Gauntlet (44 page)

Slowly, however, the task of fitting into the mosaic of a new country began to erode the hard enamel of his beliefs. Ray came to know the joy of a cold Budweiser and a rare steak on the balcony on a Saturday evening. The serene rhythms and spiritual cadences of the music of the high Afghan deserts were slowly replaced by the decidedly more lively rhythms of Jamaica and Nashville. Then there were the women. A nibble here and a bite there had turned into an orgy of feasting. He knew the Emir would not approve, but, as the Americans would say, “Fuck him.”

This lusty embrace of what he assumed to be the American lifestyle was brought to a screeching halt by this one telephone call.

“Come to the Day’s Inn in Glendale, Room 237,” the man said.

“When?” Ray asked in Urdu.

“Now.”

The telephone clicked, and there was silence. The Emir’s messenger. The assigned sequence of numbers, which he’d memorized years ago. This was not a joke. Ray knew too well what the call implied. He remembered the day that he had looked into the one living eye of the Emir as if it was yesterday. The eye was dark, black even, and immensely powerful. At that time the Emir had been the lord of a princely realm in Kabul, as opposed to what Ray assumed was now a home somewhere in the caves of the Sefid Koh. Even then, Ray had known that the earthly trappings had meant nothing to the holy man. Kabul had been a convenience, with its wider streets, its airport, and its communications. The Emir was every bit as powerful in some cave or desert hovel as he had been when he was at the center of civilization. To do something to endanger the mission of the Emir would mean certain death and, most likely, a slow and painful one. He had very little choice about responding. The call to arms had finally come, after ten long years, and its announcement after all this time was definitely unwelcome.

A
S A RESULT OF THE CONVERSATION with Captain LeMaitre, Dan was able to involve the RCMP, who had Constable Klassen from the Hazelton detachment make the 130-mile journey to Stewart and “poke along the docks a bit,” as Lance put it.

Constable Klassen made occasional trips to Stewart to keep an eye on things there and already knew the denizens of the small town well. He had run into Wharfdog Charlie on a number of prior occasions. He had a respect for all people, until they gave him reason to believe otherwise. The worst offence Wharfdog had ever committed was that of public drunkenness, which was, unfortunately, an offense he committed more or less continuously. This time, Wharfdog told an amazing, unbelievable story, but with such detail and consistency upon retelling that Klassen figured there must have been some kernel of truth to it. He had been given TTIC’s number before he started his investigation, and now asked Wharfdog how he felt about telling this story to some other people.

“Sure, no problem,” Wharfdog Charlie replied. “Just so long as they don’t piss me off. Sure.”

The call was put through TTIC’s exotic speakerphone system, so that Klassen and Wharfdog came through with crystalline clarity for the whole group.

“You’re on our speaker system, Constable Klassen,” said Dan. “Maybe give the mike to, uh, what’s his name, Charlie?”

“Fine by me, sir,” said Constable Klassen in distant Stewart, BC. “Here he is.”

“How many’ov you fuckin’ assholes are in on this telephone conversation anyway, eh?” asked a truculent Wharfdog, when he got on the phone. “Oh, just a couple of us, Mr. Charlie,” said Dan. “Just a couple.”

If he had been honest, he would have said that there were about 25 people in the main control room, and that every word of the fully duplexed conversation was being broadcast through the large control room speakers. Given the importance of the call, it had been piped to Langley as well and, for all he knew, from there to the Pentagon and the White House Situation Room. Because the call originated from the microphone inside a police cruiser, and >was transmitted via satellite to a ground station in Vancouver, and from there to the Heather Street complex, it was also being relayed through a crowded RCMP conference room, in which 15 or 16 people were listening. A more forthright answer would probably have been that there were maybe 100 in on the call.

Wharfdog processed Dan’s answer with suspicion. “What do you want to know, then?” he asked.

“Can you describe what you saw?” asked Dan.

“It was the strangest looking boat I’ve ever seen,” said Wharfdog. “It came in very low in the water. But I’ve seen it before, the same one. It might be a little submarine. Tiny little fucker, eh.” He paused for a second.

The voice of Klassen came on the line. “Hang on guys, he’s just taking a slurp here.” He sounded embarrassed.

Admiral Jackson was one of the many higher-ups in on the call. “Oh Jesus Christ,” he muttered to himself.

“The hatch slid back,” continued Wharfdog. “And dammit, some guy hopped out and hugged two guys by this truck. This box truck. On the wharf. And then these mechanical arms come out of this boat thing, and there was another platform on rollers and shit, eh. It kind’ov loaded itself into the back of the truck and like holy shit, these pallets came along and–”

“Charlie,” interrupted Dan. “What kind of material was–”

“Don’t interrupt me, asshole. And it’s Wharfdog to you. In fact, it’s Mr. Wharfdog.”

