Stopping in front of a completed two-person sea kayak — seeming enormous in the enclosed space — Gallen touched the runes and symbols etched into the dried skin of the vessel, painted with dried blood and squashed berries.
‘This some kind of tribal thing, for good luck?’ said Gallen, amazed at the artwork.
‘Nah.’ Billy waved him away. ‘It’s pretty, that all.’
Gallen couldn’t help but ask the question. ‘You guys have boats, skidoos and jet skis, planes. Who still needs a sea kayak?’
‘Don’t need it,’ said Billy. ‘But my people are practical people.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, brother. You go on the plane or the jet ski, you don’t know how that works, you’re not connected with that, so you’re apart from your environment, understand?’
‘I guess.’
‘And when you’re on the sea, you want to feel connected to her, not apart.’
They drank tea, Gallen itching to get back to the hotel. The way they cured the wood and used bone and tusk, skin and gut to put the kayak together was fascinating, but he wanted to be on a plane.
Excusing himself, he tried to shake Billy’s hand, but the man held it up in the international sign for ‘wait’. Bustling out of a back room, Sami came to Gallen, put a loop of gut string around his neck and kissed him in a hug that involved being held by the elbows, a sensation he hated. Gallen grabbed the walrus tusk carving on the end of the gut string. It was the size of a matchbox and by the look of the yellowing bone, it wasn’t new. It depicted the head of a polar bear, tiny lumps of anthracite for eyes.
‘That a bear?’
‘City people think the bear is a killer,’ said Billy. ‘To us, the bear is a survivor — on sea, land, ice and in all weather, she can live.’
Gallen looked at his talisman. ‘Survivor, huh?’
Billy shook his hand. ‘Be safe, Mr Gerry.’
Winter organised the baggage loading, walking the suitcases and bags through to the rear luggage compartment of the Challenger jet.
‘Where’s Durville?’ said Gallen, as Winter re-emerged on the tarmac, the morning taking forever to be warmed by the watery sun.
‘Sleeping it off,’ said the Canadian. ‘Florita slipped him a Valium.’
Captain Martin fired the plane and Gallen joined the pilots in the cockpit. As they swung away from the tiny terminal, giving them a view of the endless white, he saw something beside the airport building.
‘Any glasses in here?’ he asked, and Martin reached down beside him, coming up with a mid-sized set of Nikon binoculars.
Concentrating as the Challenger made for its take-off position, Gallen scoped Reggie’s convoy in the car park but there wasn’t much to look at. Reggie and his bodyguard had moved into the tiny terminal to wait for their plane.
Sweeping the snowbound airport as the Challenger turned for its take-off run, Gallen’s eyes focused. Was it a black SUV, parked behind a snow bank? He thought he saw a set of field-glasses looking straight back at him from the front seat.
The aircraft turned away from the SUV and Gallen pushed through to the cabin.
‘Kenny! Take a look through the window.’ He thrust the glasses at Winter. ‘Check the black SUV beside the terminal building.’
Winter pointed the binoculars through the cabin window, his fingers dancing slowly on the adjustment buttons. ‘Can’t see anything, boss.’
Taking back the field-glasses, Gallen searched the snow bank but couldn’t find the SUV.
‘Abort the take-off,’ he said, raising his voice so the captain could hear. ‘Bring it into the hangar.’
Winter found his explosives detector and for the next half-hour they went over the plane and through the bags, checking in the lavatories, the galley and the large luggage compartment itself, which was situated behind the aft washroom. The captain and co-pilot even pulled on their parkas and checked the undercarriage and landing gear, looking for anything that wasn’t supposed to be there.
When they decided to try again, Reggie and his party were boarding their own private jet.
‘Thank God for some engine noise,’ said McCann as they took off one hour late and climbed into the blue. ‘That Durville ever stop snoring?’
Two hours out of Kugaaruk, Gallen was roused from his reverie as Durville woke with theatrical stretches and groans.
‘Chrissakes,’ said the oil man, staggering to his feet, hitching up his jeans and making for the aft washroom.
Moving down the plane, Gallen took a seat opposite Florita, noticing she’d let her hair out of the bun. ‘He’s back with us, I see.’
‘I only gave him half a Valium, but it helps with his hangovers.’
Gallen kept it casual. ‘He talking about the meeting, his drinking with Reggie?’
‘He just woke up, Gerry,’ she said, a small smile creasing the side of her mouth.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m curious about this Reggie and his posse.’
‘He’s TTC. But he’s from the other side.’
‘Other side?’
‘Of the North Pole,’ said Florita. ‘They’re all Inuit, but Reggie’s from the Siberian side, while Kugaaruk is the Canadian side.’
‘Reggie’s Russian?’ said Gallen.
Florita chuckled. ‘I’m not saying anything, Gerry, ‘cept that Reggie comes from the other side of the Pole is all.’
The hissing sound from the washroom rose above the twin jet engines. Durville was having a shower.
‘Any ideas why someone would be glassing us on the runway this morning?’
‘Glassing?’
‘Using field-glasses to observe us.’
‘Oh, you mean binoculars. No, Gerry, I have no idea. I didn’t see this vehicle.’
Gallen looked away. His anxiety wasn’t always something he could substantiate.
‘What about Reggie’s men?’ he pushed. ‘They wanted to come into the meeting.’
‘Perhaps they wanted to sit down, get warm.’
‘They were armed.’
Florita looked out the window.
‘You know Reggie’s senior bodyguard? The big Russian?’ said Gallen.
‘No.’
‘You seen him before?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘In Vlad.’
‘Vladivostok?’
‘Like I said.’
‘What’s his name?’
Florita sighed. ‘Gerry, I don’t know his name. The only reason I know yours is that we coordinate Harry’s schedule.’
Gallen nodded. ‘Could you find out for me? It would help.’
Florita nodded too, looked back at her paperwork, nothing else to say.
‘Okay, then,’ he said, standing.
Durville burst out of the washroom as Gallen took his seat opposite McCann. There was a kerfuffle, and rather than twist to see what the commotion was about, he gave McCann a soft kick.
‘What’s the fuss back there?’
Squinting through a half-closed eye, McCann focused on Durville. ‘He’s waving something around, looks like a BlackBerry.’
‘Look at this thing,’ Gallen heard Durville say. ‘A phone covered in abalone. I love these Eskimos. A BlackBerry covered in seashells? I love it.’
It was when Durville said the phone was a gift from one of the tribal members that Gallen felt his pulse roar in his ears. As he lurched from his seat, he almost collided with Winter, who was also heading for the oil man.
CHAPTER 18
The abalone-encrusted BlackBerry glinted in Winter’s hand.
‘This came from Reggie?’ said Gallen, looking down at Durville, whose rough confidence was gone.
‘Gave it to me last night,’ said Durville, slurping at coffee. ‘Told me it was a special gift from the first nations. There a problem?’