“Ah, yeah, on that note Pierre, is there a way you can keep me anonymous on this?” Bernadette shifted uncomfortably in her chair as she spoke.
“How do you mean—you don’t want the credit for discovering the second set of devices and saving North America from a major world oil shortage? You’re joking, right?”
“Remember, I was off the case. Detective Barnstead is a real stickler for protocol and will likely blow a fuse if he finds out how I went out of prescribed channels to alert Alaska and you.”
“Ah yes, the prescribed channels. I can see how you might ruffle some Mountie tail feathers, especially the brass’s, but in this case, the case of the national security of oil, you think they might make an exception.”
Bernadette sighed in her reply. “Pierre, let’s just say I don’t want to tempt fate in going for the exception.”
“You’re saying you have a bunch of hard asses you’re dealing with and you want to keep out of the limelight.”
“Pierre, I believe you’ve nailed it. Now can you keep me out of it?” Bernadette crossed her fingers, hoping not to rack up more venial sins she would have to confess.
“Mademoiselle Callahan, your secret is safe with me. You can rest assured that as an honorable French Canadian, I will not breathe a word of your amazing feat to save Canada and the world from the ravages of McAllen and his gang of terrorists. Now, what about the Alaskans? Will they keep your name a secret as the whistle blower on this affair?”
“I hope so; I asked Detective Muller the same thing. He thought it was an odd thing to ask but said he will say the lead came from an unconfirmed source.”
“And you think your chief will buy this and not suspect that this was you cracking this case once again? You do have a reputation for solving things.”
“Barnstead will think it’s me, but as long as no one confirms, he won’t admit it. He has the ostrich syndrome. Keeps his head down, ass up, and is always happy.”
“Okay, well good luck with Barnstead, and from all of us at Synthetic Oil, a heartfelt thanks. I owe you dinner, you know. Last time was rushed, and you never had time for desert.”
Bernadette felt the same mixed feelings for Pierre, somewhere between desire and friendship—she was never sure where they were. “Sure,” she finally said. “When we’ve wrapped everything up.”
Bernadette ended the call. Suddenly she had the urge for a big slice of stuffed crust pizza with extra cheese, extra pepperoni, extra peppers, and extra everything. Her fridge was full of good, healthy food. She needed to go out. She grabbed her jacket and boots and headed out the door. The day was bright sunshine, a mild minus ten Celsius, and light wind. She would walk the ten blocks to the pizza place—burn a few calories.
Sebastian looked up from his computer in the cabin. The email he was reading was short and to the point—there were reports from their operatives in Alaska and Fort McMurray. He turned around to McAllen and the rest in the room. “Gentlemen, they found the devices.”
There was a chorus of “shit” from those in the room. McAllen walked to the window and stared out into the channel.
35
On Monday Morning, Byron Knew something had happened in Prudhoe Bay. His two paid informants who worked for Arctic Oil had sent him text messages. Both of them he had recruited from the same bar, the Fancy Moose Lounge in the Millennium Hotel near the Anchorage Airport. Byron plied them with beer and promises of cash for stories, desperate to get leads on what McAllen was doing with the polywater attacks on Arctic Oil.
The first text was from Brandon, a young kid with peach fuzz and pimples who thought he actually worked for the newspaper. He called Byron “Mister.” He sent his text in a reporter-like fashion: “9 devices found and deactivated but one breached, and damage to an oil field. The field is no longer producing.”
The second text came from Travis. Travis was different—he did the reporting for Byron because he really didn’t like a lot of people, including the people who worked for Arctic Oil. The more crap he dug up on the company, the more people he could piss off. Travis liked that.
The text from Travis said, “One oil field totally fucked! Polywater rules!”
Byron leaned back in his office chair and looked out his office window, compliments of his handling of the McAllen Skype interview. For anyone working in cubicles, a cubicle with a window was the ultimate status. Byron even had job offers from other newspapers. Nothing from the Los Angeles Times yet—his dream job hadn’t called. This new story could get him there.
He needed more information, and his main resource, Della, was on days off back in Louisiana. Della’s alternate for the shift was Julia Cortez, and she was the sweetest thing Byron had ever seen.
