Gauntlet (8 page)

Dan nodded in agreement as he read the email from the large central screen. He motioned to his staff. It was still early in the workday. The latest PDB had been dissected, but nothing else of importance appeared to be happening.

“Could I have everyone’s attention please?” Dan asked, rapping his pen on the desk surface. “Let’s all have a look at the email on the central 101.”

“Here we go,” muttered Rhodes to himself.

“Maybe I should start it this way. Rahlson, how much trouble could you cause with 4,303 kilos of Semtex?”

“Well, Dan, I could probably knock the planet off its axis with that much Play-Doh,” Rahlson quipped.

Some nervous laughter threaded through the group. “No, Rahlson, not you personally. The garden-variety terrorist. The plane crasher. The train exploder. You know, your basic al-Qaeda death-wish
jihaddist
,” Dan clarified.

“Oh, right,” retorted Rahlson. “Well let me tell you what you can do with that much of that particular explosive.” Derek Rahlson proceeded to give them his Plastic Explosives 101 lecture. He was the closest thing the agency (as he called TTIC) had to James Bond. He was retired from operations now, and had been for a number of years, but in his day he had been involved in many a melee, on both sides of the Iron Curtain. When, to his great disappointment, the curtain fell, he became involved in operations in the Middle East. He had gone behind the lines in the first Gulf War. He knew almost everything that anyone could want to know about firearms, explosives, and bare-handed combat. He apparently knew no fear, and had a restlessness about him that was somewhat unsettling. As the only “operations” person at TTIC, he was there because someone in the President’s inner circle felt that TTIC needed a “real spook.” He reviewed and assessed the operations reports as they came in. Like Turbee, he had initially felt like a fish out of water with the more highbrow TTIC crowd. But he was as bright as any of them, and had a gallows sense of humor that made up for any other perceived inadequacies.

“Let’s start with Lockerbie,” he began. “Flight 103 was brought down by approximately 11 ounces of Semtex. So 4,303 kilos could theoretically knock down, umm . . .” He paused for a second, looking for a calculator.

“About 13,769 jumbo jets,” Turbee piped up.

“Yeah OK, kid. Something like that. Now, take the Madrid train disaster,” he continued. “Each packsack contained, we think, about 50 pounds of plastique. The quantity of Semtex you’re talking about would yield about . . . Turbee, how many 50-pound packets?”

“By my count, 189,” replied Turbee.

“That would be enough packsacks to totally destroy the subways of New York, London, Paris, and Tokyo, all at once. London, for one, would be paralyzed for months, because of how many people use the Underground there. New York and Paris would be hit almost as badly. Not to mention the civilians killed in the explosions. It would be a devastating terrorist strike.”

“Now hold up a second, Rahlson,” said Dan. “I don’t believe that theory for a second. Before, when al-Qaeda was at its height, it could pull off multiple strikes simultaneously from different launch points. But not today. We’ve been kicking the crap out of them for more than five years now. They’re pretty much done in Afghanistan, and their leaders, if they’re still alive, are hiding in a cave somewhere for fear of detection by the Predator Drones or satellite systems. Their communications are totally compromised. Cell or Sat-cell calls would inevitably be picked up by the NSA, especially with the resources we’ve devoted to the Middle East in the past years. Internet connectivity is out of the question. Regular telephone communication, or Internet communication, stands in high jeopardy of detection, and everyone knows it. Communication, if it’s done at all, has to be done the old-fashioned way, by camel, horseback, and written note. Anything high tech would be intercepted. There is no way that al-Qaeda could possibly take out an entire city, or hit several targets at once.”

“Or else that’s just what they want us to think,” interrupted Rhodes. “Maybe that’s precisely where we’re weak.”

“Well I’m not impressed by the 13,000 jumbo jets thing. There was no airport security to speak of when Lockerbie happened,” said Dan. “But it would be impossible to smuggle plastique onto a plane today. Since that idiot shoe-bomb affair we have sniffer devices, and dogs for that matter, at most airports. Carry-on baggage is x-rayed and spot searched. Cargo is x-rayed and spot searched. Good luck trying anything like that today. For the past five years it’s been next to impossible. The big problems now are runaway nukes and underground anthrax labs. That’s what we should be looking for. Not airplane and train bombings. Not a few tons of explosives. That’s just plain stupid.” Dan waved his hand, brushing off Rahlson’s suggestion and the thought of anyone attacking a railway system.

Rhodes thought for a moment. “Suppose, Rahlson . . . suppose our terrorists were to use all, or substantially all, of the explosive in one strike, rather than spreading it around to several targets. What kind of damage would they do?”

“I’m not completely sure, Liam,” shrugged the Cold War warrior. “They could destroy a high-profile target, like the Hancock Center in Chicago, the Transamerica Pyramid in San Francisco, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Statue of Liberty, you name it. The problem they would have is that all of those targets have been designated as high security. It would take a lot of resources on their part to get access to them at all.”

