MacMillan Wharf

MacMillan Wharf: Chapter Eleven

MacMillan Wharf: Chapter Eleven

 by Richard Gifford

“Is your trip for business or pleasure?” The US Customs agent asked.

“Business,” replied Angus Black.                                                                                            

“What sort of business are you in?”

“Real estate.”

“Uh-huh. Where are you going?”

“I have a meeting in Boston tomorrow afternoon.”

“So, you’re staying in Boston?”

“I’ll probably stay in Bangor tonight, then drive down in the morning.”

“That’s a good idea. It’s about four hours to Boston from here and it’s pretty late.”

Glancing at the analog clock on the dashboard of his Lexus, Angus realized that it was after eleven already. “Yes, it is.”

“Are you transporting any alcohol, cigarettes, or firearms?”

“No.” Angus lied on all three counts. He hoped he wouldn’t be subject to a search. In his experience, crossing the U.S. border as a clearly affluent, white male in his sixties rarely raised an eyebrow. This time was no different.

“OK, then, enjoy your trip. Watch out for moose between here and Bangor.”

“I’ll do that, thank you. Have a nice night.”

“You too, sir. Next!” The agent handed Angus back his passport and waived the car behind him forward.

Angus drove over the St. Croix River bridge separating St. Stephen, New Brunswick from Calais, Maine. The two towns seemed remarkably similar at night and the distinction between the two countries appeared to be quite arbitrary. The streets of Calais were nearly deserted, except for a short line of cars and tractor trailers waiting to be processed through Canadian Customs. He would spend the night in Bangor, and make his way to Provincetown the next day. Now that he had passed through the border, there was nothing but 350 miles of highway between him and his target.

Angus had formulated his plan during the drive from Halifax to the border. He would drive to Boston and leave his car in a commuter garage. From there he would walk to Rowe’s Wharf where he would then board the fast ferry to Provincetown. All of this could be paid for in cash and allow him a sense of anonymity by moving in a crowd. He would be dressed casually, as a tourist might, and carry a small bag that contained a single change of clothes, a large sum of American dollars, and his gun.

He planned to call his accomplice and arrange a meeting for payment. Being a man of his word, he would first show him the cash, then execute him if need be. Timed correctly, he would return on the ferry to Boston the next morning and be back in Halifax late that night. Problem solved, he hoped.

It had been many years since The Bull undertook a mission like this one. Angus felt a calm excitement that he had not known since his paratrooper days over three decades ago. His experiences in Southeast Asia had taught him that overconfidence could lead to sloppiness and defeat, and he could afford neither. This had to be quick, clean, and well-timed. He could leave no trace behind and he would take every step to ensure that. Angus hoped that by the time anyone noticed that his accomplice was missing, he would be back in Canada.

The sixty mile, two-lane stretch of Route 9 between Calais and Bangor, Maine is lonely and dark. There are only a few small hamlets in between, with much of the land part of unincorporated townships. Angus had driven this road a few times before, but never so late at night. Once he left the glow of Calais’ fast food restaurants and gas stations, he was in near complete darkness, save for the road illuminated by his Xenon headlights. Angus felt like he was driving through a tunnel.

He glanced down to change the CD in the car’s audio system. He clicked through the six discs which he had loaded to keep him awake on this dark stretch of road. Angus settled on the Rolling Stones greatest hits. The opening tribal drumbeats of “Sympathy for the Devil” erupted through the ten speakers in the cabin of the Lexus.

Angus looked up just in time to see a black wall of fur less than one hundred feet away in his headlights. He stomped on the brake pedal and felt the thumping of his anti-lock brakes kicking into action as the moose stared incredulously at him. The moose took two steps forward and Angus narrowly missed it.

Shaken, he sat in the driver’s seat, feeling that this might be a forewarning of things to come. “Pay attention, Angus” he said aloud.

After an hour, Angus reached Bangor and spotted a small, nondescript motel alongside the highway with a neon vacancy sign illuminated. He parked in front of the lobby. When he entered, he found a young woman of Indian or Pakistani origin watching MTV on a black and white television behind the counter.

“Can I help you?” she said in her lilting accent.

“Do you have any rooms available?”

“Yes, sir. For how many?”

“Just me.”

“Smoking or non?”

“Smoking please.”

“I have a queen bed, smoking, for $49.95.”

“Fine.” Angus said pulling a crisp $100 bill from his wallet.

“Your name, please?”

“Thomas E. Lawrence.” He enjoyed using this pseudonym when he traveled. He had yet to come across a hotel clerk who recognized the name of the man better known as Lawrence of Arabia.

“OK, Mr. Lawrence, here is your change, and your key, Room 17. Checkout is at ten o’clock. We have coffee and tea starting at seven.”

“Thanks,” Angus mumbled as he took the key and his change off of the peeling formica counter.

“Have a good night.”

“You, too.”

Angus glanced across the parking lot and saw where his room was located. He moved his car so that it was obscured from the road by a large SUV. He entered the room and found it to be stifling hot. After relieving himself in the bathroom, he opened the windows and turned on the air conditioning in an attempt to cool the room. There was no chair, so he sat on the bed. Turning on the television, he clicked through the channels until he found some soft-core pornography on HBO. He closed the windows and turned the air conditioner to high. He laid down on the bed fully clothed, and in his exhausted state, drifted off to a restless sleep.

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