Byron knew he would have no problem romancing her. Julia was a petite, dark-haired Latino beauty in her twenties with a sweet sexiness that Byron wanted to plunder. He had met her only once when dropping Della off at the Anchorage Airport. Julia was just coming in from her home in San Bernardino. He imagined Latino music playing as her hips swayed down the walkway. He was instantly in lust.
He knew she would take his call. And maybe, just maybe, she’d give him the added information to fill in his story. He dialed the number for Human Resources Arctic Oil Prudhoe Bay. He was breathing heavily with thoughts of Julia—he needed to calm down.
The phone rang three times and was answered in a silky southern accent. “Human Resources Arctic Oil, Della Charles speaking.”
Byron stuttered. “Della . . . what a surprise. I thought . . . you were back . . . in Louisiana.”
“Why sugar,” Della purred, “I know that Julia was supposed to be here, but her momma took sick in Fresno, so I just hustled my little self back up here to look after the store. Here I am and here you are a-callin.. .what a nice surprise. Now what can I do for you my sweet little biscuit?”
Byron’s skin went cold. The hot flush for Julia was replaced by the cold fear of Della. Della Charles, the big southern girl with the never- ending appetite for both food and sex. Their last meeting in Anchorage had ended with Byron in need of three chiropractor treatments. She’d brought a six-pack of Viagra with her, telling him it was “insurance that he would meet her needs.”
Now, here she was again, the possible break in the story of the new polywater attacks—and he knew the price. The potential for the story was too great; he had to make the deal. Cold sweat ringed his shirt collar. He felt his penis retract, like a turtle’s head shrinking back in fear.
“Well, Della,” Byron began, “I just heard rumors that this polywater stuff got activated at one of the sites and I wondered if you knew anything.” He held his breath waiting for her reply.
“Ah sugar, you know Della has her finger on the pulse of everything that goes on up here. Now just this morning over coffee, one of the security boys told me that Kearns, the base manager, was all excited after he got a phone call.”
“Any idea who phoned with the information?”
“Well now,” Della’s voice grew soft as a whisper. She moved forward in her chair. Byron could hear her chair screech in protest with the weight shift—to him it was like fingernails on a chalkboard. “I heard from the nice security boy, all hush hush, you know. But he says it was this Canadian gal, you know, the RCMP detective. This Detective Mueller says he got the notion from the RCMP gal, and he calls to Mercury. And just like that, the whole base is in a panic and running to all the oil fields to find this new threat.”
“So they did find some of this stuff—the new threat?” Bryon was on the edge of his seat, his pen poised over paper. His fear of Della was replaced by his need for the story.
“Oh yeah, they found the stuff all right, but you’ll never guess what it was,” Della said in a coy tone. She was delighted to have Byron on the phone.
“Ah, no, I probably couldn’t guess.” Byron was peeved about the games Della was playing. He was trying not to show it in his voice.
“Ha, if it weren’t a big condom filled with this liquid
, this polywater stuff, and attached to a regular fishing line. A guy, you don’t know him,Fred Harris from operations, well, he took pictures when no one was looking, and he sent them to me. I think he’s a little sweet on me. Maybe wants a little Della time—know what I mean?”
“A picture? You have a picture?” Byron bolted from his chair. He looked into the phone as if the receiver had produced magic words.
“Ah sweetie, I sure do. Right here on my little computer. And you know Della could send that to you. Now what would my sugar do for Della?”
There it was: the question. It rang in Byron’s ears. What would I do for Della? The words were like a freight train coming down the track— there was no escape. Byron summoned his most convincing voice. “Well, whatever my sweet Della wants. I’m sure we can arrange another night in Anchorage when you pass through next.”
“Honey, I think something like this calls for more than a night. Something this good, I mean, with pictures and everything, calls for a weekend. I mean look, I helped you with the Clearwater employee murders and all I got was a little romp in Anchorage. This calls for a weekend.” Della’s voice had lost the southern silkiness—the tone was all business.
