Gauntlet (40 page)

“Danno,” snapped Rahlson, who was close to shouting at this point. “You’ve got to accept the fact that the SEALs COULD have missed it. Yes, they’re highly trained. Yes they’re the best of the best. But there is a chance that they missed it. Either that or the
Haramosh Star
ditched the load before the SEALs got on board.”

As the angry dialogue continued, Turbee quietly entered the room and sat down at his old workstation, between George and Rahlson. “Welcome back, kid,” said Rahlson, pausing long enough to notice the youth sitting quietly next to him. Turbee’s face was still swollen, and one of his eyes was blackened. He moved with obvious discomfort, but sat at his computer and began his work with absolute confidence. Dan lost the argument with Rahlson, George, and Rhodes, and stalked out the door. The other members of the team spotted Turbee, and the sound of desk slapping and applause began to fill the room. Almost everyone rose and gathered around Turbee’s desk to welcome him back to the family.

With that, Turbee had officially returned to TTIC. Word spread rapidly through the Intelligence Community about the coup. Turbee was back, and he’d established that the Semtex had been transferred to the
Haramosh Star.
The SEALs had missed it.

I
T WAS MIDNIGHT, Pacific Standard Time, when Vince led Jimmy Stalmach to the lowest deck on the
Haramosh Star,
and directed him to the hidden compartment. It was accessible only through a tiny trap door beneath one of the two gigantic MAN B&W engines. The inspection by the SEALs almost three weeks earlier had not, and could not have, found it. They would have had to take extremely precise measurements of both the outer and inner hulls of the ship to realize that the hull contained extra space. Even then, finding the way into the additional hold would have been close to impossible. The slender space between the two hulls at the aft of the ship, and its hidden entrance, was the pinnacle of KDEC’s engineering achievements. Because of it, the Semtex had remained safely hidden throughout the aggressive and intrusive search.

Vince pressed a hidden lever in the wall, then another under the engines, and the well-oiled trap door slid open. Directly below the trap door was the open cockpit of the submersible, a PWS-12, manufactured by Kumar’s facility in Long Beach. Normally the submersible was used for heroin runs; it had seen many stealthy trips through the coastal waters of western North America, navigating toward a predetermined nocturnal rendezvous. Due to the growing sophistication of coast guards, sonar, aerial, and even satellite surveillance, these moves were growing increasingly difficult. With the help of his engineers and the PWS-12 series, Yousseff had nimbly managed to stay one step ahead of both the law and his competition. The theme here was the same as it had been in the Indus River days, but more highly engineered.

This trip, however, was different. The load was much heavier than usual, and the trip much longer. There was also the small matter of the international manhunt that was under way to find the cargo that the submersible would be carrying. Both Vince and Jimmy were being paid spectacularly well for their efforts, but the money failed to lighten the mood of their mission. They both realized that the gates of hell would open at the final destination of the Semtex. Neither knew where that end would be. Neither knew if this would be the last time they saw each other; after years of working together, this particular mission seemed to be the end of the line for their partnership. Both men had known Yousseff for many years, and neither liked the darker turn that Yousseff’s smuggling operation had taken. Both had strong reservations.

“How long will this trip take, Jimmy?” asked Vince, as the other was carefully lowering himself into the submersible’s cockpit.

“Even at the speeds this thing can do, it will be a good five to six hours. Most will be underwater, and guided by GPS,” responded Jimmy. “I’ll be happy as a clam when this one’s behind me.”

Vince continued to peer down at the submersible, the years with Yousseff weighing heavily upon him. After he rescued him from the scene with Bartholomew’s drunken and mutinous crew, Vince had taken the young Yousseff under his wing. He had been astounded at Yousseff’s intelligence, and the rapidity with which he learned the ways of the sea. He had watched the young man grow and stretch, trying new and different schemes, technologies, and industries throughout the years. Thanks to that association, Vince was now far richer than Bartholomew would ever have made him, and had spoken to Yousseff many times of retirement. Each time, Yousseff had talked him out of it. Now, with a paycheck of more than $1 million, laundered and legitimate, he could retire and afford everything he’d ever wanted. Maybe this would be his last mission. He found himself hoping that it was.

“Everything in order down there?” Vince asked.

“It all checks, Vince. Time to close the cockpit and open the outer hull. I’ll see you when I see you,” Jimmy said, with his customary devil-may-care smile. Vince shook his head. He couldn’t understand how the man could sit in that cockpit for so long, and with the addition of so much explosive packed in around him. He waved as the submersible’s cockpit noiselessly slid forward and locked into place with a soft click.

