Crisis in the Cold

By G. R. Daniels

Crisis In The Cold begins with a CIA agent and a Chinese assassin meeting in a deadly confrontation on the frozen surface of a huge bay in Canada’s cottage country. This is just a sidebar to the mission of a team of Russian GRU operatives willing to commit murder to get revenge against a corporate leader. The story drives from one crisis to another in a mesmerizing tale with twists and turns through every chapter.
Jackson Phillips is head of a cutting edge tech company and he can handle the crises, turns, twists and general havoc threatening the business he started and rescued from near ruin. You don’t define this guy by his age but by his spirit and his experience. He’s a new kind of hero who can think or push his way through any dangers. He’s an engaging guy who inspires the rest of his team and listens to his colleagues.
If you want an intriguing read that is part of an absorbing series, you will want Crisis In The Cold, by G. R. Daniels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G. R. Daniels
• Release date: Jan 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781999486716

G. R. Daniels

G. R. Daniels is the pen name of this author. He is a veteran journalist who has worked as a front-page reporter, editor, tv writer, tv on-air reporter, tv producer, radio producer, internet blogger and website writer. He also is one of the world's busiest media relations trainers and crisis consultants, working on major and one-off projects for corporations, government bodies, institutions and individuals. His popular novels offer heavy doses of action, thrills, intrigue and complex plots. They are fascinating and fun reads from someone who has been there and done that for world-wide audiences. Daniels writes often about his native Canada but also provides his readers with international stories such as Escape from Zaatari. Many readers are joining the growing audience for Daniels' exciting and absorbing novels. Become one and write a review for this outstanding author's works.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

It was midnight on the nineteenth day of February and Georgian Bay was almost frozen over. This was no small feat of nature because the bay is huge, almost a Great Lake. Jackson Phillips thought about this arcane fact as he looked out through the 20-foot high windows in his cottage on Shield Island. Beams from the full moon reflecting from white ice turned night into day.

Jackson rose from his favorite leather chair facing the wall of windows and went to the open plan kitchen. He collected a sparkling water and padded back across wooden planks in his warmest slippers.

Looking out on the moon-lit bay, he froze as still as the ice outside, his water bottle halfway to his mouth. Where there had been an unblemished white surface a minute before, there was a dark mound that looked distinctly like a human body.

It took Phillips a few seconds to recover from his shock. He got up once again, this time with much more purpose. Jackson shucked the slippers and put on a pair of hiking boots from the closet in the mudroom. Over wool pajamas, he threw a Canada Goose coat from the same closet, jammed a pair of gloves in his coat pocket and opened the back door. The crisp cold took his breath away and he thanked nature for the lack of wind.

Crossing shoreline buried in a foot of snow, he stepped onto the ice. It was so thick, the ice didn’t even creak as he strode quickly toward the form lying about 20 yards from land.

The body was that of a man. As Jackson bent over the body, Jackson saw the man was dressed in a dark blue, one-piece snowmobile suit that was old, stained and baggy. His head was bare; his dark brown hair was speckled with snow and the tips of his ears were pure white. The man was pale-skinned and had a dark mustache now frosted with ice. No injuries were apparent. Jackson felt his neck for a pulse but found nothing.

The man’s eyes were closed but, as Jackson watched, they slowly opened to slits. They were glazed over but at least there was a glimmer of life.

Can you hear me? Jackson asked.

The reply was a gasping mumble. It sounded like, Tee tee wooned.

I can’t understand, Jackson leaned closer to the man’s mouth. Tee tee … Wooned.

Jackson wondered if the man were First Nations. The words could be in Ojibway. The man’s eyes remained open but they were fixed now. Jackson removed his glove and moved his hand to the man’s mouth but couldn’t feel any breath. Again, Jackson felt for a pulse in the man’s neck. There was nothing. Jackson had been a soldier for 20 years and a spy for another 20. He had seen death many times. This man was on a journey where ice and cold were as nothing.

Police would have to be called and it wouldn’t help to haul the body ashore. The ice was thick and no new snow was expected in the next few hours. Jackson returned to his cottage and made a call. His call, however, didn’t go to the local detachment of the Ontario Provincial Police. Jackson’s call was answered by an officer at Royal Canadian Mounted Police headquarters more than 150 kilometres away in Toronto.

RCM Police. How can I help you?

