Polar Bear Dawn

by Lyle Nicholson

  “Yeah, again, sorry about that . . . Red Deer, nice spot. But I’m not talking about dinner in Fort McMurray. I’m talking about dinner in Vancouver.”

  “Vancouver? Just when do you think I’ll be in Vancouver?” Bernadette asked. She was searching through her cutlery draw looking for a fork—there were none. She hadn’t emptied the dishwasher. “Tonight.”

  “Ha. Pierre Beaumont, you crack me up. I like you because you’re a dreamer. And of course we did have fun in Vegas that one time—”

  “Bernadette,” Pierre quickly cut in, “there’s someone else here on the line I wanted you to speak with.”

  Shit. Her face a hot red, she squeaked out a “hello.”

  “Hello Detective Callahan, this is Agent Anton De Luca.”

  “Hello, Anton.” Bernadette recovered her composure. “What’re you doing with the private security hack? Slumming?”

  Anton laughed. “Yeah, the private security guys bring the neighborhood down. Listen, I wanted to invite you to a little party we’re having in Vancouver, and Synthetic Oil graciously offered to fly you here for the festivities tomorrow morning.”

  “Festivities? What kind of festivities are being planned by the CSIS?” Bernadette stopped searching for a fork and closed the drawer.

  “Tomorrow morning we plan to apprehend Professor Alistair McAllen and his band of merry men.”

  “You’ve found McAllen?”

  “Yes,” Anton said. “And we couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “How did I figure into this?” Bernadette asked. She sat down in her kitchen chair and rested her hand on her cheek.

  “You sent me the information about the other men, and the woman, McAllen was associated with. Your hunch was right. You said he was probably still with them, and we tracked them through real estate.”

  “You found them through real estate?” Bernadette’s hand came off her cheek, and she sat up in her chair.

  “Yeah, the CSIS Forensic Accounting guys did a search of all real estate transactions on the West Coast. Turns out that one of McAllen’s friends, Percy Stronach, had a bunch of numbered companies. He used one of the companies to buy a private island with a large house about two months ago. You know what they say about trying to hide from the government—you can run, but you can’t hide.

  “We’ve had a spy drone flying over their area for the past few days, compliments of the Canadian Air Force, and we have a complete joint task force of navy, army, and air forces with the RCMP ready for a takedown tomorrow. You’ve been cleared for the mission—from the highest levels, I might add.”

  “Highest levels . . . how high?”

  “The clearance came from the prime minister’s office. You’ve impressed a lot of people in a lot of high places with your intuition. Look, I know you got in some hot water with Barnstead, and unfortunately there is nothing anyone can do. The RCMP and their chain of command,” he muttered. “But your actions in putting the alert out on polywater—that was priceless. You’ve got a lot of friends in Ottawa now.”

  “Well, if I’ve been cleared by the prime minister—”

  “Bernadette,” Pierre came back on the line. “The Synthetic Oil jet is at a private hanger just east of the main terminal at Fort McMurray. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yeah, I know it, what time does it leave?”

  “When you get there. You’re its only passenger. Dinner here can be at 8:00, 8:30, or whenever you get here.”

  Bernadette felt a tingling sensation down her spine. She had just been shit on by her chief of detectives and cast out of Fort McMurray, her home of three years. Now here was an invite to Vancouver to be in on the takedown of Professor McAllen—an invite from the prime minister. Well, what’s a girl to do, she thought. Might as well go to the party.

  “So, where’s dinner? Do I need a dress?” She instantly regretted saying that. She had been at an oil camp for the past three days. Shaving her legs and the impending bloodletting that she was capable of was not high on her list.

  “There’s a nice restaurant in the Fairmont Waterfront Hotel, where you’re staying, called the Heron. With good seafood—and steaks,” Pierre hastily added, as he knew Bernadette was a major carnivore. “They’re what you call smart casual, which I believe is a step above jeans and a T-shirt. So we leave it to you.”

  “Okay, I’ll throw some stuff in a bag and head for the airport. It’s 6:30 my time. Should be at the airport in a half hour.

