Gauntlet (10 page)

“Are you guys there?” Admiral Jackson’s voice boomed out over the speakers.

“Yes we are,” replied Dan as he shoved Turbee off the map control station. “Can you hold for a minute? We have some technical issues.”

The five-minute reboot was like dead air at a rock concert. Each second seemed to last an hour. “You know, at a hundred trillion calculations per second, I think you guys have already done more calculations than God did when he created the universe,” Jackson commented impatiently as minute three ticked by.

“No, no,” said Richard. “It took at least that many calculations to create a woman. The rest of the universe, just a little more.” Chuckles erupted up and down the conference call.

“OK, we’re live,” breathed Dan, as he watched the Atlas Screen come back online. “What do you need to know?”

“We’re at the explosion site, near Bazemah,” said Richard. “We’re trying to determine where the DC-3 went with the stolen Semtex. Kingston came up with a vector of the DC-3’s direction when it left Zighan, a little airport to the north of us. Kingston, are you still there?” asked Richard.

“Yeah, I’m still online here. You want to know the vector?”

“Yeah, let’s hear it,” said Richard. “What I need to know is if there are any landing strips along that path, assuming it maintained its direction. Landing strips in northern Sudan. TTIC, can you guys give me that?”

Dan looked perplexed. His knowledge of the mapping system was rudimentary, and he had no clue how to find what Richard was asking for. The day was rapidly sliding into a tar pit. Another minute ticked by as Dan slipped deeper into the quagmire.

“Sheesh,” said Kingston, after a few moments. “I could have figured it out with a protractor and a ruler by now.”

Fortunately, George Lexia had entered the room just after Dan did. George was a Silicon Valley engineer and programmer. He had written large chunks of the GPS-mapping programs that were becoming popular in vehicles and pleasure craft. George, like Turbee, had become very wealthy before joining TTIC. In his case it was from his roles and stock in several successful companies. He did not need the work but, like Turbee, loved playing with the largest computer, and the most complex mapping system, that had ever been devised. Like so many others in the Intelligence Community, he was married to his job and took it very seriously. George was also the leading architect of the program that controlled TTIC’s massive interactive map.

“A vector, you say,” said George as he gently nudged Dan out of his workstation. “Not a problem.” His fingers raced over the console, and a red line magically appeared on the interactive map, moving southerly along the direction that Kingston had given him.

He touched his keyboard a few more times, and northern Sudan appeared, highly magnified. Even the villages, streets, and alleys of the tiny desert towns were illustrated. “Ahh, here we are,” he said. “Yarim-Dhar. The vector goes directly over an airstrip about ten miles north of Yarim-Dhar, a tiny village that’s 400 miles south by southeast of Zighan. I’ll give you the vector and distance from where you are.”

After hearing this, Jackson barked some orders at his secretary, who immediately repeated them to the Commander of the
Theodore Roosevelt
Battle Group. From there, the orders were relayed to Major Lewis Payton, commander of the small Night Hawk force that had transported Richard, the Marines, McMurray, and the other men providing American support for the Semtex demolition job.

As a result of the lessons learned in two Gulf wars, and in the war in Afghanistan, American communications had become so efficient that Payton and Richard received their orders almost simultaneously. Richard turned off the Sat-phone and walked toward the helicopters. At the same instant, Major Payton hailed Richard. They looked at each other and said “Yarim-Dhar,” together.

Richard motioned to McMurray. “He’s Army,” he said to Payton, “but he knows about this Play-Doh stuff. He needs to come along.”

“OK, Richard. We normally don’t let Army on Night Hawks, but we’ll make an exception here. Let’s head out. How far away is Yarim-Dhar?”

“About 400 miles, give or take.”

Payton frowned. “There had better be a gas station there. We’ll be running on empty by the time we get there.”

“I’m certain there is. Might be self serve, though,” Richard quipped. Then he, Payton, and McMurray headed toward the Night Hawks, where George Clinton still sat, awaiting orders.

