Gauntlet (34 page)

Before them was a mass of money, most of it clipped together in even stacks. Each clip appeared to have been sorted by bill denomination, and separated into piles of twenties, fifties, and hundreds. The effort to stack the bundles up neatly, one on top of the other, had obviously been abandoned long ago. Now the money lay in massive piles, taking up most of a room that measured at least 20 feet square. Along one wall, some 40 Samsonite briefcases were stacked up, side by side.

“Looks like the smurfs are going to be busy for a while,” chuckled Catherine. “In fact, for a very long while. I’d say they’re starting to get behind.”

“Let’s check out the other rooms,” said Indy, noticeably excited. He moved to another door and started to work away on the padlock. More fidgeting, more grumbling, and finally more Punjabi, at a higher frequency than before. Catherine had to restrain a giggle. Eventually the lock opened, and she and Indy looked eagerly into the second room.

“Canadian money,” exclaimed Indy. Again clipped in bundles, again mostly in twenties, fifties, and hundreds, this time in the more colorful Canadian currency.

“I see it, Indy. They probably have parallel smurfing operations on the American and Canadian sides of the border. They don’t need to worry about passports and border crossings. If they need smurfs in the States, they just send clan members through this tunnel to take care of things in Montana. Heck, once they’re across the line, they can smurf in California if they want to. There has to be an American accumulation account parallel in its operation to the Canadian accounts. Ultimately, the money gets transferred into offshore accounts, and they can legitimately use it from there.”

“We’re talking millions and millions of dollars here. This is way bigger than we thought, Cath. We’re going to do the bust of the century. We’re in the big leagues now,” said Indy. “Let’s check the other doors.” It was becoming a bit like a game show. Door number one, door number two, door number three...

He was starting to get the hang of picking locks, and opened the padlock on the third door more quickly than he had the other two.

“You’re pretty good at that Indy,” said Catherine. “If the Force dumps you, you’ve got a ready-made second career.”

“Not funny, Cath,” he said, as the third door swung open.

This room held a pungent but familiar odor. Catherine and Indy sniffed, paused, and then turned their flashlights into the room’s interior. Catherine gasped softly. There were stacks and stacks of plastic-wrapped bricks. On the witness stand, the police described it as “a green, plant-like substance.” Marijuana. Mountains of it.

“Holy shit, Cath, there must be at least a ton of it in here,” exclaimed Indy. “Maybe two tons. The street value in this room alone has got to be in the millions. Maybe tens of millions.”

“Three guesses as to where it came from, and where it’s going,” Catherine muttered darkly.

“I’m sure it’s BC Bud,” said Indy. It was the region’s second-largest export. The basement marijuana grow-ops must have been kept busy for years to produce this much of the stuff.

“BC’s number two product, and quite a stack of it,” Catherine said, reading his thoughts. She turned her flashlight to the corners of the room, noting that the marijuana was packed close to all four walls.

“You know, Cath, it may be BC’s number one export by now,” replied Indy, duly impressed. “No one knows for sure anymore. Most of this, I’m sure, has been lovingly cultivated in high-tech grow-ops in Vancouver.”

“Maybe the Ministry of Forests should get involved with regulating and distributing this stuff. Then it would be guaranteed to lose money, and the whole hydroponic industry would cease to function,” joked Catherine.

“Good point,” replied Indy. “Remind me to bring it up at the next executive meeting.” They both laughed.

“Given Leon Lestage’s role in all of this, it was probably acquired, wholesale, by motorcycle gangs, and transported here that way,” said Catherine, sobering. “Maybe that tour bus is being used to transport some of it.”

“And it’s all headed stateside, probably mostly to Washington, Oregon, and California. You know, the Yankee West Coast is not all that different from British Columbia. Must be the influence of the Pacific,” said Indy. He turned away from the pile of BC Bud. “Shall we see what else we have?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea about what’s behind door number four,” Catherine said.

