‘But the more I get out and about, the more I upset the Ruskies, the Arabs and the fucking Texans. And the more I do that the more danger I place myself in, you see?’
‘Guess that’s what I’m doing here, Mr Durville,’ said Gallen.
‘This isn’t a nice business, Gerry, and those of us who succeed are not nice people,’ said Durville, biting a cigarette out of a soft pack and offering one to Gallen. ‘Aaron here hates me talking this up — hates me putting ideas out there — but it’s the truth, and you should hear it: I know seven Ruskies who’d have me assassinated right now if they could get away with it and it didn’t cost them too much money.’
‘Harry,’ interrupted Aaron, ‘let’s get back to the meeting.’
Durville lit up and offered the flame to Gallen’s cigarette. ‘Four years ago, I was closing a deal in Siberia, and my car was blown up.’
‘Ignore him,’ said Aaron, ushering Gallen towards the sofa at the other end of the office.
‘He should hear this,’ said Durville.
‘That was Russia and you were interested in the wrong woman.’ Aaron showed Gallen a seat. ‘This is now and this is Canada. We don’t do deals in strip clubs, we don’t assassinate business rivals.’
‘Holy shit, Gerry,’ said Durville, pulling a big crystal ashtray towards him as he sat on a sofa. ‘Those Russians can fucking party.’
‘Okay,’ said Aaron, handing Gallen a thin file. ‘Here’s how we work: you’re shown the week ahead every Monday morning, either handed to you or emailed.’
Gallen opened the file.
‘You brief me on any extraordinary measures, any security sweeps you want done, any advance searches, and then we go from there,’ Aaron continued. ‘You pick the weak spots, we do the work-up together.’
Gallen sucked on his smoke, put it in the ashtray as he read the first page of the file. It was a computer calendar printout showing a crowded week of travel, meetings, golf games, hockey seats and speeches. In one week Harry Durville was spending time in Calgary, Houston, Los Angeles and Mexico City. But it was the Friday-Sunday spread that caught Gallen’s attention.
‘What’s Kugaaruk?’ he said, looking from Aaron to Durville.
‘It’s way up north, in Nunavut,’ said Aaron.
‘That the tribal province?’ asked Gallen, envisaging sealskin kayaks and Eskimos with harpoons.
‘You know how I said the north’s a huge cash-pit?’ said Durville.
‘Sure,’ said Gallen.
‘Well, you want a springboard into that pit,’ said Durville, ‘you go to Kugaaruk and you build yourself the best rig.’
‘Rig?’
‘Behind you, Gerry,’ said Durville. ‘Check that out.’
Turning, Gallen saw a trestle table against the far wall of the office, dominated by a large model. It looked like a space station and had the word Ariadne painted in black along its curved, pale blue sides.
‘Looks like a UFO,’ said Gallen.
‘A UFO?’ said Durville, sucking on his smoke. ‘Shit, that’s Florita’s project, right there. That’s how we gonna make billions out of the great white north, Gerry. That UFO is the key to it all.’
Gallen looked at him to get a sense of what he was talking about, but Durville was laughing so hard that he’d brought on a coughing fit.
CHAPTER 13
Gallen sorted his notes as the Escalade motored south from Denver International Airport. The map showed several ways to get into downtown and Gallen wanted to avoid the route that meant too many fly-overs looking down on Durville’s silver SUV.
‘Take the next off ramp,’ said Gallen. ‘We’ll come in on Colfax, okay? ‘
Donny McCann eased the vehicle off the freeway into the city and stuck to the main streets. They were heading for the National Cattlemen’s Beef Association on East Nichols Avenue, where Harry Durville was hosting a lunch or a meeting, Gallen had lost track. He’d lost track of just about everything to do with the billionaire except that the man was rarely off the phone and that his chief legal counsel — Florita Mendes — had a mind that trapped the smallest details and held them there for Harry to call upon.
From the back seat, Durville bumped one caller and was suddenly yelling into the phone. ‘George!’
There was a pause while the sound of a Texan voice snarled out of Durville’s handset and then Durville was laughing, yelling, ‘Fuck, yeah!’
As Durville rang off, still chuckling, Florita quietly reminded him that technically George still retained the right to be called ‘Mr President’.
Settling into the interminable red lights of East Colfax, Gallen keyed the mic dangling in front of his throat and asked Winter what was happening.
‘Nothing back here, boss,’ said Winter.
Peering into the Escalade’s side mirror, Gallen could see the blue Impala two cars behind the Escalade.
‘You look clear,’ said Winter.
Closing on the National Cattlemen’s headquarters, they passed a large, modern mirror-glass building that looked like a tribute or a statement. Looking up, Gallen saw the golden crown on the top of the building, over a blue cross.
Durville leaned forward to Gallen as they reached their destination block. ‘You take note, Gerry,’ he said, eyes like an old rail network map. ‘You wanna get certain things done in North America, you gotta go to the ranchers. Forget your lobbyists and PR people and crooked congressmen: you have lunch with the people who own most of the land. Understand?’
Gallen tapped the mic as Florita pulled Durville back for his briefing notes and a quick grooming, pulling a hair comb and then a clothes brush from her bag.
‘Kenny, you and Mike are on Durville,’ said Gallen into the mic. ‘I’m covering the entry with Donny. Can do?’
‘Can do, boss,’ came the reply, and the Impala accelerated in front of the Escalade, taking a park near the front of the Cattlemen’s building. When the Escalade pulled up, Winter and Ford were waiting on the sidewalk, scoping the street.
Florita slipped Durville two Tic Tacs and they were gone, ushered into the building by Gallen’s men.
Dropping the windows to let in some of Denver’s spring warmth, McCann searched for an FM station. ‘That Durville can talk harder than my momma.’ He shook his head fondly. ‘Was that, like, George Bush on the phone? Holy shit.’
‘That’s Mr President to you, Donny.’
They watched the environment, looking for people or vehicles out of the pattern. Gallen’s gut churned and he craved a smoke. It was this kind of gig that defined his time in Afghanistan: hurrying up and waiting. Watching, recording, noting and then delivering back to the spooks at the head shed where, invariably, the questions indicated another agenda had been afoot the entire time.
His time in the field had made him wary — perhaps paranoid— about passive, clandestine engagements. They allowed too much power to the guy eating three squares a day, warm in his bed, surrounded by security. Having to sit still, waiting to observe others, now made him jumpy. It led to an explosion of activity when the soldiers were finally cut loose, and that was deadly. Gallen thought of the guys who’d lost hands because they picked up a laptop in a Taliban safe house or the soldiers with most of their fingers gone because they grabbed a cell phone that was left behind. He remembered what a humourless hard-ass his men thought he was, screaming at them to touch nothing, not allowing them to even use the light switches, open an oven or lift a telephone receiver for a dial tone. Captain Gallen’s marching orders: your job is eyes and ears; your job is not to go fucking with the things that mean losing your hands and face.
Most of the special forces units in northern Afghanistan had a pool of ordnance and IED experts to call upon, and the joke on Gallen was that as soon as they turned over a Taliban safe house or supply depot, the first thing he asked the comms guy to do was call in the OED, the bomb-disposal people.