Y
OUSSEFF’S MIND was racing. There were a thousand facets to the enterprise that the Emir had entrusted to him. Delivery of the Semtex. The construction of the various devices they’d be needing. The creation of false trails, to divert the investigation that was sure to follow the attack. But the possibilities and the potential gain were breathtakingly large. This was another turning point, another Four Cedars. Yousseff had already set his people in motion, and the plans were already drawn up. But did he dare bet everything on one shot?

Dusk turned to nightfall as Yousseff’s horse gingerly picked its way through the difficult mountain terrain on its own. He barely considered the dangers of the path. He had been crisscrossing these mountain ranges since he was a child, and to him the trail was as familiar as the main street in any town. He was alone, lost in his thoughts, pondering both the task that lay ahead of him and the journey that had brought him to where he was.

Y
OUSSEFF HAD BEEN 13. His mother and younger sister were both ill, and his father did not want to leave either one. Twenty kilos of opium had been gathered. The family needed the $60 or $70 that this sale would bring in the markets of Peshawar.

“Go,” Yousseff’s father had said to him, over the objections of his mother. “Go. We need money for supplies. For food. Go, and may Allah be with you.”

Without further word, Yousseff had saddled one horse, placed the saddlebags across a second, and rode toward the mountains that rose impenetrably behind the home of his uncle. Izzy al Din, still his faithful sidekick, had wanted to come with him.

“Not this trip, Iz. Too dangerous. Maybe next time. But come with me, ride to my uncle’s place, then you can go back from there.”

Izzy was content with this, and they had a pleasant, easy ride to the edge of Jalalabad, and up the trail that ultimately led to that treacherous mountain pass, the Path of Allah.

After Yousseff sent Izzy home, he had stopped at the home of his uncle, and told him of the trip. He had asked if there was any opium there, and learned that his uncle had about ten kilos, and was planning to make the trip himself in a week or two. Yousseff volunteered to take it; he had already become familiar with the many smuggling paths and uncharted horse trails through the Hindu Kush and the Sefid Koh. His uncle had seen for himself the sureness of the boy’s steps in traversing the perilous higher passes with him in earlier years. He had seen the bright spark of intelligence in Yousseff’s eyes, and had nodded approvingly as the boy became acquainted with the Pashtun smuggling ways. Yousseff never needed to be told anything more than once; a trait almost unheard of in young boys.

“Yes,” he had said. “Take these ten kilos. Bring me the money in American dollars when you return.”

Yousseff asked if he could use a third horse, and his uncle gave him the pick of his mounts. The boy had been gone for hours before it occurred to his uncle that this seemed a strange request, given Yousseff’s meager 30 kilos of opium, which could be packed onto one horse. There was certainly no need for three.

The Path of Allah was aptly named, earning its moniker because it had sent so many of the faithful to Paradise before their time. The Path had its origin on a trail a short distance from where, more than three decades later, Zak would be found out. From there the trail switched back and forth along increasingly steep terrain, until it reached a point more than 8,000 feet above the Kabul Gorge. At that point the trail leveled out and traversed rolling slopes, until it reached a precipice that plunged nearly 3,000 feet, straight down. Here the Path of Allah became a narrow trail that was in some places only three feet wide, and never grew to be more than five or six feet in width. This cliff was the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan, but no army had ever enforced it, and no monarch or government exercised sovereignty here.

Storms could come on unexpectedly at this elevation, and even in the hot summer months a foot or two of snow could fall within a few hours. Ice was common, and the Path was often wet and slippery. Even experienced horses sometimes needed to be blindfolded or blinkered, and it was still possible that they would panic, rear up, and lose their footing, plummeting to their deaths more than half a mile below. Each year saw several horses and men fall to their deaths along the dangerous and precipitous route. For a boy to travel it alone, with three horses, was an act of madness. But then so was challenging Marak to a duel at the Four Cedars.

For almost a mile, the treacherous Path rose and fell, until it reached the ancient fortress of Inzar Ghar. Built on a foundation that was more than 1,000 years old, this fortress served as a storage area for opium, an armory, and, courtesy of a number of sub-levels beneath it, a dungeon. In order to enter Pakistan via the Path of Allah, one had to pass through the gates of Inzar Ghar. From there it was another day’s journey, down much gentler terrain, to Peshawar.

