Gauntlet (27 page)

He watched as the reconstruction sites of Banda Aceh crawled by. With billions of dollars of aid from many governments, agencies, and organizations, the area was now witnessing one of the greatest building booms in history. Vince shuddered at the reason behind the rebuilding. Oceanographers and mathematicians had calculated that the tsunami that had swept over this peninsula and resulted in the need for rebuilding had been a towering, unbelievable 80 feet in height. The height of a six or seven-floor building. The poor bastards never had a chance, he thought, as his eyes followed the coastline, simultaneously tracking the screens in front of him. Not a prayer of a chance. He continued to look at the shoreline, and was deeply, deeply troubled. The explosives he had stowed away on his ship would be capable of much greater damage than what he was looking at. His sailor’s heart thanked God that he wouldn’t be there to see it.

G
OVERNMENTS being what they are, notorious entanglements of inefficiency and tepid bureaucracy, it took Indy the better part of a day in downtown Victoria, BC to find the proper building. He was sent first to the Ministry of Mines executive offices, and from there to the MOM Operations Building, and from there to the MOM Annex, then to the MOM New Building, and finally to the BC Mining Archives building. Once in the building, it had still taken him an hour of deferential waiting to be shown, by a relatively young man who moved at a glacial pace, to the sub-basement stacks. It was another hour before he found the shelving units that contained the precious nuggets of information he was seeking.

The office closed for business by 4:30PM, which of course meant that almost everyone was gone by four. The lights dimmed, and Indy listened to the scurrying of feet and the locking of doors somewhere above him. Good. They had forgotten he was there, which meant he had the place to himself. He renewed his search, relieved that he wouldn’t be interrupted.

Eventually he found what he was looking for, and it turned out to be a priceless morsel of information. Lying on a bottom shelf, covered with dust and hoary with age, was a file folder bearing the name “Devil’s Anvil.” His hands trembling in anticipation, Indy found the application, the permit, the development plan, and the subsequent modifications and alterations of the disused mine. There were also some interesting old memos. Everything was there. There was even a series of maps enclosed with the application.

Indy compared the 1920 surveying maps to the modern map he’d brought with him. A grin started to play across his face. Sure enough, the Leon Lestage property was located precisely at the entrance to the Devil’s Anvil mine. Some of the shafts and tunnels appeared to be very close, if not touching, the 49th parallel (otherwise known as the US/Canada border in Montana). He looked more closely at one of the development plans on file. At the bottom of a large map of the mine itself was a signature. It was unmistakable — James Leon Hallett. No doubt one of the progenitors of what was to become the Hallett/ Lestage gang 60 or 70 years later.

Is this how they’re doing it? he wondered. Is this the route? Was this the border hole? More work was required. Dangerous work. He’d have to get into that mine. He needed to know what modifications the Lestages and Halletts had made. How they were doing this. It would be critical, and perilous, and would have to be done when Leon was away. He would definitely need Catherine’s help.

T
HE PHONE at the Cranbrook detachment rang a few times. A receptionist picked it up and promptly put Corporal Catherine Gray on the line.

“Ready to do some spelunking, Cath?” Indy asked.

“Sure, but it had better not be dirty,” she answered.

“Spelunking. Exploring underground cave systems. In this case, underground mine systems. That’s what spelunking is. And sorry, but it can be dirty — especially if it’s a coal mine we’re exploring.”

“Where?”

“Leon’s trailer is positioned right at the entrance of an abandoned coal mine called Devil’s Anvil. Carved out of the stone in the 1920s by a mule-stubborn Scottish miner by the name of James Leon Hallett. The mine was pretty rich too, according to the assay reports.” Indy was talking so quickly that his Punjabi accent was starting to come through.

“Slow down, Indy. Where are you?” asked Catherine. “What have you found? And what’s with the Devil’s Anvil nonsense?”

“I’m at the BC Mining Archives, in Victoria, in the basement.”

“Where?”