Vince then activated a further series of hidden levers. The trap door in the floor of the
Haramosh Star
slid shut. As it did, four large sections of the outer hull of the ship began to slide open, creating an opening some 30 feet long and 15 wide, just ahead of the rudder of the ship. The compartment had been designed to take in water without affecting the ship’s flotation or route, enabling the sub to start its journey in its natural medium. Slowly the submersible slid out of the large ship and dropped down below the hull. It rotated 180 degrees, hovering just below the
Haramosh Star
for a few seconds. Then it headed off in a north-by-northeast direction, making a good 15 knots.

Vince climbed back up to the bridge and ordered the first mate to head south through the Hecate Straight, toward Vancouver. He activated the pumps that would drain the water from the hidden chamber and breathed a sigh of relief. The Semtex was finally, after several weeks, out of his custody.

At this point the
Haramosh Star
was some ten miles northwest of the BC coastal city of Prince Rupert, which, in its turn, was nearly 500 miles north of Vancouver. The coastal geography north of Vancouver was rugged and mountainous, punctuated by long fjords and impassable mountains. The only way to get to Prince Rupert from Vancouver by motor vehicle was through an inland route — north to Prince George, and then 400 miles farther to the west.

Prince Rupert was the terminus of the Grand Trunk Pacific Railway, a northern trans-Canada line, now doing business as the Canadian National Railway, or “CNR.” There was also a large coal terminal located there, which served as the storage area for the massive inland mines that delivered coal to the world. With China’s ever-growing appetite for raw materials, the port had become a bustling place — very different from the sleepy days of the late Twentieth Century. It wasn’t, however, Vince’s destination. It was nowhere close.

The
Haramosh Star
headed south instead, toward the container terminal at Vancouver, where she was expected. Jimmy and the submersible headed northeast, about 50 feet below the water surface. His speed was 25 knots. The PWS people had done a lot of tweaking to develop a submersible that was able to reach that kind of speed. It would take him roughly six hours to reach his destination. By that time the
Haramosh Star
would be well on her way, and it would be almost impossible to connect her to the transfer that would take place. Should anyone be looking.

Had the submersible surfaced during the trip, she would have been in some of the most magnificent scenery in the world. She was headed up a long fjord known as the Portland Canal, which served as the border between British Columbia and Alaska. To the northwest lay an amazing view of the Misty Fjords National Monument, one of America’s least-visited National Parks. No roads ran through it, and no towns or villages existed within its borders. Blue ice glaciers extended almost to sea level around the sub, and lofty waterfalls cascaded from thousand-foot cliff walls. The sub would travel more than 100 miles through such scenery — the entire length of the Portland Canal. Situated at the head of the Canal was the BC village of Stewart.

Stewart itself was more or less a friendly ghost town. Prior to World War I, it had boasted a population of over 10,000. At the time, several mines had been in production or development in the area, and word was spreading that Stewart was another Klondike in the making, with rich veins of ore just beneath the surface. But gradually the optimism had faded, the mines had closed down, and the development had petered out. Now the town was deserted. The current population of Stewart was less than 700, most of it devoted to tourism and fishing. It had become an important spoke in Yousseff’s operations, for just this reason.

When he estimated that he was about 50 miles up the canal, Jimmy brought the submersible to the surface. It was 2AM. There was a bright moon, and he could see the silhouetted shadows of the Bear Glacier peaks rising behind Stewart. He was only ten miles from Stewart when the sun finally rose. At that point being so visible made him nervous, and he decided to take the submersible back down. Early morning fishermen often traversed the canal, emptying crab traps and setting lines. There was no point in risking discovery.

A long series of wharves and pilings ran alongside the dirt road that left Stewart — hundred-year-old reminders of the boomtown days of yore. At a prearranged spot, at a prearranged time, measured almost to the second, Jimmy surfaced among them. His sub was three feet away from an ancient, but still sturdy, wharf. The glass cockpit of the submersible slid back, and two ropes were immediately tossed his way. Jimmy caught them and began to secure his sub to the wharf.

“Yo, Ba’al! Ba’al Baki! Good to see you. You too, Izzy,” he said, smiling up at the two property barons. This mission’s importance was obvious. Yousseff had sent two men from his most intimate circle to attend to the reload.

“You too, Jimmy. Wish we could talk, but this one’s too serious,” said Izzy. “Let’s get the reload done, eh?”

Izzy wore blue jeans, an old T-shirt, and a cap that had the words “John Deere” written across the front. Ba’al wore blue sweat pants, an old plaid shirt, and a windbreaker. They had both been totally Canadianized, right down to their speech.

