“We’re talking millions and millions of dollars here. This is way bigger than we thought, Cath. We’re going to do the bust of the century. We’re in the big leagues now,” said Indy. “Let’s check the other doors.” It was becoming a bit like a game show. Door number one, door number two, door number three…
He was starting to get the hang of picking locks, and opened the padlock on the third door more quickly than he had the other two.
“You’re pretty good at that Indy,” said Catherine. “If the Force dumps you, you’ve got a ready-made second career.”
“Not funny, Cath,” he said, as the third door swung open.
This room held a pungent but familiar odor. Catherine and Indy sniffed, paused, and then turned their flashlights into the room’s interior. Catherine gasped softly. There were stacks and stacks of plastic-wrapped bricks. On the witness stand, the police described it as “a green, plant-like substance.” Marijuana. Mountains of it.
“Holy shit, Cath, there must be at least a ton of it in here,” exclaimed Indy. “Maybe two tons. The street value in this room alone has got to be in the millions. Maybe tens of millions.”
“Three guesses as to where it came from, and where it’s going,” Catherine muttered darkly.
“I’m sure it’s BC Bud,” said Indy. It was the region’s second-largest export. The basement marijuana grow-ops must have been kept busy for years to produce this much of the stuff.
“BC’s number two product, and quite a stack of it,” Catherine said, reading his thoughts. She turned her flashlight to the corners of the room, noting that the marijuana was packed close to all four walls.
“You know, Cath, it may be BC’s number one export by now,” replied Indy, duly impressed. “No one knows for sure anymore. Most of this, I’m sure, has been lovingly cultivated in high-tech grow-ops in Vancouver.”
“Maybe the Ministry of Forests should get involved with regulating and distributing this stuff. Then it would be guaranteed to lose money, and the whole hydroponic industry would cease to function,” joked Catherine.
“Good point,” replied Indy. “Remind me to bring it up at the next executive meeting.” They both laughed.
“Given Leon Lestage’s role in all of this, it was probably acquired, wholesale, by motorcycle gangs, and transported here that way,” said Catherine, sobering. “Maybe that tour bus is being used to transport some of it.”
“And it’s all headed stateside, probably mostly to Washington, Oregon, and California. You know, the Yankee West Coast is not all that different from British Columbia. Must be the influence of the Pacific,” said Indy. He turned away from the pile of BC Bud. “Shall we see what else we have?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea about what’s behind door number four,” Catherine said.
“Me too,” answered Indy. He started to fuss with the last padlock, muttering loudly and nonstop in Punjabi. This was more exciting than any other investigation he’d ever been part of, and that included his undercover days in the ’80s. In the excitement of the discoveries, he had completely forgotten his claustrophobia, and now worked with focus and intensity.
The lock gave, and the door swung open. A different smell, one that Catherine did not recognize, greeted them. Indy knew exactly what it was. Heroin, in uniform brick-sized packets, neatly wrapped in plastic, and stacked against one wall of the room.
“Holy shit. These guys have it all, Cath. They’re running all the drugs. That heroin is probably from Southeast Asia or Afghanistan. It reaches BC, probably though Vancouver harbor. They somehow get it past the police there and bring most of it here, for later export.” Indy was pacing the room, his accent getting stronger and stronger as he worked the theory out in his head. “They must get rid of some of it in Vancouver, given the big colony of heroin addicts there, but most of it comes here. To the Akamina-Kishinina, of all places. And then they take it through an abandoned coal mine, under the border, to hit the lucrative US market. Whoever put this together is fiendishly clever. Incredible.” He stopped pacing and looked around the room in awe. Despite the lawlessness of it, he had to admit a grudging respect for the intelligence that had come up with such a scheme.
“Holy doodle,” murmured Catherine, awed by the sheer magnitude of what was sitting in front of them. “Back at the detachment, a pound of marijuana is considered a big deal. And that’s just a pound of marijuana. This is absolutely incredible.”
“And over there,” he said, pointing to the other wall, where they could see more bricks in the shadows. “Those must be wholesale packages of cocaine.”
“Sure,” said Catherine, working the timeline out. “And that’s why there’s a whole room full of Canadian dollars. Any drugs sold in Canada would be paid for with Canadian cash. That’s got to be cocaine, probably from Colombia, or Mexico, coming into Canada. And the American dollars come from the marijuana, cocaine, and heroin they’re selling in the States.”
“There’s got to be more than $30 million in cash and drugs here,” said Indy.
“Welcome to drug central,” added Catherine. “James Leon Hallett never hit the mother load, but holy cow, his grandkids sure did.”
Indy was about to reply when there was a distant rumbling noise, a click, and a buzz as the overhead lights came on. At the same time, they heard an overhead door open a few hundred feet to the north of the money and drug rooms.
“Shit, Cath, we’re trapped,” Indy said, his voice falling. “Someone’s coming in on the Canadian end, and that’s our only way out. Since we took the rail car, they probably already know we’re down here. We’re trapped.”
“Hooped,” she agreed. “Totally hooped. What do we do?”
“Let’s get back to the central excavation and hide in one of the other tunnels. We can make it if we move fast,” said Indy, reaching for Catherine, and turning to run northward at top speed.
But Indy and Catherine didn’t make it. They ran toward the central excavation, and had almost reached it, when the lift descended completely, with Dennis, heavily armed, standing on it. Indy recognized the bus driver that he’d yelled at on his earlier trip to the area. He had an AK-47 with him now, and it was pointed directly at them.
29
Earl Leonard Lestage, Jr., aka Leon Lestage, was rich, but not nearly as rich as he wanted to be. He was sitting in his fabulous 12,000-square-foot home on an acre of prime British Properties real estate, overlooking the twinkling lights of Vancouver on the far side of Burrard Inlet. On one of the clear days that they did sometimes get in Vancouver, he thought it was probably the most breathtaking view on the planet. During the day, Mount Baker was visible, often appearing to float on a cushion of clouds.
Vancouver, over the past two decades, had acquired a truly big-city skyline. He could see, far below him, the multiple sails of the Canada Place Convention Center, sitting like twinkling gems on the waterfront. He could make out the distinctive soaring shapes of the Wall Tower, the Shaw Tower, and the circular peaks of the Harbor Center. The orange dots of the streetlights traced a path into the distance, disappearing in the working district of Surrey, where he had spent his 20s. To the west were the lights of the University of British Columbia.
He could make out the hangars and modern architecture of “YVR,” as the locals called Vancouver International Airport. He loved watching planes taking off and landing; in fact it was part of his frustration. Yes he owned his own jet — didn’t everybody? But it was a cheap little Lear, and he was the third or fourth-generation owner. He felt a little embarrassed when he went to the private South Terminal. There were several larger Gulfstreams, a few “fours,” and one “five.” There were a couple of Bombardiers — beautiful jets made by an eastern Canadian company. One software hotshot stored his private 737 there. And besides all that, he felt like a gunny bagger when he walked into the South Terminal. Maybe he should just chuck the old jet and fly first class everywhere he went, he thought. At least he would be made to feel special and important that way.