Karson always enjoyed his visits to the Johns’ house. It was a perfect balance of warmth and academia. Tastefully placed bookcases were filled with a wide array of literature illustrating the diverse range of interests of the professor and his wife. Works from Leonard Cohen and Margaret Atwood to Nolm Chomsky and Bob Woodward were just a taste of what could be found on the shelves.
Dispersed between the bookcases were framed photos, mostly black and white that Karson had heard were taken by the professor. They were not labeled or identified in any way, but it was clear they were global, showing scenes from around the world. Scenes of places, buildings, streets and people not from North America. The few moments Karson had had to view them up close, countries in Asia seemed the most predominant. Where in Asia though, he didn’t know. Karson had never been anywhere, except for the mandatory university student pilgrimage to Cancun or one of the other popular destinations for reading week that came in mid-February for Canadian university students.
The one common feature to all the photographs was the personal feeling they all seemed to have. Perhaps it was because the professor never talked about or explained any of them induced this feeling. He always managed to direct inquiries away from the photos. Karson never pressed, and with go with the change of subject.
Passing by the kitchen, the hardwood floor underneath him, Karson made a right halfway down the hallway and carried on to the far end, passing a bathroom two bedrooms. An open door at the end provided a view of what could only be described as a totally disorganized and cluttered office that somehow gave off a sense of sensibility and order.
It was the man that fulfilled that sense.
The room was spacious and was fully consumed by books, papers, documents, maps and reports. Stacks and stacks of everything occupied every surface, except for on the desk. A large wooden desk sat in the middle of the room with a large clear window providing a picturesque view of a flower garden behind it. The deck and pond Karson knew were more to the left, just out of view, or the office was out of view from the deck.
Only a single folder lay open on the desk that contained a small pile of official looking papers. Karson couldn’t quite make out the company logo on the inside of the folder from where he standing. No doubt, one of the many companies the professor did consulting work for.
Standing at the door, Karson gently knocked on the door frame. “Excuse me, Professor Johns.”
Standing to the left of the desk, Professor Johns had appeared to be looking out the window at the garden. As he slowly turned his head, Karson saw that he was actually holding a thin booklet.
“I’m sorry to disturb you like this, but, …”
Upon seeing that the intruder was Karson, a combined smile and furrowed brow appeared on Dr. Johns’ face.
“Not at all, Karson. Not at all. Please, come in. What can I do for you?” After a moment, he added, “Did I forget that we were supposed to meet today?”
“No Sir. And again, I apologize for barging in on you like this, but somethings happened that I need to tell you about, er, show you.”
Karson was about to continue and started to hold up his hands to show what he was holding when Dr. Johns held up his right hand, palm out.
“Ok, just calm down and come sit down, son.” Dr. Johns walked behind his desk and placed the thin booklet he had been reading into the folder and closed it. He then lowered his short stocky frame into his high-backed leather chair. His wispy gray hair falling over his eyes.
Leaning forward and clasping his hands together, forming a steeple, his soft eyes told Karson to continue.
“Well, professor,” started Karson as he sat down in the lone chair in front of the desk. “As you know, I’ve been struggling with the biticum, and …”
“Yes, you have. And it’s a bold undertaking I may add. You’ve been struggling, yes, but your approach has been very creative. I think you’ve made some good progress in an area where other researchers and companies are throwing millions of dollars trying to tackle the same problem or making the Oilsands more efficient, and you are doing it with much more limited funds.
“Thank you, professor. Your support and belief in me has been of great encouragement for me. And, …”, Karson paused before continuing, “ I believe you’ve helped me solve it as well.
Karson let loose a wide grin, that was quickly matched with a look of confusion and premature disbelief by Dr. Johns.
After what seemed like two minutes of silence, that was actually only about ten seconds of silence, with a degree of trepidation, Dr. Johns looked directly into Karson’s eyes and said, “What do you mean by, solved it?”
Placing the glass beaker and printout on the desk, Karson returned the look and replied with controlled excitement, “I mean I think I’ve done it. I think I’ve turned the Oilsands into a landslide.”
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Chapter 20 - the professor's office
Chapter 19 -- the Johns'
One of the perks of working with Dr. Johns was that occasionally you were invited to his home for dinner, drinks and more importantly, to chat. Many previous fellowship recipients had made their big mental breakthroughs during those moments. Although Karson’s big moment hadn’t come from a chat with the good professor, it had come from his Orchid.
After leaving the campus, Karson had driven quickly and carefully over to the professor’s house, just ten minutes away. He now ran up to the front door of the house and knocked on the door.
The house was a beautiful old Victorian, painted white and in excellent shape. The professor was obviously a little handy around the house. It was located on a quiet mature tree lined cul-de-sac in Queen Alexandra, close to all that was important to the Johns’ – Whyte Avenue with it’s quaint cafes and shops, parks and of course, the University of Alberta. Out back, Karson knew was a large deck and stepping-stones that led to a small pond.
The sound of footsteps came through the door from the inside and momentarily afterward the door opened. A perfectly postured lady of about 60 appeared through the screen door. A tall woman already, her cream-colored straight-legged pantsuit made her appear even taller.
“Hello, Karson. What a pleasant surprise.” Phyllis Johns was a presence. “Philip didn’t mention that you would be stopping by.”
Although she appeared to look severe at times, her warm smile always melted that icy appearance away. That and the fact her height was at such odds with the professor’s shortness. They looked like the perfect odd couple, and yet within a minute of being in their presence, anyone would soon realize how they perfectly complemented each other. The only humor left about the couple was the alliteration of their names, which sometimes led to crass and immature jokes from students. The two that Karson thought were the most distasteful were, ‘The two pees’ and, ‘Pain and Pastry’, named for her severity and his weight.
Phyllis Johns smiled and without missing a beat, glanced down and noticed that Karson was concealing something in his left hand. It looked like the top of a small glass jar with paper wrapped around it.
“Actually, this is a surprise visit. I apologize Mrs. Johns, but I need to see the professor.”
After a moments hesitation, he quickly added, “It’s really important.”
“I should say so, my dear. You look like a kid who has found his sister’s secret diary.” Phyllis Johns followed up with a wink that let Karson know that it was all right. “He’s in his study. Why don’t you just go on in.”
Stepping past Mrs. Johns, Karson offered a quick thank you and went into the house knowing exactly where the study was.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
2 MORE CHAPTERS UP
Hey all. It's been a few months, but I'm back at it full force. 2 more chapters have now been posted. I hope you keep reading.
Keel
Chapter 18 - the Death March
“Daniel.” The soft purr of her voice resonated through the door and into his body sending an electric current right to his groin.
She had done it again. Every time he tried to resist showing his excitement before she came in and every time he lost. It was the only time and only part of his body that wouldn’t listen. That he couldn’t control.
The door softly clicked open and the wonder that was Cloe breezed in. Daniel heard her soft steps on the floor and finally her bare feet came to rest in front of him. Looking straight down, looking through the face hole of the table, Daniel saw her perfectly pedicured feet and painted toenails. Blood red this time.
“I did it again, didn’t I? I can tell.” Cloe’s drawn out ‘ll’ driving right to his groin again.
Before he could even respond, he felt her fingers touch his shoulders and expertly rub down his back and under the silk cloth.
“Yes, you won again, my sweet.”
“Mmm, I love how you call me your sweet. And now I will show you how sweet I think you are.”
Reaching over to the right side of the table, Cloe ran her fingers over the control panel until she found the button she wanted. The table quietly lowered, allowing her to fully lean over Daniel. Her large firm breasts coming to rest on the back of Daniel’s neck. Her hands needing away underneath the cloth.
The feel of Cloe’s full lips on his middle back was suddenly interrupted by a sound Daniel did not expect. It was his cell phone, but not his usual ring. It was The second movement of Ludwig van Beethoven's Symphony No. 3 (Eroica) - the Death March. It rang for about ten seconds before it finally registered. This ring was set for one of his ‘moles’ as he liked to think of them. Moles for Islam and moles against their own country and way of life. Only they didn’t know it. This one was the kid who thought he was tough, and privileged.
Cloe lifted herself off of Daniel and knelt in front of him, not saying a word, allowing him to reach over to his phone. She focused in on the sound of Daniel’s voice and his side of the conversation.
“Yes, this is Daniel. You have something for me? Very good work. A bonus will be deposited into your account tomorrow. Goodnight.”
Daniel closed his phone and rolled over onto his back. Looking up into Cloe’s face, even though it was a little odd, being upside down and all, she still radiated beauty. Large dark eyes set into an oval face with deeply tanned skin. She was exquisite.
“”I must cut our appointment short this time my sweet. I need to get to the airport I’m afraid.”
“Must you go right now,” Cloe asked, turning her lips into a pout. “So soon after I have tasted you on my lips?” Cloe then lowered her breasts so they encompassed Daniel’s face, just brushing over his eyes and cheeks. Her hands reaching out forward at him.
“Perhaps I can stay a little longer. But the massage will have to wait for another time.” Daniel then pulled Cloe further over him and then reached out with his hand, raising the table and raising himself towards her sweet.
The power was still all hers.
Chapter 17 - Daniel & Cloe
Once he was outside the engineering building, Walker took a moment to pause and catch his breath. He wasn’t out of breath, but was still in disbelief. Leaning over the entrance guard rail he pulled the sheet of paper that he had taken from the printer out of his back pocket. It had just been sitting there in the printer tray just asking to be taken. Looking at it again, he still could barely accept what he was seeing.
Karson had managed to transform thick, molasses-like biticum into light, sweet crude oil. He could think of a number of countries that wouldn’t like that. But fuck them. They had enough already.
Walker closed his eyes and tried to calm down, expect that his anger had now graduated to rage. The sounds emanating from the campus unable to breakthrough to his senses. Students chatting as they walked by. The sound of cheering from the nearby football field. Birds chirping somewhere overhead. None of it getting through.