“Me too,” answered Indy. He started to fuss with the last padlock, muttering loudly and nonstop in Punjabi. This was more exciting than any other investigation he’d ever been part of, and that included his undercover days in the ’80s. In the excitement of the discoveries, he had completely forgotten his claustrophobia, and now worked with focus and intensity.

The lock gave, and the door swung open. A different smell, one that Catherine did not recognize, greeted them. Indy knew exactly what it was. Heroin, in uniform brick-sized packets, neatly wrapped in plastic, and stacked against one wall of the room.

“Holy shit. These guys have it all, Cath. They’re running all the drugs. That heroin is probably from Southeast Asia or Afghanistan. It reaches BC, probably though Vancouver harbor. They somehow get it past the police there and bring most of it here, for later export.” Indy was pacing the room, his accent getting stronger and stronger as he worked the theory out in his head. “They must get rid of some of it in Vancouver, given the big colony of heroin addicts there, but most of it comes here. To the Akamina-Kishinina, of all places. And then they take it through an abandoned coal mine, under the border, to hit the lucrative US market. Whoever put this together is fiendishly clever. Incredible.” He stopped pacing and looked around the room in awe. Despite the lawlessness of it, he had to admit a grudging respect for the intelligence that had come up with such a scheme.

“Holy doodle,” murmured Catherine, awed by the sheer magnitude of what was sitting in front of them. “Back at the detachment, a pound of marijuana is considered a big deal. And that’s just a pound of marijuana. This is absolutely incredible.”

“And over there,” he said, pointing to the other wall, where they could see more bricks in the shadows. “Those must be wholesale packages of cocaine.”

“Sure,” said Catherine, working the timeline out. “And that’s why there’s a whole room full of Canadian dollars. Any drugs sold in Canada would be paid for with Canadian cash. That’s got to be cocaine, probably from Colombia, or Mexico, coming into Canada. And the American dollars come from the marijuana, cocaine, and heroin they’re selling in the States.”

“There’s got to be more than $30 million in cash and drugs here,” said Indy.

“Welcome to drug central,” added Catherine. “James Leon Hallett never hit the mother load, but holy cow, his grandkids sure did.”

Indy was about to reply when there was a distant rumbling noise, a click, and a buzz as the overhead lights came on. At the same time, they heard an overhead door open a few hundred feet to the north of the money and drug rooms.

“Shit, Cath, we’re trapped,” Indy said, his voice falling. “Someone’s coming in on the Canadian end, and that’s our only way out. Since we took the rail car, they probably already know we’re down here. We’re trapped.”

“Hooped,” she agreed. “Totally hooped. What do we do?”

“Let’s get back to the central excavation and hide in one of the other tunnels. We can make it if we move fast,” said Indy, reaching for Catherine, and turning to run northward at top speed.

But Indy and Catherine didn’t make it. They ran toward the central excavation, and had almost reached it, when the lift descended completely, with Dennis, heavily armed, standing on it. Indy recognized the bus driver that he’d yelled at on his earlier trip to the area. He had an AK-47 with him now, and it was pointed directly at them.

E
ARL LEONARD LESTAGE, JR., aka Leon Lestage, was rich, but not nearly as rich as he wanted to be. He was sitting in his fabulous 12,000-square-foot home on an acre of prime British Properties real estate, overlooking the twinkling lights of Vancouver on the far side of Burrard Inlet. On one of the clear days that they did sometimes get in Vancouver, he thought it was probably the most breathtaking view on the planet. During the day, Mount Baker was visible, often appearing to float on a cushion of clouds.

Vancouver, over the past two decades, had acquired a truly big-city skyline. He could see, far below him, the multiple sails of the Canada Place Convention Center, sitting like twinkling gems on the waterfront. He could make out the distinctive soaring shapes of the Wall Tower, the Shaw Tower, and the circular peaks of the Harbor Center. The orange dots of the streetlights traced a path into the distance, disappearing in the working district of Surrey, where he had spent his 20s. To the west were the lights of the University of British Columbia.

