There was a general chorus of exclamations up and down the Intelligence Community chain, as the email bounced from office to office. This couldn’t be good.
“Any more of this bullshit,” the President had said, “and we’ll be declaring war.”
41
Indy could barely keep his rioting nerves under control. He had tried deep breathing exercises, meditation, and prayer. Nothing worked. His anxiety was coming over him in waves. He wanted to scream with fear and anger. He was imprisoned, but the escape route was right in front of him. A little ventilation tunnel, which, within 20 feet, would take him to freedom. He had gone as far as sticking his arms and head into the tunnel, but that was the extent of it. At that point the terror had rolled over him and he’d had to scramble back into the money room. Imprisoned in the dungeon of his own making, he had been handed the key to his freedom but didn’t have the strength to use it. Even Catherine had been fearful, and she didn’t have the psychological obstructions that he did. He could see the route. Any person could. But he had to actually take it. Walking the walk or, in this case, crawling the crawl, was required. Talking the talk, as usual, accomplished little. Though he realized the true nature of his imprisonment, he was in the dark when it came to what was going on outside the mine. Had he known what was going on in the rest of the world, and how the information he held could arrest the development of the situation, he might have been able to do it.
He reached for the water Catherine had brought him and took a long, satisfying gulp. He tried again to enter the ventilation shaft, and got as far as his hips before the fear became too great. He swore silently to himself. Surely someone of his training and intelligence could gather the mental strength to overcome a little thing like fear of enclosed spaces. Then another wave of anxiety rushed over him, so intense that he became nauseated, and his resolution vanished. He was never going to get out of here. Never. Where was Catherine? Had they found her? Killed her? What if no one other than he and Catherine knew the true location of Devil’s Anvil? What if the Fernie RCMP didn’t know? What if, by the time any massive manhunt found him, he had died of dehydration? What if the thugs dynamited the tunnel? Time and again his mind drifted back to that incident, 20 years earlier in the Fraser Valley… the gunshots, the trench, the grave, the searing pain and panic, his lungs bursting for air. Not again. Please, God, not again.
Inspector Blackman and Corporal McCloud, from the Heather Street complex, had arrived in Fernie via the RCMP chopper. They were very concerned about the disappearance of Indy and Catherine. “Not like either of them to do that,” they said. Both Blackman and McCloud had worked with Indy for years. Both knew that Indy and Catherine had planned to go to some kind of mine near the Akamina. Both were concerned when neither had called in. The Fernie detachment had been called and told to wait for Blackman and McCloud, as the RCMP heli-service would be bringing them to the Kootenays. Constables Brink and Koopman, both local officers who worked on a daily basis with Catherine, were waiting for them. They were equally concerned about their friend’s disappearance, and were happy to be doing something about it.
As soon as the helicopter landed, the four of them headed south toward the Akamina-Kishinina and Dennis Lestage’s trailer. The Lestages and the Halletts were trouble, to be sure. Brink and Koopman knew the ill-fated story of Benny Hallett, his destroyed truck, and the shattered knee. They were suspicious of what might have happened. All were aware of the contents of Indy’s affidavits, sworn the week before. Inspector Inderjit Singh was a legend within the Force — they all felt flattered at an opportunity to help him.
They arrived at the trailer by 8PM, and kicked an already-sleeping Dennis out of bed.
“Wake up, my friend. We have two missing cops, and I think you know something about it,” barked Koopman as they entered the bedroom. The trailer had been unlocked, and they knew that Indy had a warrant, so they figured they were probably OK. Even if they weren’t, their concern was for the fate of two members of the Force, not for fine details about the admissibility of evidence in a courtroom.
“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” mumbled Dennis, more fearful of Leon than of cops or any sentence a judge could pronounce.
“Older cop, maybe 50, and a lady, maybe 30. You haven’t seen them?” asked Constable Brink.
“Nope. Haven’t seen them. No sir. Not here. Definitely no.”
“Corporal Gray was telling us that there’s a mine out here. Devil’s Anvil, she said. Ever heard of that?” asked Koopman.
“Mine? Devil’s Asshole? Nope. Never heard of it. No sir,” replied Dennis.
“He’s lying,” said Blackman. He had seen his share of police questioning and could spot the signs. Not that it was hard. Dennis looked to have the IQ of a rock. Not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, and no good at lying, either.
“Aw, come on, Blackman. Maybe he’s just got naturally shifty eyes,” responded McCloud.
“Which way is south?” asked Blackman.
“That way,” said Koopman, leading them out of the trailer and pointing toward a large granite bluff directly behind the home. There was a small, overgrown trail that headed in that direction.
“I think that’s where we’re heading,” said Brink. “Cuff him, Koopman,” he told his partner.
“Cuff me? What the hell for? I ain’t done nothing!” protested Dennis.
“Oh, relax,” said Koopman. “We’ll think of something.”
Blackman had to smile. He admired the style of his colleagues. These boys were doing it right.
“Where’s the trail go, Dennis?” asked Koopman.
“Don’t know,” replied the disconsolate Dennis. Leon was going to kill him, for sure. This was very bad. They would find the two cops, and the millions of dollars in drugs and money. Leon would kill him slowly, brother or not, just for the pleasure of doing it. He started sweating just thinking about it.
“Yeah, right,” said Brink. “You live here and you don’t know where the trail goes. Come on guys,” he said, motioning to the other three. “Let’s go exploring.”
Koopman pulled Dennis stumbling along behind them. It didn’t take them long to find the mine. A white five-ton box van was parked by the entrance.
“Whose truck, Dennis?” asked Koopman.
“Truck?”
“Yes, dumb nuts. Whose truck?”
“Never seen it before, sir. Never. Don’t know how it got here,” responded Dennis.
“Koop,” said Constable Brink, “why don’t you run the plates through the Sat-phone. Let’s see what pops up.” The RCMP had recently implemented a system whereby information could be transmitted and retrieved via a secured satellite link. The research only took a few seconds.
“Rental vehicle, Brink,” said Koopman. “Rented in Prince George. Driver had a speeding ticket last night east of Kamloops. Some guy by the name of Izzy al Din. D’ya know who that might be, Dennis?”
“Not a clue. Never heard of him.”
“I see. Well this looks like a mine entrance to me, Dennis,” said Koopman, turning to look at the opening in the mountain. “Where does it go?”
“I have no clue. Never seen it before. Nope, not me. No clue,” whined an ever more despondent Dennis Lestage.
“Can you turn on the lights, Dennis?” asked Koopman.
Reluctantly, and with great lethargy, Dennis stumbled over and turned on the generator. Benny’s blown out knee would be nothing compared to what would happen to him. Not even jails would be safe. Leon was a Hell’s Angel, and they practically ran the jails. He was doomed. Doomed.