Authors: Richard Aaron
I
S THIS the real McCoy?” the President asked his security advisors in the White House Situation Room. “Do we take it seriously? Is it a threat to use a nuclear weapon?”
The response around the room was unanimous. This was the real thing.
A long debate ensued as to whether or not to raise the threat level status from its present “Green” (careful monitoring) to “Yellow” (some concern). Because of the great cost to local economies, airports, police payrolls, and a host of other security-conscious industries, the President decided to keep the threat level at Green. The message, after all, suggested that the attack would take place somewhere on the planet. Not necessarily in the United States. However, bulletins went out to all embassies, and travel advisories were issued for some areas.
I
T WAS 4AM when Ghullam climbed the steep and narrow stone steps that led up from the dungeons of Inzar Ghar. He walked slowly toward the row of Jeeps parked in the lower courtyard. There he found two burlap rice bags, each containing approximately 90 pounds of grisly cargo. He threw the bags into the back of one of the waiting Jeeps, then paused to light a cigarette and survey the moonlit, rocky slopes of the Sefid Koh, stretching into the distance. Behind him loomed the stone walls of Inzar Ghar, with its huge stores of heroin, weapons, and cash. Below him were the dungeons and cells reserved for those who had come down on the wrong side of one of Yousseff’s operations.
When his cigarette burned out, he started the Jeep and drove down the steep canyon road. He was humming a nameless tune, smiling as he thought of the devilish little stunt that he was about to perform. These orders came from Marak rather than Yousseff — a consideration that made them more pleasing to Ghullam. Yousseff didn’t have the stomach for this kind of work, so his orders, in Ghullam’s opinion, lacked the creativity of Marak’s. Today’s plan was a welcome diversion from the norm. When he reached the main highway west of Peshawar, he headed toward Islamabad. It was still dark when he reached the city, threading his way through the empty streets of Pakistan’s capital and coming to a halt in front of the American Embassy, at Ramma 5 of the Diplomatic Enclave. He deposited the two burlap sacks in the middle of the driveway, and searched his pockets for the GPS transmitter that had dropped from the spy’s
chapan
two days earlier. He turned it on, deposited the device on top of one of the sacks, and sped off into the night, still happily humming to himself.
T
HE SIGNAL was quickly picked up by a Global Hawk drone and relayed to a Milstar satellite. The Milstar system circled the globe, and the electronic signature of the GPS was bounced from satellite to satellite until it reached the Air Force Space Command headquarters at Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado. From there it was relayed via ground signal to the large monitoring center beneath the Pentagon. The junior officer in charge of a section of screens immediately reached for the phone and called his superior.
“We’ve found him,” he said. “Zak Goldberg has re-established contact. Looks like he’s back in business.”
“Where is he? What are the coordinates?” asked his supervisor. He was vastly relieved, as he knew others would be. Zak’s long silence, in such a dangerous situation, had been nerve-wracking.
The junior officer read out the numbers. There was a perplexed silence. “Are you certain? That’s the location of the Embassy in Islamabad. He must be standing just in front of it. I’ll make the call.”
T
WELVE TIME ZONES AWAY, the world was just beginning to stir at Ramma 5, Diplomatic Enclave, Islamabad. Morning dew was weighing down the grass, and the eastern sky was crimson. Corporal Tucker of the Marine Corp was on guard duty, along with his friend of many years, Corporal St. James.
“Yo, Tucker,” said St. James. “What the hell’s that out there?” Beyond the second perimeter, past the concrete antitank obstacles and the tire shredders, and outside the main gate, just becoming visible in the gathering light, were what appeared to be two large cloth rice bags. Just sitting there.
“I think they’re bags of some kind, Ronnie,” said Tucker. “They’re rice sacks or something.”
“Bags don’t just appear in front of American embassies, Tucker. Especially not in this Islamic hell-pit,” replied St. James nervously.