“What about non-high-profile, but still very damaging, targets like the Indian Point Nuclear Power Plant in New York, the LAX or O’Hare airports, or, say, a major dam, pipeline, or chemical processing facility?” Rhodes continued.

“Well, sure,” continued Rahlson. “But all of those types of targets also have a high degree of security around them. The Indian Point facility is guarded like Fort Knox, although the general population doesn’t know that. And you can forget about anything in DC, given the closed airspace and the fuss about security.”

“What about malls, shopping centers, water towers, or just dense downtown cores, like football stadiums, basketball courts . . .” Rhodes continued, thinking aloud. “Those are all places they could use anthrax as well.”

“You can’t protect everything all the time,” replied Rahlson. “That’s what makes terrorism terrorism. As the threat level goes up to Orange, and to Red, the level of protection increases, but you just can’t protect it all. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it, Dan? To figure out what they’re going to hit before they hit it?”

“That’s a nice, succinct way of stating our mandate,” replied TTIC’s commander. “I guess that’s why we’re here.” Dan picked up the phone and asked for the office of the President’s Chief of Staff. “Turbee, as long as we’re on this wild goose chase, why don’t you see what you can hunt down on Blue Gene,” he added, as he was waiting for the call to go through.

I
NDY REACHED THE ORTHOPEDIC WARD of Vancouver General Hospital within 15 minutes, and spoke briefly with the ward’s head nurse. “The amputation was performed last night. The osteomyelitis had become too severe and entrenched, and was threatening to spread. It was an above-the-knee amputation. He’s pretty depressed, so go easy on him.”

“Thanks, ma’am,” replied Indy. “I’ll be cool.” He went to room 412, where he found Benny Hallett dozing.

“Benny,” he said softly, shaking Benny’s shoulder. “Benny, we need to talk.”

“Screw off,” croaked Benny, in a voice laced with resignation and pain. “I don’t want to talk to no cops. Not now. Not ever.”

Indy was struck by the fact that Benny had immediately recognized his profession, though he was not in uniform and had not introduced himself. The underworld was sensitive to such things. It had always been easy for them to tell, somehow, which side of the law someone came down on. This made it easy, in turn, for the cops to tell whether they were talking to a good citizen or a criminal.

“Benny,” he repeated. “I’m Inspector Inderjit Singh, with the RCMP. You need to talk to me more than I need to talk to you. You need to tell me what happened. You need us.”

“Oh fuck, a Hindu cop,” came the reply. “Double trouble.”

Indy didn’t react to the slur. He had spent most of his life dealing with racism. He was small of stature, only 5′7″, and had weighed in at 150 pounds when he applied to the Force, just squeaking by the entrance requirements. His background had also been a little sketchy for law enforcement. Growing up as a minority teenager in Toronto had not been easy, and he had gravitated to the East Indian gangs, for protection more than anything else. Bright, eager, and clever, he had been bored with what school had to offer and had quickly fallen into a life of petty crime and drugs. But for the intervention of an experienced social worker, Indy might have lived a short, fast, and high life, ending in deadly addiction, murder, or jail. But, with the assistance of some state-provided mentors from the Force, he had applied, and after much internal debate, been accepted to the academy in Regina, Saskatchewan.

When he finished his basic training, his facility in Punjabi and his knowledge of the gang and drug trade had made him a natural to go undercover. It was a move he’d made with great skill. His work led to the near total destruction of the Vancouver Punjabi trade in narcotics in the ’80s. It struck him as ironic that, with his success in eliminating the East Indian drug trade, the Triads from Hong Kong and mainland China had simply taken over. Something was definitely wrong with the nation’s drug enforcement agenda. But he shrugged it off and kept going, continuing to serve with distinction, and making the coveted inspector badge by his early 40s.

Indy already knew a great deal about the Halletts, and their cousins the Lestages, two ne’er-do-well families living mostly south of Fernie, on the Corbie-Flathead Forest service road. No one really knew how many Halletts and Lestages there actually were, but the local law enforcement thought that there were perhaps 30 all told. Members of the families kept drifting in and out of Fernie. A fair amount of crossbreeding took place. Petty crime was their stock in trade and they lived on Social Assistance most of the time. Many of the family members had racked up convictions for theft, marijuana possession, assault, and public drunkenness. During the summer months the families jointly operated a bike tour in the fabulous Akamina-Kishinina Provincial Park, located in the extreme southeastern corner of the province, abutting both Alberta and Montana. While it was surrounded by other great parks, such as Banff and Kootenay National Parks, Glacier National Park, and Waterton Provincial Park, the Akamina-Kishinina was remote and seldom talked about, primarily because of its isolation. The only road approaching the park was the Corbie-Flathead, and it did not enter the park itself, but stopped just to the west of it.

