“Unless it ties into the scheme somehow. Maybe they don’t want anyone else going out that way,” said Indy.
“That’s where they all live, you know. Up and down that road,” she said.
“How close to the border is the Aka- whatever?” asked Indy.
“Akamina-Kishinina. The park is right on the border with Montana. Maybe that explains the bus service. Maybe,” said Catherine, a trace of excitement in her voice, “maybe that’s how they’re getting drugs across the line, somehow. Maybe through the park…”
“That looks to be pretty rugged country,” said Indy. “Don’t think you’d be able to drive a broken-down bus through those mountain ranges, no matter how desperate you were to smuggle drugs. Maybe…”
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“It’s the middle of August, Catherine. The height of the tourist season. They’ve got to be running right now.”
“Yeah, they are. Thinking of going on a trip?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Where do they muster?”
“In front of city hall. Any morning. Nine sharp.”
Indy thought he might be less conspicuous if she came along. Tourist couples were more common. But Catherine thought not. “This is a small place, Indy, and we’ve busted these ne’er do wells for plenty of infractions. They’d probably make me.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But I doubt they’ll make me. The only one that’s ever met me is Benny, and he ain’t going anywhere right now.”
Catherine nodded, rising and donning her sweater. “Let me know if I can help you with anything. I’m going for a run. Don’t suppose you’d care to join me?”
Indy smiled to himself. In Catherine’s case, “a run” was usually five or ten miles, 15 if the weather was nice. One of her main bragging rights was that she could outrun anyone on the Force, and probably most of the guys in the military as well. Indy had personally seen her make grown men cry. “No thanks Cath, I’m no masochist. I’m hunkering down in a hotel for the night.”
Catherine laughed and strolled out of the donut shop. Indy headed to the hotel, already planning his outing for the next day.
Five AM hit Indy like a hammer. “This is way too early for us old guys,” he mumbled to himself as he nearly fell into the shower. It was a good three-hour drive to Fernie, and while the Halletts and Lestages might be late, he could not afford to be. He showered and dressed tourist style, in shorts, a T-shirt with a Bugs Bunny cartoon drawn on the front, and an old pair of sneakers. He got from the first alarm ring to being checked out and behind the steering wheel of the old Chevy in a record 12 minutes. Again he headed eastward. Again the picturesque towns with quaint names went racing by. Salmo. Yahk. Elko. His watch was edging toward 9AM when he pulled into the parking lot of the small one-story building that apparently served as the Fernie Town Hall. There were a few people milling about and waiting in front of the building. Indy parked his truck and strolled over to join them.
Nine AM came and went. Then 9:15, then 9:25. At around 9:30, as the grumbling was escalating, a pale blue bus finally came clattering to a halt in front of them. Its engine was not silenced by functioning mufflers, and a cloud of blue-black exhaust engulfed the waiting crowd. The vehicle was a converted Bluebird School Bus, and had the words “Akamina-Kishinina Bicycle Tour Co. Ltd.” stenciled in faded black letters across the sides. Twenty mountain bikes, in various stages of disrepair, were fastened along the back and sides of the bus. The driver rolled to a stop directly in front of the City Hall and opened the passenger door.
“AK Bike Tour folks. Tickets please. Get ready for the adventure of your lives.” His voice was flat and unexcited.
Indy was staring in amazement at the bus and bicycles. It looked like something out of a comedy skit. When the driver stepped out, Indy shut his mouth with an audible snap and put on his best tourist act.
“Whazit cost?” he drawled, trying to look as stupid and innocuous as possible.
“Fifty bucks. Big money I know, but it is the adventure of a lifetime, partner.”
Indy fished through his wallet. All he had was two twenties. “That’ll do partner. That’ll do.” The driver was sloppy, overweight, and thirty-something, with dark sunglasses that hid his eyes. He had on a name tag that advertised his name: Dennis Lestage. He carelessly motioned for Indy to enter the bus and have a seat, then moved on.
Indy sat, and the journey began. He watched the scenery go by, seeing mostly rain forests of hemlock and spruce. Occasionally the trees parted to allow views of snow-clad mountains and deep gorges. The bus was climbing at over 80 miles an hour, hugging cliffs and slamming over potholes, on a road barely wide enough to accommodate it. As they neared Akamina-Kishinina, Indy noticed a familiar, acrid odor. Could it be? He saw other tourists looking around as well. The Japanese couples were wide eyed in horror. Dennis had pulled out a joint, almost as fat as a cigar, lit it, and was happily smoking away.
“Hey, buddy, put that thing out,” Indy said, unconsciously switching back to his RCMP authority voice. “Right now,”
“Relax, partner. Just relax,” said Dennis. “I’ve got a medical license to smoke this puppy.”
Indy’s shoulders slumped in defeat. The same old thing, he thought. No point in trying to argue over the legality of the joint. Not even the judges and prosecutors knew for sure where the lines were anymore.
“Got glaucoma,” continued Dennis. “People with glaucoma can smoke this legally. It’s medicine partner. Medicine. Like Lipitor.”
“Isn’t glaucoma an eye disease?” asked Indy. “Doesn’t it make you go blind?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Dennis, taking another toke as he downshifted, grinding the gears of the old Bluebird.
“Great. Just friggin’ great,” mumbled Indy, as he watched the valley floor recede into the distance. “Perfect. A stoned and blind doper taking an old, broken bus up a winding mountain road. Wonderful.” Whatever he found, it had better be worth the risk he was taking with his life.
The sun had set, and it was approaching midnight when the Haramosh Star neared the rendezvous point. They were just west of the Indian island of Cherlyam, at the northern tip of the geological formation that included the Maldives.
The Mankial Star was already at anchor, waiting for them. She was some 80 feet in length — far too small, by Yousseff’s estimation. He was in the transportation business, after all. A length of 80 feet meant that there was barely enough room on the rear deck for the helicopter. His one consolation was the ship’s power. Every piece of equipment that Yousseff owned had been modified in one way or another to increase its horsepower, from his new Gulfstream to the ancient Haramosh Star. He was obsessed with pulling as much power out of each piece of machinery as he could. His personal yacht was no different. The Mankial Star had four MTU Friedrichshafen Diesel Turbos, producing 2,400 horsepower each, which meant she had close to 10,000 horsepower, all told. She could carve up the Arabian Sea at an amazing 50 knots.
Yousseff gazed at the jewel in his crown with affection. He would have liked to be on his yacht, but had decided to watch the next step of the process from the darkened rear deck of the Haramosh Star. Now that they were involved in such an international scheme, his anonymity was more important than ever before. There was no telling who he could trust and who was a spy. For this reason, he saw no reason to let the men on the Haramosh Star see him directing the operation, when others could do it equally well. It went against his nature, but in this case he chose to sit back and watch.