The weather had been with Yousseff on the journey. His trip, with three horses in tow, had been uneventful. In nearly record time, he found himself in the bustling and historic city of Peshawar, Pakistan. Here the young Yousseff elected to depart somewhat from the usual script. He sold the ten kilos for his uncle to their usual dealer in the Peshawar market, for $2.50 per kilo. Twenty-five dollars. With that money he went down the crowded streets with his three horses, bumping into the horse-drawn carts, rickshaws, bicycles, and motorcycles, following the Cantonment along Railway Road, and entering the Khyber Bazaar. Here, moving along a series of crooked back roads and alleys, he reached a business that to the untrained eye appeared to sell carpets. The initiated knew that this particular shop sold much more. He had learned much from his many visits to the Peshawar marketplace with his father and uncle. Too much, his mother had told him. Specifically, he had learned the art of reducing opium to its essentials, cooking it, transforming it, converting it to a morphine base, and ultimately refining it to pure heroin. He knew exactly what was required: calcium hydroxide, liquid ether, ammonium chloride, acetic anhydride, and a few other sundries. These were the things he purchased at the “carpet” shop.

He loaded the chemicals onto his second and third horses, and went a short distance into the mountains of the Sefid Koh. He had made a friend there, Ba’al Baki, who was also about 13 years of age. On their many trips through this area, he, his father, and his uncle had often stopped at the small homestead owned by Ba’al’s parents. They were loquacious people, friendly and giving. The travelers would often eat dinner there and pay the Baki family a few rupees for their trouble. This always became a friendly argument, since
melmastia
, the Pashtun code of hospitality, required people to accommodate all travelers, without any expectation of reward. The casual acquaintance had soon grown into a firm friendship between the two families, and Yousseff was happy to make his way back to the homestead.

It was a hot summer afternoon when he arrived. He left his three horses tethered a short distance away, and went ahead to meet Ba’al. He told the other boy about his plan in hushed and hurried tones, and invited him along. He would cut Ba’al in, of course. Ba’al begged his parents for permission to accompany Yousseff to Peshawar for a few days, and they agreed. Because of their experience with his father and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Baki had a great amount of trust in Yousseff. They had few concerns about Ba’al spending time with him.

The two friends had gone to an abandoned home about ten miles from the homestead, and had given themselves three days to attempt to convert the remaining opium to heroin. Together, they placed an empty 55-gallon oil drum on bricks about a foot above the ground and built a fire under the drum. They added 30 gallons of water to the drum and brought it to a boil. After a leisurely cup of afternoon tea, they added the 20 kilograms of raw opium that Yousseff had not sold at the marketplace.

Over the course of the next 24 hours, Yousseff and Ba’al went through more than 30 steps, including filtering, adding chemicals like ammonium chloride and sodium carbonate to the mixture, then purifying and purifying again to produce heroin. It was a very complex process, which Yousseff had learned only through watching the elders and listening to their stories.

After they were done, Yousseff had taken their product of 15 kilos of heroin and gone directly to the docks, where the Kabul River carved its way through Peshawar. He knew precisely where to go, having listened to the many conversations between his father and uncle, not to mention the endless banter of the Peshawar marketplace. Without much ado, he sold the heroin to a riverboat captain for $1,500, which made his profit more than $1,400. He paid Ba’al $50, and bid his friend goodbye. But not before he had loaded all three horses with the rest of the precursor chemicals.

He returned home via the Path of Allah. It was the first of many trips. In later years, every Afghani and Pakistani patrolling the Pass would be in Yousseff’s pay, helping him with his smuggling operations. In the early days, though, he took the Path of Allah many times on his own, with an ever-increasing number of horses and employees. On some trips he would lose a horse or two, but no man ever fell to his death while in Yousseff’s charge. Over the years he had committed to memory every twist and turn, every boulder and shrub of the precipitous pass. The talk amongst his workers was that Yousseff could navigate the pass as blindfolded as his horses. In due course, Yousseff even acquired the fortress of Inzar Ghar, although he disliked the dark, foreboding structure.