He hated Karson already, but seeing what he had now achieved was, … . He opened his eyes. A ball of white fuzz slowly came into focus and registered in his mind. He had crumpled the paper inside his fist. He stared at it for a few more seconds and then forced himself to relax and uncurl his hands. He needed the document, the evidence. And, he needed to make a phone call to a generous, yet mysterious benefactor.
Personal vengeance would have to come later. And come it would.
----------------
Across the Atlantic, a man undressed in a small room and climbed on top of a cushioned table, face down, only covering his backside with a small red silk scarf that had been carefully folded and left on the table. His body was lean and fit. His skin just lightly dark. His hair black and pulled over from front to back, revealing a low, thick hairline. The muscles in his back appearing a little tense and in need of some TLC.
He was in one of the many such rooms that made up the Raven Room. A place for men who had discerning tastes and the money to pay for it. It was also discreet, guaranteed by the, ‘admission only by referral’ system, and each member was only allowed to give one referral. They were not given out easily or haphazardly. The man lying on the table had been a member for 5 years and had still not given his to anyone. Nor would he. Ever.
The room had no windows, but instead only 2 paintings. One on the far back wall, and the other on the left side wall. Coming into the room, the right side wall was occupied by a fully stocked cabinet of liqueurs and whiskeys. A built-in closet allowed clients to neatly store their clothes and a plush, dark purple armchair next to the cabinet allowed for any number of relaxation activities.
Daniel didn’t know why he bothered with the silk scarf, except that Cloe seemed to like it to be a part of their program. Cloe. The mere thought of her brought a smile to Daniel’s face. To call be beautiful was a tragedy. She was exquisite. She was magical, at least her fingers and lips were. Soon she would open the door and a whole new world of pleasure would be brought down on him. A different kind of pleasure from his usual.
Daniel. He loved using a biblical name when traveling in Christian countries, when his sole purpose was to destroy them. His true name was virtually unpronounceable to the West, to the infidels, to the ‘civilized’ as they liked to think of themselves. They were all at war and the infidels still hadn’t learned what it was all about. They just continued with their usual rhetoric about freedom and values. Sure. Freedom and values when it suits your own purpose. This war was also about freedom and values, but one’s that had been taken away from Daniel’s people and many more like him. Nations with long histories also have long memories.
Although well trained in masking his emotions, thoughts like these made it difficult, but not impossible. Not when your duty has meaning beyond this world. But that was a lifelong fight and one that would still be there in 2 hours. Right now, Daniel had a different reason to mask his emotions, namely excitement.
It had become a game of sorts between himself and Cloe. He would try and control showing his excitement in seeing her and she would try and get a rise out of him before she entered the room. Keeping him waiting was one of her tactics. She knew of her powerful affect on him and it was one she used well. He never minded though. As soon as she was in the room, a power shift occurred, from her to him.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
I'm back at it
Sorry to be off for the whole summer, but it jst couldn't be helped. I'm back home now and have been writing in a notebook to get my head back into it.
A new chapter (or 2 or 3) will be posted up by the weekend. I hope you all keep reading.
Keel
Friday, July 20, 2007
a longer break
Yeah, I just can't think these days, so I'll be taking a longer break from posting anymore chapters for a while. My plan of finishing the whole book off during my time off is just not working out.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Chapter 16b - breakfast n' bed
"Sorry I couldn't make it to dinner last night, baby."
"That's ok sweetness. How did it go?"
Sing reached up and pulled some of her hair off of her face, revealing partially covered black emeralds that turned upwards towards Keel. Looking down into those startling eyes, Keel could see a Chestershire-like grin underneath the rest of the silk, surrounded by a semi-dark cream-like skin accented by high cheekbones.
"You got it didn't you?"
The grin instantly grew into a full ear to ear smile, showing two rows of perfectly aligned white teeth.
Sing suddenly leapt up, throwing her left leg over Keel, stradling him as she leaned forward, encompasing him as her long hair fell all around him. Her soft full lips finding his.
This was how Sing always gave Keel good news, or in this case, great news.
"We closed the deal at about 11:45pm and then some champange was popped to seal it."
That was Sing. She had started and built a small boutique PR firm four years ago by herself, using none of the recources readily availaible to her through her family, and yet she still diseminated the credit and glory for closing a contract with all of her employees. 'We'. All 50 of them. No wonder they loved her, Keel thought. Just not more than he.
"After they left, the gang wnated to brainstorm out some more ideas."
Sing had just closed a very lucrative contract with an Indian company that was expanding into the booming Alberta market.
"Well then, I'd say a celebration breakfast is in order. How about we go to Stappo's?"
Stappo's was a closet-sized Greek diner that had existed in Edmonton's downtown for well over 30 years. Keel had discovered it soon after he arrived in Edmonton and had introduced Sing to it before their fourth date. It was their favorite place. Even breakfast could be made romantic in there. The best part of the diner was the owner, Mr. Stappolous. He just loved loved Keel and adored Sing. he always had a Greek poem for them when they came by, even though the two of them had no idea what he was saying.
"Mmm, sounds wonderful. But I want some breakfast n' bed first, ... before we go eat."
2 1/2 hours later, they were listening to a poem.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Chapter 16 - Sing
“Mmmmmorning toughie.”
Keel woke up the next morning with a soft, yet firm naked body molded against him like a warm tropical ocean wave. Long, black silk was strewn over his chest, concealing the angelic face underneath.
After dining alone the previous evening, he had gone for a walk down Jasper Avenue into the downtown area. There had been a time when the city’s social scene had left the area, but the last few decades had brought them back. The castle-like Fairmont Hotel Macdonald Edmonton had been restored overlooking the river valley and Canada’s largest not-for-profit theatre was located right in the heart of downtown on 101st A Ave. The Citadel Theater was a combination of five performing spaces: Shoctor Theatre, Maclab Theatre, Rice Theatre, Tucker Amphitheatre and Zeidler Hall. Looking up at the building, you couldn’t help but be impressed, especially at night. Its all-glass construction, combined with the evenings shimmering lights made it look like an in-city formation of the beloved Northern Lights.
Passing along the sidewalk, Keel took in the year’s schedule of events. There was a always a Shakespeare play going on, but it seemed the main theme this year was teens. It was a program to promote and support teens with mentorship and development by offering workshops in playwriting, production, directing and designing.
She would be interested in this he had thought.
Continuing along, Keel came upon a sight that held a special memory. The Francis Winspear Concert Hall, opened in September of 1997. It wasn’t because of the Davis Concert Organ, the largest concert organ in Canada, the crown jewel of the center and it wasn’t because of its extraordinary acoustics.
“Morning Sing”, replied Keel.
It wasn’t that he was a lover of the arts, but that she was. It had been to the remarkable building that Keel had taken his musical angel to on their third date to see the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra during the Pops series. After that evening, they both knew it was over for them – they were stuck with each other, and couldn’t be happier about it. It was now 2 years later.
It had taken them four months after that third date for the two of them to finally sleep together. There had been no hurry, plus, she had been raised in an extremely conservative family.
That night, that moment of sudden deep passion and reckless abandon had also come with spectacular tragedy. Sing had received a phone call from her godfather who told her that both of her parent’s along with her older brother had been killed in a freak boating accident. Their bodies had been discovered and pulled from the Straits of Johor off the coast of the Malay Peninsula. Their yacht had been found anchored 5 km away. No cause of death had been determined.
Sing had fallen into Keel that night, first for support and comfort, and then for the need to feel something other than pain and anguish. They had made love that fitful night until she had fallen asleep. Keel had stayed awake, unable to find slumber while Sing’s tears continued to roll onto his chest, even in sleep.
The next day, they said a sorrowful goodbye when she boarded a flight to go see her family one last time. One last time to say goodbye to them. One last time to visit the family home. At that moment, she thought perhaps one last time to visit her country of birth. Once last time to the small, yet immensely beautiful island city-state of Singapore.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Chapter 15 - light and sweet
Walker had now relegated himself to sitting on the floor behind Dr. Johns’ desk with his head resting against the top right drawer. He was just starting to doze off when a sudden burst of noise roused him and caused him to inadvertently bang his head off the drawer. As if suspended in time, he remained motionless, listening for any reaction from Karson to the bang. Hearing nothing, he gazed around the corner of the desk, rubbing his head.
What he saw though appeared to be very interesting. Karson’s back was to Walker, but he appeared to be holding a sheet of paper, and shaking. Suddenly, Karson pulled what looked like a small mp3 player out of pocket and moved directly in front of his laptop. When Karson reached behind the computer, Walker realized it had not been a mp3 player, but a memory stick. He had one himself in his pocket right now. He used to keep all updated files on it and assumed Karson must have done the same.
Walker knew that whatever had suddenly gotten Karson all wet with excitement was now being transferred onto the memory key. Sure enough, one minute later it had been. The small key was then slipped into Karson’s right left pocket of his jeans and the used beakers and flasks were quickly rinsed out.
The last thing Walker saw was Karson dashing out the door with the sheet of paper in his hand, partially wrapped around a flask containing something. This time however, Karson remembered to lock the door behind him.
After listening one more time to the sound of footsteps briskly moving down the hall and away from his position, Walker reached up to the top of the desk and hauled himself up. Giving his legs a quick stretch, he wondered what had gotten Karson’s panties all in a bunch.
Giving a quick look around, two test tubes were in a nearby sink that looked like they had been rinsed out, but a few white bubbles indicated that Karson had used some bleach, and not just water. Looking over at the laptop, Walker noticed that something was off. Something just didn’t feel right. The screen was on and the monitor hadn’t shut off, so the password protect feature hadn’t kicked in yet. That in itself was strange, that Karson would leave his computer in that state, but that wasn’t it either.
One small window was still open, but it wasn’t a folder window. It was a message window.