Wharfdog and Dan continued to interrupt one another, drawing the spiral of Wharfdog’s elliptical descriptions out farther and farther. Eventually, amidst a chorus of fuck you’s, and asshole this and that, the tortured recitation of the Stewart reload from submarine to truck was provided to a raptly attentive audience. In the middle of it, Wharfdog was even able to give three of the letters on the license of the truck — DGO.

“I remember because it’s a funny spelling of my name, you know, D-O-G,” he said.

“Well, thank you, Mr.Wharfdog,” Dan was able to say at the conclusion. “You’ve been a great help and we all appreciate it.”

“I thought it was just a couple of you, you said. Now it’s ’we all’,” said Wharfdog.

“OK, there are a few more than a couple. But thanks.”

“Fuck you too, asshole,” came the tart reply. “Fuck all of you.”

At that point, the call was abruptly ended. An uncomfortable silence filled the TTIC control room, interrupted by a short burst of laughter from Turbee. “Turbee, will you please shut up,” Dan said impatiently.

“I just can’t believe this,” said Turbee. “Here we are, the cream of the Intelligence Community, some of the smartest people on the planet, some of the most connected people on the planet, sitting on top of a multi-billion dollar computer, in the center of a trillion-dollar Intelligence Agency, with the ability to pulverize entire countries into powder if we wanted, and we’re listening to a guy with a name like Wharfdog, who lives inside a pickle jar, he’s so hammered, calling us from the middle of nowhere. And we sit here in stunned amazement, listening to every syllable. I’m rolling on the floor with laughter here.”

He giggled again, and was actually close to rolling on the floor to demonstrate, until he saw the sober and worried look on the faces of many of his colleagues. No one else was laughing.

“Shit, I’ve done it again, haven’t I,” he said, when he realized that the only person seeing humor was him. “Dammit. Sorry people. Shouldn’t have laughed. Sorry. Very sorry.”

It was one of the most critical aspects of Turbee’s disorder; he had almost no understanding of traditional humor. He laughed when he shouldn’t, and didn’t laugh when he should. He couldn’t read the facial expressions or the fine shadings in tones that were at the soul of comedy. In his attempts to compensate for this lack of understanding, he often forced himself to laugh in situations that he thought would be seen as comical. As it did now, this often resulted in highly inappropriate behavior. Although few knew it, this was the reason he compulsively watched and re-watched TV series such as the Simpsons, Bugs Bunny, and all the rest. He studied humor like most people would have to study the mathematics, engineering, and programming that came so naturally to him.

Looking around, he quickly realized that no one in the room was willing to listen to explanations like that at the moment. Grabbing his rolling IV stand, he retreated to his desk and began aimlessly tapping on the keys of his computer. The rest of the group ignored him and began to discuss what they would do with the new information from Wharfdog Charlie.

T
HE TRIP FROM STEWART to the American border had been long, and, as Yousseff had insisted, there had been no breaks. Ba’al and Izzy had taken turns driving and sleeping, but they were both exhausted. Their trip had started more than 48 hours earlier. They had flown from Vancouver to Prince George, rented the van, and driven from there to Stewart. Then, after a wait of some six hours, they had connected with Jimmy, loaded the explosives, and started their lengthy southward journey. At Fernie they had turned off the highway and headed toward the Akamina-Kishinina. The last two hours had been spent bouncing over the bumpy, rutted, potholed road from Fernie to the park.

“Here at last,” said Izzy as he pulled onto the old trail that led to Leon’s trailer and Devil’s Anvil. They had both been there before, and knew what to expect. They slowly drove down the narrow trail toward the mobile home, past it, and toward the mine entrance itself. Dennis Lestage was already there, sitting in a lawn chair, smoking a cigarette.

“About time, boys,” said the ever slothful Dennis, not getting up. “Been here waiting for you for hours now. I’m gonna get overtime for this.”

“How about we do you a favor, Dennis?” replied Izzy. “We won’t tell Leon that you actually said what you just said.”

“And another favor, Dennis,” added Ba’al. “Butt the cigarette.”

Dennis was not one to take orders from anyone other than Leon, least of all these two Paki types who thought they were so much better than everyone else. He tapped another smoke out of his Export A package, and lit it with the butt of the last cigarette. He threw the old cigarette, unextinguished, on the ground. Without moving any further, he flicked the generator button and pushed open the doorway to the mine with the heel of his boot. Then he motioned grandly for them to get started with their business.

“Listen, blockhead. Butt the cigarette,” Ba’al repeated. He was in no mood for jokes. He had just traveled 1,000 miles, and had almost 1,000 more to go. “Why?” Dennis asked, spoiling for an argument.