T
HE SLEEK
HMS JOHN A. MACDONALD
pulled up beside the
Haramosh Star.
Captain LeMaitre requested permission to board, which Vince immediately granted, given that the
Haramosh Star
was now in Canadian waters.

“Good morning, Captain,” said Vince, without the slightest trace of anxiety. “What can we do for you today?”

“Aren’t you a little off course?” asked Captain LeMaitre. “What’s your destination? You’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“We are headed to Vancouver, sir,” replied Vince.

“That being the case, what on earth are you doing next to Prince Rupert, north of Dundas Island?” asked LeMaitre suspiciously.

“I do realize we’re in the wrong spot. But it’s like this,” said Vince, sweeping an arm over the containers sitting on the deck below him. “You have probably heard of my ship. She is the
Haramosh Star,
remember, the vessel that the American SEAL team intercepted off the coast of Sri Lanka.”

“Yes, of course,” answered LeMaitre. “We know what happened to your ship. That caused a hell of a political furor. But that doesn’t explain what you’re doing in the wrong spot.”

Vince hung his head in mock embarrassment. “There was a lot of stress as a result of the SEAL incursion. I made a mistake. We were destined for Vancouver, but I became confused after the Americans boarded my ship. I thought we were destined for the new container port in Prince Rupert. We just figured out an hour ago that we weren’t, and that what’s left of my cargo has to go to Vancouver.”

“OK,” said LeMaitre. “Vancouver is that way. Around Dundas Island and then straight south through the Hecate Straits. Pull out your charts and I’ll show you.”

Vince dutifully pulled out a detailed map of the west coast of British Columbia. “You’re here,” said LeMaitre, pointing to the map. “Here’s your bearing. This should be your route around the island. Have a good day.” He walked past the damaged and opened containers, looked inside a few, shook his head, and then headed toward the stairs that connected the
HMS John A. McDonald
to the larger
Haramosh Star.
He prepared a brief report, and emailed it to the Vancouver office.

M
AHARI WAS BESIDE HIMSELF. A fourth message. Four. He was officially a millionaire, more or less — there were now four Samsonite cases, each containing a quarter million big American dollars in cash. Along with that, his prestige and fame were escalating rapidly. Each news segment began with the statement, “This is Mahari Dosanj, reporting for Al Jazeera, Islamabad,” and closed in the same manner. He was doing longer summaries as well, and was beginning work on an hour-long documentary about the experience. He had arrived, and was planning to take full advantage. Sure, it was a bad situation, and he wasn’t interested in terrorism or
jihad
, but as long as there was money to be made...

For the rest of the world, the new message meant that the time frame had accelerated, and that the area in which the attack would take place had been narrowed.

For everyone watching, there was one unanswered question. There were now four messages. Would there be a fifth? The only one who was truly hoping for another was Mahari. He was already a millionaire. A fifth message, and the accompanying fifth case of cash, would make him fabulously wealthy. He hoped there would be a hundred more.

Y
OUSSEFF LOVED to tell the tale of how Ba’al and Izzy became Canadian citizens. Legal Canadian citizens. Perfectly, legally, legitimately Canadian. There were, in fact, many Afghani and Pakistani people on Yousseff’s payroll who were either already legal immigrants or in the process of becoming so. This had happened because of a problem that started the way most of Yousseff’s problems started. He had too much unlaundered money lying around.

The issue had developed for Yousseff in the early ’80s. Leon, his Canadian contact, insisted on paying with an occasional suitcase of Canadian cash. While the money was definitely more colorful, it was also more difficult to launder or use. Canadian dollars went nowhere in Afghanistan and Pakistan. The money could be taken every now and then to the Caribbean, to some bank or other in the Caymans, but that was risky, and the banking charges were inordinately high. At that time, the Canadian and American governments had been catching on to what was happening with the banks in the Caymans, and had started pressuring the Caribbean governments to provide the names and sources of the cash that was deposited in their banks. For that reason, it was an option that Yousseff had avoided unless he had no other choice.

Over the years, the Canadian money had started to accumulate. Yousseff kept it stashed in a mini-warehouse rental establishment in an industrial suburb of Vancouver, but all that ever happened with it was that he required more space to keep the growing collection of suitcases. He rented first one unit, then two. At three he bought his own warehouse, for which he was able to pay a small down payment in cash. All the monthly mortgage payments were paid in cash. But it was getting awkward. He desperately needed a way to launder his Canadian dollars.