Jackson gave his name and asked to be connected with Sergeant Allan Tremblay.

Jackson Phillips was not only a retired Brigadier General with service in Canada’s special forces. He was also a retired executive and, in the past, a frequent undercover agent of the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service (CSIS). More importantly at the moment, Jackson was the retired CEO of his namesake company which produced advanced software for many armed forces around the world.

Not long ago, Phillips had returned to Jackson Phillips Inc. as interim CEO following the shocking death of the company’s top executive. Jackson knew a great number of secrets and was an important player in military circles. He was a person designated for special protection from the country’s national police service.

Sgt. Tremblay returned the call to Jackson’s cell within three minutes. He sounded alert and concerned.

Good morning, Jackson. What’s the problem?

Morning Allan. I’m not sure. I have a dead body on my doorstep and I need your people.

Okay, we can have officers on scene … Tremblay consulted his duty schedule … in about 15 minutes.

Uh, probably longer, Jackson interrupted. I’m at the cottage. Jackson kept a condo in downtown Toronto within a few minutes of RCMP headquarters on Jarvis Street and this was where the sergeant had expected him to be.

Ah, yeah. A little longer. Like hours. Will this keep? Tremblay was wondering if the OPP might be a better responder in the circumstances.

It’ll wait, said Jackson but there was no humour in his voice when he added, He’s on ice.

CHAPTER TWO

There are thousands of islands in Georgian Bay. Most are close to the mainland if not almost indistinguishable from it. Like most, Shield Island is only a few minutes, at most, by boat from the mainland. The island’s foundation is stone, huge boulders that are part of the Canadian Shield, some of the oldest rock in the world. There is a small sand beach by Jackson’s dock. Of course, all that was irrelevant in February when everything was covered by snow and ice. There is also a small grove of trees on Shield Island. Despite the light from the full moon bathing the ice-covered bay, the forest was still black.

In two hours, a couple of RCMP cars and a van arrived. Jackson figured the officers must have driven with sirens blaring all the way in the light, overnight traffic on Highway 400 from Toronto. All three vehicles drove across the ice from the mainland boat launch ramp. They drew up on the ice next to Jackson’s dock. Two constables from the van set up large klieg lights on the dock. The lights added to the moonlight over several hundred yards of the bay from the dock to the area in which the body lay.

Two plainclothes officers got out of one of the cars and headed across the beach to the cottage. Two uniformed officers from the second auto followed them. Jackson met them on the steps to his wrap-around porch.

Mr. Phillips?

The only one here, Jackson answered, anticipating the detective’s next question.

Are you armed, sir?

Nope. Just me in my pajamas under this coat.

The second detective had moved well to one side of the one doing the talking. She stood with her hands free and loose. Jackson noted the tactical moves and approved. If he were to draw on the police, it would be difficult to shoot both before one shot back. He also noticed the bulge of bulletproof jackets under the detectives’ police parkas.

I’m Detective Sergeant Calvin Lightstone. The man asking questions introduced himself before waving a hand toward his partner. This is Detective Sergeant Marion Hartz.

When can we expect Sergeant Tremblay?

Before the detectives could respond, a third car slid to a stop on the ice next to the dock, its light bar and headlights blazing.

Taadaa, said Jackson throwing up his hands. The two detectives tensed. Whoa, officers. I’m just happy to see my friend. Jackson stepped off the porch and, passing the two detectives slowly with hands in clear sight, he walked toward the latest arrival.

Hey, Jackson. Sgt. Tremblay yelled as he opened the passenger’s door of his black sedan.

Jackson glanced back and saw the detectives relax. Hi, Allan. Glad you could make it. He nodded back to the two detective sergeants. Really glad.

Trembly smiled as he approached. Didn’t take time to brief anyone except to say you were a VIP. Guess I should have been more explicit. The man called up to the others who had taken positions on the porch by the front door. Stand down, guys. This is a buddy. He and Jackson joined the party on the porch.

Let’s get inside, said Jackson. I’ll change my pajamas now. Your guy can watch if he wants. Jackson had not wanted to make any alterations until the officers arrived on the scene. What he had worn when finding the body could be important.