“Because we’ll blow your ass to hell if you don’t,” said Izzy. He was as tired and cranky as Ba’al. He dearly wanted to say that they had more than four tons of Semtex in the back of the truck, but there was no point in adding it. Instead he pulled out his Beretta 9 mm and pointed it at Dennis. “Butt the smoke, asshole,” he said, with sufficient malevolence in his voice to convince Dennis that this was not the time to draw a line in the sand. Grimacing, he tossed the partially smoked cigarette on the ground and extinguished it with his boot.

Ba’al continued to glare at the Canadian. He didn’t like that someone so stupid and lazy was involved in such an important project. If this were his plan... “Let’s get to work,” he sighed, rolling up his sleeves.

The three of them started unloading the Semtex onto the railway trolley, which was parked just outside the mine. When it had been piled as high as was safe, they started the cart toward the entrance. Ba’al halted the cart just before they entered the doors.

“This is going to be a four tripper, gentlemen. Izzy, stay with the truck. Dennis and I are going to the other end to unload. We’ll be back in an hour or so, tops.” Ba’al didn’t trust the chain-smoking, curious, and monumentally stupid Dennis alone, in such close proximity to such a large volume of high explosives.

“What the hell is this shit anyway?” asked Dennis, pointing to the cellophane-wrapped bricks.

“Same stuff as always, Dennis. Just a new way of wrapping it, eh. Now shut up.”

C
ATHERINE pushed the door a little wider, glancing out into the tunnel, and looking first one way, then the other. The space was pitch black, and there was nothing to be seen. She listened carefully, then snuck one foot out the door, wondering what she was going to do once she got out of the marijuana room.

At that moment, she heard the distant sound of a generator starting up. There was a click, and the lights came on again, blinding her.

I
T TOOK ONLY 30 MINUTES to get from the north end of the mine to the south end, even though the total distance was more than three miles, and there was an elevator ride in the middle of it. The trip was made in silence, the only noise coming from the iron wheels on the rails. Even with the artificial lighting, the darkness of the mine had always made Ba’al nervous. The coal black walls and low ceilings were a marked contrast to the spacious caves back home, in the Sefid Koh. The whole place had a closed, dangerous quality to it. He’d never dealt with it very well, and looked forward to finishing this part of the trip and being on his way.

They passed through the hexagonal space that served as one of the hubs of the lower tunnels. Ba’al saw Dennis’ nervous stare toward one of the doors and almost asked him about it, but decided not to. Hell with it, he thought. No telling what was going on in the dolt’s brain. On with the task at hand.

At the far end of the tunnel they reached another doorway. Opening it revealed the back end of a five-ton van, similar to the one that they had left parked on the Canadian side of Devil’s Anvil. This new van had been supplied by the Hell’s Angels of the Billings, Montana chapter, as arranged by Leon Lestage.

This van also had a powered tailgate. The usual rail system had been built into the trolley, under a false floor, and the two were able to roll their wheeled pallet easily into the truck. It took less than ten minutes to unload the cargo into the back of the truck and turn around for the next load. The sun was rising as they returned to the Canadian end of the mine, to greet a silent Izzy.

L
OAD TWO,” said Ba’al at the north entrance of Devil’s Anvil. “Let’s hustle here.” Without further ado the three of them began loading the trolley with a second load of Semtex, which they managed to do in ten minutes. Ba’al pushed the trolley immediately into the mine, motioning for Dennis to accompany him. Not a second was wasted. Ba’al remembered Yousseff’s theory that the reloading at any point, whether from truck to boat, boat to boat, truck to plane, or anything else, was the danger point, and had to be done with maximum speed and efficiency. Many of the transfer systems built by Karachi Drydock had been designed with this mantra in mind. Speed was paramount.

“Put a little effort into it there, Dennis. With this much money and risk, we’re not going to dawdle. For the next few hours or so, it’s time to actually work,” groused an annoyed Ba’al.

Dennis tried to hide his anger. Here he was, the present custodian of Devil’s Anvil, and this foreigner was lecturing him. “Whatever,” was the only reply he could muster.

They traveled back to the southern end of the mine again, without a second to sit and relax. Dennis’ bones ached, and he longed to rest, but Ba’al’s direct, unblinking stare was unnerving and accepted no excuses.

C
ORPORAL CATHERINE GRAY panicked. She had spent the last ten minutes crawling through a ventilation tunnel that was barely big enough to accommodate her body. For 24 hours before that she’d been locked in a room, choking with money. She was dehydrated, stressed, and pig-filthy. And now the lights went on. One of two possibilities. Either someone was coming in the north entrance, in which case she had 15 minutes to hide, or someone was coming in the south entrance, a few hundred feet away, in which case she had a second or two to hide. No point taking unnecessary risks, not with people the likes of Leon and his clan. She darted back into the marijuana room, hoping to God that she wouldn’t be too stoned in 20 minutes to figure out what the next step in this elaborate dance was going to be.