Tucker could tell that St. James had been away from South Carolina too long. He had been edgy for the past three weeks. He’d had a “premonition,” he said. A “premonition of doom.” And maybe this was it. There had been rumors yesterday about stolen Semtex being taken from that crazy situation in Libya. Maybe a couple hundred kilos were now sitting here, less than 100 feet away, with some crazy Paradise-obsessed Mohammed ready to push the button. “Maybe we should use the Rover,” he suggested.
“Yo. Good idea. I’ll radio it in,” said St. James.
A few minutes later, two Marines showed up with a contraption that looked like a cross between a miniature excavator and R2D2. It was the Rover 3, the latest robotics toy from Raytheon. It came with a sophisticated remote control panel, and had two video eyes at the end of cantilevered, multi-jointed arms. It had two other arms with rotating pincers that could pick up, lift, and turn objects. It came on a set of crawler tracks. High tech all the way. Langley was in the process of equipping every embassy with one of these devices.
“I want one of those for my house,” said St. James. “You could get a beer while watching the Super Bowl. Never have to get up again.”
“That’s what wives are for,” joked Tucker.
“Yeah, dream on, I guess. This puppy cost half a mil. We’re po’ boys,” St. James said.
“No way. It’ll be $49.95 at Future Shop within three years. Now, let’s see what we have,” said Tucker, as the Rover 3 approached the gray, shapeless bags.
“It is a bag... I mean a couple of bags,” said St. James. “Tucker, see if you can pull it back a bit. Use one of the pincers, like this...” St. James grabbed the controller from Tucker. “Here, let me do it. I have more experience with it than you do.”
“What the hell?” asked Tucker, giving up the controls and moving over to fiddle with the focus on the screen. “That looks like... Jesus, it is. Ronnie. It’s part of a body. It’s an arm. It’s a body. It’s... oh Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed, showing St. James the small video screen.
“Shit,” said St. James. “Damn good thing we’re Marines. A Navy guy would be puking by now.”
“Yeah, never mind some tech at Langley.”
As if on cue, another Marine yelled at them from the front doorway of the compound. “Hey Tucker. Some big shot asshole’s on the line from the Pentagon. He’s saying something about some guy standing right outside the front gate. Needs to talk to you.”
“Well,” said Tucker, “we’ve got news for him. Nice to know it’s a guy, but the poor bastard sure as hell ain’t standing. He’s not going to be standing ever again.”
I
NDY’S FACE GRIMACED in a silent scream. He had just come from the office of the Deputy Commissioner of “E” division, British Columbia. It was the highest RCMP command in the province. He had hoped that the Deputy Commissioner would go to the Commissioner and take steps to pry open the Cayman account. But no such luck. “Procedures are procedures, Indy. They’re there for a reason. You need them in any organization. This is bigger than you. You can’t get at it right now.”
So Indy did the next best thing. He took a week of vacation. He threw some things in a battered suitcase and tossed it in the back of his old Chevy pickup truck. He pointed the truck eastward, along Highway 1, and took the highway toward the southeastern portion of the province, referred to by the locals as “the Kootenays.” After eight hours of driving through what he thought was some of the most beautiful scenery on the planet, he found himself sitting at Tim Horton’s donut shop with Corporal Catherine Gray. It was early evening, and she was off shift, but did not complain.
Indy was flipping through the criminal records of the Hallett/Lestage clan. “How many of them are there, anyway?” he asked.
“Thirty maybe. Forty. Not sure. Most of them are into petty mayhem. Small-time drugs. Assault, wife beatings, shoplifting... you know, the basic stuff. Most of them aren’t around most of the time, which might support the smurfing theory.”
“Sure it would,” replied Indy. “They would be going from city to city, like a roving band of gypsies. All expenses would be paid for in cash. If there are enough of them, and they travel enough, say throughout all of western Canada, you could place an awful lot of cash into the system. It doesn’t take a lot of intelligence to do that.”