“What the fuck?”
‘All Contents Have Been Successfully Deleted.’ Why the hell had Karson deleted all of his files?
Shaking his head in wonderment, Walker gave the work area another once over. Settling his eyes on the machine next to the computer, Walker’s eyebrows slipped upwards. He reached out the computer’s keyboard and tapped out a few keys. Sure enough, there it was. Karson had accidentally set the printer to make two copies. And one of them was sitting two feet to his right in the printer basket.
Walker straightened up and leaned over to pick up the second printout. Bringing it to his face, his eyes scanned over the data. It was a breakdown of what must have been in the flask that Karson carried out of here. At the bottom of the page was a general summary of the petroleum chemical breakdown.
It took about five seconds. “Holy fucking hell. He did it.” What had caught Walker’s eye was the sulfur content.
It read out at 0.4%.
Karson had not only successfully separated the oil from the sand and turn it into a lighter viscous oil, but had managed to change it into its original underground crude form. He had managed to change the heavy viscous Alberta biticum into light, sweet crude oil. Oil that was equivalent to the kind found in the Middle East.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Chapter 14 - lunch in 20 minutes?
Hiding behind Dr. Johns’ desk, cowering like a beaten dog, Walker had been seething for having to do it. If word had gotten back to Johns that he had been here, uninvited, the repercussions would have been severe. Now, a brief moment of pleasure hearing Karson swear to himself.
Karson wasn’t as smart as he thought he was, thought Walker. I, Walker Stromberg was the deserving one. He had as good as an idea as anyone. He was a star on the lacrosse team. He was the one with all the connections. Karson had no connections. He was as average as you can get. He was a, … a nobody. He wasn’t even a second glance. He was shit.
“You will pay, you motherfucker,” Walker whispered to himself.
Staring down at his swirling black sand, Karson noticed the second liquid filled beaker that he had brought back from Jay’s lab. He had forgotten all about it. In it was a cloudy white cocktail that Jay had provided, just in case. Jay had placed a stopper on the top of this one. Not so much as to prevent any spillage from Karson walking with it, but to prevent any from spilling onto Karson’s. Jay had provided only 2 mg citing the hazards of working with it. It was an enzyme enhancer that, depending upon the subject plant’s chemical composition, could make it very poisonous and 1000 times more acidic that it was in its present form. It was normally used in retrieving fossilized plant enzymes for data collection and analysis. Right now, if any were to reach Karson’s skin, it would mean a painful trip to the hospital.
Figuring his brilliant idea had been a bust, and seeing as he had the cloudy liquid sitting there, Karson decided he might as well use it.
Exhaling a heavy breath, he put down the flask containing the diluted, yet still useless biticum. Next, he put on some work gloves and picked up the second tube containing the enzyme enhancer. With as gentle a touch as he could muster, Karson carefully and slowly twisted off the stopper. Just as the plastic top left the rim of the glass tube, Karson realized Jay had not told him whether or not its aroma was poisonous.
Hesitating a moment, and not suddenly keeling over in a painful and agonizing death, Karson continued.
“All right. Let’s see if you do anything for me.” And with that, Karson poured all of the enzyme enhancer into the flask of black sand. Instantly, the color altered a bit to a slightly lighter shade of dark, but that was about it. Closing off the top of the flask with a stopper, Karson gave it a quick shake as he walked over to the Orbit 1900 Heavy Duty Shaker one more time. He dropped it in, left the same settings and hit start. Watching the machine work, and without much optimism, Karson figured he’d be meeting Digger for lunch within 20 minutes.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Chapter 13 - Mixtures
Karson ran down the hallway with an even more pronounced look of restrained expectation on his face. Reaching the door, he once again missed that it hadn’t locked it. Instead, he moved straight to his work area setting two fluid filled chemistry beakers down onto the counter.
He had called his friend Jason who he knew would be working in his Archaeology lab, working on his thesis paper. A paper that aligned well with his environmental views. He was tracking environmental effects and changes over the last 10,000 years in western Canada, more specifically, the Province of Saskatchewan.
One aspect of that study related to plant life and Karson knew that. He had called up Jay and inquired whether or not he knew how to isolate and perhaps enhance botanical enzymes. While staring at the orchid on Johns’ desk, Karson realized why it had been holding his attention. He had suddenly recalled seeing a Canadian Geographic special on how some plant enzymes actually broke down and separated the contents of the soil in which they were in growing in, in order to manufacture the most ideal environment for themselves. The most creative and efficient of the plants to accomplish this were orchids.
Jay wasn’t familiar with this information, but certainly could rustle up the necessary chemical cocktail that Karson was looking for. He also didn’t ask any questions. He just gave some last unsolicited, but useful advice as Karson was on his way out.
Now standing in front of his laptop, Karson picked up the piece of orchid that he had cut off and proceeded to gently pull of the flowers petals. The beautiful blue’s and other assorted colors, although spectacular to look at were of no use, but there was no reason to rip them.
What Karson was after, from remembering the program, was the stem. It was in the stem where these environment-changing enzymes housed themselves. It was from the stem that they made their way down to the roots in finally into the soil.
How holding a naked 3 1/2 inch stem, Karson cut off a single piece of 1/8-inch length. As with many things in nature, great power sometimes comes in very small sizes. This smaller piece, Karson then placed in a clean glass flask. Next, he added 100 mg of the purplish cocktail that Jay had provided. He then took the flask with the combined elements swirled it around in his hand as Jay had instructed him to. The color was now a light greenish hue. Next, he took a sample of the newly created mixture and, after depositing it into a test tube, he dropped it into a mass spectrometer. After first checking to make sure his laptop was connected to it, he hit the start switch. Ten seconds later, the breakdown of results appeared on his monitor. Interesting.
The samples of biticum he had were kept on a shelf against the west wall, over near Dr. Johns’ desk. Karson walked over and picked up a small jar sample, never once taking his eyes off of it. Total concentration. Back at his counter, he opened the jar and the familiar odor of tar hit his senses. Using a plastic tongue depressor, Karson scooped up a small amount of the molasses-like spread and deposited into another flask. He then picked up a pipette and drew up 10 mg of his newly formed greenish mixture and extinguished it into the flask containing the biticum.
He then took the flask with the combined elements and placed it into an Orbit 1900 Heavy Duty Shaker, setting it to 1000 rpm. Karson hit the start switch. After 30 seconds, the Shaker stopped and Karson removed the flask. Removing it from the machine, something like a black sandstorm swirled in front of him. He recognized it for was it was. Nothing more than soaked biticum. After checking with the mass spectrometer, his thoughts were confirmed when this second set of results appeared on his laptop. Another bust!
“God damn it,” muttered Karson to himself. “What a stupid idea.”
Pissed off from wasting his time, wasting Jay’s time and from still having a headache, Karson took the remaining purplish cocktail and dumped it down the sink. He rinsed out the beaker and set it down. He would have to make sure he returned it to Jay later.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Chapter 12 - listening through the wall
Karson’s research had been focusing on the ‘in situ’ side of the oil sands extraction side. The problems involved in this were the expense and difficulty of blasting steam down into the sandy oil pockets found below the surface, but also the expense of refining the extracted oil. Currently, it cost about $12 per barrel compared to the approximate $4 for the sweet crude of the Middle East. High oil prices, with barrels reaching over $50 each had certainly made oil sand extraction profitable, especially for the Province of Alberta, which had been seeing provincial revenues from oil royalty’s reach upwards of 7 billion dollars. But on a global scale, that was peanuts. That was nothing.
Walker had followed Karson right into the engineering building, but had gone off to his own workstation, located in the adjoining room from where Karson was. His work, oddly enough also focused on the Alberta Oil Sands Project, however Walker had preferred to above ground and concentrate on the open-pit mining. He was working on improving the mechanical conveyer belts that were a big part of moving the black sand to extraction plants. So far, the improvements he had come up with were so minor that the cost to refit the belts would outweigh any profits. Frustration was a constant sensation in Walker’s mind.
He was just going to throw some music when a low mumble came flowing through the wall from the other side. Adjusting his hand away from the stereo and towards his workbench, Walker braced himself and leaned in towards the wall, turning his head slightly in an effort to point his right ear in the direction of the sound.
It was Karson’s voice all right. But who was he talking to. After so much hatred, he could pick up on that voice immediately, even if the words were unintelligible. He didn’t think anyone else was in there with Karson. Maybe Dr. Johns was in there. The two of them. In there chatting away about Karson’s work. John’s had barely given Walker any time as of recent. His hatred of Karson was gradually spilling over to the good doctor.
Still leaning into the wall, Walker realized he was only hearing one voice though. No one else was in there. Not Johns, not that friend of his, or any of them. Karson was on the phone. But something was catching about his tone. Karson didn’t sound excited, but intrigued about something.
The mumbling sound ended with the sound of a low bang, the phone being hung up. Silence followed for about twenty seconds, and then Walker heard the hinges of an old door being expanded and compressed, concluding with a click. Quickly paced footsteps told Walker that Karson had taken off in a run. Something had gotten his blood up.
“Are you sure you’re not too busy? Thanks buddy. I’ll be right over.” Karson hung up the phone with a look of restrained expectation on his face. Grabbing his bag, he then walked over to the door and left, moving in a fast jog down the hall. Karson hated running, but the phone call had him momentarily forget that fact. The phone call had also momentarily made him forget to lock the door on his way out as well.
Walker waited about a minute. He was sure Karson had forgotten to lock the door. There had been no pause between the door closing and the sound of running footsteps leaving. Trying the door confirmed that. Walker opened it and stepped into Karson’s workroom. Although they were in the same department and both were graduate students, they did not, or at least were not supposed to have access to each other’s rooms. Dr. Johns believed in privacy and research security. The only anomaly in this was that as Dr. Johns’ number one student and fellowship winner, Karson got the extra privilege of sharing Johns’ workspace.
