‘What Piers told me,’ said Morton.
‘Thought they took a big contract in Iraq.’
‘Sumatra ain’t exactly Iraq, buddy,’ said Morton. ‘Shit, they don’t even wear towels on their heads.’
‘Piers and his crew are in Sumatra?’
‘Sure,’ said Morton. ‘Chasing them separatist Muslims up in Aceh. ExxonMobil got a big push on there right now.’
‘So why were they fired?’
‘Don’t know, buddy,’ said Morton. ‘This was a social introduction, a week ago.’
‘Can you find out?’
‘I can do a lot of things, Gerry. You know that.’
Gallen felt conned, but he wasn’t going to let this go. In the days when he was responsible for up to fifteen men in the field, getting good intelligence was crucial to everyone’s survival. And if any of it pointed to increased danger to his men, he’d squeeze that intel until it bled.
‘Okay, Pete, what will it take?’
‘We can keep it informal,’ said Morton, the spy in him creeping out like a shadow. ‘I help you and you help me, right?’
‘Help?’
‘You know how it works, Gerry. You need information and I need information. We meet in the middle.’
‘Sounds like a pact with the devil.’
Morton laughed hard. ‘You’re very dramatic for someone who spent years collecting information and handing it on to people like me.’
‘It’s what I was trained to do, Pete,’ said Gallen, before realising what he’d said.
‘Elegantly put,’ said Morton. ‘Back atcha.’
The line went dead and Gallen trudged up the driveway to his demountable. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the voice of a drunken US Army Green Beret, in a USO facility at Chicago O’Hare, telling anyone who would listen that combat veterans don’t ever retire, their senses just play switcheroo: what was once a bivvie dream of comfortable civilian life is now their daily reality, while all the shit they ever took in the field visits them every night in their dreams.
Gallen forced a smile as he entered the demountable and found McCann and Winter watching America’s Funniest Home Videos.
Lying on his bunk, in the dark, Gallen thought about the conversation with Morton. That a couple of soldiers were fired by a difficult boss was not the issue. What worried him was why Paul Mulligan had lied about it.
CHAPTER 12
The atrium of the Oasis Energy high-rise on 7th Street smelled of freshly brewed coffee as Gallen lead McCann through at 8.55 am. Meeting Winter at the espresso stand they observed the large area of sofas and newsstands, trying to find the people who didn’t belong, assess the risks. He saw him on the first pass: Aaron, sitting at a sofa with Mike Ford, the Aussie naval combat diver.
‘Christ,’ said Gallen to himself as he paid the barista and carried the coffees to his crew, noticing that Winter and McCann had both taken the sofa that faced Aaron.
Aaron rose as Gallen approached. ‘You don’t have a fourth.’
‘You can count.’
‘Sure I can, Gerry, and I count four thousand clams a week that you won’t be getting ‘cos you can’t get the crew.’
‘I can get ‘em,’ said Gallen, keeping one eye on the Aussie. The previous night Winter had reminded him that the Aussie naval commandos had done a lot of the hard yards in the Gulf, boarding the vessels that British and US special forces were in no hurry to storm. They didn’t have a high profile on CNN but they were respected in the special forces world.
‘I count three of you, Gerry,’ said Aaron, smirking. ‘We’re not going up to see the big guy with three. Durville’s about comfort.’
‘I’ve got calls out.’
‘No, you have your ass hanging out.’ Aaron looked, ostentatiously at his big Omega watch. ‘I have a solution but we’re due up there in three minutes so you decide now.’
‘What’s the deal?’ said Gallen, feeling his pulse bang in his head. He didn’t know if he was ready for this, so soon after the shit.
Aaron flicked his chin over his shoulder. ‘Ford’s your fourth man.’
‘No offence, Aaron.’ Gallen held up his hand. ‘I don’t know the Aussie and my guys don’t know him either.’
‘Let’s change that,’ said the former spook, turning and walking for his sofa.
Shaking with Mike Ford, Gallen sat, totally pissed. ‘I got nothing against you, Mike, but I don’t know you.’
‘I get it,’ said Ford, cool blue eyes above wide cheekbones. ‘Don’t know your crew, neither. I like to know who’s in my bivvie.’
Gallen couldn’t hate a guy who talked straight. ‘Tell me about yourself.’
‘Aussie Navy, clearance diver, combat diver. Spent four years in the Gulf in a unit called Team Three.’
‘Team Three? That’s like SEALs, right?’
‘I guess,’ said Ford, shrugging. ‘Vessels, rigs, clandestine insertions. Recon and demos mostly. Some take-downs too, and a lot of welding.’
‘Welding?’ said Gallen.
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘So, you saw action in the Gulf, but I think you were in the hills too?’ said Gallen, meaning Afghanistan.
‘Yeah. That was a great secret, wasn’t it?’
‘Where were you?’
‘Can’t say,’ said Ford, giving Aaron a look. ‘But I can tell you that if a movie maker ever finds a hero in all that shit, then he’s the one should have the fucking medal.’
‘Hah!’ said Gallen, standing. ‘Okay, Mike, you’re in, but there’s one rule.’
‘Name it,’ said Ford.
‘I don’t wear no fancy suit, but I’m the boss.’
‘Sweet,’ said the Aussie.
‘I mean it, buddy. You got a problem, it comes to me.’
Ford smiled. ‘Got it, boss.’
Harry Durville kept his cowboy boots on the desk for the first eight minutes of the meeting. Gallen focused on them after he lost track of the cussing that came from the Canadian’s mouth. There was an attractive executive woman called Florita Mendes, seated to the side of Durville’s desk, and where Gallen came from you didn’t cuss in front of the ladies.
‘I’m easy to dislike,’ said Durville, finally putting his feet on the carpet and moving to where Gallen stood, uncomfortable, beside the windows that looked north over the river from forty floors up. The oil billionaire stood about five-ten and had a bandy, lean-forward style of walking; he kept the power in his shoulders and had large hands. If Gallen had been in a bar he’d have assumed the fifty-nine-year-old was coming over to throw a punch.
‘See that, Gerry?’ Durville pointed out the window, ignoring Aaron’s attempts to conduct a proper meeting.
‘Sure,’ said Gallen. ‘Calgary. Had an Olympics here.’
‘No, not the fucking city,’ the oil man said, mouth smiling but eyes like a reptile. ‘The north, the great white north.’
‘Okay.’
‘That’s a licence to print fucking money, Gerry. That’s what that is.’
‘Sure,’ said Gallen.
‘That’s about twenty-five million square miles of cash, should anyone have the balls and the banking facilities to get in there, haul it out, process it and sell it south of the border.’
‘That’s great,’ said Gallen.
‘But in order to be in faster than the next fucker, I go to where I have to be; I walk the ground, I smell the air. You see?’
Gallen smelled whisky on Durville’s breath, saw a rheumy shade in the eye.
“Cos you see, Gerry, I’m not some business-school faggot sitting in meetings and being wheeled out for appearances on Bloomberg. I’m not a CEO, Gerry. I’m a managing director, okay? I’m a fucking owner, and there is a difference.’
Gallen had only a vague idea what Harry Durville was talking about.