“Indy,” she called out as she wriggled her way back into the marijuana room, “here’s four bottles of water. Drink half of it now. Conserve the rest. They have one more load to bring through the mine, they said.”
“Whatcha doing, Cath?” he asked.
“Those guys are loading up a truly massive shipment of heroin. Several tons, Indy. Tons. And it’s weirdly wrapped. In bricks, in red cellophane. Least I think that’s what it is. I’m going to check it out.”
“Are you nuts?” said Indy. “This is a heroin crowd. I’ve been undercover with their sort for years. They’ll put a bullet in your head just because they don’t like your hairdo. Stay here. We can get out the Canadian end of the mine, get to a phone, and get that truck pulled over before it reaches Whitefish, Montana. Stay here. That’s an order.”
“Indy, think about it. We don’t know where that truck is going. The FBI might miss it, even if we give a perfect description. But we know who these traffickers are. If I can find out enough, we can put the entire Lestage/Hallett gang in the big house within 48 hours. We might be able to nail whoever’s at the other end of the pipeline. A shipment of drugs this big is probably headed to California, and there must be some heavy-duty guys at that end. I didn’t get to be corporal with the Force by sitting still. I’m going back out there. I can hide behind some trees. I may get lucky and pick up some more scraps of information. I’ll be OK.”
With that she was gone, this time crawling her way through the narrow ventilation shaft as though it were a school hallway. Back in the main tunnel, she ran toward the southern entrance and clambered into the back of the truck. She had not mentioned this part of the plan to Indy. He would have forcibly restrained her had he known what she was thinking. It occurred to her that she might regret it later, but for now she was set on tagging along. She buried herself underneath one of the tarps and crouched down behind the drugs, as close to the wall of the truck box as possible. Then she reassembled, as best she could, a stack of the red bricks in front of her. There was the odd crack in the pile, which she hoped the smugglers wouldn’t notice.
She didn’t have long to wait. Soon the mine doors opened again, and Dennis reappeared, this time with not one, but two other men. Both men were of the same slight build, and moved quickly. Both expressed supreme frustration with Dennis in their body language. Both seemed to be saying, “Let’s go, let’s hustle, don’t dawdle.” Catherine curled into the smallest ball she could manage, thanking God for her small frame. At one point she could swear that one of the men had touched her, but thankfully, with the poor light inside, and the now bright light outside, she was not seen.
After the reloading, the three of them stood talking for a moment, and then Dennis headed back into the coal mine. One of the strangers hopped into the back of the truck, pulled several of the tarps over the load, and placed the coolers on the edge of the tarps to hold them down. The second man walked a short distance into the woods on the other side of the truck and stopped to relieve himself. Thirty seconds later, she heard the rear door of the truck slide down, and the lock click shut. Then the truck engine started up, and they began a lurching, bumpy ride away from the mine.
Catherine reached into her pocket for the cell phone, which Dennis had, in his sloppy manner, neglected to take from her. Had he seen it, he probably wouldn’t have cared anyway. They were many miles from the nearest cell tower, and had been deep underground. She flipped the cell phone open. A large red icon was blinking, signaling a low battery. Dammit, she thought. Hooped. Oh well, at least she had the… desperately, she searched one pocket after another. No GPS locator. She couldn’t believe it. No GPS. It must have fallen out of her pocket at some point while she was running toward the truck. What rotten luck. Double hooped. No telephone. No GPS. She fiddled through her pockets again, more carefully this time. The only thing of any use was the cigarette lighter that she and Indy had used for light in the subterranean room at Devil’s Anvil.
It was 7:30 in the morning when Izzy and Ba’al finished the loading and drove away from the southern end of Devil’s Anvil. The day was gorgeous, the sky a bright metallic blue, with the occasional puffy cloud floating by. They were at the headwaters of the Flathead Valley, with the razor sharp peaks of Glacier National Park to the east, and the ruggedness of the Flathead National Forest to the west. The tiny hamlet of Polebridge was only 16 miles ahead of them, but they were 16 rough miles, along the winding and unpaved road that ran parallel to the Flathead River. The first two miles toward the old Peterson homestead were particularly difficult, in that there was no road at all, just a rugged trail, almost completely hidden by the fir and pine trees that covered the lower mountainside. “It’s those damned satellites the Yanks have,” Leon had complained when he first showed them the trail. “They look at every inch of the border, and if they see a trail that shouldn’t be there, presto, instant trouble.” South of the Peterson ranch, the road, though still unpaved, was at least well graveled and easier to travel on. From there it would be a straight shot to Polebridge, where they’d connect with real roads.
The first hour was particularly rough on Catherine, as the truck lurched from one pothole to the next, and in and out of various ruts, sideswiping the odd fir tree. She was able to relax and stop bracing herself against the wall when they finally connected with old skid trails, and relaxed even more a few miles later when they got to the logging road that ultimately led to Polebridge. At Polebridge, a town that consisted of a few houses, a gas station, a store, and a saloon, the road crossed the Flathead River and became Highway 486.
Both Izzy and Ba’al sighed with relief as they pulled onto the highway. They were through another step of their plan and finally on their way. They were also totally oblivious to the extra passenger they were carrying, under the tarps, in the back of the truck. It was 8AM, Pacific Standard Time, September 1, when Izzy pulled out the satellite phone and dialed a prearranged number. In distant Islamabad, a telephone rang three times and stopped. Then four rings, then five. It was a signal that had been arranged months earlier. The explosive was going to be delivered on schedule. Time to initiate the next step in the plan.
At 8am in Los Angeles, the sky was a smoky brown. While the pollutants were a constant source of irritation, they did produce beautiful sunrises and sunsets. Massoud and Javeed were facing southeast, toward Mecca. They were, on this penultimate morning of their lives, in a state of intense and focused prayer. They’d been told that there would be no pain. Only a blinding flash of light, and then they would enter Paradise. They would have struck a blow for the jihad that would eclipse any other terrorist strike ever made. Maybe Yousseff, Kumar, and the others had a collateral purpose, but not these two. In their minds, this was a mission for Mohammed, peace be upon Him. It would make their lives the most important of the day, in the service of their religion and country.