He could make out the hangars and modern architecture of “YVR,” as the locals called Vancouver International Airport. He loved watching planes taking off and landing; in fact it was part of his frustration. Yes he owned his own jet — didn’t everybody? But it was a cheap little Lear, and he was the third or fourth-generation owner. He felt a little embarrassed when he went to the private South Terminal. There were several larger Gulfstreams, a few “fours,” and one “five.” There were a couple of Bombardiers — beautiful jets made by an eastern Canadian company. One software hotshot stored his private 737 there. And besides all that, he felt like a gunny bagger when he walked into the South Terminal. Maybe he should just chuck the old jet and fly first class everywhere he went, he thought. At least he would be made to feel special and important that way.

Same thing with the yacht. He didn’t even know if it rated as a real yacht. A mere 52 feet in length. A pathetic stateroom, and an aft deck so small that he would never have a helicopter landing on it, nevermind being able to afford a helicopter at all. Plus the primitive technology inside. The first radar ever built, it seemed. And then there were the people he had to hire. They cost too damn much money. They all wanted more, all the time. He had a maid/housekeeper/mistress on staff here at the house. But that was as far as it went. He really couldn’t afford his own pilots, or mechanics, or boat captains, or chauffeurs. To be properly equipped, he needed a staff of 12 or 13, and then he would need servants’ quarters and the house would be too small.

Dammit, he needed a bigger place on Maui, and he wanted something in Los Angeles, and a place in Europe, and... on and on it went. He was a poor boy and it pissed him off. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted a really big kill. A $4 or $5 million house, $4 or $5 million worth of toys, a few million in the bank, and a whopping big pile of money in Devil’s Anvil just didn’t do it for him anymore. He was sorely dissatisfied with his life. He was 52 years old and still hopelessly displeased with himself, his meager possessions, and life in general. It was the same attitude that had been pushing him on ever since he could remember. His thin blond hair was now flecked with gray, his middle was starting to go soft, and he needed medication to do things that he’d taken for granted in his 20s. He reached over to the humidor beside him and rolled a large, fat joint, made of the best high-grade BC Bud money could buy.

“Yo, Val, gimme a beer! A cold one!” he yelled in the general direction of the kitchen. He took a long drag on his monster joint and resumed his viewing of greater Vancouver. There, dead ahead of him, were the enormous orange container cranes, on the Vancouver side of Burrard Inlet. They reminded him of where he’d started. Those were the days, he thought. Those were the days. When he was in his 20s, working the docks in a pointless job but getting laid every night. It had been a non-stop party. Endless beer, endless smoke, and endless women.

“Yo, Val! Beer. Get. Me. A. Goddamn. Beer.” Jesus. That was the problem, he thought. Cheap help. Cheap service. You get what you pay for.

There was a scurrying behind him, and Val, who was also starting to look a little long in the tooth at the age of 23, came scurrying out with his beer — an ice-cold Corona, with lime, of course.

“Next time don’t make me wait, woman,” he growled at the stunningly beautiful girl, who managed a quick apology before scampering away, terrified of bringing on Leon’s fearsome temper.

He returned to his thoughts. Where was he? Yes, of course. The salad days. The ’70s. He poured the Corona into a frosted glass, chucked in the lime, and took a long, soothing draft. Then a long toke. He let his thoughts drift back to the good times. The orange container cranes continued to dance in the humid Indian summer air as his thoughts roamed.

L
EON WAS 17 when he left Fernie. “Never coming back to this shit hole,” he said to the few friends and many relatives he had there. “Dead-end town with dead-end people.” He had jumped on his motorcycle — a small Honda, or “Jap bike” — and, in his words, “just fucked off.” He ended up in Vancouver, like so many other young people in the province. Tall, young, strong, and handsome, with a gift for making conversation, he fell into the Vancouver bar scene, and then the easy sex and drugs of a pre-HIV world. He went from drug user to drug supplier, and then to supplier’s supplier, within a year. Marijuana use led to cocaine, LSD, and, on occasion, heroin, although he never became an addict in the full sense of the word. He used and sold, and never restricted his business to one specific drug.

