Eight weeks later, Yousseff stood once again on the Vancouver docks, this time with just one crewmember and Vince. The situation played out in much the same way. Four hundred kilos of heroin were produced. Twenty cases of money were unloaded from the old pickup truck.
“My price is, and was, $50,000 per kilo. Not $25,000,” said Yousseff.
Hard-eyes sniggered. “You said the same thing last time. You know what happened. Don’t fuck with me again, you little brown bastard, or you’ll all be blown to hell,” he said. “And I don’t give a rat’s fuck if your buddy over there is bigger than the last guys you brought with you. Just makes him an easier target. Right boys?” he said to the three heavily armed thugs behind him.
“Right, boss,” one of them replied.
“Actually,” Yousseff said, “you owe me 20 cases of money from our last transaction. You want these 400 kilos, you bring out 40 more suitcases. I’m not going to negotiate on that.” Yousseff calmly picked up three of the cases and walked toward the runabout, conspicuously turning his back on Hard-eyes and his crew.
The Canadian swelled with anger. “Listen, you two-bit Paki prick. Don’t fuck me over. I’ll blow you away.”
“No you won’t,” Yousseff said, absolutely confident. “I’m your supplier. You shoot my men, or me, and you lose your supply line. You’ll have to sniff and hunt to get someone else, and their product won’t be nearly as good as what you’ve been getting. You shoot me, you’re out of business. You know it, I know it.” He calmly dropped the cases into the boat and hopped in. He flicked a lever and the heroin descended back into the double hull of the renovated runabout.
Hard-eyes was speechless. Nothing like this had ever happened before. He pointed at his men, all of whom had their guns out and ready. “Shoot that big bastard,” he ordered.
Before the thugs could raise their guns, Yousseff’s guard pulled his Glock from his shoulder holster. Three shots, three men down. Although Yousseff had heard it often and was expecting the shock, he was still startled by the explosive sound of the specially manufactured gun. He had seen it used many times but was still astounded by the sizes of the wounds it left. Truly an amazing weapon, he thought. And a terrifying one.
Marak turned the Glock and pointed it directly at Hard-eyes. “Don’t make me do it, you arrogant asshole,” he growled.
“Vince,” ordered Yousseff, “grab the rest of the cases and toss them in the boat. I need to have a chat with Mr. Blue Eyes here. Rasta, stay with me, and don’t take your eyes off this asshole.” He spoke in Urdu, walking toward the blue-eyed Canadian bandit.
He stopped ten feet from the man. “You need to understand this, my friend. You try something like last time ever again, and you will die, slowly and painfully. This time I will let you live, but only because we need each other.” Still staring at the man, he backed away toward the runabout, and climbed in. “I trust we have an understanding,” he shouted as they pulled away from the shoreline. “I will see you here eight weeks from now — same place, same time.”
When they were several hundred feet out, Yousseff turned to Marak. “I hope that straightens everything out.”
“We’ll find out in eight weeks,” replied Marak. “What are we going to do with all that?” He pointed to the floor, and the hidden compartment that still held 400 kilos of heroin.
“I have other plans for it,” Yousseff answered. “KDEC installed some monster engines in Bartholomew’s old ship. I want to open her up a little, test them out. Want to go to Manzanillo?”
“Sure, boss, whatever you say.”
“You know, as long as she’s going to be a major part of our operation, we should give Bartholomew’s ship a decent name,” said Yousseff slowly. “Something fitting for a new shipping venture.”
They discussed the possibilities for a while. After some brainstorming, Marak said, “You know, Yousseff, there is that beautiful mountain in the Hindu Kush. I’ve always thought it was a strong symbol of our country. You and I went there once as children. You know, Mount, Mount…”
“Mount Haramosh,” said Yousseff.
“But you can’t name a ship after a mountain,” Vince pointed out. “That’s just bad news.”
“No, you’re right. It wouldn’t make any sense. How about the Haramosh Star? That’s a good name for a ship,” Yousseff mused.
“Yes, Yousseff, I think that’s a good name. The Haramosh Star it is.”
“And we need a name for the shipping line, now that we have become international. A line that Omar is going to run. What about the Karachi Star Line?” Yousseff continued.
“Sounds good,” said Vince, as he directed the little boat through Vancouver’s inner harbor. “Karachi Star Line it shall be.”
Finally, the runabout approached the old container carrier. The crew had seen them coming and had the hoist assembly ready. “Haramosh Star it is,” said Yousseff, almost to himself, as they climbed out of the runabout. Haramosh Star. Haramosh. Haramosh…
“Wake up, Youss,” said Mustafa, shaking him. “Wake up, we’re in California. We’ll be landing in 20 minutes. Put on a seat belt.” Yousseff tried to wipe the remnants of the dream out of his brain. He blinked and looked at Mustafa. “Here already?” he asked.
“Yes Yousseff. You slept the entire flight. I spoke to Kumar. He will be at the hangar to greet you in person,” Mustafa answered.
The landing was almost perfect, with the wheels of the Gulfstream coming down gently on the runway. The plane came to a roaring stop at a dull gray-colored hangar. Customs clearance had, of course, been prearranged.
The door of the plane opened, and Yousseff found a beaming Kumar on the runway to greet him. “Yousseff!” he said. “It’s so good to see you again. It has been too long.”
“It’s good to see you too, my friend. How is our mission coming along?”
Kumar sighed. He knew that Yousseff was referring not only to the engineering plans he had sent but also to the two teenagers Kumar had been instructed to collect. The boys had been living in Los Angeles for some time, sent there by the Emir to carry out his jihad. Kumar had received orders to pick them up and take them under his wing, teaching them what they needed to know about the equipment they would be operating and the mission for which they’d been chosen. In the process, he’d come to know them well, and was growing more and more unhappy about his involvement in the scheme.
“They’ve got it sorted out, Yousseff. They are ready. But I’m bothered by it. They’re good kids.”
“Yes,” replied Yousseff, turning his face away. “But they are here of their own volition. What about the submersible? Have you made all the modifications we discussed?”
“Yes, we’re done. Everything is in working order.”
“What about the device? Has it been built?” continued Yousseff.
“Yes, it’s done,” said Kumar.
“Good,” said Yousseff, grimly. “Then it is time to put the final pieces together.”
28
Indy was standing once again in the small clearing adjacent to Leon Lestage’s trailer. It had been six days since Leon Lestage had held a gun to his head at this very spot. Catherine Gray had confirmed that RCMP members had identified Leon passing through Fernie a few days earlier, westward bound, heading toward Vancouver. He hadn’t come back, which meant that the coast was clear for Indy’s plan. The night before, he had contacted Catherine from his small highway hotel room in Fernie. They’d had dinner, and arranged to meet at 7AM the next morning to head toward the Akamina-Kishinina.