By this time in his life, Yousseff had learned the three fundamentals of laundering drug money. First came placement — namely, moving the funds away from any direct association with the drug enterprise. Then came layering, or disguising the trail to foil any pursuit. The final phase was integration — making the money available again, with its occupational and geographic origins hidden from view.

It was the first and third steps, the placement, and then the integration, that were most difficult. He had solved the problem brilliantly in Afghanistan, Pakistan, and the USA. The Karachi Drydock and Engineering Company, the Karachi Star Line, the real estate and commercial ventures, and the submersible firm in California were all running so well that he hardly needed to intervene in their operation. Dollars were introduced into these companies in a thousand clever ways, always leading to apparently legitimate deposits. When the submersible business became too successful for comfort, Kumar had opened a corner store and service station business. Now Yousseff owned, through Kumar’s companies, 50 different gas station/corner stores in southern California. It was easy to introduce illicit cash into the daily deposits of such a company. The key employees were recent immigrants from either Afghanistan or northern Pakistan, and business was well under control.

Yousseff’s problem in British Columbia was that he knew no one other than Leon, who was far too unreliable and unpredictable for a serious business relationship. He needed Pashtun tribesmen, loyal to him, involved in businesses in British Columbia. One fateful day in the early ’80s, Yousseff walked into the Canadian Embassy in Islamabad with a simple question.

“How does one become a Canadian citizen?” he had asked. In the course of discussing that particular question, Yousseff found out about the “Investor Exception” that was part of the Canadian immigration policy. To his astonishment, if you could demonstrate a net worth of greater than $800,000 Canadian, and were prepared to put $400,000 in Canadian banking institutions for five years, you were basically in. All you had to do was put the money into an investment account and forego the interest. It was an absolute Godsend, and meshed perfectly with Yousseff’s business strategy. In no time at all, he had convinced the Embassy that two individuals, Ba’al and Izzy, were indeed wealthy people, sophisticated real estate investors, and entrepreneurs, and yes, of course they would put up the money. Of course they would establish businesses in British Columbia that would employ many Canadians and pay many, many taxes. It took less than two years. Now Ba’al and Izzy were Canadian citizens, and the placement problem of the laundering cycle had been solved.

Taking a page from Kumar’s playbook, Ba’al and Izzy promptly started purchasing corner store/gas stations across the province and merging them to create a new company. These stores, especially those located at busy intersections, typically had high revenue and low profit margins. A typical stop at such a station might put $60 or $70 of revenue into company coffers. People would pay $50 or $60 for gas, then a little more for a drink, or a burger, or a carwash, or just a basic candy bar. Cigarettes? Even better, since most customers paid for those in cash. Many of their corner shops had a revenue in excess of $1 million a month. Much of the business was cash based.

Their mission became a relatively easy matter of folding illicit dollars in with regular business revenues, and making enriched daily deposits. They decided on a new name for the small but rapidly growing chain — instead of 7/11, they called the chain 24/7. The business grew rapidly, and branches sprung up outside of Vancouver, and in Kamloops, Prince George, Kelowna, and even Nelson. At the turn of the millennium they moved into Alberta, putting corner store/gas stations in Calgary, Edmonton, Lethbridge, and Red Deer. A store had just been purchased in Saskatchewan. Each store was managed by a Pashtun businessman in the process of becoming a “Canadian investor,” pursuant to Canadian immigration policy.

Yousseff watched it all grow with delight, and was entertaining the vision of drawing Kumar’s stores northward, and Ba’al and Izzy’s southward, to meet somewhere in central Oregon. Maybe they could even put the stores in Mexico, so that they were selling merchandise through a chain of stores along the entire western edge of the continent. He had created the perfect laundry machine. And it was making him even more money, with absolutely no effort on his part.

W
HAT THE HELL IS IT?” Ethan and his colleagues were asking themselves, as they stood around the finished product. The new device was sitting on a lift in the center of their shop floor. Halfway through its construction, someone had started to call it “the Ark” because of the way it was shaped, and the name had stuck. It had a base containing multiple layers of stainless steel, titanium, and molybdenum alloys. The base was elliptical, measuring 20 feet along the “x” axis and five along the “y.” The same layered alloys made up the “walls” of the Ark, which were approximately six feet in height at each end, decreasing to two feet in height at the center. The base and walls were uniform in their thickness. Kumar had said that there must be no deviation from the blueprints. With the multiple layers of metals, the base thickness was approximately a quarter of an inch. It looked like an incredibly large saddle, made entirely of metal. The interior of the container was even more complex.