Shortly, the three police officers and Jackson, in jeans, a plaid shirt and his warm slippers, were seated on leather sharing the view out of the huge windows. A swath of the bay ice was brightly illuminated. A second van had arrived with ‘RCMP Forensic Unit’ printed on a side panel. There were four officers clustered around the body as another two or three walked slowly over the ice around the body.

Uninvited, Jackson opened the discussion with a complete description of his actions before, during and after discovering the body on the ice. As a practiced interrogator, Jackson knew what was needed. Tremblay was recording the soliloquy with a small device he had placed on a side table. The other detectives were typing notes into their iPads. Jackson wrapped up and leaned back into his chair.

Detective Sgt. Hartz leaned forward. And you were wearing the pajamas you just changed out of? Can we have those, please?

Tremblay turned to her. I’m sure Sergeant Lightstone has those already. The face of that detective reddened. He rose and went out of the room, heading for Jackson’s bedroom where he had watched as Jackson changed. In a few moments, he returned with the pajamas contained in a pillow case.

Sorry about the pillow. I’ll get some paper bags from the car.

Jackson frowned at Lightstone. He was not amused by the mistakes he was seeing. He scowled at Tremblay who had the grace to share Lightstone’s embarrassment.

There was a muffled yell from the group outside. All eyes turned to the windows. An officer was standing to the west of the body by a few dozen feet. He was pointing in that direction toward another small island poking up from the ice sheet. Jackson couldn’t make out, through his thick windows, what the officer was shouting. He stood and began to walk out of the living area. The detectives scrambled but Tremblay motioned to Lightstone and Hartz. Take it easy, detectives. I told you he’s a friend so stop the nonsense. Listen to what I’m saying. There was no hiding his anger. He hurried after Jackson.

Tremblay caught Jackson in the mudroom where Jackson donned his coat and boots, and the two crossed the ice to the scene of the death. Two constables were loading the dead body on a stretcher. An officer was opening the back doors of the first van on the scene.

What’s going on? Tremblay was joined by one of the forensic men and the three, Tremblay, Jackson and the lab man walked to the man who had been pointing. That man told the trio, I picked up a trail. He pointed down at the ice. Jackson saw smears and dots of blood stretching toward Serpent Island about a football field away. Jackson knew the people who owned a cottage on that long, narrow island and knew they spent winters in Florida.

Jackson and the pointing man led the way, following the blood spoor. There, said his companion and pointed again. Jackson followed the gesturing hand. He saw a tracked machine resting in the snow on what would have been the beach of Serpent Island. They reached the snow machine. Jackson stood back several yards so as not to contaminate the scene. He studied the area.

Some action there, Jackson told Tremblay. He pointed at the ground around the vehicle. The snow had been trampled and blood could be seen. The machine was turned on its side. There were several sets of tracks from the treads of snow machines leading into and out of the area. A single set of tracks left the area and continued across the ice before they disappeared in the distance.

Jackson and his two companions had approached Serpent Island in a large arc to avoid the blood spots. Looking back, they could see marks in the snow and on the ice. Obviously, the marks were where the dead man had dragged himself in the direction of Jackson’s cottage. At midnight, the windows of the big cottage would have been lit by lights in the living room. They would have been a beacon for the dying man.

Poor guy, muttered Jackson. Let’s get back inside and let your forensic team do their thing. I wonder what the hell went on out here.

And who the poor guy is. Or was. Detective Sergeant Tremblay turned and led the way back, avoiding the marks on the ice.

CHAPTER THREE

Thomas Yew was sitting on the edge of a narrow bed, not much more than a cot, in a small room above a Chinese restaurant. The only other furniture in the room was a scarred wooden table, a wooden chair from the 1940s and a sink that was chipped and stained. A tap leaked a drop of water into the sink every two seconds. Yew had timed the drip. He looked at the wallpaper, the same bamboo shoot printed over and over on a tan background. He smiled thinly as he thought of the Western term ‘Chinese torture.’

It was time to move. Yew felt better now. The knife wound in his side had been cleaned and stitched by an old Chinese man who introduced himself as a doctor. Yew had his doubts but his respect for the elderly stopped him from expressing his unease. The work had been done without anesthesia. Yew had remained silent throughout but it had taken all his willpower. He had been stabbed six hours before the surgery, had driven a snow machine about a mile back to his car and had driven the car for more than three hours before arriving at the safe house in Toronto’s large downtown Chinatown. He was near his limit of endurance when he met the so-called ‘doctor.’