After a brief scan of the room and satisfied that he was alone, Walker first walked over to Johns’ desk. He had been in this room before, but only to meet with Johns and for only minutes at a time. That same picture of his wife was on there, only this time some ridiculous looking flower was hovering above it. It was multi-colored, but heavy with blue. The petals looked unusual. In fact, the whole thing looked unusual. It was a single flower acting like a potted plant. Must be exotic Walker thought. The stupid thing was even deformed. A small section hadn’t grown in on the bottom right side, which made it look, well, retarded.
An explanation for the deformity was explained when Walker moved over to Karson’s work area. Next to his laptop was the missing piece of flower. Running through Walker’s mind was, ‘what the hell is he up to?’ Glancing at the blank monitor, Walker wondered about his luck. He clicked the space bar and the monitor lit up. ‘Damn,’ it had reverted to password protection mode while Walker had been looking at the cut piece of orchid.
Walker hadn’t noticed how much time he had spent over at Dr. Johns’ desk looking at the photo, then the orchid and then standing in front of Karson’s work area until he heard the sound of footsteps again. Only this time, they were not moving away. They were moving closer, and quickly.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Chapter 11 - Stromberg
Walker Stromberg had been at RATT the night before with his lacrosse buddies. He was 6’ 2”, a solid 200 lbs with wavy blond hair down to his shoulders and a chiseled jaw. He was a ladies man. The fairer sex gravitated towards him like cash to a casino. The top ‘attackman’ on the U of A lacrosse team, Walker also came from money. Old money. His great great grandfather had made his mark during the days of the Klondike gold rush and then in oil when Alberta was first realized as the ‘Texas’ of Canada.
He had it all, except the fellowship with Dr. Johns. Karson Delly had scooped him on it. It wasn’t the future job prospects that the fellowship guaranteed that had pissed him off. His future was already set through the family’s network of companies. No. It was the family’s pride and honour that had been trampled on in Walker’s eyes. And his father had let him know it.
Walker was sure the fellowship had been in the bag. How could he not be? He was a Stromberg. But then Johns had gone and named Karson. That was something he couldn’t let go without a consequence, without some sort of payback. Beating Karson to a pulp would have been just too easy, and too unsatisfying. That aggression had been taken out on the lacrosse pitch, to the horror of the other teams. Three players had already been made guests of their local hospital this season.
Walker’s opportunity came soon after the start of the new semester and it came with a phone call. A man, identifying himself only as Mr. Williams, had made a proposal of utter simplicity with accompanying rewards and what Walker was truly looking for. The destruction of Karson Delly’s future. Mr. Williams had told Walker that he was with a watch group that tracked research associated with natural resources at each university in North America. They had no fellowship to offer, but they have a perk – bonus arrangement to offer.
The deal was sealed when $10,000 suddenly appeared in Walker’s account the same day. All he had to do was keep an eye on Karson’s research progress and submit updates once a month, or earlier if necessary. Since Walker worked in the same building anyway, and since his father had reduced his standard of living as a punishment for not getting the Fellowship, it had been an easy sell.
Walker had had a few beers last night as well, but he was not suffering, as he knew Karson was now. Seeing Karson hold the bottle of iced tea to his forehead in the 7-11, Walker had wanted to smash it over his head. He had considered turning around and just heading home, figuring Karson wouldn’t be very productive today, but he had some work he could do himself, so continued along.
Karson put the half empty iced tea bottle on his work counter and sat back in his chair. Today was going to be a struggle. The head pills were slowly separating the hangover from his head, but the tiredness would be there all day he knew. Separation. That was the key. Like how a pill worked. Separating the sickness from the human body. Like penicillin, one of the great discoveries in history. A botanical wonder. What if?
Letting his mind wander on that last thought, Karson found himself staring over at Dr. Johns’ desk. Something was holding his attention. The desk was a typical steel work desk that belonged in a laboratory. It was perfectly organized in keeping with Johns’ character – a neat freak of the extreme kind. A layered file organizer was on the front left corner, a picture of his wife on the right corner with a potted orchid accompanying the picture. The orchid. Dr. Johns had brought it in the day before. It had been an anniversary gift from his wife. That was what was holding his attention.
Chapter 10 - head pills
About a block down from his apartment building, Karson stopped into a 7-11. With his head still pounding from last night’s bender, he decided a bottle of iced tea was needed to wash down a few more head pills. Focusing on work was going to be a struggle today. Opening the door the convenience store brought a momentary stay of relief as the air conditioning washed over his face. It suddenly felt like he had dunked his head into a sink of cool water. He quickly went over to the back of the store and located the shelf with iced tea on it. Opening the cooler door, he grabbed a bottle and held it to his forehead, eyes closed, enjoying the cool air from the open door and the cold condensation from the bottle as it suddenly hit the warmer temperature of the store.
Feeling momentarily better, he opened his eyes slowly. Leaning against the open cooler door, he caught a glimpse of something in the reflection. Someone outside the store was looking in, their hands cupped around their face to block the sunlight as it pressed against the store glass. He’s looking for someone, at least I think it’s a he, thought Karson. His eyes a little cloudy from the headache. It had looked like a dark shadow against the window. He closed his eyes again for relief. Wait a minute! Whoever it was, was looking directly at me. What the hell. Karson quickly opened his eyes and looked towards the side window where he had seen the figure. There was no one there. He shook his head out and rubbed his eyes and looked again. Still, there was no one there. Had he been mistaken? Maybe they hadn’t been looking at him. Maybe on one had even been there. Perhaps it was just a shadow of something that was outside. Closing his eyes one more time, Karson closed the cooler door and moved towards the counter. It must be the hangover. God his head hurt. Paying for his iced tea, Karson walked out of the 7-11 and onto the sidewalk.
Not a good way to start the day, Karson, he thought to himself. He would have to hold Digger off for a while. It was just getting too painful to go drinking these days. Each day as he got older seemed to extend the amount of time it took to recover from those nights of drinking. Whereas before he would back in tiptop shape within a few hours, nowadays the average recovery was two full days. Thankfully Professor Johns wouldn’t be in today though. He was down in Calgary on business – no doubt getting wined and dined by CHOMAC for his moonlighting work. If he were lucky, perhaps the professor would take him down with him as well one time. Although he had never heard of any instances when the professor had done so with anyone else in the past. My lucks not that good. That was Karson’s last thought as he turned into onto campus grounds and headed for the science building.
About a block behind him, walking cautiously but keeping pace, a man kept an eye on Karson. He had in fact been looking in the window at the 7-11, but only momentarily before he ducked in behind the store and waited for Karson to leave. He had been watching Karson ever since he stepped out of his apartment building and knew he had a bad hangover. The man following Karson had watched him drink until 3am the night before at RATT.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Chapter 9 - Bitumen
Karson had dragged himself out of bed the next morning and into a hot shower by 11am. The stream of hot water pouring over his head did very little to ease the pounding of the hammer that seemed to exist within the confines of his skull. Digger and the gang had been successful at misleading the amount of alcohol he had consumed the previous night. By constantly diverting his attention and always touching up his glass, Karson had no clue as to how much he had drank. His head was now telling him. It was all in good fun though. He didn’t go out and drink much very often anymore, so last night hadn’t been so bad. It had actually been a great time. The alcohol had encouraged some engaging conversations to ensue, topics ranging from Canadian and American politics and the North Korean crisis to the war in Iraq.
Topics like these were repeatedly discussed whenever the gang got together. Although they were a tight-kit group and got along very well, they all had very differing points of view. One of them was a socialist and hard line NDP’er while the rest were a mix of varying degrees of liberal. Karson was the only conservative of the group, with a mix of libertarianism in him.
By 11:45, Karson was dressed and out the door with a bagel in his hand and a bottle of Advil in his backpack. He was on his way to the university and to his passion – to continue working on his “black molasses” as Digger called it.
What he was working on in fact was called bitumen. It is a black, sticky and heavy, carbon rich viscous oil. Once a nice light crude oil, time and the actions of water and bacteria are the cause for this transformation. In northern Alberta, the oil saturated sand deposits left over from ancient rivers can be found in three main areas, Peace River, Cold Lake and Athabasca covering a total of nearly 141,000 square kilometers. That is larger than the state of Florida. The Athabasca area is the largest and closest to the surface, which thus accounts for the largest oil sands development around the city of Fort McMurray. This city, located about ten hours north of Edmonton is home for about 65,000 people. Although getting there can be arduous because of its remoteness and distance from the capital city of Edmonton, the local landscape is unparalleled in many ways. The convening of land, sky and water in this area seems almost spiritual. The real treasure though had to be the mystical, magical and miraculous Aurora Borealis. This was especially true if you ventured out of the realm of the city lights into the lands natural surroundings under its natural illumination. It was here, that a gaze upward to the sky revealed the dancing lights of the phenomenon known as the Aurora Borealis. You would swear it a show put on just for from god. However, beauty aside, Fort Mac was there for one reason and one reason these days. Oil.
The Alberta Oil Sands contain one of the largest known reserves of oil in the world, second only to Saudi Arabia. It is not the sweet light crude oil however that flows out of the ground in places like Saudi Arabia, Iraq and Kuwait, so it does not garner much attention. In addition, existing in a country that is both the second largest land mass in the world but at the same time having a population of only around 35 million, and then also which happens to be north of the world’s largest economy, the strongest and most powerful military force and the third largest population in the world, namely the United States, many things in The Great White North are often invisible, like the Alberta Oil Sands. Only in the last few years had it been garnering any attention. And even then, very minute. Even an exhibit at the Smithsonian did little to attract any attention from the U.S. administration. The only people interested were hedge funds and true oilmen.