“For the record,” replied Catherine, “none of them are overloaded with brains, except maybe Leon.”
Indy arched an eyebrow. “Leon?”
“Yeah, Leon,” said Catherine, taking a sip of coffee. “There are rumors going around that he’s a bona fide Hell’s Angel with one of the Vancouver clubs. We’ve never been able to verify that. We have confirmed that he has a residence in Vancouver. He’s lived there for awhile; worked on the docks as a longshoreman. He quit that a few years ago and now just seems to travel a lot. He’s also got a run-down place just north of the Flathead-Boundary Range, near Akamina Park. In fact, his property is the closest there is to the park, and to the Montana border. He owns a gorgeous Harley. Out of the whole clan he’s the cleanest. No record at all, other than a few marijuana convictions 20 years ago.”
“What about Benny Hallett?” inquired Indy, recalling his visit with the pathetic kid two days earlier.
“Well, he might just be the dumbest of the clan, which is really saying something. IQ of three above a head of lettuce, I’d say.”
“Who do you think torched his truck and put him in the hospital minus a leg?” asked Indy, working on his second donut.
Catherine paused a moment to sip her coffee before answering. “We have no evidence at all on that. Zilch. But my gut says it was Leon. I’ve thought about what you said yesterday. About the Scotia Bank account. I have absolutely no doubt that we’re talking about drugs. Large quantities, with a basic brute force laundering scheme, the oldest in the book. Just send people smurfing away from town to town making small deposits. I’ve had a look at the printouts you faxed me. I absolutely believe that temptation did it for our friend Benny. All that money. He just had to spend some of it. The leader of the clan reprimanded him. And I’m pretty sure the leader is Leon.”
“You know, Catherine, if we’re right about this, there could be dozens of accounts just like this one. All the other Halletts and Lestages could be cruising around western Canada, making these deposits. If you multiply this account by 15 or even 20, we’ve got a big-time operation going. What frustrates me is that the Force doesn’t have the manpower to deal with this.” Indy sighed in exasperation. “The Force” was how insiders referred to the RCMP, and had nothing to do with Star Wars. “I’m going to end up getting ulcers.”
Catherine looked out the large window at one of the many stunning mountain ranges in the vicinity. “What do you want to do, Indy? I’ll help in whatever way I can. I might be able to squeeze some manpower out of Nelson and Castelgar.”
“Not yet,” responded Indy. “You said they have some kind of tourist business going in the summertime. Tell me about that.”
Catherine snorted. “Yeah that. Kind of a joke. The fabulous Akamina-Kishinina Bicycle Tour Company, Ltd.”
“Joke?”
“Yeah. Joke. They own one run-down, beat-up tour bus. They never show up on time. They never come back on time. The Fernie Town Counsel wants them out of business. Not good to have a group of Japanese tourists with big bucks stood up. Not good to have a bus break down 20 miles out of town.” She continued looking out the window. “I can’t figure out why they do it. If they have this much cash floating around, why run this idiotic tourist service? Makes no sense, unless...”
“Unless it ties into the scheme somehow. Maybe they don’t want anyone else going out that way,” said Indy.
“That’s where they all live, you know. Up and down that road,” she said.
“How close to the border is the Aka- whatever?” asked Indy.
“Akamina-Kishinina. The park is right on the border with Montana. Maybe that explains the bus service. Maybe,” said Catherine, a trace of excitement in her voice, “maybe that’s how they’re getting drugs across the line, somehow. Maybe through the park...”
“That looks to be pretty rugged country,” said Indy. “Don’t think you’d be able to drive a broken-down bus through those mountain ranges, no matter how desperate you were to smuggle drugs. Maybe...”
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“It’s the middle of August, Catherine. The height of the tourist season. They’ve got to be running right now.”
“Yeah, they are. Thinking of going on a trip?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Where do they muster?”
“In front of city hall. Any morning. Nine sharp.”