Protruding upward from the center of the base, into the open compartment inside the Ark, were five copper spokes, fanned up and outward. The requirements for the length of these spokes had been very precise. They originated from the bottom of the base, and were visible only if one was looking inside the device.

The “lid” of the container was detachable, but had to be handled very carefully, as any dents or scratches would throw off the design and make the Ark useless. The gradient downward from the edges to the central axis was a complex hyperbolic curve. The lid was made primarily of molybdenum, used at a variable thickness. The material was approximately one sixteenth of an inch along the edges, becoming uniformly thicker toward the depressed center, where its thickness was approximately half an inch. The molybdenum was covered with a thin layer of gold, which was only a few atoms thick along the edges and increased to a golden ridge more than an inch thick at the centerline of the lid. Underneath the molybdenum was a thin, uniform layer of copper. There were further layers of titanium, copper, nickel, and silver alloys. The whole thing had taxed the abilities of the best complex metal forming machinery that Cincinnati Milacron had ever made.

“What the hell is it, really?” asked Ethan, more to himself than to the engineers and technicians who stood around. “They said they were making some fancy machinery to try and communicate with whales, or dolphins.” He looked at his chief engineer, his eyebrows raised in doubt.

“Dolphins, my ass,” said the engineer. “That’s just totally stupid.”

“What did it end up costing?” asked one of the metalworking technicians.

“Almost $3 million,” responded Ethan. “But Kumar said it was a cost-plus job. He made big bucks on this thing. And you know how much we’re getting paid for it.”

“To talk to bloody whales? And how the devil is this thing going to do that?” asked the chief engineer.

“I guess they plan to put some electronics inside of it,” said Ethan. “I guess that probably explains the five copper rods. I just don’t see it, myself.” He straightened up and shook his head. “Whatever, we all made good money on the job. I really don’t care what they do with it. Let’s go to the lunchroom and have a beer to celebrate,” he added. Kumar had pledged a bonus to the whole staff for working through the weekend to get the job finished, and Ethan wanted to take advantage of the extra money to reward his crew.

“I don’t care if they waste it on a new type of marine toilet. Three million bucks is three million bucks. It’s just crazy to have used it this way. There’s got to be something more to it,” said one of the men, as they filed out of the warehouse. They all nodded in agreement, then dismissed the matter, heading for the promised beer and food.

I
N THE NORTHERN British Columbia village of Stewart, Jimmy was helping Ba’al and Izzy with the reload. He needed to stretch his legs, and enjoyed conversing with the friends he seldom saw. The Semtex slid out of the submersible easily, in what was a reversal of the
Mankial Star
-to-
Haramosh Star
transfer that had taken place two weeks earlier. Jimmy slid 150-pound lots of the Semtex onto the frontal scissors lift, and raised the lift so that it was level with the powered tail lift of Ba’al and Izzy’s five-ton cube van. Each section of 150 pounds had been placed on mini-pallets that were fitted with wheels on the bottom, for ease of movement. Fifteen minutes, and the Semtex was sitting in the back of the van. They pulled some tarps over the load, threw a few tires over the tarps, and slid the van’s door closed. The three of them rested for a few seconds, looking at the little submarine.

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Ba’al.

“Every sub that we use can now be controlled electronically. With GPS technology we can send it pretty much anywhere we want,” replied Jimmy. “I have just enough fuel left to send her ten miles or so back down this channel. At that point, the hatches will open, and she’ll sink to the bottom. It’s plenty deep out there. No one will ever find her.”

“But it cost a fortune to make it,” Izzy protested. “Seems like a waste to me.”

“We have dozens like her, Iz. In fact, this is an older model, a PWS-12. Kumar is working on a PWS-14 at the plant down there in Long Beach. This one is expendable. She’s served us well. It’s time to scuttle her.” He hopped back into the sub and turned it around. He fiddled with some of the controls and jumped out of the sub as it began to chug its way westward down the long fjord.

“Give me a lift to Smithers, gentlemen. I can catch a plane to Vancouver from there,” he said, watching the sub disappear. “My job is done.”

Ba’al and Izzy were happy to oblige. The three of them had known each other for more than 20 years, but because of the far-flung nature of Yousseff’s activities, seldom saw one another.

Ba’al got behind the wheel of the van. They had already decided that they would take turns driving. Yousseff had been clear. They were to stop for nothing. One way or another, the authorities would be right behind them. The distractions that Yousseff had planned would throw them off track a few times, but they would come again. The van couldn’t make any long stops. Their orders were to fill up the gas tank, grab some food, and move. Take turns driving. Watch out when they stopped at weight scales. No stopping for a second longer than they needed to.