Upon his return from that first trip, he had paid his uncle the $25 and his father $50. With the $1,275 left over, he purchased a small 12-acre spread of fertile opium-producing land. He had agreed to pay the owner a further $500 within four months. Over the next two months he worked night and day in the fields, personally scoring the opium buds and collecting the resin.

He enlisted the aid of some of his relatives, paying them more than the going rate for a day’s labor in the fields, but mostly he performed the work by himself. Izzy pitched in for free, incredibly pleased to be helping Yousseff. At the conclusion of the harvest, they had 50 kilos of cooked opium, which Yousseff turned into 40 kilos of heroin. This time he took a team of ten horses, and a number of his cousins and friends, and made the trip back to Peshawar. After expenses, he netted $4,000, $500 of which he used to pay off his debt on the property, and $3,000 of which was used for purchase of another 50 acres of farmland. His only expenses were in the purchase of the chemicals required for reducing the opium to heroin, and for further cooking, purifying, and screening equipment.

By the time Yousseff reached his fourteenth birthday, he owned more than 400 acres of land. Ba’al, following Yousseff’s lead and at his friend’s suggestion, had purchased an additional ten-acre spread near his parents’ home. This land was also used for opium production. At this point, one trip to Peshawar netted more than $15,000 American. Before long Yousseff was starting to experience a problem that would dog him for the rest of his life — what to do with all the money.

T
HE SOFT NEIGHING of his horse pulled Yousseff out of his reverie. He was near the place where his uncle’s farm had once been. Years ago, the Taliban, bent on some holy mission or other, had burned it to the ground. Yousseff had purchased it and converted it into poppy fields. The entire valley was his, and he had for years been employing means of modern farming and mass production to increase the crop volume and decrease costs. Instead of using old oil drums and rice bags, he had built a state-of-the-art underground laboratory, with spotless floors and proper ventilation. He had horticulturists, engineers, and chemists on his payroll. No one important had noticed the change. During the Soviet war, no one had cared about what was going on in this little corner of Afghanistan. The Taliban was easily bought off. The Americans seemed to have too much else on their minds. His business had flourished for many years, uninterrupted.

I
NDY COULDN’T BELIEVE his eyes. He’d never seen account activity like this. In the end it hadn’t taken much time or effort to gather the information. He’d gone back to the Heather Street complex and put his affidavit and application materials together. The Dodge dealership faxed him a copy of the bill of sale and bank draft for Benny’s truck. He had one of the staff lawyers review the materials, and had the affidavit sworn. He was so eager to get to the courthouse that he took a marked police cruiser and flipped on the lights and sirens. He quickly found his way into a judge’s chamber and gained the order he wanted. He bribed the secretaries with coffee and donuts, to have the order typed and signed. By 11am he had the account records from Scotia Bank, dating back two years. At 11:15, still standing in front of the bank, he woke Catherine Gray at her home. She had just finished a busy night shift. Indy would normally have been apologetic, but right now he was thinking of other things.

“Oh man, Indy,” came the sleepy reply from Cranbrook, BC. “This had better be good.” She knew it would be — even half asleep, Catherine could recognize the excitement in his voice.

“It is, Cath. I’ve never seen an account history like this. We have deposit after deposit after deposit.”

“Big deal. If you were to pull my account, you’d see withdrawal after withdrawal after withdrawal,” she sighed, trying to smile past a yawn.

“Not this way. We’ve got cash deposits, all through automatic cash machines, throughout the province, and in Alberta. Sometimes as many as 30 or 40 a day.”

“Oh yeah?” Catherine responded. “For how much?”

“It varies, but it seems to be around $1,000 a pop. Sometimes as much as $2,000. Sometimes as little as $500. It’s averaging out to about $20,000 or $30,000 a day, if you add up all the separate deposits.”

“A day?”

“Yes. A day. Every day. Maybe $150 to $200 grand a week. Every week. Every month. From all over. Calgary. Edmonton. Vancouver. Kelowna. Kamloops. I’ve got one document showing more than 30 deposits at various Vancouver ATM’s in one day,” said Indy, excitedly. “In fact, if they’re doing this with five or six different banks, pretty soon you’re looking at real money.”