department at Fisheries. I mean, Jesus Christ . . .” The car rose up onto two wheels. Drifted down again. “. . . dudes in Halifax only just shot down a motion to reopen the Hay Island seal hunt. Bo met Tanis at the protests.”
“Protesting for or against?” It was never wise to assume. If Tanis’ family were fishermen . . .
“Against. Tanis’ whole family’s big in the environmental movement, run this high-profile group called Two Seventy-five N. Funky ass name, but they’ve got some weight to throw around. You, though, you haven’t been back east for any length of time in a couple of years . . .” Shelly braced the steering wheel with her knee as she fixed her ponytail. “. . . what’s your interest in Carlson Oil’s line of bullshit?”
“Besides thinking that dipping seals in crude is a bad idea?” Charlie frowned down at her half-painted toenails. “I don’t know yet.” She’d been ear wormed by the chorus since Fort McMurray—seals or oil, rinse, repeat—but still had no idea of the verse.
The last coal mine in Cape Breton closed in 2001, but when a Swiss mining consortium won the right to develop an abandoned mine site in Dorkin, Carlson Oil had taken notice. If coal was set to make a comeback, Amelia’s father had reasoned, it wasn’t coming back without them.
As a result, Carlson Oil owned two small abandoned collieries in Inverness County and a much larger old DEVCO mine in Lingan. Hedging their bets, they’d also invested in the wind turbines erected along the cliffs outside of Lingan—the later investment significantly more public than the former. As Paul had told Catherine Gale, local coal got no respect in the media in spite of the fact that coal imported from the United States and South America powered the Lingan Generating Station at the same time as unemployment hovered perpetually around 16 per cent and the economy of Cape Breton tried to fiddle its way into solvency.
While the collieries across the island in Inverness County were more isolated, the mine in Lingan, the Duke, had gone much deeper with lots of damp, extended cross tunnels perfect for making terrifying old women happy and, more importantly, it was half an hour away from Sydney. About at the limit Paul was willing to have those pelts stinking up his car.
“You want to take the sealskins from an anonymous storage locker and drop them down the Duke ?” Leaning back in her chair, mourning the loss of the ergonomic wonder in her Halifax office, Amelia almost thought she saw here we go again cross Paul’s face.
“No,” he said, so carefully it convinced her she had indeed seen that flicker of impatience, “I’d descend into the Duke and place them carefully in a cross tunnel. They’d come to no harm.”
“I was being facetious, Paul.” She steepled her fingers. “Carlson Oil owns the Duke .The . . . creatures behind Two Seventy-five N are going to be looking for those pelts, so they’re going to be looking at Carlson Oil holdings. Particularly those holdings a convenient distant from the remarkably ugly office we’re now spending our time in.”
“They’d have to be high-level hackers to get through the shell companies between the Duke and Carlson Oil.”
Amelia waved that off. “Why shouldn’t they be computer wizards? They’re already impossible. You haven’t said anything to convince me that dropping the pelts down a mine . . .” Deliberate phrasing so she could enjoy how well he hid his annoyance. “. . . is safer than anonymous off-site storage. We only have her word for it that there’s a new player, after all.”
“We only had her word for it that they existed,” Paul reminded her.
“Point.” Leaning back far enough to cross her legs, Amelia indicated he should go on.
“When Catherine Gale introduced the new player, she began by reminding me that she, Catherine Gale, had found the pelts and then pointed out that the previous owners of the pelts wouldn’t be able to
“Protesting for or against?” It was never wise to assume. If Tanis’ family were fishermen . . .
“Against. Tanis’ whole family’s big in the environmental movement, run this high-profile group called Two Seventy-five N. Funky ass name, but they’ve got some weight to throw around. You, though, you haven’t been back east for any length of time in a couple of years . . .” Shelly braced the steering wheel with her knee as she fixed her ponytail. “. . . what’s your interest in Carlson Oil’s line of bullshit?”
“Besides thinking that dipping seals in crude is a bad idea?” Charlie frowned down at her half-painted toenails. “I don’t know yet.” She’d been ear wormed by the chorus since Fort McMurray—seals or oil, rinse, repeat—but still had no idea of the verse.
The last coal mine in Cape Breton closed in 2001, but when a Swiss mining consortium won the right to develop an abandoned mine site in Dorkin, Carlson Oil had taken notice. If coal was set to make a comeback, Amelia’s father had reasoned, it wasn’t coming back without them.
As a result, Carlson Oil owned two small abandoned collieries in Inverness County and a much larger old DEVCO mine in Lingan. Hedging their bets, they’d also invested in the wind turbines erected along the cliffs outside of Lingan—the later investment significantly more public than the former. As Paul had told Catherine Gale, local coal got no respect in the media in spite of the fact that coal imported from the United States and South America powered the Lingan Generating Station at the same time as unemployment hovered perpetually around 16 per cent and the economy of Cape Breton tried to fiddle its way into solvency.
While the collieries across the island in Inverness County were more isolated, the mine in Lingan, the Duke, had gone much deeper with lots of damp, extended cross tunnels perfect for making terrifying old women happy and, more importantly, it was half an hour away from Sydney. About at the limit Paul was willing to have those pelts stinking up his car.
“You want to take the sealskins from an anonymous storage locker and drop them down the Duke ?” Leaning back in her chair, mourning the loss of the ergonomic wonder in her Halifax office, Amelia almost thought she saw here we go again cross Paul’s face.
“No,” he said, so carefully it convinced her she had indeed seen that flicker of impatience, “I’d descend into the Duke and place them carefully in a cross tunnel. They’d come to no harm.”
“I was being facetious, Paul.” She steepled her fingers. “Carlson Oil owns the Duke .The . . . creatures behind Two Seventy-five N are going to be looking for those pelts, so they’re going to be looking at Carlson Oil holdings. Particularly those holdings a convenient distant from the remarkably ugly office we’re now spending our time in.”
“They’d have to be high-level hackers to get through the shell companies between the Duke and Carlson Oil.”
Amelia waved that off. “Why shouldn’t they be computer wizards? They’re already impossible. You haven’t said anything to convince me that dropping the pelts down a mine . . .” Deliberate phrasing so she could enjoy how well he hid his annoyance. “. . . is safer than anonymous off-site storage. We only have her word for it that there’s a new player, after all.”
“We only had her word for it that they existed,” Paul reminded her.
“Point.” Leaning back far enough to cross her legs, Amelia indicated he should go on.
“When Catherine Gale introduced the new player, she began by reminding me that she, Catherine Gale, had found the pelts and then pointed out that the previous owners of the pelts wouldn’t be able to
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