Soon he was making copious amounts of money, and Fernie was the farthest thing from his mind. By his nineteenth birthday, Leon was supplying drugs to most of the bars and clubs in downtown Vancouver. His “Jap bike” days were behind him forever. Now he had the money and was in Harley-land to stay. One night he was sitting with two friends, listening to a bar band play, and enjoying the smoky, noisy scene of a downtown bar. The two Harley-riding buddies sitting next to him were both longshoremen, working at the small container terminal on the East Vancouver harborside.

“Can you believe it? You can buy in for $50 grand. Pay the money to the shop steward, and you’re in the union, and on the docks. Just like that,” one said.

“Price’s sure gone up. Just five years ago it was $10 grand,” said the other.

“What are you guys talking about?” asked Leon. “You can buy your way into being a longshoreman?”

“Yeah. Pay the money. Show up for work. You’re in. And it’s the most powerful union in Canada,” said the first. “More balls than the teamsters, even.”

“Who do I pay the $50 grand to?” asked Leon.

Both men looked at him. “You’re kidding, Leon. You got that kinda dough?”

“Yeah,” said Leon. “Maybe I do. Who do I talk to?”

One of the men gave him a number. “Tell ’em Barry sent you.”

Leon took down the number, and the following day went searching, first for the docks, then for the container terminal, and then for the shop steward. When he found him, he told him that he’d been sent by Barry. And that he had $50,000, and how would the steward like it — in cash or check? And when would he be starting work? The answer was easy... work started immediately. Leon was in the Union. Welcome aboard. The steward guessed that Leon probably had an ulterior motive, but didn’t care. After all, $50 grand was $50 grand.

That’s how Leon Lestage, a small-time Fernie boy, joined the powerful Vancouver longshoreman’s union. The shop steward introduced him to the company and recommended that he be the guy to fill an open position. Leon slipped the company comptroller $10,000, to grease the wheels. Four months later, it was apparent to everyone that Leon only showed up every second or third day, was almost never on time, and mostly slept on the job. The comptroller started expressing some concern. Leon just slipped the shop steward another $20,000, $5,000 of which found its way to the comptroller, to smooth things over again. This system worked for the better part of a decade. So long as there was money to whack around, no one complained, other than the container terminal Board of Directors, who couldn’t understand why there appeared to be intractable inefficiencies in the company’s operations.

The reality was that Vancouver’s port, from a customs and policing standpoint, had more holes than a colander. Inspections were almost nonexistent. Bales of marijuana could be unloaded in broad daylight, and no one seemed to notice. Every now and then there was a high profile bust of some sort, but these events were few and far between, and didn’t usually occur at the container terminal. Leon noticed this and, never satisfied, had decided that he was going to use this job and the unsupervised port to move to the next level. He wanted to be the supplier to the supplier to the supplier of the pushers in the bars and clubs. Wholesale wasn’t good enough anymore. Importing was the new game. To import, one needed to own the docks, and Leon decided that he was going to set about doing just that.

Vancouver was a much younger city than New York or Boston, and no established mafia or crime family had laid claim to it. The container port itself was very new, as the worldwide trend toward the containerization of ship cargos was just beginning to take root in the early ’70s. This meant that there were no other organizations taking advantage of the situation. Leon was unencumbered by conscience, had plenty of smarts and huge amounts of available cash, and possessed more than a few restricted or prohibited weapons. Mastery of the container terminal was not difficult. He didn’t even have to kill that many people to accomplish it. Before long he had succeeded in raising his game to a whole new level. Leon Lestage, importer.