Indy thought he might be less conspicuous if she came along. Tourist couples were more common. But Catherine thought not. “This is a small place, Indy, and we’ve busted these ne’er do wells for plenty of infractions. They’d probably make me.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But I doubt they’ll make me. The only one that’s ever met me is Benny, and he ain’t going anywhere right now.”
Catherine nodded, rising and donning her sweater. “Let me know if I can help you with anything. I’m going for a run. Don’t suppose you’d care to join me?”
Indy smiled to himself. In Catherine’s case, “a run” was usually five or ten miles, 15 if the weather was nice. One of her main bragging rights was that she could outrun anyone on the Force, and probably most of the guys in the military as well. Indy had personally seen her make grown men cry. “No thanks Cath, I’m no masochist. I’m hunkering down in a hotel for the night.”
Catherine laughed and strolled out of the donut shop. Indy headed to the hotel, already planning his outing for the next day.
F
IVE AM hit Indy like a hammer. “This is way too early for us old guys,” he mumbled to himself as he nearly fell into the shower. It was a good three-hour drive to Fernie, and while the Halletts and Lestages might be late, he could not afford to be. He showered and dressed tourist style, in shorts, a T-shirt with a Bugs Bunny cartoon drawn on the front, and an old pair of sneakers. He got from the first alarm ring to being checked out and behind the steering wheel of the old Chevy in a record 12 minutes. Again he headed eastward. Again the picturesque towns with quaint names went racing by. Salmo. Yahk. Elko. His watch was edging toward 9AM when he pulled into the parking lot of the small one-story building that apparently served as the Fernie Town Hall. There were a few people milling about and waiting in front of the building. Indy parked his truck and strolled over to join them.
Nine AM came and went. Then 9:15, then 9:25. At around 9:30, as the grumbling was escalating, a pale blue bus finally came clattering to a halt in front of them. Its engine was not silenced by functioning mufflers, and a cloud of blue-black exhaust engulfed the waiting crowd. The vehicle was a converted Bluebird School Bus, and had the words “Akamina-Kishinina Bicycle Tour Co. Ltd.” stenciled in faded black letters across the sides. Twenty mountain bikes, in various stages of disrepair, were fastened along the back and sides of the bus. The driver rolled to a stop directly in front of the City Hall and opened the passenger door.
“AK Bike Tour folks. Tickets please. Get ready for the adventure of your lives.” His voice was flat and unexcited.
Indy was staring in amazement at the bus and bicycles. It looked like something out of a comedy skit. When the driver stepped out, Indy shut his mouth with an audible snap and put on his best tourist act.
“Whazit cost?” he drawled, trying to look as stupid and innocuous as possible.
“Fifty bucks. Big money I know, but it is the adventure of a lifetime, partner.”
Indy fished through his wallet. All he had was two twenties. “That’ll do partner. That’ll do.” The driver was sloppy, overweight, and thirty-something, with dark sunglasses that hid his eyes. He had on a name tag that advertised his name: Dennis Lestage. He carelessly motioned for Indy to enter the bus and have a seat, then moved on.
Indy sat, and the journey began. He watched the scenery go by, seeing mostly rain forests of hemlock and spruce. Occasionally the trees parted to allow views of snow-clad mountains and deep gorges. The bus was climbing at over 80 miles an hour, hugging cliffs and slamming over potholes, on a road barely wide enough to accommodate it. As they neared Akamina-Kishinina, Indy noticed a familiar, acrid odor. Could it be? He saw other tourists looking around as well. The Japanese couples were wide eyed in horror. Dennis had pulled out a joint, almost as fat as a cigar, lit it, and was happily smoking away.
“Hey, buddy, put that thing out,” Indy said, unconsciously switching back to his RCMP authority voice. “Right now,”
“Relax, partner. Just relax,” said Dennis. “I’ve got a medical license to smoke this puppy.”
Indy’s shoulders slumped in defeat. The same old thing, he thought. No point in trying to argue over the legality of the joint. Not even the judges and prosecutors knew for sure where the lines were anymore.