Byron heard the words. They ricocheted around his brain. He could hardly survive one night with her—she was demanding a weekend. “A weekend,” Bryon responded weakly.
“Hmm hmm, that’s right sugar. A weekend in San Diego at one of those fine hotels on the harbor. And honey—”
“Yes?”
“Just you and me and room service.” Della moved back in her chair, which let out another screech of protest.
Byron weighed his options. Say no, and the story of his career and chance of Los Angeles Times would be gone. Say yes, and he would get the story of his career, plus a possible move to Los Angeles, and maybe he could be out of Alaska before he had to make good on his promise to Della.
He could see himself in front of cameras, quoted by CNN, CBS, and NBC. Reporters from the New York Times would call for his in-depth reports. He heard himself say, “Now Della, that sounds fine. You just let me know when you want me to set that up.”
“You know I will sugar, my little Byron Jacks, the big newspaper reporter. I just can’t wait to get my hands on you.”
“Ah yeah, likewise . . . and the picture?” Byron asked.
“Coming right now, sweetie. Now I gotta go. Bye.” Della hung up and with a punch of her keys sent the file to Byron. She looked around her office. Her assistants were away from their desks, and her outer door was slightly closed. She was sure no one had heard her. She had just scored a weekend in San Diego with her sugar and she felt great.
What Della hadn’t noticed was Fred Harris standing behind the door. The Fred that she had mentioned to Byron, the Fred that she had said might be sweet on her. Fred was very sweet on Della. She was in his dreams. Visions of Della had visited Fred every night from the moment he had met her.
Fred had given Della a picture of the polywater to please her. Like someone giving a flower, Fred had given Della a picture of a condom gorged with a pale liquid. She had laughed and her eyes had sparkled at him—she had touched him on the arm.
He had been about to knock on the door and announce his love for her when he heard her conversation with Byron. Fred was crushed. Not knowing what to do, he had pulled out his cell phone, put the phone in the door opening, and hit record for video and audio.
When Della had finished her conversation with Byron, Fred put his phone back in his pocket and walked slowly away. He walked the slow steps of a broken man, a rejected lover. He did not know what he would do with the recording yet. It might come to him later.
Byron sat holding his head in his hands. He was a male whore. He knew it—he accepted it. He had once again given himself for a story. A weekend with Della in San Diego: she would want first-class airfare, an expensive hotel, and steak and lobster every night. And worst of all, he, Byron Jacks, would be servicing her sexual needs every night. His back ached in imaginary sympathy for his fate.
His email pinged with the email and attachment from Della. The picture showed a condom filled with an opaque liquid resting in a jar. A hand held the top of the jar. Polywater.
He forgot everything about his fate with Della. Grabbing his phone, he dialed Arctic Oil and asked for Steve Zeeman in the public relations department. He knew they would have to call a press conference soon. Steve was a wily adversary for all media types. He could smooth a large oil spill into a meaningless drop of oil and a pipeline crack into a mere blip on the landscape, and Byron was sure Steve would have some quick thinking for the polywater attacks.
When Byron reached Steve, he responded with his usual and artful enthusiasm. “Byron, good to hear from you. Hey, I see you’ve been doing a great job cracking stories. The paper must be so proud of you.”
“Steve, I’ll get right to the point, as I know how valuable your time is,” Byron said. Byron was just as good at throwing bullshit. He had been raised on it. “I need to confirm the latest attack on your oil field, assess your total damage, and get a quote from you on how serious you consider this situation to be for your future.” Byron sat back. He had done a comment lob, the newsman’s throw down to public relations.
“Whoa, Byron sounds like some heavy questions. I admit we had a slight disruption in the Prudhoe Bay area today.” Steve Zeeman was leafing through his notes and wondering just how much Byron knew.
“Steve, I’ll make it simple for you, so you can go easy on the soft- peddling PR stuff. I have pictures; I have confirmations from people on the ground up there. You’ve been attacked, you’ve lost an oil field. Now you can give me a quote from your department or I go with my bare basics story and the world comes running to your door tomorrow looking for your side of the story. What’s it going to be?”
