But no, he argued against himself. He couldn’t abandon everything he’d worked for all his life, just because he knew how to use a back door or two. He spent hours going back and forth on the issue, weighing the pros and cons of everything in his life. By the time he got back to town, he was so frustrated that, even after an all-night drive, he drove right past his tiny apartment and went straight to his office. He walked in, dropped his bag on the floor, and called Hagen.
“Can you help me, Stan?” he asked. “We’ve got a laundering account for sure. The Halletts and Lestages are smurfing one hell of a lot of cash. It’s got to be coming from cross-border sales of BC Bud, and maybe even heroin. Probably cocaine coming back the other way.”
Indy spent some time laying out the background for the FBI agent. He told him about Benny Hallett’s tale of woe, the new Dodge, the destruction of the same, the bullet to his knee, and the visit to the hospital. He described the trip to the Akamina-Kishinina, the location of Dennis or Leon Lestage’s home, and Leon’s likely connection to the Vancouver chapter of the Hell’s Angels. He explained how he’d obtained the subpoena, issued on the strength of an affidavit that was sitting on the outside edge of legality, the bank account that had come to light, and the large transfers to an offshore bank, identity unknown.
“You’ve got something there, alright,” said Hagen. “This may not be small-time stuff after all. How can I help?”
“You guys should be able to get the details of that offshore account for me. It may be an accumulation account. The transactions there could be very revealing.”
“Sure, we can do that, Indy. With the new Patriot Act, and a few other things, I should be able to get the information for you.”
“Let’s do it. What do you need from me?”
“Are you able to swear an affidavit that it’s your honestly held belief that the account is being used to launder drug revenues?” asked Hagen.
“You bet I can, Stan,” Indy answered. “I can get that sworn, if I can find a lawyer around here, and send it to you within an hour. I’ll get right on it.”
Indy quickly set out to repeat his labors of a few days before. He laid out in neat numbered paragraphs the extent of his knowledge relating to the apparent drug activities of the Halletts and Lestages. He attached the Scotia Bank ledger as an exhibit, collared a lawyer, had the affidavit sworn, and immediately faxed it to Hagen.
That accomplished, Indy headed to the video lab with his digital camera. He downloaded the contents and started flipping through the images, magnifying here, adding light or contrast there, looking for anything. He hardly noticed the small TV in a corner of the lab, tuned in to CNN, where a reporter was discussing the growing Semtex scandal in the context of the hideous murder of one Zak Goldberg.
Indy sat back, thinking. He had all 37 photos displayed as thumbnails on the large screen where he was working. He’d reviewed each image a dozen times, magnifying them again and again, changing the contrasts, and using software developed by the FBI, and licensed to the RCMP, to increase the resolution of obscure details. A number of them showed a trail and tire marks heading further south, to some destination behind the mobile home. On one he could see an old sign, tilted, sitting in the underbrush beside the trail. There were words on it, but they were partially obscured by weeds, willows, and shadows.
Indy didn’t have the computer expertise required to manipulate the images as much as he needed. But the Heather Street compound also served as a resource center for organizing evidence and documents in major crime cases. Video analysis had become a staple for police work. There were a number of technicians working at the complex, and it didn’t take Indy long to bring one in. He was somewhat frustrated about asking for help from someone who looked to be half his age, but shrugged it off. Computers and digital evidence were a young man’s game, and he was willing to do whatever it took to nail this case.
Indy had the young tech isolate the sign on the photograph, rotate it, enlarge it, and add some highlighting… then tweak it some more. “e…A…vil” was all they could make out.
“Let’s get rid of the shadows from the underbrush and interpolate the pixels,” suggested the technician. “That might help some.”
“Whatever you suggest,” said Indy, unsure of what that even meant.
The youth’s fingers raced over the keyboard, the mouse traced the shadows on the screen, and, like magic, the underbrush shadows disappeared. They both sat back and observed the result.
“Not much difference,” said Indy.
“We need more contrast. There is a phrase there, I can see it. We just need to sharpen the edges. We can change the fractal coefficient. I’m sure we can bring out whatever’s there.” A few more keystrokes and mouse clicks. More of the sign became apparent. “..ev..l’s..A.vil” was the message.
“We can get more. The image on the sign clearly contains letters. Everything’s linear. We can do a bicubic linear interpolation based on the differential color components of the missing letters. I’m positive we can get it, Indy.”
“Yes. Bicubics. Of course. Should have thought of it myself,” Indy mumbled in response.
More keystrokes. More mouse clicks. “There,” said the tech finally.
“You’re a magician,” breathed Indy. He leaned forward, getting closer to the screen for a better view. “Save that image. We need to figure out what it means,” he said, gazing at the words “Devil’s Anvil” on the screen.
“Let’s Google it,” suggested the tech.
“Sure,” said Indy, happy to be letting the young man do so much of his work for him.
Nothing much came of that. “Devil’s Anvil” was apparently a psychedelic hard rock New York garage band of the ’60s. Well, Leon could conceivably be a fan, thought Indy. There were also “anvil devils,” something used by boot companies. Other than that, there were no hits of significance. Perhaps a motorcycle gang? A warning? A joke?
“Y’know what it sounds like, Indy?” the tech finally asked.
“What?”
“It sounds like an old mine. If I were a geologist, and I had developed a mining property somewhere, a name like ’Devil’s Anvil’ would be pretty cool. You know, deep in the earth and all that.”
“You know, that twigs a chord,” said Indy. “I did some reading on the Akamina before heading out there. Got some stuff off the net. The region is pretty rich in coal deposits. That whole area is littered with abandoned mines. The only reason they didn’t become commercially viable was that rail transportation was never implemented in the area. Large coal deposits were subsequently discovered in the Kootenay Valley, and that’s where the spur lines stopped. The area south of Fernie never became a possibility because of it. But in the 1920s no one knew that’s how it would turn out. Think I’ll look into it a little more.”
Indy rose from his chair, grabbing the pad on which he’d been taking notes.
“Where are you going?” asked the tech.
“Off to Victoria. The BC Ministry of Mines is headquartered there. They’ll have maps, plans, memos, and what have you. If anyone has information about a mine on the border south of Fernie, it’ll be that office.”
With that, Indy turned and was gone.
At that moment, a couple time zones to the east, Turbee was fleeing from the TTIC control room, rushing past the heavy security on the main floor, pushing his way out onto the street. Dan’s words stung his face like wasps, attacking his body with the poison of adders. “You’re history. There’s the door. Fuck off. Pack your bags. Get out. Get out. Fuck off. There’s the door, pack your bags, get out, get out, fuck off…” The venomous phrases circled around his autistic brain in infinite echoing loops, the volume ever increasing. “Fuck off. Pack. History. Out. Out. OUT!”