“But how does all of this help you?” asked Catherine.
“Looking at the maps, I think James Hallett may have either deliberately or accidentally dug underneath the border. There are a couple of deep, long, southbound tunnels. We need to follow them and see what we get. We need to get some GPS equipment, so that when we surface we know where we are.”
“That’s pretty wild, Indy. You’ll need a warrant, I think.”
“No problem. I can get one, with the material I have. It’ll be a legal seizure, if we find anything. Is Leon there, now?”
“Actually he isn’t. He left the same day you did. Hasn’t been back. We have some of our boys looking out for him.”
“In that case, what are you doing tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow was supposed to be a paper day. Reports to Crown Counsel, letters to lawyers, that kind of thing,” she answered.
“Well, let me brighten it up for you. Come with me. Get some powerful flashlights. I’ll bring the GPS transmitters. We can go spelunking in Devil’s Anvil.”
“Indy,” giggled Catherine, “that sounds almost sexual. ’Spelunking in Devil’s Anvil.’ Shame on you!”
“I’m too old for that, kiddo. This is just plain old police work. See you tomorrow at 7AM.”
Another day wasted, thought Indy. Might as well pack. He arranged to take the heli-service back to Vancouver. En route, his cell phone rang. It was Hagen.
“Indy, that stuff you faxed me was pure gold. You’re dealing with a major league drug operation. You have no idea how much money passes through the Cayman banks. I faxed most of what I got directly to you. Call me once you’ve seen it.”
Indy thanked Hagen, and, when the helicopter landed at the Vancouver Harborside Heli-Port, proceeded directly back to the Heather Street complex. When he reached his office in the late afternoon, the fax and a number of enclosures were sitting on his office desk. Hagen was right — millions of dollars flowed in and out of the account. The money came in primarily from the five large Schedule “A” Canadian Banks — the Scotia Bank, the Royal Bank, the Toronto-Dominion Bank, the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce, and the Bank of Montreal. The deposits averaged out to $500,000 per week. That meant $2 to $3 million a month, and, if they worked seven days a week, running what was probably the world’s largest smurfing exercise, maybe $25 to $30 million per year. And that was just from the Canadian side of the operation. The American side was probably pulling in a lot more. Indy shook his head in wonder. James Hallett’s lame duck mine had turned out to be profoundly productive after all. Just not in the fashion that he had envisioned. And probably long after he was dead and gone.
After he’d read the fax, Indy had another affidavit sworn, using the information he had uncovered at the archives. As before, he found a lawyer at the Heather Street complex who was prepared to take his affidavit. He raced to the courthouse, sweet-talked the court registry staff, and found himself, once again, in front of a judge in almost record time. He explained the situation to the judge, who stamped the appropriate warrants. By five that evening he had what he needed.
Indy arrived back at his home at 6PM. Not having slept in almost 48 hours, he set two alarms for midnight. Leaving at 12:30 would give him enough time to drive back to the Kootenays and meet up with Catherine. In spite of his physical fatigue, his mind was now racing so quickly that he had difficulty getting to sleep at all. The biggest case of his career had just landed in his lap. At this point, he couldn’t begin to imagine how big it might actually be. He finally drifted off, just as he was imagining further promotions, and hopefully a big raise.
When the alarms went off at midnight, he rolled over with a moan and turned them both off. He made the same mistake that so many overtaxed individuals make, thinking that he would snooze for another 15 minutes, and then get up. As it was, the body demanded more sleep, and Indy didn’t come back to consciousness until the up-tick in traffic noise woke him at 6:30 in the morning. He called Catherine.
“Indy, I’m sorry, but I’m going to be stuck in court tomorrow. If you arrive here tonight, I’ll be busy reviewing transcripts and preparing for it. I won’t be able to leave until four or five tomorrow afternoon. And I don’t want to start out at five in the evening, especially after a day in court. You know how exhausting that can be, don’t you?” she asked.
“Yeah, I know,” sighed Indy. “I know too well. So we’ll start up in the early morning the day after tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I can do that,” she answered, understanding his frustration. “Go and do your paperwork. Every cop I know is backed up on that sort of thing. And rest. Use today and tomorrow to catch up, so you’ll be well rested when we start out. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”
“Suppose it is,” he grumbled. “Day after tomorrow it is. I’ll meet you at that same coffee shop at 7AM?”
“Yup. Seven it is.”
So much for that, thought Indy. Here he was, with the biggest lead of his career, and he was off to do paperwork at Heather Street. That was police work for you.
Turbee crossed the Anacostia River at around midnight, stopping for a few minutes at the bridge’s crest to gaze down at the black river waters below. He knew that his meds had long since worn off but didn’t care. He had failed. That was all he could think about. He had let down TTIC, Big Jack, the Secretary of Defense, the President, and the nation. Dan Alexander had been right. Pack your bags. Out. It was what he deserved.
He continued walking, more slowly, past the aging Anacostia Naval Station and the once-important Bolling Air Force Base. At 1AM he was walking through the large jumble of streets that constituted the District of Columbia’s eighth ward. He didn’t realize that he had now wandered into the most dangerous area of a crime-ridden city. At 3AM, he stumbled across the empty parking lot of the infamous Ballou High School. That was where he was spotted by Ziggy, the kingpin of a collection of teenage skinheads who called themselves the Aryan Knights.
The situation was just too good to be true for the bored, intoxicated thugs, who were looking for an easy thrill — cheap and easy sex, perhaps, or a car to steal, or a bum to roll.
“Hey, Ziggy, look at the skinny little Goth fuck coming down the road. He looks lost. Let’s give him directions,” one of the boys muttered.
“Yo,” replied Ziggy. “Let’s be neighborly.”
They watched Turbee come slouching across the parking lot, moving his right forearm rhythmically back and forth, and making peculiar spitting noises with his lips. He walked by the three Aryan Knights as though they didn’t exist.
“Little Goth fuck ain’t being neighborly, is he?” said Ziggy. “We really need to give him a little Ballou welcome.”
“Hold up there, little miss Goth. We want to talk to you,” said one of the henchmen.
Turbee kept walking, as though the three didn’t exist. He didn’t even realize that anyone was talking to him.
Two of the gang members stepped in front of Turbee, blocking his path. Turbee walked right up to them, and was forehead to nose with them before he stopped, realizing that he was looking down at large black-laced boots that weren’t his. His right forearm continued its rhythmic motion, and he kept making the spitting noises, unable to control them.