“Yes you can, Indy,” replied Catherine, trying to be soothing. “You just need to be patient. You know what they’re like east of the Rockies. They want to look at it. They want to work behind the scenes. They want to exert diplomatic pressure. You’ll get what you want, Indy. It’s obvious what we’re dealing with here. Even the government will be able to see it, eventually. Just give it some time.”
“And in the meantime, the evidence is going to disappear. Going, going, gone,” Indy muttered.
“No it’s not, Indy,” she said. “No it’s not. We need to apply more manpower to this. We need to get undercover people into Fernie. We need to get close to the Hallett and Lestage operation. We can build our evidence and do the same thing you’ve done so many times in the past. We can find out how these guys are getting their marijuana and heroin across the border. We might even find out how it’s getting into BC in the first place. It would all help the case, in the end. Let’s just do the normal, steady, slogging police work we always do. We’ll get into the heart of what’s going on and then we’ll throw the lot of them in jail.”
Indy knew she made sense, but it didn’t ease the sting. “Throw the lot of them in jail? Well, that’s another problem, isn’t it?” he retorted. “Someone is found with a couple hundred kilos of heroin, and some two-bit doper judge in Vancouver is going to give him two months of probation and ten hours of community service.”
“Indy, Indy, Indy. You can’t change the world. You just have to do your job,” replied Catherine. “Just do the job.”
She was right, of course. Still, the frustration of it was getting to him.
With some political will and focus, this problem could be eradicated completely, but the will was absent and the smugglers knew it. BC was becoming an easier point of entry into the American drug market than Mexico. What a revolting thought. But do the job. OK, he thought. Time for a ten-page memo to the head of the Ottawa drug section, setting out why he needed to pressure the Caymans. Time to get onto the computer. Again. He sighed heavily.
“You’re right, Catherine. We’ll throw some manpower at this. I’m going to deal with Ottawa. Stay in touch.” Indy hung up the phone, then groaned as his computer, a ten-year-old Dell, flickered and crashed.
12
It was five in the morning in Islamabad. Yousseff was now in the small personal apartment that he kept in one corner of his large hangar. He was exhausted and sleeping like the dead. Marak woke him with a sharp knock on his door.
“I’m coming, Rasta,” he called in an irritated tone. When they were together, he often used Marak’s tribal nickname. It was also useful for times when their real names were dangerous or inconvenient. Or when they were dealing with strangers, as they would be today. And the man did indeed have the eyes of a snake — slate gray, almost black, and unblinking. And he had a demonic-looking cobra tattooed across his left upper arm and shoulder. Despite his size, he also had the lightening-quick speed and instinct of his namesake. “Get Badr up.”
He was referring to his pilot, Badr al-Sobeii, who had been with the ragtag Afghanistan Air Force during the Taliban’s rule. He flew all manner of craft — fixed wing, fighter jet, helicopter, whatever. If it could gain elevation, Badr could fly it. In all, Yousseff had eight pilots on his staff. Besides Badr, there were two here in Islamabad. A third pilot, Abu bin Mustafa, was as skilled as Badr, and was currently overseeing the last step of the Libyan operation. Two more lived and worked out of the Karachi hangar, and two others were in Long Beach. They were all essential to his organization.
Yousseff rose and began to prepare for his day. He did not bother with breakfast, but quickly showered, shaved, and met Marak and Badr outside his door. As he walked out of the apartment, he glanced around the Islamabad hangar. He had similar apartments in the Jalalabad, Karachi, and Long Beach hangars, where he often did business. Each was absolutely identical in size, furnishings, and personal effects. Even the colors of the toothbrushes were the same. He spent more time in these hangar apartments than he did anywhere else, and needed them to be as much like home as possible. In the opposite corner of each hangar were small offices, each with a few chairs and a desk. Marak and Yousseff turned in that direction, while Badr went to check the plane.
As the industrial lights in the hangar were turned on, Yousseff could see, in addition to the Gulfstream, three helicopters, two Jet Rangers, and an upgraded Westland EH-101, with modified GE TH-700 engines. Theoretically, it could fly at elevations of up to 22,000 feet. So far it had negotiated mountain passes at 18,000 feet, which was nerve-racking even for Marak, though Yousseff, with his love of the sky, had found it exhilarating. The hangar also housed a large single-engine King Air, and a smaller Cessna. A large and well-equipped machine and maintenance shop was located along one wall, manned by two full-time mechanics. Everything was always in perfect running order. This part of Yousseff’s enterprise was essentially a large transportation company; it couldn’t be run on equipment held together with duct tape.
“Are we organized, Rasta?” Yousseff asked.
“Yes, we are. The scheme is nicely planned.”
“All the details? Everything?”
“Yes, of course. Everything,” Marak replied.
“Who do we meet with first?”
“Vijay Mahendra. The computer whiz. He will be working with Ghullam on putting the cover-up in place.”
“Excellent,” said Yousseff. This was part of his standard fare — creating diversions and cover-ups parallel to the main plan. He knew that the Western powers would leave no stone unturned in tracking down the culprits behind the plan he had set in motion. The cover-up and the plan had to proceed in lockstep if they were to work, and if he was going to be safe afterwards. A plan was not a plan until it had a backup, and then a backup to the backup.
Also in accordance with Yousseff’s usual MO, Marak would do the talking. Yousseff always took great pains to keep himself in the background, while someone else did the dirty work for him. He let Marak take the lead as they walked toward the opposite corner of the hangar, where the office was already lit up and waiting for them. He opened the door himself, ushering Marak inside.
A slender, clean-shaven, and restless young Indian man, in his early 20s, was sitting in one of the bamboo chairs. He was wearing rimless glasses, and could do with a haircut. Vijay Mahendra, the Emir’s computer expert. He stood up to greet them as they came in. As agreed, Marak carried the conversation. Yousseff, dressed in simple peasant clothes, remained mute.
Marak laid the scheme out slowly for Vijay. Or at least he outlined the aspects for which they would need Vijay’s formidable talents. It involved half a dozen break-ins, and a lot of computer manipulation. There were clarifications, and details, and then more discussion. At length Vijay agreed, which was fortunate for him. Had he, after the information that had been discussed, told them sorry, no deal, Marak would have snapped his neck like a twig, and dropped him into some appropriately deserted riverbed.
“Yes, I can do the computer stuff. It is not too difficult. But break-ins? Police? I am not sure I can deal with that,” said the young man.
“No need,” said Marak. “No need at all. You will have all the assistance and support you require. All you need to do is access the computers. Everything else will be done for you.”
“Fine. Good,” said Vijay. “We need to talk money.”
“No problem,” Marak answered. “But you will be paid in cash. In American dollars. Will that be a difficulty for you?”