“Got glaucoma,” continued Dennis. “People with glaucoma can smoke this legally. It’s medicine partner. Medicine. Like Lipitor.”
“Isn’t glaucoma an eye disease?” asked Indy. “Doesn’t it make you go blind?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Dennis, taking another toke as he downshifted, grinding the gears of the old Bluebird.
“Great. Just friggin’ great,” mumbled Indy, as he watched the valley floor recede into the distance. “Perfect. A stoned and blind doper taking an old, broken bus up a winding mountain road. Wonderful.” Whatever he found, it had better be worth the risk he was taking with his life.
T
HE SUN HAD SET, and it was approaching midnight when the
Haramosh Star
neared the rendezvous point. They were just west of the Indian island of Cherlyam, at the northern tip of the geological formation that included the Maldives.
The
Mankial Star
was already at anchor, waiting for them. She was some 80 feet in length — far too small, by Yousseff’s estimation. He was in the transportation business, after all. A length of 80 feet meant that there was barely enough room on the rear deck for the helicopter. His one consolation was the ship’s power. Every piece of equipment that Yousseff owned had been modified in one way or another to increase its horsepower, from his new Gulfstream to the ancient
Haramosh Star.
He was obsessed with pulling as much power out of each piece of machinery as he could. His personal yacht was no different. The
Mankial Star
had four MTU Friedrichshafen Diesel Turbos, producing 2,400 horsepower each, which meant she had close to 10,000 horsepower, all told. She could carve up the Arabian Sea at an amazing 50 knots.
Yousseff gazed at the jewel in his crown with affection. He would have liked to be on his yacht, but had decided to watch the next step of the process from the darkened rear deck of the
Haramosh Star.
Now that they were involved in such an international scheme, his anonymity was more important than ever before. There was no telling who he could trust and who was a spy. For this reason, he saw no reason to let the men on the
Haramosh Star
see him directing the operation, when others could do it equally well. It went against his nature, but in this case he chose to sit back and watch.
The most difficult part of the operation would be connecting the two ships. While both ships were small, they were not insignificant in proportion. The
Haramosh Star
was 300 feet in length, and her main deck was a good 20 feet above the water. But the system designed so many years ago by Kumar, and subsequently modified by the engineers of Karachi Drydock and Engineering, worked with a simple and polished elegance. Two parallel metal arms slid out of two small hatches on the
Haramosh Star,
seated about ten feet above the water line. The hatches were so carefully integrated into the ship’s hull that only the most scrutinizing of investigations would have uncovered them. They were approximately 60 feet apart, with the metal arms beautifully balanced on a hydraulic suspension system, also of Kumar’s design. Two rubber-coated metal clamps were fixed to the distal ends of the arms. With a little careful maneuvering, these connected to two indented rectangular sockets on the starboard sides of the front and rear decks of the
Mankial Star.
Thus secured, the two ships rode the sea together, with only 15 feet of water separating them.
Yousseff smiled as he watched the process. The seas were calm, with a slightly warm late night breeze. From start to finish, the connecting maneuver took only five minutes. Once they were connected, the
Mankial Star
would appear from the air to be a catamaran extension of the much larger
Haramosh Star.
Now the rear deck hatch doors on the
Mankial Star
slid open, and the scissors lift elevated the pallets of wrapped Semtex to approximately four feet above the deck. A third, larger hatch opened in the port side of the hull of the
Haramosh Star,
and two more rails slowly extended toward the
Mankial Star.
The additional rails extended the full distance toward the yacht, and slid along her deck to attach to the lift mechanism. The railing that lined the
Mankial Star’s
deck was folded back, opening a path that led from the lift to the
Haramosh Star,
complete with rails for easy transportation. There was none of the usual yelling of crewmembers while the procedure was coordinated. The crews on both ships were wired with microphones and spoke on the same radio frequency.