  “Sounds great, see you at the airport in Vancouver. We look forward to a fun day tomorrow,” Anton said.

  Bernadette headed for the bedroom, grabbed a small suitcase, and threw in a toiletries bag, a bag of makeup, which she hoped had what she needed, a pair of black slacks, and a white silk top she had purchased in Edmonton for her nephew’s graduation.

  Just then her intercom sounded. She looked out her apartment window and saw a media truck. They had found her. Bernadette grabbed her cell phone and punched in the number of Constable Tom Aulander. Tom was her best go-to guy on the force, and she hoped he would do her a favor. When Tom answered, she quickly detailed what she needed and went back to finish packing.

  When Bernadette looked down to the street again, two RCMP cruisers had boxed in the media truck. Bernadette smiled that her RCMP detachment still had her back.

  A light snow was falling as Bernadette pulled her Jeep onto the highway and headed south to the airport. The traffic was heavy on Friday night as many oil workers commuted back to Edmonton on weekends. Her jeep was dwarfed by the big half-ton trucks and crew buses that lined the freeway.

  She turned onto airport road; the traffic was jammed in the parking lot. She felt lucky to be at a private terminal, beyond all the chaos of the main terminal. A Synthetic Oil employee at the entrance directed her to a private parking spot hidden from view.

  The Synthetic Oil private jet was close to the hanger. An employee escorted Bernadette to the plane, and a flight attendant in a navy blue uniform welcomed her aboard. She got a brief look at the young pilots, who smiled in her direction, and took a seat in the center of the cabin. She only had a moment to look around before the lights dimmed and the jet rolled forward. Twin engines roared in takeoff, and they leveled off in the northern night sky in what seemed like minutes.

  Bernadette had never been on a private jet. She’d been in a bush plane, hunkered down with hunters who smelled of mosquito repellent and beer. And she had been on numerous commercial flights in cattle class with the screaming kids, the frazzled mothers, and always the big guy who crowded the armrest.

  This was nice. Bernadette put her large leather seat back and kicked off her boots. Toes touched plush carpet. Soft leather seats, mahogany wood panels, warm wall sconces throwing soft light—where had this been all her life?

  The flight attendant came forward and asked what refreshment she would prefer. Bernadette was about to say “just water,” but thought, well, maybe a beer, and the words “scotch please” came out.

  The flight attendant with the most perfectly aligned teeth and the bluest eyes asked, “Do you prefer a Highland, Lowland, or Islay?”

  “Just something smooth would be fine,” Bernadette replied as if in a dream.

  A crystal tumbler with a large pour of scotch was placed on a Synthetic Oil linen napkin, accompanied by a bowl of warm cashew nuts. The flight attendant announced the scotch was a Highland Dalwhinnie 15 year old. Bernadette sipped, rolled it around her tongue, and let the warmth spill down her throat.

  Outside, the darkness of the trees and the snow of the northern landscape gave way to clouds, then stars, then moonlight. The flight was smooth. So was the scotch. A light mist was falling as the jet landed in Vancouver. It was just past 7:00 p.m. The jet taxied past the main terminal and arrived at a private hanger. Pierre and Anton waited outside, their raincoats buttoned up, their faces turned away from the light wind.

  Only brief words were exchanged as they took Bernadette between them, walked through the hanger, and
got into a Lincoln Navigator SUV in the parking lot.

  Vancouver is always in mist, Bernadette thought. She remembered it only once in bright sunshine, but perhaps it had been a dream—she wasn’t sure. She preferred it like this. Dark, misty, lights twinkling on Grouse Mountain in the background. It had a mystic feeling. A port city with secrets, a city that was hiding something, that was hiding McAllen.

  Anton was driving; Pierre was in the front seat. Bernadette threw her question at them. “So, where is McAllen holed up?”

  Pierre looked back at her. He smiled and said, “We’ll give you the entire layout over dinner. You’re going to like it. Relax, enjoy the scenery.”

  Bernadette was not satisfied with the answer. She wanted details, plans, execution points, and the amount of manpower involved. Her mind had been spinning with questions the entire flight. She resigned herself to settling back and watching the Friday night traffic wend its way down Granville Street.

