Gauntlet (49 page)

There had also been a cry or two, and quite a bit of cussing. The first time he heard the voice of the man, he thought he was delusional. He was in enough pain, and had been through so much psychological torture, that he was actually starting to hear things.

The second time, he’d become more curious, and started listening a little harder.

At the third cry, and the next string of profanity, muffled by the intervening wall, he’d been sure. He knew the voice. He knew that tonality. He knew who was on the other side of the wall.

“Richard?” he mouthed silently.

J
ENNIFER stared at the ring assembly attached to her wrist in shock. “I’d love to say ’free at last,’” she said, “but we’re a long way from that, I’m afraid. We’ve got to get out of this place, wherever this place is, and get back to friendly territory. I have a feeling friendly territory is a long way away.”

“I think you’re right. We’re somewhere within the boundaries of the Northwest Frontier Province, which is Pakistan’s version of the Wild West,” Richard responded. “There’s no government here. Different people have been trying to gain dominion over these lands for thousands of years, but it’s a non-starter. This is Pashtun country.”

“Nevermind that,” replied Jennifer. “Even if we get back into Pakistan, we’re not out of danger. The Pakistani police are probably corrupt. Like as not, we’re now being advertised as dangerous murderers, to be shot on sight. I’m sure that somewhere in the upper echelons of their law enforcement there’s a link to either the terrorists or the drug smugglers, or both. We won’t be out of danger until we’re back in the Islamabad Embassy, and maybe not even then.”

“I agree. These people have billions of dollars at stake here. All they need is to find someone soft, someone who can be bought,” said Richard.

“So what do we do? We have to get out. We have to find a way to get in touch with the Embassy, to let them know what the target is. Sitting here discussing the problems isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

“I have a plan. It’s a little crazy, but we have to try something. We’re going to have one chance, Jen. One shot. Only one. If we make it, we’re out of this cell, but no guarantees beyond that. If we don’t, we’re gonna be finished. We’re going to be running a gauntlet, Jen, and it’s a big, scary one. Here’s what we do.”

During Richard’s moments of lucidity, they planned it, critiqued it, improved it, revised it, and planned some more. Richard clung to Zak’s tibia throughout. Jennifer was certain that, with the shock, the drugs, and the head injuries, Richard’s stability had long since flown the coop. At one point she was even sure she saw him stroking the piece of bone. But he hadn’t stopped trying yet, and he certainly hadn’t given up. At least that was something.

As it turned out, they didn’t have to wait much longer to try their plan. A door above them clanged open, then shut, and they heard the ominous march of heavy footsteps approaching the cell. It was 3AM local time, September 2.

I
ZZY AND BA’AL had reached I-15, and were headed south at a steady 70 miles an hour. They were now approaching the Idaho/Utah border, and were talking about anything that came to mind, trying to keep each other awake.

“Just like east Afghanistan, isn’t it?” said Ba’al, looking at the fabulous panorama of ochre, brown, and green in the mountains and valleys sliding by them.

“Yes. It’s truly beautiful here,” his companion responded.

“You know,” continued Ba’al, “this system of interstate highways spreads throughout all of the USA. Pretty incredible when you think about it. Put it on cruise control and float from Seattle to Miami.”

“What’s more amazing, though, is that you can travel from one end to the other without any fear of someone trying to bomb the hell out of you, or worrying that you might drive over a landmine, or thinking that you run the chance of getting some warlord and his band of soldiers on your tail,” Izzy replied.

“So true,” said Ba’al. “So true. The only thing you have to worry about is some nutcase in Alabama, or some crystal meth addict in LA, picking up a gun. That’s nothing. And in Canada there’s even less worry. No guns up there.”

“Plus there’s a restaurant every few miles. Food is dirt cheap. Hamburgers, steaks, Mexican, Italian, Greek, Pakistani even — you name it,” added Izzy. “No fear that you’re eating horsemeat, or a dog. No gruel. No
borange
.”

“And look at the price of gas here,” Ba’al said. “Dirt cheap. That’s probably why the Americans are fuck sticking in Iraq, or even Afghanistan. They get Mid-East oil dirt cheap there.”

Izzy thought about that for a while. Afghanistan was a beautiful country, with many striking vistas, especially when one neared the Hindu Kush. It was not the endless desert portrayed so often on CNN. And it would always be his homeland, the place where it all started. But it was an unruly country, with many warlords along its borders, and now the American occupiers in the cities. It was a land full of violence, bombs, and guns. He didn’t want to go back there. Western civilization had opened its arms to him, and Vancouver had become home.