The park’s very isolation and sparse population made it a prime spot for underworld activity, if you asked Indy.

The Hallett/Lestage operation was grandiosely called the Akamina-Kishinina Bicycle Tour Co. Ltd., and for a small, family-run business it caused the local RCMP detachment in Fernie no end of grief. Tourists were constantly complaining about paying for the tour in advance, then having no tour guide show up at the appointed place and time. Worse yet were the bicyclists that left the Akamina and found no bus waiting to pick them up and take them home. Reports came in that the tour guides were usually smoking marijuana while driving the bus to or from the park, along a roadway that crossed precipitous canyons via perilous and steep switchbacks. Usually the bus developed incapacitating engine problems and the tour would be canceled before reaching its destination, or returned back home to Fernie. There were even complaints of the Hallett/Lestage group stealing bicycles from a business competitor. What troubled Indy, though, was that the operation of the company actually required the application of effort and organization, attributes for which the Hallett/Lestage gang was not well known. He wondered what was going on behind the scenes that would make such an elaborate façade necessary. It was particularly curious that this company charged less than half the cost of any competition, easily driving everyone else out of business.

Catherine Gray had told him that earlier that month Benny Hallett, age 23, had been seen driving around the streets of Fernie in a brand new, cherry red Dodge pick-up, complete with four doors, hemi, long box, and dualies on the back. The truck was tricked out with chrome roll bars, running boards, and driving lights. A stereo to die for, built-in telephone, and computer mapping system rounded out the extras. All told, a vehicle of that sort, a king amongst trucks, would cost at least $60,000 (Canadian).

One of the local constables had become suspicious. He noted a small moniker across the rear license plate advertising the dealership that had sold the vehicle to Benny. A quick telephone call and the officer learned that the new truck had been paid for by way of a draft issued by the Scotia Bank. “Bank draft!” exclaimed the constable. “No way.” It was well known that Benny had never had a job in his life. He spent most of his days living off the public purse. And now he’d managed to find some $60,000 to pay for this shiny new toy? Highly unlikely.

The constable pulled Benny over the next time he saw him, and asked where he got the money for the truck. Benny simply said that he had earned it, and told the constable to get lost. The officer had responded by calling Corporal Catherine Gray, the local drug expert, and divulging the story to her. Both agreed that based on facts and the family’s shady history, drugs were likely to be involved. But the where and how was a mystery, and there certainly wasn’t enough evidence to procure a search warrant. So the matter died, for a while.

Then the burned-out shell of the Dodge was found at the bottom of a mountainous ravine on Highway 43, north of Fernie. About a week later, Benny showed up in the emergency ward of Cranbrook General Hospital, west of Fernie. According to the admitting nurse, Benny had been in bad shape. He’d had a fever of 104. His skin was flushed and dry and he was very, very sick. His knee was a higher order of hell altogether. It appeared that Benny had taken a shot to the knee from a Colt .45 about a week before being admitted. It had been wrapped in what appeared to be a portion of a bedsheet and held together by duct tape. With no medical care or dressing. Once the homemade bandages had been removed, and the knee exposed, it was readily apparent that the wound had become a stinking, festering mass of infection. The kneecap had shattered into multiple fragments. The ligaments were totally disrupted. The head of the tibia was destroyed, as was the medial aspect of the fibula. After careful cleansing and irrigation with saline and various antibiotics, it was obvious that the bone itself was seriously infected, and that Benny was in fact suffering from what was now a life-threatening osteomyelitis infection. Not being qualified to handle anything so complex, Cranbrook General transported Benny to Vancouver by air ambulance. The surgeons there, after a few minutes of consultation, told Benny that it was the leg or his life. The amputation took place half an hour later. That was where things stood when Inspector Inderjit Singh came into the picture.

To Indy it was all transparently obvious. The expensive truck. The destruction of said truck. The “kneecapping,” compliments of Mr. 45. Benny had taken money that he shouldn’t have, from dangerous people, and had been reprimanded for his mistake. It was a pattern Indy had become familiar with during his many years working the Vancouver and Toronto drug scenes. The question was who got to Benny. And why.

“Benny, you’re a mess and I can help you,” said Indy softly.

“Yeah. And help me lose the other leg too?” Benny replied. His cousin Leon had visited him only the night before, threatening a slow and painful death if he uttered one syllable to the cops. Talk? He’d rather eat snails, thanks.

“Look, let’s just talk for a bit,” said Indy quietly. “I don’t even want to know who did it. Let’s talk about what got you here.”

“Whatever, rag head. Whatever.” Even in his humbled state, Benny maintained his brittle edge.