A few more years saw Leon’s fortunes soaring. He owned dozens of Harleys, and even some rare antique models. He’d become successful very quickly simply because he was crafty enough to evade detection. And he was very intimidating. While many of his customers were busted, none of them dared to rat on Leon. He was wealthy enough that he could have been set for life, but his restless, moody nature forbade it. He could have stepped back and simply managed his empire, letting other people do the hard work for him, but he couldn’t separate himself from the dark turbulence and thrill of his work. He even began to grow bored with how easy it had all become. Eventually, his boredom was alleviated by the fact that he bumped into another ceiling. He developed a supply and demand problem — basic Economics 101. He had access to more heroin than he could sell. For all the media it received, there were relatively few heroin users in Vancouver. He needed a larger market.

One night, in that heightened, euphoric stage produced by combining the right drugs in just the right way, it came to him. He didn’t quite say “Eureka,” but he may as well have. The revelation was so profound that he actually lurched about his home, searching for a pencil and paper, so that he could write it down, lest the very chemical compounds that had brought on this stroke of brilliance lead to its complete destruction before the light of day. He had experienced that before — waking up in the morning, knowing that deep and profound revelations had danced through his mind during the night, but not being able to remember them. Someone had written, somewhere, that the act of genius lay in connecting two things that had been hitherto unconnected. If that were so, then Leon thought that his stroke of genius was in the same league as Galileo, in concluding that the world was round, or Newton, or Einstein, in discovering whatever it was that they had discovered.

Several days after his revelation, Leon found himself saddling up one of his Harleys and making his way back to the very hometown he’d sworn never to re-enter. He was returning to his ancestral home with a brand new plan, profound and audacious. He, Leon, lord of all he surveyed, was heading back to his roots.

He had telephoned his brother Donald the night before. He had to go through the headache of getting his number from Directory Assistance, which had made his mood even worse than usual. His other brother, Dennis, didn’t have a phone, or cell service. He lived too far out in the wilderness.

“Donald, I’m coming home. I’m going to move in with Dennis, in Grandpa’s old trailer, by the park. Tell him I’m coming over. Don’t tell anyone else. Make sure there’s someone there tomorrow evening. Make sure they have cold beer,” he had told an astounded brother. There was no “Hello, how are you?” or “Good to talk to you.” He didn’t even bother to wait for a response — at this point he was used to people dancing to his music. It never occurred to him that he’d ignored his brother, and the rest of the family, for a good four years. They had all assumed the worst and thought that he had died in the basement of some whorehouse or in some gangland brawl years before.

It wouldn’t be long before they were wishing that he had done just that.

It was midnight before a thoroughly pissed off Leon finally arrived at his brother’s home. He had miscalculated the journey. He’d forgotten about the extra distance from Fernie south to the Akamina-Kishinina, which, though short, was mostly unpaved gravel road. Not exactly the best surface for a Harley, especially not a modified low-rider like Leon’s. It hadn’t been a pleasant trip.

W
HAT LEON HAD RECALLED, on that fateful drug-infested night, was a conversation from almost 15 years earlier, when he was eight or nine. At the time, he’d been visiting his grandfather’s somewhat rundown trailer, south of Fernie, almost on top of the gateway to the Akamina-Kishinina. It was the very same trailer that Dennis now occupied. Their grandfather had been an embittered old man, having found a rich coal deposit that was too far from the railway to be viably developed. He had developed the mine himself on the strength of promises from government officials that a railway would be built eventually. After decades of work, with a fortune in sight, and another fortune spent in developing the mine, the government suddenly reversed its position. James Leon Hallett spent the next 50 years fighting for his development. Entreaties to government ministries were to no avail. Petitions to various levels of the Canadian National Railway were ignored. False hopes were raised, then dashed. It was not until the twilight of his life that Grandfather James had finally accepted that his dream of founding a vast industrial enterprise in the southeast corner of the province wouldn’t be realized — at least not in his lifetime. He had turned to drink before Leon was even born, and didn’t make sense half the time.