Bitumen can be extracted from this enormous area via two methods, open-pit mining and “in situ” – latin for “in place.” Deposits found near the surface can be recovered by open-pit mining. The most efficient way of doing this is by using the largest trucks and shovels in the world. Made by Finning Interna-tional Inc., the 380-ton Caterpillar 797 trucks are 40% heavier than a Boing 747 with tires that reach more than 4 m high. These monsters are the backbone of the Oil Sands industry.
However, since about 80% of the oil is found deep below the surface, the second method for recovery need to be done in situ. Companies use drilling technology by injecting steam into the deposit to heat the oil and thus lowering the viscosity of the bitumen. It then migrates towards producing wells that bring it to the surface while the left over sand remains in place. Access to necessary nearby water sources and expensive technology make for some costly obstacles for this type of recovery and thus affecting the cost efficiency of extraction of the Alberta Oil Sands.
Overall though, the industry of the Oil Sands move enough fill and oil sand every two days to fill any major baseball stadium in the world.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Chapter 8 - GreenCore
“That idiot! That fool! What did the hell did he think he was doing?”
“Our men tried to find him in time, sir, but he slipped through. He thought it would make a difference. He was a believer, sir.”
It was 7 o’clock the next morning. Two men were in an executive looking office on the south side of Edmonton. One man, was furiously pacing behind his large desk, covered with papers and notes while the other man remained seated, slightly flushed from embarrassment, but keeping his composure.
“Is that so? Well, look what his unsanctioned personal grudge got him. Nothing but dead. They didn’t even flinch. All it did was piss them off. No wonder they had him killed. How many times did he think he could get away with it? He annoyed them to this point, you know? And the worst of it was he worked for us, so they obviously will assume it was on our behalf,” said Ken Talbert, the President of GreenCore, a motivated and secretive environmental group. He was speaking to Denny Fulk, the leader of the Green Men.
Although alien sounding, the Green Men belonged to the operations branch of the group. They were a unit of 12 men, a few military trained and all devout environmentalists. Zealous to say the least. They acted however, only upon instructions from Denny, their leader and most fanatical. He was also very bright and knew when to pick his battles with the enemy, in accordance with the groups overall mission and agenda. Missions had to be sanctioned by majority vote by the groups high committee. Bropen had sidestepped them and had carried out an independent mission – an unsanctioned one and the committee was not happy. The war with enemy, Order 6, was a tenuous one and some sort of balance had to be preserved in order to carry on the fight on all fronts – politically, in the media, through back channels and yes, even militantly. It was something both sides did and accepted. This latest action by Bropen however, might cause the other side to sense a weakening GreenCore’s power base though, that they were not able to control their own and thus make a more aggressive move to all out war, and GC could not afford it. Not right now anyway. Therefore, the back channels had been used to consult on the killings with Order 6 and stability had been restored quickly.
“Do you have a replacement for Bropen, yet? Someone controllable”, mused Talbert, a questioning look on his face to the man responsible.
“I am reviewing three candidates, sir. All well qualified and motivated, just needing guidance, sir.” Fulk knew Bropen had been his responsibility, but he wasn’t about to take the full brunt. Bropen had been pushed on him by the committee.
“Good. Let me know which one you decide on and submit a report. We need to keep our houses in order Denny. And your house is a valuable one. You have mine, and our complete confidence. You have done good work until this unfortunate incident.”
“Thank you. Everything will back in order. Shipshape, sir.” Fulk knew he had to take some shit from the committee to make themselves feel better. They were like politicians after all. Often childlike and they didn’t like self-accountability.
Chapter 7 - who is Keel
Within one hour, Keel was back across town sitting in a booth by himself. He was just starting to dig into his pan bread. It was one of Earl’s’ most popular and core appetizers. That and their buffalo wings with Parmesan dipping sauce. With a rye and ginger off to the right side of his plate, he tore off a piece of bread and dabbed it into the bi-colored liquid. As the strong and unique flavor hit his mouth, he thought about how after so many years of eating it, he never got tired of it. Of course, the fact that it was thick bread in oil and vinegar was not lost on him in that it forced him to work out even harder. He couldn’t afford to have it start to lay ground around his middle section. Tonight however was a treat. So, instead of worrying about it now, he reached over to his left and picked up the book that sitting there.
Keel had found that reading had fit into his lifestyle very well. It was quiet, which he liked and it was an individual act, which he also liked. He could do it anywhere and everywhere if his mind and eyes were not being required for something else. He read literally everywhere, waiting for a movie to begin and sometimes even grocery shopping. He would walk down the isles, knowing what he was looking for and where it was all the while having his face in a book. Sometimes it seemed to draw looks from others, but the book helped to cover and even distort his face. That in addition to his relatively common features made him quite forgettable. It wasn’t that he wasn’t good looking, he was just a little rough looking. Combat tended to do that to a person. He had somewhat dull blue eyes and not the sky or baby blues either that the ladies went after. His hair was usually a little disheveled, but not messy enough to draw attention either. It was all meant to be unseen and overlooked, by choice. He kept his posture a little slumped, with his shoulders down to look smaller than he really was as well. He only brought himself up to his full proportion when he was on the job. In those occurrences, the effect was confusingly intimidating. His size and the aura he gave off always made the “problem causing person” suddenly retreat, physically and mentally, but it was his face that confused them. It didn’t seem to match his obvious physical persuasiveness. And then would come the smile – that little smile. Upon seeing that, the person would know it was over. There would be no negotiating and no pleading.
This evening’s choice of reading was one of Keels’ favorite authors – Jeffery Deaver. It was one that he had read before, a few times, and one that he would most likely read again sometime. The Coffin Dancer was Deaver’s second book in the Lyncoln Ryme series. There was a new book out now, but he hadn’t picked it up yet, so the dancer it was. He didn’t even really read it, but more like skimmed it since he knew it all anyways. It didn’t really matter. He only slowed down at the parts involving the dancer. It was such a great character. A little man with a genius for killing. Someone who knew how to use all of his attributes – all of what was at his disposal despite his diminutive size. He might have been just a vicious contract killer, but then …. so was Keel, in a matter of speaking. That a brought a smile to his face.
Keel was a native of Winnipeg, Manitoba, once rated number one as the coldest city in the world. Perhaps it was that environment that helped to foster his innate toughness. At eighteen years old, he enlisted into the army and quickly gained the respect of those around him. He showed distinct promise.
By twenty-one, he had joined the 101st Airborne Regiment – Canada’s elite commando fighting force, based out of Petawawa, Ontario. It was during this time that Keel had really excelled. He became the premiere member of his unit and was often given orders that put his talents as an individual to good use, despite being part of a team. He made his mark in places like Somalia, although that mark was classified and would never be acknowledged publicly. Some things were not for public consumption. Joe and Sally Canadian would not be able to accept such actions, even though it was sometimes necessary.
However, after the Somalia incident, in which Canadian peacekeepers, there as part of a UN peace enforcement protecting humanitarian operations, were charged with allegations of torture, abuse and murder, Keel started to sense a looming sensation of doom for the regiment. The Canadian Liberal government had never been very enthusiastic about the military and had been slowly cutting away at it for years. After having a proud, strong military heritage where a fighting Canuck was someone to be reckoned with, Canada was slowly becoming the social worker for the world. Keel didn’t have a problem with that, but it saddened him that Canada was losing its military backbone as well – a source of pride for any nation.
The end came shortly after Somalia. A hazing ritual involving new recruits into the 101st Airborne caught on tape that found its way into the media. This spelled the final end for the group. The government, using the excuse of embarrassment by its fighting elite dissolved the regiment – one that traced its roots to two distinguished units formed during World War II, the 1st Canadian Parachute Battalion and the 1st Special Service Force. Keel was to be sent back to his old unit, the Princess Patricia’s.
Salvation came unexpectedly and quickly. Formed in 1993, Joint Task Force II (JTF2) came looking for men like Keel. It was formed to be Canada’s Armed Forces elite counter-terrorism/special operations unit. A maximum classified and secretive unit modeled after the British SAS, its other allied counterparts included Germany’s Grenzschutzgruppe 9 (GSG-9), Australia’s Special Air Service Regiment and America’s Special Forces.
Keel had again found the niche he fit into and again excelled to the top of the bar, which in this case was the barrel of a rifle. After serving in the war against Al-Qaeda in Afghanistan as part of a strike team for Task Force K-Bar, Keel was reaching the end of his tour. Deployed back to Canada, he was to receive a most unexpected visitor and a unique opportunity.
Notice - changes made to Chapter 6
- most of the changes relate to the dialogue.
- minor changes elsewhere
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Chapter 6 - RATT
Back in his rented car four blocks from the Bropen residence, Keel reached into his left bicep pocket and pulled out his Blackberry. It looked like most others, but its guts had had some modifications done to it. He punched in an initial 6-digit number and then waited. After hearing a buzzing sound, three clicks made their announcement and were then followed by silence. Keel punched in another set of numbers. After only five seconds, the ringing stopped as someone answered on the other end. “It’s done, sir,” and then the phone was quickly shut off.
On the other end, Mr. Fremore, using a similar looking phone sat back in his leather high-backed chair. No smile of satisfaction was evident, just a look that conveyed business had been taken care of. No one would be listening in on that conversation, or any other made by these phones. Not even the renowned American NSA - National Security Agency, or as Mr. Fremore liked to think of them as, the Nefariously Sinister Agency. No other agency was as well known about, yet at the same time so unknown. The NSA could pinpoint any place on the planet, zero in on it, observe the activity, listen to any communications, and then disappear without leaving so much as a whisper that they were even there. This was also why the phones had made a detour through the NSA for subsequent modifications. It helped to have invisible Canadians in areas of influence within the American machine.
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About 25 minutes away, Karson was on what seemed like his 100th beer. The glasses never seemed to be empty. Someone was always topping them off. Usually Digger.
