“This elevator is probably hydraulically operated, and calibrated to a certain weight. Once that weight is exceeded, down we go. It’s actually pretty clever.”
As they were talking, the elevator descended into another large chamber and then jerked to a stop. As suddenly as the ride had started, it ended. “See that?” said Catherine, trying to reassure Indy. “We’re only 20 or 30 feet down.” They played their flashlights around the chamber, which was slightly smaller than the upper room, and had three tunnel openings connecting to it. All three of the openings had rail tracks leading to them.
“Which one?” asked Catherine.
Indy fumbled around in his packsack, and found a compass. “That one,” he said, pointing to his right. “That one heads due south. If I’m calculating right, we’re probably directly underneath the American border already. In fact, we could be in the States now. Hope you brought a passport.”
“Why don’t you use your GPS locator?” asked Catherine.
“Can’t. We’re in a mine. Underground, now. Signals can’t get through,” responded Indy.
Catherine pulled her GPS transmitter out of her pocket and looked at it accusingly. “So then why’d we bring them, genius?”
“To figure out where we are when we get to the other side,” he said, irritation and anxiety creeping into his voice.
He hopped off the platform and rotated it so that the cart was oriented with the southbound set of rails. Then he reached for Catherine’s hand and helped her off the platform assembly. Together they pushed the rail car into the southern tunnel. They were a few feet into the southbound tunnel, and getting ready to jump back into the car, when they heard a purring noise behind them. The lift was slowly starting to rise again.
“Oh God. We need to get back on,” said Indy, his fear increasing. He darted back toward the lift. “We can’t get trapped down here. Let’s go back and get reinforcements. Let’s come back with a dozen men.”
Catherine grabbed Indy’s hand again. “Relax. Your office knows we’re here. So does the Fernie detachment. If we’re trapped it won’t be for more than a day. We’re hot on the track of this, Indy. Let’s keep going.”
“Yes. OK. Let’s.” But Indy’s heart clearly wasn’t in it anymore.
“Look at the fancy hydraulics,” she continued, not fully appreciating his increasing anxiety, but thinking that anything to keep his mind off of it would help. “The Hallett and Lestage boys have certainly spent some money on this system. That platform definitely doesn’t date back to the ’20s. Those hydraulics are new. Someone very clever engineered this.”
“OK,” Indy responded, watching the lift disappear into the vertical shaft above the lower opening. He wasn’t even listening to his partner anymore.
“Indy, stop being a wuss. This is the biggest case I’ve ever seen. We can’t turn back now.” Catherine grabbed the lever of the small rail car and started pumping it back and forth, building up to a speed of about five miles an hour.
Another five minutes went by. Indy had started helping with the lever, and was sweating profusely. His claustrophobia wasn’t making the situation any easier. He did his best to hide the fear from Catherine, though; he wasn’t proud of this weakness.
“Let me handle the lever, Indy,” said Catherine, pushing him gently away. “I may be a woman, but I’m 20 years younger.”
“And in shape,” said Indy, noting her slender, athletic frame. She had a reputation in the Force for running five or six marathons a year. He also knew that she’d worn out the instructors at basic training in Regina. He gladly turned the lever over to her, and she worked it for a few minutes. The tunnel widened out, and they reached another large opening, with four large metal doors set into its silent, stony walls.
“Let’s have a look, Cath,” said Indy. “I think we’re near the mother lode.” He stepped off the rail car and walked to each door. They were all secured with heavy padlocks.
“No worries,” Indy said, fingering the first of the locks. “You don’t get to be a cop with a quarter century of experience without learning how to bust or pick a lock. Of course you’ve already seen me do it.” He started to rummage through the many flaps and pockets of his packsack, trying to relocate his lock-picking equipment.
“Good thing you have a warrant,” Catherine quipped. Then she paused. “Actually, are you sure you’ve got one?”
“Yes, Catherine, I told you that. Got it early yesterday morning from one of the old goats at 222 Main.” He was referring to the address of the provincial court in Vancouver.
She snorted. “No way it’s valid.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well,” responded Catherine. “If your calculations are correct, we’ve now entered the United States of America. And if you think those old goats in your provincial courts have jurisdiction in the US of A, you’re nuttier than I thought you were.”
“Them old goats probably think they have jurisdiction in Beijing,” Indy answered, doing his best impression of the strong redneck accent that tended to dominate such courts. “You know how wacky some of their judgments are. In fact, most of the guys I work with believe that 20 percent of all judges are just flat out crazy,” he added. “And even if they don’t have jurisdiction, I’ll just call my buddy, Stan Hagen, with the FBI’s Seattle field office. He can get a warrant based on what I tell him, and he can nail the bastards. American courts are one hell of a lot tougher on these dope dealers than BC courts are. It would probably be better all around if the FBI did the bust. We can get one or two of them on the Canadian side of the border anyway.”
He started fidgeting with the padlock on one of the doors. Soon he was muttering to himself in a foreign language; Catherine thought it must be Punjabi. Just when she thought the lock was going to snap from his aggression, she heard the tumblers click.
“There,” said Indy, as the door swung open. “Got it.”
They shone their flashlights into the room. “Oh my God!” exclaimed Catherine. “Oh my God! Look at that.”
Indy was likewise impressed. The room was full of American money. “There’s got to be millions and millions of dollars here. This is incredible,” he breathed.
Before them was a mass of money, most of it clipped together in even stacks. Each clip appeared to have been sorted by bill denomination, and separated into piles of twenties, fifties, and hundreds. The effort to stack the bundles up neatly, one on top of the other, had obviously been abandoned long ago. Now the money lay in massive piles, taking up most of a room that measured at least 20 feet square. Along one wall, some 40 Samsonite briefcases were stacked up, side by side.
“Looks like the smurfs are going to be busy for a while,” chuckled Catherine. “In fact, for a very long while. I’d say they’re starting to get behind.”
“Let’s check out the other rooms,” said Indy, noticeably excited. He moved to another door and started to work away on the padlock. More fidgeting, more grumbling, and finally more Punjabi, at a higher frequency than before. Catherine had to restrain a giggle. Eventually the lock opened, and she and Indy looked eagerly into the second room.
“Canadian money,” exclaimed Indy. Again clipped in bundles, again mostly in twenties, fifties, and hundreds, this time in the more colorful Canadian currency.
“I see it, Indy. They probably have parallel smurfing operations on the American and Canadian sides of the border. They don’t need to worry about passports and border crossings. If they need smurfs in the States, they just send clan members through this tunnel to take care of things in Montana. Heck, once they’re across the line, they can smurf in California if they want to. There has to be an American accumulation account parallel in its operation to the Canadian accounts. Ultimately, the money gets transferred into offshore accounts, and they can legitimately use it from there.”