  Pedestrians with umbrellas dashed across streets and into shops. Restaurants were filling with evening customers. Small shops displayed fruit and flowers on their sidewalks. Green cedar trees formed hedges along the street, and green grass glistened on the boulevard. How unlike anywhere else in Canada, Bernadette thought. She had left the frozen north only a few short hours ago.

  The Navigator pulled up to the entrance of the Fairmont Waterfront Hotel. They had already checked Bernadette into her room, and in minutes, she was in a suite overlooking the harbor. The inner harbor lights, the view, the large bathroom with soaker tub and warm terry cloth bathrobe would’ve been hard to leave, but the discussion of McAllen, and his capture, was the dinner topic. Bernadette performed the quickest change and makeup fix of her life and was in the restaurant to join Pierre and Anton in minutes.

  The restaurant was nice—white tablecloths, nice view, soft music—Bernadette could care less. The topic of conversation was McAllen. She sat opposite Pierre and Anton and sipped on a glass of red wine they had poured for her.

  The waiter came by, and after a brief glance at the menu, she ordered the seafood chowder with mussels, clams, and chorizo, and the beef tenderloin medium rare, and then returned her attention to the men. “So, what’s the layout? How close are we to where he’s hiding? How many officers are involved?” The questions came in rapid fire. They had been inside her head for too long.

  Pierre laughed over his wine glass. He wiped his lips with his napkin and placed his glass on the table after swilling the wine to give it more air. “My dear Detective Callahan, you do have a lot of questions. Well, first of all, McAllen isn’t here in Vancouver—he’s off the coast of Vancouver Island.”

  Bernadette had to stop herself from blurting out her response. She chose to use a soft, but explosive whisper instead. “Vancouver Island? Then what the hell are we doing here?”

  Pierre chuckled. “Well, better accommodations, better wine . . . no, just kidding. The truth is, we didn’t want the Synthetic Oil private jet seen anywhere on Vancouver Island.”

  Anton leaned forward. “Bernadette, we’ve found in our search of Grace Fairchild, one of McAllen’s connections, that many of her relatives and contacts are in both Fort McMurray and Alaska, as well as all over Vancouver Island. We think they’ve been their eyes and ears. “ “So what’s the plan for the takedown tomorrow? Where is the command center?” Bernadette asked.

  “Oh, you’ll love this,” Anton said. He pulled out his iPad and placed it on the table in front of Bernadette. The screen showed a navel destroyer. “This is the Canadian Naval Destroyer Algonquin.” He hit the screen again. “And these are Kingston Class coastal ships that will accompany her.”

  “You have Canadian Navy in this?” Bernadette said.

  “Oh yes, and a Griffin helicopter that ten Canadian Army Special Forces officers will rappel to the island from.”

  “Isn’t this a little overkill?” Bernadette said, looking at the pictures as Anton scrolled down the list of armaments each ship carried. Bernadette’s eyes glassed over when she saw the Algonquin had a Vulcan cannon that could fire six thousand rounds a minute. She thought of bodies being shredded.

  “Look, I know, I know, it sounds a little much.” Pierre raised his hand in defense of the plan. “But, you have to understand, the world is scared shitless of McAllen. If this polywater would have actually worked, we would have had to peddle our way from the airport to the hotel.”

  “So, where am I going to be watching this from?” Bernadette asked.

  “You, my fine Detective Callahan,” Anton said, as he flashed a wink at Pierre, “have been given a seat at the table.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means you’ll be taking a helicopter from the helipad just minutes from here at 0430 hours tomorrow over to Canadian Forces Base Comox, and then a Sea King helicopter will land you on this destroyer, where you will be at the command center for the capture of McAllen. How does that sound?” Anton looked at Bernadette from across the table. His smile widened.

  Bernadette was silent as she took in the information. Helicopters. She had never liked helicopters. Something about the whirling thing, called a blade, being on the top never seemed right. Now, two helicopter trips, both over water, and one to land on a ship bobbing on the ocean? She took a long sip of her wine, smiled, and said, “Sounds great.”