“You have a picture of what?” Steve asked. He was staring at a picture on his own computer. He hoped Byron did not have the same one—the condom. This was a public relations nightmare.
“Looks to me like a condom with some kind of opaque liquid. So what’s my headline? POLYWATER SCREWS ARCTIC OIL! I like the ring to it.” Byron couldn’t get rid of the chortle in his throat as he said it.
Steve sighed. Of all the things to attack his oil company, it had to be something encased in a condom. He would have preferred an actual terrorist. Some terrorist asshole would have been more photogenic than this condom.
“Okay, I’ll give you what you need if you’ll guarantee you’ll report that the damage is limited to one small field with Arctic Oil and that we’ll be coming out with a full report in a few days. Also—no picture. If you do that, we go on record and give you the exclusive.” Steve had the devil he knew on the phone—he would sell this to his superiors later. With a newspaper, he had one more day to get the reports back from the engineers, and they would draft a memo in the morning that would marginalize the effects of the polywater.
“You can count on me to recite you chapter and verse. And I’ll bury the picture,” Byron said. He knew he was lying the moment he said it. He would burn bridges that would get him out of Anchorage and into a southern newspaper. He felt the LA Times in his blood.
“Okay, I have your email address on file, Byron; I’ll fire you a quick press release in advance, and I expect to see good copy tomorrow,” Steve said.
“Hey, that’s what I’m here for, to build relationships.” Byron put the phone down. He needed one last comment for the story. The RCMP detective in Fort McMurray had supposedly called Mueller, and Mueller called Prudhoe Bay. He knew Mueller would give him nothing—that was his style, but he wondered if the RCMP, being polite Canadians, might be open to giving him a comment.
He dialed the number for the Fort McMurray RCMP detachment and asked for Detective Bernadette Callahan. The receptionist told him the detective was out on a case and asked if he wanted to leave a message. Byron hesitated. His clock was ticking. He needed a quote, a comment, and at this point, a “no comment” would do
.
“I wonder if there is someone who would like to comment on the recent information your Detective Callahan provided Alaskan officials? The information that saved part of the oil field this morning?” Byron threw another comment lob. He would get either a “no comment” or someone to come to the phone. He waited.
The receptionist listened, said nothing, then gave a polite “one moment please.”
The voice that came on the line announced himself as Chief of Detectives Barnstead. “How may I help you?” The voice was filled with icy antagonism.
Byron could not be more pleased. “Detective Barnstead —”
“Chief of Detectives Barnstead.”
“Ah, yes, Chief of Detectives Barnstead, I have a report here in Anchorage that a Detective Callahan from your department was instrumental in alerting oil companies to another threat of polywater here in Alaska.”
The phone on the other end went quiet. “And you say this happened when?”
“This morning. Numerous new devices were located; however, one was confirmed to have erupted, which is quite comical as the device was a condom. However, the information from your detective saved a good part of the Alaskan oil field.”
Another pause on the phone signaled to Byron that Barnstead knew nothing of what the detective had done. “I take it you have no knowledge of Detective Callahan’s actions, Chief of Detectives Barnstead?” Byron finally asked. He knew the obvious; he wanted Barnstead to admit it.
“I cannot comment on the actions of one of my detectives at this time. This is an ongoing investigation that involves various members of our detective teams and specialized forces. Now, I have numerous cases to attend to.” Barnstead escaped off the phone.
Byron knew crap when he heard it. The chief had just given him a bunch of words that meant nothing. Like an octopus releases a cloud of ink to get away, Barnstead had thrown a cloud of words to get off the phone.
The story was solid. He knew it. Callahan had somehow figured out the second threat, but there was no time to figure that out now. The paper needed to get the story of the threat out as soon as possible. Byron would complete the story and get it ready for the morning news. He would send out multiple tweets to dangle the advance of the story beforehand, and post an advance on his weblog. By tomorrow morning, the world would be waiting in expectation for Byron Jacks and his expose: NEW ATTACKS ON ALASKAN OIL FIELDS. And then he would wait for the phones to ring.
Polar Bear Dawn Page 23