“You know, I ran with the gangs when I was a kid. In Toronto. We moved loads of stuff. And some good people were able to set me on a straighter course,” said Indy. Slowly, he told Benny bits and pieces of his personal history. It was a wonderful interrogation technique, one that Indy had used in the past. Gradually, Benny started to open up. Maybe it was the Demerol coursing through his system. Maybe it was the need to talk, or the comfort and genuine concern in Indy’s soft voice. Or the fact that the inspector was talking about non-taboo subjects, or his great skill at the art of non-violent interrogation. Maybe it was just that Benny actually was a dolt. But ever so slowly, his tongue began to loosen.

“Heroin?” he answered the suggestion Indy had just made. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m not going there. I’m not gonna tell you who or how. And I’m sure as hell not gonna tell you why my truck got whacked, or about the bullet in my leg. It was all an accident, that’s all. An accident.”

Indy smiled to himself. The fact that Benny was using so many words to deny something made it obvious exactly what was going on. The interrogation was going very well.

“It’s OK,” said Indy. “You don’t need to tell me anything about the truck. I’m not going to push you.” Instead they continued to talk about the possibility that there had been serious drugs involved. And how it probably wasn’t Benny’s fault.

“Look, Benny, I’ll come back in a few days. And here’s my card. Headquarters are only a ten-minute walk from here, and if you need anything, call me. I may be able to help you. It seems to me that you could use a friend, so far from home and with a major injury.”

Indy shook Benny’s hand, and wished him well. Benny, in his simple mind, was warmed by Indy’s concern; while Indy was a cop, and a Hindu cop at that, he was one of the few nice people that Benny had ever encountered.

Indy left the orthopedic ward edgy and excited. Could he do it? Did he have enough for the affidavit? In Canada, a search warrant could be issued only by a judge, and only if the informant had reasonable and probable grounds that a crime had taken place. It was a bit of a stretch, but with the destruction of the fancy truck, the bullet in the knee, and the bank draft that paid for the truck, along with the “maybe there were drugs involved” statement from Benny, Indy knew he could get the order. It might not withstand cross-examination, but the object of the exercise wasn’t Benny’s prosecution. All he wanted was an order compelling the Scotia Bank to disclose all records in its possession with respect to the account number that had appeared on Benny’s bank draft. In this business, the trick was to follow the money trail, not the drugs. If his hunch was right, he’d just found a major drug ring. In a place right on the American border. If this was big enough, maybe he could plug a hole, get Ottawa, Hagen, and the FBI off his back. That’s what he wanted. He really didn’t care whether Benny was convicted, or even charged. Benny was obviously a very small piece of the puzzle.

L
EON LESTAGE was speeding toward the Kootenays, his long, graying hair streaming in the wind. It was a warm summer night, with no rain. He was cursing Benny Hallett with every ounce of his will, barely paying attention to the road as he navigated his stunning Harley Davidson Road King through the Highway 401 traffic. He rode past the farming communities of Abbotsford and Chilliwack, past Hope and onto the Coquihalla, a mountaintop freeway that was a marvel of engineering. He had made a mistake, he thought. He should have put the bullet through Benny’s moronic forehead. Now Benny was in Vancouver General. Too close to a major police station by half. And with Benny’s soft, malleable mind anything could happen. Twenty million dollars, Joseph had told him. Twenty million. And real dollars. American dollars. Big dollars. The best part was that it wasn’t cash. It would be sitting in a jungle of offshore accounts somewhere. That meant no laundering problems, no taxes to worry about. Just to let the guy use his mine and have a truck waiting. He could buy a bigger jet, a place in Whistler, and a beach house spread on Maui, with a couple of Harleys at each house. With the funds that he had already squirreled away, another $20 million would pave the way to retirement. He could travel the world as he pleased, riding through the night on any continent. But now that addled half cousin of his was in Vancouver General, threatening the whole plan with his big mouth. His visit had been short, and the message terse. You talk, you die. Low-level bikers in some wannabe gang would see to that. Benny would die slowly, and painfully; that much had been emphasized. Now Leon was kicking himself. He had gone soft. He should have put the bullet in Benny’s brain, if there even was one, the first time, and torched him along with the Dodge. Then there’d have been no worries, no mess.

Leon came back to the real world just as the speedometer crept over 90. He quickly applied his brakes. The last thing he needed right now was to get pulled over by some dumbass cop. Thinking about cops reminded him of something he’d heard that day, on some fragment of a newscast, about an enormous amount of plastic explosives that had been blown up somewhere in the Libyan Sahara. Big bang; big deal. He didn’t care all that much. At heart Leon was a straightforward man, not given to flights of fancy or emotion. And he didn’t care for those who put stock in such things. An explosion in the desert didn’t affect his life in any way, regardless of what it meant to Western civilization.