“Come on, Petrov. You can’t possibly believe that”, repelled Karson to Digger’s blanket statement that the States was in fact a dictatorship ruled by a few right-wingers who only wanted war for economic gain. Petrov was Peter Diggins’ other nickname, which came out of his more than left of left wing political beliefs.
“What more proof do you need? Afghanistan was nothing more than a setup for closing ranks on Iraq. And I’m still not convinced that 9/11 wasn’t an inside job either. Something smells bad south of the border”, spouted Digger.
“Even if Iraq was always in the crosshairs of some of the people in the elephant party, there is no way you are going to convince me that 9/11 was perpetrated by these same people. That it just evil”, replied Karson.
“Everything is about oil and always has been. It’s starts and ends with that, and the end will come. Those bastards in the White House are just trying to sap everyone and every country dry while they still can”. Jay, like Digger, had always been clear with his views regarding the present administration. “What really pisses me off is that for these kinds of people, never is enough. They’re all ancient old cronies who’s ending is hopefully near, they’ll have bled many countries dry while destroying whatever is left, and then what? We’re left to deal with the consequences. Fuck, fuck, fuck. To bad Mr. Environmental and the Election was Stolen From Me, wasn’t running again. He’d be my man for the office”
Shelly glanced over to Jolene. A look of boredom in her eyes. “It’s such a nice change to not talk about politics for once.’
Jolene smirked back and topped off Shelly’s glass.
“I find it funny that they are still trying sell this war on the premise that it was because of the imminent threat. What a joke. I would consider giving them an ounce of respect if they would just stand up, look straight in the camera and say, ‘Ok, we wanted the oil.’ What is it so hard for people to just say exactly what it is.”
“Except for all of you, of course”, again smirked Jolene.
Karson sat back in his chair. He took a swig of his ale in preparation for what was coming. He knew what was coming. It always did.
Digger let off another volley. “You should be the most pissed off, Shelly. You’re the environment science student.”
“Yeah, I am, but I’m tired of this conversation already. Jo and I are here to see if there are any lucky lotto winners, and we can’t do that if the aura around this table is shit.” Shelly had always very high standards for men, and rightly so, and so she had always referred to those possibilities as lotto winners. So far, no tickets had been authenticated. “Besides, what is your focus tonight? The environment, or oil?”
And there it was. Five pairs of eyes slowly turned to the wall-side chair. They all turned to Karson.
Karson was smiling before they even looked at him. Already prepared for that moment, he lifted his glass above the table. “Cheers!” Smiles broke out on all faces.
“You fucker. You knew that was coming”, let off Digger, who was wearing the biggest smile.
“Yup. The oil man you all know and love.”
“So when are you going to solve that molasses problem anyway, so we can leave the rest of the world alone,” asked a grinning Josh.
“Oh, well, since it’s that important, I’ll get back to it after this beer.”
“Dedication. Good man. This has to be the most fucked up table in this place,” said Jay.
“But that’s why we all get along so well”, said Jolene. “So, cheers.”
“Cheers.”
“Ok, so no more evil topics for tonight”, said Shelly as she picked up the pitcher to top off everyone’s glasses. “Why does politics have to make it into every beer-induced conversation we have. Peter, you’re a socialist, Karson, you’re a republican slash libertarian, Jason and Josh are hippies and Jo and I are trying to lower our inhibitions. And not for any of you.”
The hippie comment was thrown out to Jason and Josh only because of their extremely long hair. Other than that, they were far from hippies. Jason, with his straight long red hair was already starting to look more and more like the Archaeologist he was working to be. He had already finished his Masters degree and was now a PhD candidate. He had a quick wit and a very sharp mind that had gained him the respect from his professors. His friends embraced his wit.
“I agree with Shelly. Enough of this politics shit. Peter, why don’t you go find a woman to hit on”, said Jolene.
“Oh yeah. I’m always what the ladies are looking for. Maybe I should tell them outright that I want to sire their children, “ joked Digger.
“Well, you know Peter. One day you’re going to offer that up to someone, and they are going to take you up on it”, smiled Josh.
“I just hope he’s at least cute, Peter”, laughed Jason.
“Fuck you Jay. And fuck the rest of you. I’m going to find a hottie and she’s going to love me. And my beer Buddha.”
“Cheers to that Digger”, announced Karson as he raised his glass in praise of Digger.
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Sitting 3 tables over, Walker Stromberg watched. He couldn’t hear though due to the music that filled RATT. He didn’t care what they were talking about anyway. He just stared at Karson. A loathsome look in his eyes.
Changes made to prior chapters
Prologue
- a section has been added to the end of the prologue. A woman enters the office after Keel leaves.
Chapter 2
- I have decided to change who Karson is - who he is and what he looks like.
Type rest of the post here
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Chapter 5 - 'ending', Keel style
Keel tuned into the voice of Carl Bropen from the kitchen and smiled. Before turning away, he looked upon Kevin Whitewall one last time. He picked him up and had moved him over to the kitchen table. Seating him the end chair, Keel had used one of the meat carving knives and sliced Kevin’s throat from right to left with his left hand while lifting his head up with his right hand. Using his left hand was just as comfortable as using his right hand. Keel was ambidextrous. The lines on the table and the ripped bag of coke would lead the police towards a drug-related motive for the killing. That, in addition to an Order loyalist would make sure the investigation would go no further. Not that Keel was worried though. He never left anything behind anyway.
He then moved over to and gently stepped down a curved, carpeted staircase to the basement. Near the bottom, he was able to peer around the corner where he spotted his target. Bropen was sitting in a low-backed armchair with is arms hanging down and over the sides. A near empty Corona dangled from his right fingertips. Saw 3 playing on the 56” LCD flat screen TV suspended on the wall. A five-person chesterfield was at a right angle to the armchair. The two pillows piled up on the near end told Keel that this was where Kevin had been. A few pictures showing the family in a timeline lined the left sided wall and a shelving unit stacked with books was on the right wall.
Moving over the carpet, low and just off to the side so no reflection appeared in the TV, Keel reached over to his left bicep and quietly unzipped the pocket on his hoodie. With two fingers, he reached in and pulled out four, dark green rings. Two on each finger. Separating the rings revealed a thin wire. The wire was thin flexible tungsten coated in Teflon. It was about 2 feet long that had two rubberized rings on both ends, which served to conceal any noise from the rings clinking together. The Teflon helped with the smooth slicing through the neck. It was Keel’s own custom-made garrote.
Keel gently looped the two rings on each end through his third and fourth fingers, the middle and ring fingers for maximum leverage. He found this gave him maximum leverage and it also freed up his index fingers. You just never knew when might need them free. This was Keel’s favorite weapon of choice. It was up close and personal, right where Keel wanted to be. Additionally, it was a perfect fit for Keel’s second unique feature – his hands. To say that he had strong hands just didn’t reflect the power encased in his palms and fingers. They were more like the jaws of a pit bull. Once they had you, there was no letting go. The decision was not yours.
By the time the rings were looped around his fingers, Keel was directly behind Bropen, the murderer of Nelson Graves. At the same time, Keel stood up and brought up his hands, crossed over at the forearms, just high enough to swing over the head of Bropen. The garrote quickly looped under Bropen’s neck with the wire crossed at the back of the neck. He then lifted his left knee over the crossed wire and just as Bropen’s senses were first registering what was happening, Keel’s knee slammed into the top of his head, forcing it forward, locking the wire under his neck. By the time Bropen’s hands shot up to his neck in reaction, the only thing he could grasp at was his own chin.
An immense amount of pressure instantly blocked the blood flow through the internal jugular vein. Only a hurried gurgling sound escaped Bropen’s mouth along with a minimal amount of blood escaping because of the cuts to the skin around the front of the neck. The pressure from Keel’s knee was concealing the true amount of blood. Keel lowered himself and whispered into Bropen’s ear, “What you did, and you know what you did, is of no concern of mine. It is however, of concern to the Order I work for. For them, what you did is totally unacceptable”.
Keel then started to fully flex the muscles in his arms, pulling the garrote tighter around Bropen’s neck, but then he paused. Ever so slightly lessening the pressure, Keel moved towards Bropen’s ear and said, “Of all the killing I have done up close and personal, this one is especially sweet, you piece of garbage. Enjoy hell, Green Man”. And with that, Keel used his full force to uncross his arms and felt the line slice through the trachea, the carotid arteries and the vagus nerve, nearly severing his neck from his body. Carl Bropen had been 'ended'.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Chapter 4 - good night
Although terrorism had not yet made a mark on Canada, it had sickened him to see what had befallen his historical brothers to the south – the brothers that had rebelled against the King – the black sheep of the family. They were still family though, even if they didn’t know it and acted like a spoiled kid sometimes. Keel had worked with American Special Forces in his past and had made lifelong friends with some of them. They were his brothers in arms and he felt the two countries were brothers as well. Brothers that had a common historical background, even if one had broken away from the empire at an early age while the other hadn’t.
Now was not the time for reflection however. There was work to be done. Work that he considered local terrorism. A man had been brutally murdered and left to be found by his loving wife and young child. Inexcusable. It was not going to go unpunished. The “end man” would see to that.
Upon arriving at the top of the slope and to the left of his target house, Keel took a moment to let the sounds of his surroundings settle. Crouching under a huge hanging tree and amid brush, Keel did a quick surroundings check. Not a sound was heard. The house to the left was coated in darkness. Not a light to be seen anywhere. Not very smart. It literally radiated to anyone wanting to break in that no one was home. The house in question however did have a back patio light on, right above the door.
