He gasped as he shut the door and felt the car’s heater. ‘Holy Christ. I thought January in Clearmont was cold.’
Holding his breath for a few moments as they set off for the meet, Gallen wondered if the cold-weather gear would be enough. It was the coldest-rated kit available in the US military, the field dress worn by Marines when they did their arctic survival school in Alaska.
The ten-year-old GMC Yukon crackled over the ice and snow as they motored at thirty mph from the airport to a house two blocks behind the hotel.
‘That’s Jackie’s place,’ said the driver, nodding sagely in his Edmonton Oilers cap.
Waiting for a resolution to the sentence, Gallen realised there was no more to come. He was rescued by Florita.
‘Jackie?’ she said from the back seat. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Jackie the elder, but not this people,’ said the driver, mouth downturned and hand making a spreading motion.
Jackie’s house was a wooden-sided, gable-roofed box of the type favoured in the far north. A tendril of smoke escaped into the air, and Gallen, Florita and McCann got out of the car and walked to the dwelling.
The door was answered quickly by an old man who peered into the sunlight.
‘Jackie?’ said Florita.
‘Yep,’ said the old man.
She offered her hand. ‘Florita Mendes, Oasis Energy.’
‘Yep,’ the old man said again.
Gallen kept an eye on him as they were taken through the house and shown the large living room where the meeting was going to take place. There was a long wooden table with ten chairs arranged around it. Gallen looked under the table, searching for listening devices, then up at the ceiling where the bare beams seemed clear. He’d get Winter to sweep it later. Returning to the table, he evaluated the seating.
‘I need Harry right there,’ he said, pointing to a chair in a corner, away from the window and not within the arc of a shooter who might burst through a door firing.
As they made to leave, Gallen thanked Jackie and took Florita aside. ‘Can you ask him to insist on a no-firearms policy for his house?’
They stamped out the cold as the first arrivals pulled up in their cars from the airport; Gallen and McCann were in front of Jackie’s, Winter was running a final check inside and Ford was at the rear entry.
A stream of Inuit people greeted Durville at the door. He was almost unrecognisable in his arctic parka with wolverine fur lining the hood. The procession looked tame and Gallen started to relax.
‘You looked at those beams?’ he said into the mic.
‘Yep,’ replied Winter over the radio. ‘Place seems clean.’
‘Mike, how we looking?’
‘Clear, boss,’ said the Aussie. ‘But Christ, is it actually getting colder?’
Pushing into the meeting house, Gallen found Florita. ‘Which one’s Reggie?’
‘Not here,’ said Florita.
Returning outside, Gallen got a tap on the arm from McCann. ‘Lookit.’
Two dark SUVs puttered towards them, steam spewing from the exhausts. The first slid along the snow as it tried to come to a stop, and Durville moved forward, Gallen beside him.
‘Reggie,’ said the oil man, arms out wide.
The round-faced Inuit smiled big as he hit the snow. ‘Harry!’
Embracing, the two men walked towards the door of Jackie’s house, each insisting the other go first.
A large man emerged from the rear of Reggie’s SUV and another from the driver’s side. The second SUV pulled up behind the first, the doors opened and Gallen watched McCann’s hand push sideways through the false pocket of his parka, towards the holster.
Gallen reached for Durville, pushed him into the door. Five men with athletic builds and soldiers’ eyes edged from the two newly arrived SUVs towards the door. McCann fronted the first as Gallen rejoined him.
‘This is a private party, ladies,’ said McCann, his LA drawl dulled by the cold.
‘We’re with Reggie,’ said the first of the interlopers, a man with a heavy build and a Russian accent.
‘You can be with Reggie out here,’ said Gallen, deciding they were all carrying. ‘Reggie’s busy.’
The Russian’s face was obscured by a big hood and sunglasses, but there was something familiar about his mouth. ‘And you would be?’
‘I’m not confused about my name,’ said Gallen. ‘But thanks for checking.’
The Russian laughed as he turned to his buddies. ‘We have the joker.’
‘No,’ said the hulking form that appeared from behind the second SUV. ‘I’m the funny guy.’
The Russian and his henchmen turned as one, took in Kenny Winter, hand in the false pocket of his arctic parka. The leader turned back to Gallen. ‘Okay, so what now? ‘
‘We’ve been asked by the owner of this place to ensure no one but the delegates come inside,’ said Gallen.
‘They usually come with me,’ came a voice from behind Gallen. He turned towards Reggie.
‘Sorry, Mr Reggie,’ said Gallen. ‘It’s easier if none of us are in there, right?’
Reggie broke into a big smile. ‘Of course, of course. Can I send out some hot drinks?’
‘Four black coffees,’ said Gallen.
CHAPTER 17
Sopping up gravy with his biscuit, Gallen wondered if he had been foolish to take this gig. He’d been hardly six months out of uniform, was still a little jumpy at all sorts of things — telephones with weird ring tones, truck reversing beeps, people who didn’t say their name when they shook hands. He wasn’t totally fit, and now being thrust into a bodyguard detail in the Arctic Circle, unable to get basic answers from his employers, was tuning him for combat. He’d felt the old instincts rising the previous afternoon, when Reggie’s convoy had pulled up. It was a mental state that balanced complete relaxation with the most intense awareness; it was unmistakable to anyone with combat experience and he’d entered that zone when Winter had circled behind the henchmen, hand on his gun. If the shit had started, Gallen would have drawn down, finished it. And that scared him.
‘Coffee?’ said the breakfast waitress, walking past the table.
‘Fill ‘er up,’ said McCann, Ford nodding his agreement.
Winter was stalking the halls of the hotel, looking for trouble, and two tables away Florita made calls and scribbled on her legal pad while Durville cradled his head in his hands, massaging the hangover out of his temples.
Winter appeared in the doorway of the dining room. ‘Got some tourist people here, boss. Manager says they’re okay.’
An elderly couple walked into the dining room in sealskins and fur boots as Gallen looked up.
‘My name’s Billy,’ said the man slowly. ‘This is Sami. You gotta learn how to make the kayak, before you go back to the big city.’
Gallen smiled. ‘I do?’
‘What’s he gonna do with a kayak in Wyoming?’ asked McCann.
‘Man travels,’ said Billy with a shrug. ‘Man needs a kayak.’
‘It’s fucking obvious,’ said Harry Durville, overhearing the conversation. ‘Shit, Gerry, these people make their living from the guests and you go and book the place out? ‘
‘We’re outta here in ninety minutes,’ said Gallen, tapping his G-Shock.
‘Billy, over here if you would,’ said Durville, still slurring slightly.
Pulling out a wad of cash, Durville put several hundred dollars in Billy’s hand and pointed at Gallen. ‘Billy, would you and Sami please take my ungracious employee and spend an hour showing him your kayaks? Would you do that for me?’
Standing reluctantly, Gallen let Sami grab him by the arm and sweep him off like she wanted to dance. They reached the dining room doors with laughter reverberating behind them.
Billy’s workshop was a low-ceilinged shed crowded with wooden frames and skins stretched so tight Gallen could see through them. Lengths of gut rope dried over a wood stove.