“These Americans, they don’t have a clue how good they have it. A highway like this will never be built in Afghanistan, and if it was, you could never drive it, other than in an armored vehicle, with armed escorts. I don’t miss that bullshit from the Frontier lands, Ba’al. I’m not even homesick anymore. This is home now.”

T
HE NEWLY DESIGNED and modified PWS-14 was sitting in a large, 40-foot enclosed trailer, heading northeast on the 15. Ray was driving the modern Mac tractor unit, Ted was in the passenger seat, and Javeed was in the sleeper. There was very little conversation, and even if they’d had anything to talk about, the mission didn’t exactly inspire friendly banter. The instructions from Ghullam had been very straightforward. Get the trucks and head north on the 15 until they reached their destination. Once there, they were to drop off the submersible and help with any manual labor needs, then return to the warehouse, drop off the truck, and go home. Not a big deal. No gun play. No blowing up buildings or airports. And most importantly, no mindlessly going to their own death. Just transporting a load from Point A to Point B. When that was done, he could return to his grand American lifestyle.

Sam was following him in the five-ton van. Neither of them knew what their cargo was. Massoud and Javeed presumably knew, but didn’t speak of it. For his part, Ray didn’t want to know. It was 1AM, PST, on September 2.

I
T WAS EVENING when Kumar arrived. Yousseff and Rika were waiting at the Long Beach hangar. Another plane — a small, older Lear — was parked outside, fueled, ready, and waiting. The Gulfstream was still dormant, waiting inside the hangar. Yousseff discussed the situation with Kumar for a moment, then turned to Rika.

“It’s time for Kumar and me to go, Rika. We’ll be back here within 12 hours. Use my suite. Stay here and make yourself comfortable,” he said.

Rika watched the two of them climb up the small ladder and into the Lear. “Goodbye, Youss,” she whispered, waving. She didn’t know the plan, didn’t even know the extent of the mission, but found herself deeply troubled. She’d spent the last two days working nonstop on the assignments he’d given her. But now she wondered; what had Yousseff become? What was he planning to do that would have him toss his entire fortune, close to $1 billion, on the table in one grand bet? Would only a few people really die? And even if there was just one death, wouldn’t that be murder? When had Yousseff changed so drastically that he would even consider doing something like this? And if he already had $1 billion, why did he need more?

U
PON REACHING HIGHWAY 9, and then 89, the two large trucks slowed their pace. Eventually they turned onto unpaved roads, and there the progress slowed even further, to less than 20 miles an hour. Ray and Sam drove north, as they had been instructed, following the shore of the reservoir. They proceeded some 20 miles past the campsites and RV hookups that marked the public areas of the park. The entire road was unpaved, pockmarked with potholes, and marred with ruts. It took them more than an hour to travel along this last leg of their journey.

The facility itself was very small. The building was only 3,000 square feet, steel beamed, and metal clad, with a concrete floor and an overhead gantry system. Two large Gensets in a smaller, separate building supplied the power. PWS had worked with a consortium of universities and the Federal Department of Environment to construct underwater maps of the reservoir, and had built this facility as their base during the study. At the same time, they had used it to test various aspects of their subs’ instrumentation in freshwater, and in this case murky freshwater, conditions. The contracts with the universities and government had expired years ago, but Kumar had maintained the test facility. He had personally visited the scene a few weeks earlier, just after he’d picked up Massoud and Javeed. He’d wanted to ensure that there was enough fuel for the Gensets and that everything, including the all-important central gantry crane, was in perfect operating condition. This was their meeting place, the jumping off point for the climax of Yousseff’s plans.

The day had flown by, and it had been dark for an hour by the time the trucks, and their dangerous cargo, arrived from LA. Yousseff and Kumar were already waiting for Ray and the others at the facility. They had used the small rented Lear to fly from Long Beach to Page, Arizona, since Yousseff didn’t want to arrive in his own plane. Should they be discovered or tracked, painstaking diligence would reveal only that the company leasing the plane was a numbered company out of the Caymans, which was in turn owned by a company in Nigeria. Beyond that, little else would be discernable. At the airport they’d rented a Ford crew-cab, again covering their tracks by renting it with a numbered company. It would be untraceable. Ray and Sam passed this truck on their way in, and headed toward the facility. Izzy and Ba’al were still on the road up north, but were due to arrive at any time.