Indy explained to her how an RCMP computer analyst had teased the name Devil’s Anvil out of one of the digital photographs he had taken on his recent trip to the Akamina-Kishinina. He told her that it had been a lucky guess that it was the name of an old mine. “At the time it must have looked like it would be a good commercial proposition, but the railway never extended that far south, and the American railways never went that far north,” he told her. “So James Hallett was stuck. He ranted and raved in Victoria, and apparently did the same in Ottawa. According to this file he was arrested for waving a gun around in the Nelson District Mining Office. Ultimately, it seems that he drank himself to death, probably unable to come to terms with the fact that he was sitting on one of the richest coal deposits in the Rockies, with no one who wanted to put in a railway. It’s kind of a sad story, actually.”

“But how does all of this help you?” asked Catherine.

“Looking at the maps, I think James Hallett may have either deliberately or accidentally dug underneath the border. There are a couple of deep, long, southbound tunnels. We need to follow them and see what we get. We need to get some GPS equipment, so that when we surface we know where we are.”

“That’s pretty wild, Indy. You’ll need a warrant, I think.”

“No problem. I can get one, with the material I have. It’ll be a legal seizure, if we find anything. Is Leon there, now?”

“Actually he isn’t. He left the same day you did. Hasn’t been back. We have some of our boys looking out for him.”

“In that case, what are you doing tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow was supposed to be a paper day. Reports to Crown Counsel, letters to lawyers, that kind of thing,” she answered.

“Well, let me brighten it up for you. Come with me. Get some powerful flashlights. I’ll bring the GPS transmitters. We can go spelunking in Devil’s Anvil.”

“Indy,” giggled Catherine, “that sounds almost sexual. ’Spelunking in Devil’s Anvil.’ Shame on you!”

“I’m too old for that, kiddo. This is just plain old police work. See you tomorrow at 7AM.”

Another day wasted, thought Indy. Might as well pack. He arranged to take the heli-service back to Vancouver. En route, his cell phone rang. It was Hagen.

“Indy, that stuff you faxed me was pure gold. You’re dealing with a major league drug operation. You have no idea how much money passes through the Cayman banks. I faxed most of what I got directly to you. Call me once you’ve seen it.”

Indy thanked Hagen, and, when the helicopter landed at the Vancouver Harborside Heli-Port, proceeded directly back to the Heather Street complex. When he reached his office in the late afternoon, the fax and a number of enclosures were sitting on his office desk. Hagen was right — millions of dollars flowed in and out of the account. The money came in primarily from the five large Schedule “A” Canadian Banks — the Scotia Bank, the Royal Bank, the Toronto-Dominion Bank, the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce, and the Bank of Montreal. The deposits averaged out to $500,000 per week. That meant $2 to $3 million a month, and, if they worked seven days a week, running what was probably the world’s largest smurfing exercise, maybe $25 to $30 million per year. And that was just from the Canadian side of the operation. The American side was probably pulling in a lot more. Indy shook his head in wonder. James Hallett’s lame duck mine had turned out to be profoundly productive after all. Just not in the fashion that he had envisioned. And probably long after he was dead and gone.

After he’d read the fax, Indy had another affidavit sworn, using the information he had uncovered at the archives. As before, he found a lawyer at the Heather Street complex who was prepared to take his affidavit. He raced to the courthouse, sweet-talked the court registry staff, and found himself, once again, in front of a judge in almost record time. He explained the situation to the judge, who stamped the appropriate warrants. By five that evening he had what he needed.

Indy arrived back at his home at 6PM. Not having slept in almost 48 hours, he set two alarms for midnight. Leaving at 12:30 would give him enough time to drive back to the Kootenays and meet up with Catherine. In spite of his physical fatigue, his mind was now racing so quickly that he had difficulty getting to sleep at all. The biggest case of his career had just landed in his lap. At this point, he couldn’t begin to imagine how big it might actually be. He finally drifted off, just as he was imagining further promotions, and hopefully a big raise.

When the alarms went off at midnight, he rolled over with a moan and turned them both off. He made the same mistake that so many overtaxed individuals make, thinking that he would snooze for another 15 minutes, and then get up. As it was, the body demanded more sleep, and Indy didn’t come back to consciousness until the up-tick in traffic noise woke him at 6:30 in the morning. He called Catherine.

“Indy, I’m sorry, but I’m going to be stuck in court tomorrow. If you arrive here tonight, I’ll be busy reviewing transcripts and preparing for it. I won’t be able to leave until four or five tomorrow afternoon. And I don’t want to start out at five in the evening, especially after a day in court. You know how exhausting that can be, don’t you?” she asked.

