The private jet landed in Calgary shortly after eight pm. The Oasis chauffeur loaded them into the Escalade and sped them across the city to the Sheraton Suites. When Gallen was unpacked, he phoned Aaron, who called them into his suite.
There was a bottle of champagne in a room-service bucket when the four of them filed in, but Aaron quickly found them some cold beer. Toasting one another, they tried to joke about the mission and the ill-fated Ariadne.
‘So, you’re NSA,’ said Gallen, as he took a seat on a white sofa. ‘But you’re still VP, security?’
‘Guess I am,’ said Aaron. ‘Which reminds me…’
Pulling four manila envelopes from his briefcase, he handed them out. Gallen had a peek: a letter of termination and a healthy cheque.
‘We sacked?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Aaron, surprised. ‘Thought I’d get you guys a nice payout before the new owners start throwing their weight around. The terminations are valid when you sign.’
‘We’ve discussed it,’ said Gallen, enjoying the beer. ‘And we intend to complete.’
‘Complete what?’ said Aaron.
Winter cleared his throat. ‘Those ArcticWatch dudes still have our employer.’
‘Yes, Kenny, but Florita was under surveillance by the NSA. Her links with the Bashoffs and the secret nuke business…’
‘Don’t concern me, Aaron,’ said Winter, flat and non-threatening. ‘NSA needs information, just ask. But when someone’s under my protection, no one just walks in and snatches her. Not how it works.’
Tucker nodded. ‘Damn right.’
Aaron looked at his champagne. ‘Well, the FBI is on to this and NSA has a watching brief. So how would it work? ‘
‘Keep us on the books for seven days,’ said Gallen. ‘Then we sign the documents, take our cheques and go home.’
Aaron looked out the window. ‘I was going to resign tomorrow. Been recalled to Washington.’
‘You’d rather go back with all the loose ends in the bag, right?’ said Gallen. ‘It would suit your career to have Florita Mendes in tow.’
‘Who says Washington is in any hurry to bring her in?’
‘She’s obviously an embarrassment,’ said Gallen. ‘But what if we bring her in anyway?’
Aaron looked at him. ‘In that case, I’d be the one bringing her in.’
Gallen looked at his team. ‘Suits us.’
Standing, Aaron walked to his briefcase and took a device the size of a PalmPilot from the side pocket, handed it to Gallen. ‘Then you’d probably want this.’
The screen showed a map with a dark dot pulsating on a grid.
‘What’s this?’
‘That’s Florita,’ said Aaron, sipping. ‘Whatever else they’ve done with her, they haven’t taken her crucifix.’
CHAPTER 68
The flight from Calgary to Wiarton in Southern Ontario landed as the sun rose, almost colourless against the slate-grey of pre-dawn. Chase Lang’s Toronto representative — a thickly set Lebanese named Arkie — ushered them into the black Chev Suburban which was left running to keep the heat pumping.
‘The gear’s all there, in the back,’ said Arkie, his Zapata moustache jumping up and down with his furious gum-chewing. ‘Chase say you might need a crew also, right?’
‘We might,’ said Gallen. Surveying the ground he noticed that Wiarton Airport was without prying eyes this time of morning. ‘You got ‘em handy?’
‘Close by, and helo capacity too.’
Gallen nodded slowly. He would like the added numbers but for now he wanted a stealth operation. And he didn’t want to be indebted to a major mercenary player like Chase Lang.
‘Anyhow, you need a crew, call me,’ said Arkie, handing over a card with a single cell phone number on it. ‘I got five guys ready to go; ex-special forces and no bad backs. Let me know.’
‘Thanks, Arkie,’ said Gallen. ‘We’re fine.’
‘You sure?’ said the mercenary. ‘You are not looking so good in the face, Mr Gallen. Maybe you need the help?’
Gallen laughed. ‘Tell you what, Arkie — I get in a bind, I’ll call. Okay? ‘
Arkie shook his hand and moved to the other Suburban parked alongside, hopped in and sped across the concrete apron.
‘So, boss,’ said Ford, ‘we got a plan?’
‘How about eggs over easy with a big side of bacon and a mug of black coffee?’ said Winter.
‘When in Canada,’ said Gallen, nodding for Ford to drive.
They consulted the maps while they ate, then drove south for an hour, down Highway 6 as the sun peeked over the horizon, shedding reluctant light and no heat. At Mount Forest, they turned left and drove the back country road east through redneck rural country, populated with F-250s and John Deere tractors and endless tracts of pasture and wetlands.
Asking Ford to pull over near a bridge, Gallen sorted through the bags in the cargo area and found the stick-on sign for the sides and back which said Ministry of Natural Resources, with the Ontario government logo printed alongside. Applying the stickers with Tucker’s help, they continued east, turning left onto a crossroad and finding Southgate Road 12 after ten minutes.
Parking the SUV in an overgrown farm driveway, they removed the gear bags and checked their stash. It was all there, including each of their preferred weapons.
Ford pulled out the black nylon bag and quickly assembled the Klepper folding kayak, one of the large three-man versions favoured by the British Special Boat Service.
‘Guess you don’t need a hand,’ said Winter, tiger-striping his face.
‘In the Navy they’d make us do this in the dark,’ said Ford. ‘You get it wrong, you get wet.’
‘Only get it wrong once,’ said Winter.
After covering the Suburban, they dragged the Klepper to the council drain that ran just off the road. According to the Society of Canadian Ornithologists’ map of southern Ontario, the drains through the Grey-Bruce counties of Ontario were the size of decent creeks and were navigable for twenty or thirty miles at a time. That was great for bird watching, thought Gallen, and it might even be useful for a snatch.
Doing a last-minute check with Tucker, Gallen showed him the bridge he wanted him to park on.
‘This bridge gives you an excuse to monitor the river,’ said Gallen, pointing at the map. ‘It might even give you an elevation, let you see the farmhouse.’ He pointed at their target. ‘But we’re going silent for this one, okay, Liam? When I need you it’ll be three clicks on the radio. Then you come in hot.’
‘And if I think they’ve spotted you in the creek, I give three clicks?’
‘Got it.’
The Klepper slipped along the creek, which meandered across wetlands and pastures, under bridges and through culverts. After twelve minutes, Gallen checked the homing device and realised they were close by. Carrying the kayak over a large beaver dam, they paddled for another five minutes and found themselves at the back of a farm.
Stealthing onto the river bank they dragged the Klepper under bushes and checked their weapons. They glassed the ground, which sloped up gently across three paddocks to the farmhouse, set off slightly from an old ramp barn. Each paddock was bordered with cedars and ash, giving them cover as they moved.
Looking at his G-Shock, Gallen yawned: 7.41 am.
‘Single file, boys,’ he said. ‘Kenny, your lead.’
They jogged across the paddocks, uninterested cattle chewing as they closed on the blind side of the barn, hidden from the house. Small patches of snow lay under the trees and Gallen could feel the cold through his jacket.
They crouched behind a pile of old lumber sixty feet short of the barn, heaving for breath as Gallen checked the homing screen. Using the magnify option, he looked closer.