Keel stealthily glided up to the back of the house. He had no intention of standing out in the open underneath the back porch light. Using his compact night scope, he had previously noted that the left side ground floor bedroom window was slightly open. Opening the window slowly, Keel pulled himself up and into what turned out to be Kevin’s bedroom. A picture of Kevin with some buddies on a beach in Mexico was prominently displayed on top of a dark wood dresser placed against the side wall, next to a queen sized bed.. Ignoring everything else in the room, Keel moved up to the door and listened for any noise in the immediate vicinity. Only a faint, clinking noise reached Keel’s ears. Silently opening the door, Keel slid out and down the hall. There, the hallway opened up into the kitchen.
“Hey Carl. You want a Corona or a Pale Ale”, screamed Kevin Whitewall.
“ A Pale Ale”, screamed back a slurred voice from the basement.
This voice, Keel knew, belonged to the primary target, Carl Bropen. The murderer of Nelson Graves, oil engineer and husband to wife Glenda and father to daughter Lilly. Bropen was one of the Green Men, and one of the most radical. He was responsible for multiple environmentally based attacks on the oil industry as well the softwood lumber industry across Alberta and British Columbia. Until this point, he had been a perpetual irritating pest, like a petulant child. The murder of Graves was an obvious intensification of his radical views.
First however, Keel had to deal with Kevin Whitewall. Although he was not the target, killing him would offer a viable motive to the local police and it would cover the fact that Bropen was the primary target.
Bropen was staring into the open refrigerator. Two bottles of Pale Ale were on the top of the kitchen counter next to an Edmonton Oilers bottle opener. The door opening away from where Keel was standing, just barely visible behind the hallway wall.
Keel moved out from behind the wall and quietly towards Kevin, his back to Keel. Standing right behind Kevin, Keel quickly struck out and wrapped his left arm under Kevin’s chin and using his right arm to brace his left, Keel had wrapped him up in a basic sleeper hold, cutting off the blood supply to his head and rendering him unconscious in a matter of second. Keel then slowly lowered him to the kitchen floor. He then looked around the kitchen, noticing a meat carving knife on the far side of the counter. On the kitchen table was a credit card and a small, 2-½ inch hollow tube. It looked like it was made of ivory. Only the best for Kevin.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Chapter 3 - laying in wait
The coolness of the prairie night can feel ominous, but the man in black is at home. This is when he feels the most comfortable. This is when he feels truly in control. He knows exactly where he is and he knows what exactly is surrounding him. He can feel it. He can sense it.
He has been lying on the cool moist ground surrounded by nature’s camouflage. The tall Pine trees and thick underbrush give him comfort. He has been there for over two hours. It is now 8pm. It is time to work. It is time for the “end man.”
For this evening, Keel decided to wear a black lightweight climber’s Ferrata Hoodie. It was snug and stretchable without being tight and the built-in hood covered enough of his face that he didn’t have to worry about needing a balaclava. On the left bicep was a small zippered pocket that contained a small device that would be introduced to the target. To complement to the hoodie, Keel decided upon a pair of tar colored Patagonia Stretch Jackalope Pants. Both were from Mountain Equipment Co-op, a co-operative clothing company that specialized in Canadian outdoor activities, like hiking, and extreme sports like rock climbing. For civilian jobs, Keel had found their products to be exceptional and appropriate. Military gear stuck out in Canada. If you looked more like an outdoor enthusiast, you tended to blend in. Checking the time, Keel decided it was time to move. It was 8:15pm.
The man in black starts to move. He moves in a crouched position, being careful where he places his feet, avoiding branches and twigs that might snap and create an unwanted noise. Moving up the gentle slop in the greenbelt behind the residential area, Keel knows he is directly down and slightly to the left of his target house. Information had reveled that the family living on that side of the target house was away.
The chances of being spotted are almost nil, however there is always the possibility of the improbable, like kids teenagers off in the woods drinking or smoking some pot, but Keel had scouted out the area and was confident in his reconnaissance skills. This is what a point man was trained for and Keel had been on point many times. These days however, Keel was point, backup and the whole unit all at the same time. Just the way he liked it. He preferred being responsible for only himself when out in the field, even if the field was a greenbelt in the middle of a major urban center. The field came in many designs and it wasn’t only in military combat situations. Not anymore. Not since 9/11 had come to North America.
Although terrorism had not yet made a mark on Canada, it had sickened him to see what had befallen his historical brothers to the south – the brother that had rebelled against the King – the black sheep of the family. And they were still family, even if they didn’t know it and acted like a spoiled kid sometimes. Keel had worked with American Special Forces in his past and had made lifelong friends with some of them. They were his brothers in arms and he felt the two countries were brothers as well. Brothers that had a common background, even if one had broken off official relations with the Matriarch while the other hadn’t.
Now was not the time for reflection however. There was work to be done. Work that he considered local terrorism. A man had been brutally murdered and left to be found by his loving wife and young child. Inexcusable. It was not going to go unpunished. The “end man” would see to that.
Upon arriving at the top of the slope and to the left of his target, Keel took a moment to let the sounds of his surroundings settle. Crouching under a huge hanging tree and some brush, Keel did a quick surroundings check. The house to the left was coated in darkness. Not a light to be seen anywhere. Not very smart. It literally radiated to anyone wanting to break in that no one was home. The house in question however did have a back patio light on, right above the door.
Chapter 2 - the grad student
The North Saskatchewan River, lying at the bottom of a beautiful majestic valley, runs right through the city of Edmonton. On the south side of the river, Karson Delly sat in his lab in the science building at the University of Alberta. A graduate student, he had been there since 8am. It was now 7pm.
Karson had baby blue eyes and his dirty blond hair was more gray now. The last facial comparison he had heard was to Chandler of Friends. He was somewhat tall, about 6 feet and had an average build. He wasn’t skinny or heavy, however his weight had fluctuated quite a bit over the last few years. About three years ago, he had gone through a minor depression and had dropped down to about 170lbs. A friend had finally been able to help break him out and Karson had rekindled an old weight lifting interest. Within four months, his weight was back to 190lbs and he was bench-pressing 2 ½ plates and bar curling 1 plate.
The weight lifting had died off again, except for some minor stuff, but he was feeling good overall. After getting through high school with an average just high enough to get into university, and then an uneventful first year in the social sciences, he had found his calling in engineering. From that moment, he had excelled and had moved right to the top of his graduating class after four years.
Now working on his Masters in Chemical Engineering, he was continuing on a project that he had started during his fourth year, with the permission and support of Dr. Johns. John’s was a professor at the U of A and a consultant for CHOCAN Oil, one of the largest oil companies in the country that was based out of Calgary, just a few hours south of the city.
He was just about to stick his face back into the microscope that was situated on the table directly to his left when he heard the door to the lab rattle. It was locked so as to not be disturbed and in a lame attempt at avoiding the unavoidable for tonight.
“Karson, open this door right now. I know you’re in there. I know you’ve been in there since this morning. Now get your bag and get out here before I pick this feeble lock and drag you out. I told you last night that tonight was for beer and I’m not taking any excuses this time. Your black molasses will be waiting for you there tomorrow morning, unless of course I can get you so hammered that you’ll want to rip your own head off in the morning. Now hurry up. I’m thirsty and the RATT is waiting for you.’ RATT being a local university bar called the Room At The Top, found on the top floor of the Students Union Building.
Karson smiled to himself as he listened to his good friend Digger rattle the door some more and mumble something about finding women, or women were waiting or something to that effect. If they were waiting, it wasn’t for him or for Digger.
His shyness often got the better of him and his early graying hair didn’t help either. He had had good luck with women in his late teens and early 20’s, but it seemed to get more difficult as he got older. Karson imagined it was probably the same for women. Strange it was so hard. He grabbed his backpack and walked over to the door and unlocked it. Opening it up revealed Digger leaning against the wall in the deserted hallway with an eager smile on his face. “Hey Digger, been waiting long?”
The guy he called Digger was in fact Peter Diggins, making his nickname obvious. He and Karson had met some years ago when they had been thrown together as roommates during their first year at Red Deer College – located exactly halfway between their respective hometowns, Edmonton for Karson and Calgary for Peter. He was short, overweight and had a strong affinity for beer, which explained his prominent Buddha belly. A history major who focused on African history, Digger had turned out to be a good and loyal friend. He could sometimes come across a little rough and perhaps more than a little crude, especially to women when in the company of his good companion beer, however Karson trusted him lock, stock and barrel.
“Just long enough to open these up,” Digger replied as he swung his hands out from behind his back holding a bottle of Big Rock Traditional in each. “Just an appetizer before the main course. Let’s go Kar,” he said as he handed one to Karson. “How’s the molasses tonight?”
“Wet and sticky as ever.”
“Well, let’s see if we can find a couple of women to match that tonight,” laughed Digger. “Or we’ll just have enough beer to compensate.”
They headed down the hall to the stairs and then finally out the front door. After about five minutes, they reached the Students Union Building and the elevator that took them up to the ninth floor. When the doors opened, they were greeted with the sounds of students and their nonacademic rituals.
The bar known as RATT didn’t look much like a bar. More like a cafeteria. Cheaply upholstered chairs surrounded cheap tables and the room held a capacity of about 300 people – although limits were often tested. On each table at least three pitchers of beer could be seen with waiters and waitresses maneuvering around the tables carrying even more for their thirsty clientele. Some local Canadian flavor shot out over the speakers making it impossible to overhear any conversation unless you were sitting right at the table.
Karson and Digger made their way through the throngs of people to the back where some familiar faces were waiting. Seated at two combined tables were four people – Jolene and Shelly, Josh and Jason and three pitchers. The whole gang was there. It was time to drink.
Chapter 1 - the 'end man'
It was still early in the morning when Keel left the office and walked out of the building from which he had just had the short meeting. Those meetings rarely lasted long. They didn’t need to be long. Not for what he did. He was an “end man”. If and when there was problem within the organization that needed to be ended, he did it. He did not work within the Human Resources department though. There was no HR department. Not for this organization. Not for the ‘Order of 6’. He didn’t even really know how many people worked for it. The only people he had ever talked and met with was Mr. Fremore and the other man, Mr. Angus. Usually though, it was just Fremore. He knew Mr. Angus didn’t live in Calgary, of that he was quite sure. In actual fact, he was positive that it wasn’t anywhere in Canada. He didn’t really care though. That information wasn’t relevant to him. Currently, only Fremore was relevant to him – the man who had recruited him.