Ray had some difficulty backing the tractor-trailer rig up, as the cleared space between the facility and the road was cramped and narrow. Eventually it was done, and Sam backed the smaller, five-ton van up next to it. Once the two rigs were sitting parallel to one another, the tricky unloading process began. Yousseff smiled at Kumar. They had worked together many a late evening at Karachi Drydock and Engineering, creating, dimensioning, and drafting exotic assemblies that would facilitate the transfer of product from truck to truck, truck to plane, truck to ship, ship to ship, and, in the last decade or so, from ship to submarine. This had been one of the strengths of Yousseff’s vast enterprise. All his people had the ability to reload precious merchandise under dangerous circumstances, in hostile environments, with astonishing speed and efficiency.

The same engineering, coming out of KDEC and PWS, had eventually led to the magical machines Kumar now created. The PWS-14 represented the culmination of his achievements in this area. He couldn’t wait for Yousseff to see it. Yousseff, for his part, was on pins and needles with the anticipation. He’d seen the PWS-14 during its construction, but hadn’t seen it since its completion. His smile was that of a young child waiting to open a birthday present.

“Watch this, Youss,” said Kumar. He opened the rear doors of the long trailer like a magician pulling the rabbit out of the hat.

B
A’AL AND IZZY entered the fabulous Mormon land of Utah in the late afternoon of September 2. The endless blue expanse of the Great Salt Lake was to their right, and the sun was playing its dying rays across the complex peaks of the Wasatch Mountains to the east. Izzy kept the needle rock steady at 73 miles an hour. As the spires of the Temple and Tabernacle of Salt Lake City came into view, Izzy pulled into a truck stop, just long enough for a bathroom break, some cold pizza, and old coffee.

In the back, Catherine Gray was sitting against one wall, knees by her ears, head down, elbows up. The thirst problem had been solved many hours ago. There was plenty of ice water in the coolers, and a few cans of pop and beer were still waiting, unopened. She was no longer worried about dying of thirst, a fear that she had been developing while she was stuck in the money room with Indy. She felt a twinge of guilt. His claustrophobia had been palpable. Imprisoned in the dark and airless room, even she had become anxious and fearful. But Indy, with the emotional baggage that he carried, must have been going through hell. She shouldn’t have left him, and she hoped he’d found a way out by now.

Her focus returned quickly to her own situation. Her problem now had nothing to do with thirst. She had to pee. And her upbringing simply wouldn’t let her do that in someone else’s vehicle. It didn’t matter that the vehicle belonged to drug pirates who would as soon kill her as say good morning. It didn’t matter that they would probably never know. She simply couldn’t do it. But as the hours drifted by, and the pressure reached intolerable levels, she compromised as best as she could. Taking the drinks from one cooler and moving them into the second, as there was no telling how many more hours or days she’d be here, and pouring the ice water from the first into the second cooler as well, she squatted over the empty cooler. She didn’t dare flick on the lighter, given that she was surrounded by several tons of high explosives. She felt her way around, apologized to her deceased mother, and to the owners of the truck, and let her bladder go. “Mom, I’m sorry,” she breathed, feeling a grateful release of pressure. She put the lid back into place, and resumed her cramped posture against the van’s front wall.

She would need to bolt in relatively short order once the unloading process got started. Even if someone took a short glance into the back of the truck, they would quickly notice the smell of urine in the air, and even an oaf would be able to figure out that there was an occupant somewhere in the back of the van. Catherine was surprised that the smugglers hadn’t been into the back of the van already, for the drinks they’d left here. She thanked whatever lucky star was guiding her that they had been pulling over so often; they must be buying drinks rather than coming back for the coolers. She was under no illusions about what she would need to do once the rear door of the van was finally opened. She would have to run like hell. Fortunately, she had lots of experience at that. She also had the advantage of surprise. Depending on location, she might even be able to scoot out of sight before the two drivers of the truck figured out what was going on. If she sprinted the first few hundred feet, she might be able to escape, find a phone, or a police officer, or a friendly face. Anything. But if the truck stopped within a closed space in a compound, she was probably doomed. She started to regret not taking Indy’s advice, and staying at Devil’s Anvil.