MacMillan Wharf

MacMillan Wharf: Chapter Seven

MacMillan Wharf: Chapter Seven

by Richard Gifford

“You killed her?” Angus Black shouted down the line. Not wanting to be overheard by the secretary on the other side of the Honduran Mahogany doors, he dropped his voice down to a low, growling whisper.

He stared blankly out the window of the thirty second floor of the Harbour Towers office building in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Angus sat facing the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk, the early morning sun shone directly into his office. Squinting, he could see the newest of his offshore drilling rigs being built at the shipyard across the harbor in Dartmouth.

Normally, he enjoyed the view. Watching the comings and goings of the cruise ships, naval vessels and fishing boats in the morning took his mind off the many problems that faced him on a daily basis. Today, however, was different. With the telephone receiver held tightly to his ear he realized that his problems had just become exponentially greater.

"Did anyone see you, anyone at all?"“This was supposed to be a very simple operation. You go in, you find the files, make copies and leave. What in God’s name happened?”

“She was there. She saw me. I was at her desk looking for the files on her computer. She must have come back for something because I watched her leave, then waited a half an hour. I was sure everyone was gone. It was late you know, almost ten o’clock. When she saw me, she just turned and ran. I knew I was busted, so I chased after her. When we got to the stairs, I caught her by the back of the hair. She started to scream, so I wrapped my arm around her neck and put my hand over her mouth. She bit me, but I held on anyway. After a while she stopped moving and I realized she was dead. I didn’t mean to kill her.”

Angus thought through this scenario for a moment. The former commando was well-trained to cover his tracks and evade pursuit in hostile climates. In fact, he did so for nearly three years in Borneo during the mid 1960s while the Americans were busy losing nearby in Vietnam. After his SAS service, he returned to Scotland to study engineering at the University of Aberdeen, and then on to a PhD at Cambridge. Angus came to the U.S. in the late 70s to work at a large oil company in Houston, Texas. He had traded his military uniform for a business suit many years ago, but never forgot the lessons learned in jungle combat. First of all, leave no trace behind. “What did you do with the body?” he asked.

“I was parked outside next to the place, you know. I waited until there was nobody in the street and I put her in the back. I had a pile of nets and crap that I covered her with. I drove down to my boat and took her out to dump the body. I tied a concrete block to her feet and dropped her overboard in about 200 feet of water.”

“Bloody amateur,” Angus muttered. “Did anyone see you, anyone at all?”

“No, by the time I got to my boat it was after midnight. I waited until around three in the morning to head out. Nobody saw a thing.”

Angus tried to regain his composure. “Do you have the files?”

“Have them? Hell no, I had to get rid of the body.”

Curling the telephone tighter in his hand, Angus said “I’m not going to pay you until you get those files for me, do you understand?”

“Listen, things are going to get pretty hot around here. I’ve got to leave town.”

“You’re not going anywhere until I get those files. And if you even think of running I’ll hunt you down myself. Do you understand? Now get me those damn files!” he shouted as he slammed the receiver down.

“Bloody amateur,” Angus muttered. He strode across the room and opened a door concealed behind the walnut paneling of his office. He rotated the tumbler on the safe to the right, then to the left, then back to the right. As he grasped the handle and turned it, Angus could hear the muted click of the deadbolts receding into the steel housing. Glancing over to the main door of his office once more to make sure that no one could see him or the safe, he reached inside to retrieve his passport, a stack of American $100 bills, and a 9mm Glock handgun with a screw-on silencer.

After carefully packing his briefcase, with the gun concealed beneath a false bottom, he went back to his desk and picked up the phone. He dialed the two digit extension of his secretary.
A polite young woman’s voice chirped, “Yes Mr. Black?”

“Karen, cancel my meetings for the rest of the day, I’m leaving early for the weekend. I’ll be at my cottage up on the Mirimichi for some salmon fishing.”

“Yes Mr. Black. Have a nice time, eh?”

“I’ll certainly try.”

“Anything else, Mr. Black?”

“No, that’s all.”

Angus mused that he would much rather be heading off for a quiet weekend of fly fishing than take on the tasks which he suspected he would have to complete over the next few days. It would be much quicker to tell his pilot to fly to Provincetown, but with flight plans and customs declarations, there would be far too much of a paper trail left behind. If he left now, he could cross the American border in Calais, Maine by mid-afternoon. From there, he would be in Provincetown by midnight.

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