed in the dishwasher. They needed to wait their turn. The clean ones had to come out first—a fact that was obvious to everyone but Bernadette.
She scanned the newspaper headline
s and read McAllen’s recent announcement. The same newspaper reporter from Alaska she had spoken to, Byron Jacks, was quoted as breaking the story.
Bernadette had watched McAllen on her laptop on Thursday and Friday night. Something was wrong. Something did not feel right. She had watched McAllen’s face and eyes, even his hairline, as he spoke. She was watching for a tell, like in poker. He was lying, she could see it, but about what?
Her cell phone rang. The screen displayed the name Anton De Luca.
“Well, Officer Anton, to what do I owe this call?” Bernadette was delighted to hear from the young officer. He was not only cute as hell but one of the cleverest intelligence officers she’d met in some time.
“Detective Callahan, I hope I’m not disturbing you on your day off?” Anton asked.
“No, not at all, I’m just doing a little housecleaning. You know, Saturdays,” Bernadette replied as she wiped a rag over a spill on her kitchen table. She threw the rag, which arced wide, missed the sink, and landed on the dishes lined up by the dishwasher.
“I came on to some information. I know you’re off the Clearwater murder case, but I thought you might want to hear this.”
“Absolutely, I’m all ears. What’s up?” Bernadette said.
“Remember how Patterson said that the CSIS and FBI would be on the lookout for any big investors in oil stocks?”
“Yeah, did something come up?” Bernadette picked up a pen off her kitchen counter and poised her hand over her newspaper to make notes.
“Sort of. You see, the CSIS and FBI put out an All Points Bulletin about this, and some NYPD detective thought we might be interested in a strange homicide in New York on Wall Street.”
“I thought all homicides were strange, so what’s so strange about this one?”
“Okay, the thing about this one is that three guys in presidential masks entered a company called Ironstone Investments. They moved the security guard and stock traders into the lunch room and hit them with knockout gas.”
Polar Bear Dawn Page 20