  38

  The Mood On McAllen’s Island on Friday was somber, quiet, and reflective. Light rain fell on the windows, a fire flickered in the hearth. They sat in overstuffed armchairs and sofas in a semi-circle around the fire. A dinner of venison stew and several bottles of red wine had disappeared at the long dining room table. They lingered by the fire with large snifters of cognac. Percy and Theo sat on a sofa in the center of the room, McAllen and Sebastian sat to one side of the sofa in armchairs. There was little conversation.

  Grace came into the room to lit several candles. A cathedral-like quality came over the room. The candlelight danced, and shadows formed and fled as the light breeze moved the flames. Grace sat down on the sofa beside Percy and Theo.

  The door to Grace’s bedroom opened, and Margaret stepped out. Sebastian looked up and watched her as she walked across the room and sat beside Grace, who placed her hand on Margaret’s shoulder and smiled. They looked into each other’s eyes. Sebastian saw a loving look. He didn’t think it was sexual—it looked like one of two sisters, like two who had found each other.

  Sebastian had been observing Margaret’s transformation. Gone were the velour track suits and finely coiffed hair of Palm Springs. Margaret now wore blue jeans and sweatshirts and her hair tied back in a piece of deer hide with beads.

  Sebastian noticed a change in her face too. Gone now were the steely, calculating eyes. They were soft now—there was a light behind them. She breathed differently too. The first time Sebastian met Margaret, she was breathing through her mouth, short, quick intakes that only fed the synapses of her brain. Now she breathed slowly, through her nose, and her belly rose and fell as her breath came deep from within her. Yoga breathing—the same technique Grace had taught him years ago. Grace had worked wonders with Margaret in a few short days. Why Margaret had chosen to join them Sebastian didn’t know, but she was welcome.

  Sebastian was about to say something when their large Irish wolfhound stalked into the room. The dog usually occupied a place by the fireplace, sleeping, or on the outside porch, with one eye open. The dog paced around the room, went to the windows, and let out a low, growling sound. Sebastian knew the dog sensed something was coming.

  McAllen looked over at Sebastian. “How soon until they hit us?”

  Sebastian looked at McAllen. “Percy saw the spy drone two days back. He estimates the tide and weather will be right for them sometime after 8:00 a.m. tomorrow.

  McAllen stared down at his cognac glass. He tipped it to the side and watched the amber liquid shine in the firelight. “What do you think our chances are?”

  Sebastian looked back into the fire. “Somewhere bet
ween slim and none. They’ll come in by boat, probably a bunch of zodiacs—which is fine as we got that covered—but the air cover is what we need. Right now we got those two resident eagles—don’t think they’re up for the job.” Sebastian looked over at McAllen and smiled.

  Both men watched the fire burn, embers dying and wet wood crackling. McAllen lifted his head and looked over at Margaret. “Say, Margaret, how good are your boys in Boulder at hacking into computers?”

  Margaret looked over at McAllen. “My boys are the best.”

  Could they get into the Canadian Forces computers?”

  “They can get into anything.” Margaret smiled.

  McAllen looked over at Percy. “Percy, could you help Margaret with that, show her what it is you need access to?”

  Percy sat up from his deep slump in the sofa. “Absolutely. I know the door they need to open; the boys just need to provide the key.”

  “Okay, let’s get on it,” McAllen said. He turned to Sebastian. “We might have changed our chances from slim to maybe.”

  39

  Bernadette Woke To The Ringing Of the telephone in her Vancouver hotel room at 3:30 a.m. The sound rang into her consciousness, and she swam over the multiple pillows and comforters of the king-sized bed to answer the phone. A cheery voice informed her of the time and the weather, three degrees Celsius and light rain. Bernadette swung out of bed in one motion. She headed for the bathroom in the blackness of her room. A nightlight shone in the bathroom, a beacon for the confused hotel guest.

  The capture of McAllen was on her mind—the first thought that came to her. She had left the restaurant at 10:00 p.m. last night. No desert, only two glasses of wine. She had a Granville island lager from the minibar and soaked in the luxurious marble tub for hours. Somewhere around 1:00 a.m. she fell asleep. Sleep had been short.