“Yeah, I know,” sighed Indy. “I know too well. So we’ll start up in the early morning the day after tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” she answered, understanding his frustration. “Go and do your paperwork. Every cop I know is backed up on that sort of thing. And rest. Use today and tomorrow to catch up, so you’ll be well rested when we start out. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”

“Suppose it is,” he grumbled. “Day after tomorrow it is. I’ll meet you at that same coffee shop at 7AM?”

“Yup. Seven it is.”

So much for that, thought Indy. Here he was, with the biggest lead of his career, and he was off to do paperwork at Heather Street. That was police work for you.

T
URBEE crossed the Anacostia River at around midnight, stopping for a few minutes at the bridge’s crest to gaze down at the black river waters below. He knew that his meds had long since worn off but didn’t care. He had failed. That was all he could think about. He had let down TTIC, Big Jack, the Secretary of Defense, the President, and the nation. Dan Alexander had been right. Pack your bags. Out. It was what he deserved.

He continued walking, more slowly, past the aging Anacostia Naval Station and the once-important Bolling Air Force Base. At 1AM he was walking through the large jumble of streets that constituted the District of Columbia’s eighth ward. He didn’t realize that he had now wandered into the most dangerous area of a crime-ridden city. At 3AM, he stumbled across the empty parking lot of the infamous Ballou High School. That was where he was spotted by Ziggy, the kingpin of a collection of teenage skinheads who called themselves the Aryan Knights.

The situation was just too good to be true for the bored, intoxicated thugs, who were looking for an easy thrill — cheap and easy sex, perhaps, or a car to steal, or a bum to roll.

“Hey, Ziggy, look at the skinny little Goth fuck coming down the road. He looks lost. Let’s give him directions,” one of the boys muttered.

“Yo,” replied Ziggy. “Let’s be neighborly.”

They watched Turbee come slouching across the parking lot, moving his right forearm rhythmically back and forth, and making peculiar spitting noises with his lips. He walked by the three Aryan Knights as though they didn’t exist.

“Little Goth fuck ain’t being neighborly, is he?” said Ziggy. “We really need to give him a little Ballou welcome.”

“Hold up there, little miss Goth. We want to talk to you,” said one of the henchmen.

Turbee kept walking, as though the three didn’t exist. He didn’t even realize that anyone was talking to him.

Two of the gang members stepped in front of Turbee, blocking his path. Turbee walked right up to them, and was forehead to nose with them before he stopped, realizing that he was looking down at large black-laced boots that weren’t his. His right forearm continued its rhythmic motion, and he kept making the spitting noises, unable to control them.

“Hey little piece of Goth shit. No one walks past Ziggy without saying hello. No one,” said the first henchman.

Ziggy caught up with them and peered at Turbee. “Good drugs, guys,” he said. “The Goths have always had better stuff than us.” He grabbed Turbee’s right hand. “Hold still you little bastard.”

It was at that moment that a drop of spittle from Turbee’s mouth landed on Ziggy’s naked forearm.

“Whoa. Dude. Nobody spits on the Zigster. Especially not some fucked up little fucking Goth fuck. No-fucking-body.”

The so-called Zigster was already developing a gut at 19, was 6′2″, and weighed in at 220. He towered over the slight, pale Turbee. He also had the size and reflexes of a boxer, two attributes that had helped him gain leadership of the Aryan Knights. Within a split second, a powerful left to Turbee’s nose was followed by an even more powerful right to his temple. Turbee went down like a stone, his broken nose gushing blood. He cried out in pain, and was instantly transported back to his childhood, when he had constantly been teased, beaten, and bullied for his as-yet undiagnosed condition.

“Ready to show some respect to the Aryans, you piece of shit Goth fuck?” Ziggy demanded.

Turbee could only moan. He felt the razor edge of pain, and had no idea what had caused it. The coppery taste of blood flowed into his mouth and he slowly drew himself into a fetal position.

“Get up! Get the fuck up you fucking skinny little puke,” ordered Ziggy. When nothing happened, he gave the command to his two henchmen. “OK boys, boot fuck the little bastard.”