Overall, he liked Fremore. During and after the recruitment, the man had always been direct and blunt about the work he was to do. The man had no hesitation about anything, especially for the work Keel did. He liked that. Respected that. The man had stones. And that was rare he thought to himself. Not many people had the stomach for blood. It was a job that needed done though, and more often than people would realize. Sometimes certain people who interfered with how things worked had to go – and he made them go, he ended them. His recent background suited his current profession perfectly.
Keel even enjoyed the work – and the perks. It wasn’t that he enjoyed killing, although it did have a bit of a rush to it – a bit of a power trip, but it was just that he was good at it and he liked being good at what he did. Throughout his childhood, he had often been overlooked not because of his shyness, which it wasn’t at all, but because of his remoteness. He seemed to give an aura of just not caring, which was not true at all. He had always just preferred to keep his mouth shut instead of spouting off. He was more of a listener rather than a talker, until it was time to say something. He had friends, but not buddies, which had caused a few problems in his recent background where teamwork was essential. He had been able to work it out, but had shown an affinity still for doing things by himself - another reason for his recruitment.
Edmonton, Alberta, Canada
Keel had been all around the world - England, Germany, the States, Australia, the Middle East and also into Asia. And yet his favorite was still the quiet, low-visible and almost invisible area of western Canada – Alberta and B.C. No one outside of Canada looked at that area. It was Montreal, Toronto, Vancouver or nothing, and usually then even nothing. CNN barely even covered Canada. The country to the north and the largest trading partner of the world’s largest everything, economy and military, never got the time of day. Canada was off the radar in the land of super-sized French fries, larger than life SUVs and the world’s most powerful military.
The Order of 6 wasn’t complaining though. It was exactly how they wanted it. The less Canada was noticed, the more invisible it was, the better. From their point of view, “If they don’t know you’re there, they can’t see what you’re doing.” Behind the scenes is where all the action takes place anyways – and that is not for public consumption.
This area of Alberta and British Columbia had the beautiful and unique blend of vast prairies, thick-forested regions balanced off with a historical desert area and topped off with the remarkable beauty of the Rocky Mountains. They may not be the oldest mountains in the world, but Keel would put them up against any others in the world. This day however was not for beauty. No. It was for ‘ending’. It was time to go to work.
Behind the wheel, Keel downshifted into second gear as he turned onto the tree-lined residential street. The houses here were large. This was an area with money. He even knew a judge with the provincial Supreme Court lived nearby. For this reason, he had rented an Acura Integra. Not the most expensive car, but one that would blend in. After a few turns, he came upon a cul-de-sac. There it was, # 1625. The house was a three-level Victorian with white stucco. Drapes had been pulled across the picture window. A dark blue Lexus SVU was parked in the drive with plates that said, “NOTURS,” which read as “not yours”. The vehicle, Keel knew, belonged to Kevin Whitewall. Twenty-eight years old and spoiled to the point of annoyance to anyone who met him. His parents, Margie and Buster Whitewall were in Vegas gambling. All of this was in the dossier Keel had encrypted into a file on his Blackberry. He didn’t need to look at it. He had memorized it. It was not what he was thinking of though. There were three points that were on his mind at the moment.
First, Kevin was supposed to be home alone and Kevin had a special relationship with the target.
Second, the house was center-left on the cul-de-sac with two pertinent features in the back. Both side property lines in the back were marked with eight-foot high fences for privacy and more importantly, the rear property line was met with a greenbelt.
The third and most relevant thought in Keel’s mind went back to point number one. Kevin was supposed to be home alone all week while his parent’s were away. He was not though. Kevin had a guest - a guest that was in hiding from not only the Order, but from his own organization as well. The reason his own people had not found him here was because Kevin Whitewall was unknown to them. He was not a friend of the target. He was his dealer. Kevin was a coke dealer for “those who fell into in the appropriate class of economic standing.” For a guy with a university degree in business, but no job, Kevin made $200,000 a year on top of what his parents gave to him.
The target fell into the appropriate economic class. In fact, the target was Kevin’s best customer and that was the reason why he would not turn him away if the target needed a place to crash. That would be unfortunate mistake for Kevin.
Keel brought his left arm up and his eyes went to the crystal. It read 5:04pm. The sun wouldn’t be setting for about 2 more hours. He would be waiting a while past that however to make his house call. He glanced around one last time and noted that all was as it should be. He had time to kill, he thought. Such an appropriate phrase to use this evening.
He put the car back into gear and pulled away slowly, not even looking into the rear-view mirror to see the house. He had seen all he needed to. The house wasn’t going anywhere. Nor were the occupants.
Prologue - oil engineer murdered
At first it was confusion, followed quickly by surprise, shock, and finally ending in fear. Pain coursed through his body. The focal point being in his throat. Taste suddenly hitting his senses. The taste of .... death.
Calgary, Alberta, Canada.
The story in the Calgary Reporter read:
Oil Engineer Murdered
EDMONTON - Nelson Graves, an engineer and employee of CanOil, Canada’s third largest oil company was found murdered in his home last night in Calgary. Police are releasing few details, but sources say Graves was found covered in oil.
Apparently, Graves who works in Ft. McMurry on the Alberta Oil Sands project was in town for the weekend for his 12-year-old son’s birthday. Grave’s had arrived early to surprise his son while he and his mother were out shopping.
The killer apparently broke into the home in the afternoon when no one was there. The perpetrator then waited for Mr. Graves to come home in time for the birthday party. Mrs. Graves and her son, upon returning from shopping discovered the body in the garage and called the police.
The police have no suspects at this time and are considering this an environmentally motivated killing.
--------------------------
He wasn’t covered in oil. He had been forced to drink it. Someone had used duct tape to secure him to a chair in the garage and had then shoved a funnel down his throat.
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“It’s appalling what he did. He’s obviously gone renegade on them and I don’t think they’ll be able to control him. Not even G1. His father will see to that,” said the man in dark gray Ermenegildo Zegna suit. A lean 180 lbs and balanced over a 6’3” frame with delicate silver hair perfectly combed back, Mr. Fremore sat behind a large cherry wood desk that had nothing on it, except a telephone and a Cuban Cohiba resting gently in a crystal ashtray. The view from the window behind him revealed the rest of the downtown skyline. It was from one of the tallest buildings in the city of Calgary. The desk was perfectly clean and shined as if it had just been polished. The office was large, but not excessively so - just enough to allow for a small sitting area consisting of a small couch and two chairs off to the side of the desk area. Two panels in the wall were visible. Both were slightly open - one revealing a fully stocked bar. Two glasses in use were just barely visible. A touch of colored gloss on the rim of the near empty one. The other cabinet door expelling a view and odour of a built-in humidor. “How soon can you do it?” He spoke to a man sitting in a chair in front of his desk.
“I’ll drive up after we finish and review the layout. Tomorrow night at the latest I expect. I don’t foresee any problems. He thinks he’s covered and is probably quite proud of himself right about now. He does have some resources, however as you said, he’s renegade, so most likely gone AWOL on them.” The man speaking was in his early thirties, about 5’ 11” and weighed a hard 195 pounds underneath his jeans and jacket. You wouldn’t think much if you saw him. He had short, lightening hair and an average, but pleasant face. Quite ordinary really, except for two features.
“Good. I want that bastard to suffer for what he did. How you do it up to you, as always. However, on this one I would like to make a request.”
A small but intense look of concern crossed the face of the man listening. Never before had his boss ever said this before. The man called Fremore caught the look and smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m not about to tell you how to do your job. It’s just a general request. If possible, I want you to make that man suffer. And suffer hard. I knew Graves. Not intimately mind you, but I had met him before and he is – was a good man. I’m going to make sure his wife and son are well taken care of, but this is just for my own peace of mind. I want to be able to close my eyes tonight knowing I did something about it.”
For such a powerful, calculating and often cold man, Fremore knew the virtue of loyalty.
“I’ll see what I can do, sir.” Said with just the thinnest of smiles crossing his face.”
There was very little that made Fremore nervous, but that thin smile from that one man was one of them. He never showed his nervousness though. That would be weak. That would be giving away a piece of information. He didn’t do that. Never! But still, that smile would cause an internal shudder every time he saw it - even more so when it was directed towards him. Yes, Keel made him just a little bit uneasy. It was a strange balance with Keel. Trust mixed with fear ever since that first day he had sought him out for the Order. It was understandable however, considering Keel’s background.
“That smile of his still gets to you, doesn’t it? I can sense it in you”. A woman with sharp features, dressed in an expensive looking beige suit had walked into the office from behind the bar cabinet, picking up the nearly empty glass as she entered. It had a swivel built into it allowing a secondary room to exist for viewing guests in Fremore’s office.
“Do you think he can”, asked Fremore.
“There isn’t much he can’t sense in people. Especially fear. Although, that usually comes late for them. He always seems so, … unremarkable, until he gives you that smile”.
“And then your spine starts screaming at you to run. Thank god he’s on our side.”
“And he is on our side. He’s a good, decent, loyal man, who just happens to have a very special talent”.
“Well, let’s get our own senses back in order. We know this job will be done with no complications. So, how about I take you out for some breakfast, my dear, Ms. Granger?”
“Sounds lovely”.
“And then dinner later”, Fremore posed in a way that asked if that was possible.
“Perhaps. Let’s see how the day pans out”.
And with that, Fremore walked from out behind his desk and kissed the woman he called Ms. Granger on the left cheek and lead her out of the office by her elbow. A smile was on both faces as they left.