Are you ready? The young man at the doorway of the dismal chamber was speaking in Cantonese. He had an armful of clothing.

Yes, I feel better now, Yew answered in the same language. He was more comfortable in Mandarin but he was fluent in a number of Chinese dialects as well as English, French, Spanish and, to a lesser degree, Russian. He held out his arms for the clothing and was happy to see they included a parka. Canada Goose? he asked the young man as he searched the parka for the distinctive label.

No, another, said the young man in English. Yew scowled; he wasn’t familiar with this other Canadian label.

Just as good. Yew doubted that. The young man accepted Yew’s clothing as he stripped off his blood-stained thermal pants, heavy socks and what was left of his undershirt. Yew had left his helmet with its visor on the snow machine that would be collected by the men who had delivered it originally. The young man picked up snowmobile coveralls from the floor. I will burn these, he said as he walked away.

Yew dressed slowly, grunting as he pulled the newly-provided clothes over his bandaged wound. He looked at the pile of belongings on the table. His Samsung smartphone was there. It was a specially adapted phone, a marvel of Chinese spy tech, and he was glad it had not been smashed in the fight up north. There was a handgun, a small Ruger LC9. It was a lightweight semi-automatic that was readily available in North America. It fired a 9 mm round. It was not a favorite of Thomas Yew but it was what he was supplied by his contact in Toronto.

The handgun had been a backup for his main weapon, a Chinese sniper rifle that had been smuggled into Canada separately. It was a rifle designed and manufactured in a plant controlled by the Ministry of State Security, the MSS, Yew’s employer. Its ammunition also was made in China and was designed to penetrate up to two inches of any material including bulletproof glass and solid steel. It was a rifle suited for the professional assassin and, so, was perfect for Yew. As was its scope.

Yew had rescued the sniper rifle from the debacle on Georgian Bay. If he had not, his failure would have been worth his life. The rifle was handed back to the men at the safe house even before they called the doctor to tend to Yew’s wounds. The gun would be preserved in case Yew had further need for it but the men would not tell Yew where it would be stored until he asked for it.

He would leave the Ruger for the young man to dispose of along with the eight rounds left in the magazine. The gun could be linked to the shooting on the ice; it wouldn’t be wise to keep it.

The pile of belongings on the table included a wallet but it contained only a credit card and Ontario driver’s license in the name of Samuel Ma along with a card guaranteeing him $200 worth of meals in a number of Chinese chain restaurants. There was a roll of currency totaling more than $2,000. The last item was map of Toronto. Yew checked the map for pencil or pen markings and for blood stains. There were none. He kept that as well.

He picked up the rest of his property, distributed it in his pockets and, thankfully, left the tiny room along with its pail of bloody towels and bandage packaging.

Yew went to his sedan after collecting its keys and location from one of the tough-looking, silent men sitting in the kitchen of the restaurant below the safe house rooms. He was parked in an alley running off Spadina Avenue, the heart of Toronto’s oldest Chinatown. Yew would head for the newest Chinese area in the northern suburb of Markham. First, he would make a phone call.

His call was answered immediately, as he expected. The person who answered with a simple Yes in Mandarin was based in Ottawa, Canada’s capital city, but Yew didn’t know precisely where. Nor did he care. The person was an officer with China’s Ministry of State Security.

Yew. Reporting. 9:32 a.m., February 20. Was that all it was? He felt he had been on the move for a week since arriving in Canada just the day before. He was instantly transferred to a second person.

Yew. You are late. Yew recognized the voice as that of Colonel Ren Yang, head of the MSS mission in Canada working out of the Chinese Embassy.

"Shang Xiao, Yew said. Colonel, I apologize. I was injured…"

You should have reported that right away. According to my report, you arrived at the safe house at 3:36 a.m. that is six hours ago! The colonel was angry. Yew silently cursed the young man in the safe house.

Again, sir, I apologize. May I report to you now?

Go ahead.

"I was informed, as you know, that the target would be at Shield Island on Georgian Bay at about midnight. I was to intercept him and take him out of play. I arrived at the designated parking area at 10 p.m. and looked for the snow machine. I found the machine that I was to use if need be. I stayed out of sight and watched the parking area but no one came. At about 11 p.m., I grew concerned that the target may have arrived at the lot early