36
“Toner? A village called Stoner?” Izzy howled with laughter. They had been keeping track of the strange hamlet and village names along their northern BC route as they drove. They had just passed Prince George — not Prince George County, in Maryland, but Prince George — a flat little bush town that smelled heavily of sulfides and other pulp manufacturing by-products.
Ba’al smiled to himself. He loved his friend’s humor and zest for life. Izzy had been like that ever since they were teenagers, acquiring properties for Yousseff on both the Afghanistan and Pakistan sides of the border. The two shared many memories. There was one grand trip that the seven of them — Yousseff, recognized by all as the leader, Marak, Omar, Kumar, Rika, Ba’al, and Izzy — had made together down the Indus. It had been a trip full of opium pipes and many many women. In a predominantly Muslim country, they got away with much more than they should have. Izzy always seemed to enjoy it more, and laugh louder, than anyone else. Sometimes Ba’al pined for those days so strongly that his throat constricted and his heart ached. He loved Yousseff. They all did. And this Canadian citizenship thing was nice. It was good to live in a palace in Vancouver and not worry about someone blowing you away with a gun at any time, around any corner. The Canadians had no idea how good they had it… but the old days on the Indus — there was no life quite like that. Before any of them had ever heard of Semtex or the Emir.
“Iz, as the Canadians would say, shut the fuck up, eh?” he said through his smile.
He was met with more gales of laughter from Izzy. “Yeah, dude, eh? You bet, eh?” There was more laughter. On a trip that was going to end like this one was, they needed that.
They did not stop along the way for anything other than gas and to use the bathroom, and at compulsory commercial weight scales. So far all they had eaten was Egg McMuffins — little cholesterol bombs, Izzy had said, but damned tasty anyway.
It was 2 in the afternoon when they reached Cache Creek, a small desert town with no apparent purpose other than to house fast food joints and gas stations, although Izzy had read that Vancouver’s garbage was deposited somewhere in the immediate vicinity. They turned left and headed east through the Thompson River Valley to Kamloops, cruising past some of the most beautiful northern desert country on the continent. Izzy had taken over the driving and, as usual, had started to pick up speed. Seventy miles per hour. Eighty. Eighty-five. He was too much like Yousseff in that regard, thought Ba’al. Everything with him had to go faster and faster. They passed Kamloops in a blur and were heading due east, toward the Rockies.
“Izzy, what the hell are you doing?” asked Ba’al, suddenly noticing that their speed had crept up over 90 miles an hour. But it was too late. The red and blue lights and the siren of an RCMP cruiser appeared right behind them. “You idiot,” said Ba’al in Urdu. “We’re driving down the road with more than four tons of fucking Semtex and you go 90? Marak would blow your ass off with that gun of his.”
“Relax, little buddy,” said the unflappable Izzy. “No different from the river police back home. Just stay cool. Let me do the talking.”
The RCMP constable walked toward them. Izzy already had the window rolled down and his driver’s license and insurance papers at hand.
“D’you know how fast you were going, sir?” asked the police officer rhetorically.
“Yes, constable, I do. I think I was going around 140,” Izzy answered. “The speed got away from me. I’m sorry.”
The constable was not used to this level of candor, and paused a moment before answering. “Yup, you were, and I’m going to have to ticket you. License and registration please.”
Izzy handed the paperwork over. The officer went back to his vehicle, and punched the numbers into his computer. In a few minutes he came back, ticket in hand. “That’s three points and a fine. You’ve got 30 days to pay.”
“Thank you constable,” said Izzy.
“What d’you boys got in the back?” the officer asked, glancing at the back of the truck.
“Mostly camping and fishing gear. We were out at Rupert, doing a little saltwater fishing,” said Izzy. “Wanna have a look?”
The officer nodded. “Open’er up.”
Izzy could see the “oh shit” expression and deepening worry lines on Ba’al’s face. He rolled his eyes at his friend’s cowardice. “No problem officer.” He hopped out of the truck, unlocked the back, and rolled up the rear door. The constable peered inside and noted the coolers, tents, food, tarps, tires, and junk.
“Did you guys get lucky out there?” he asked.
“Yeah we did. We got a few nice steelhead, but we have licenses for that,” Izzy answered.
“Wow, that’s a pretty good haul. All right guys, off you go. But watch your speed. We’ve got lots of radar out east of here.”
“Thanks, officer,” said Izzy, taking the ticket. “Have a nice day.” Izzy and Ba’al watched the officer enter some information on his in-dash computer and pull back out onto the highway.
“See how easy that was?” said Izzy. “No problem at all.”
“It was an unnecessary risk,” said Ba’al. “And he has a record of the plates. He knows the owner of this truck. It’s on his computer.”
“So what? It’s a holding company, and the shares are owned by another holding company, which is owned by an employee of the 24/7 chain. You know how it works, Ba’al. It can’t be traced. He doesn’t know anything that will lead him anywhere.”
“Yes, but the chain of stores is mentioned. If they dig hard enough they could find it. I’m not sure how Yousseff plans to pull this off, but it’s got to be a big deal, if so much money and manpower is being devoted to it.”
Izzy held his hands up in mock surrender, giving in to his friend’s lecture. “OK, Ba’al, eh? OK. I drive slower. You just relax.”
They cruised by Salmon Arm, a beautiful little lakeside city, and continued east toward the Rockies. On and on they went, at a steady 60 miles an hour. The sun set, and by 9 they had reached the Revelstoke Junction and turned south, into the Kootenay Valley.
The argument had been firing for half an hour in the TTIC control room. Dan, standing against most of the TTIC staff, was definitely on the losing end. He wasn’t taking it very well, and gracefully deferring to others had never been his style. The tension level was quickly rising to a boiling point. Turbee’s initial welcome back had been joyous, but it had been difficult for the youth. He’d never been good in a crowd, and was even worse at being the center of attention. He was also embarrassed over his black eye, and found the rolling IV stand to be a bit of an annoyance. Standing up to Dan in this condition wasn’t something he’d planned on.
“No way. Absolutely no way,” Turbee had said, with as much emphasis as his tiny frame would allow. “There is absolutely no way that the Semtex was anywhere other than the Haramosh Star. It has to be there. You need to search it again!”
“Turbee, how can you be sure? The last time we had this discussion, the President was almost impeached,” said Dan, arms folded, showing no sign of giving in. The new images had done nothing to convince him.
“I’m sure,” said Turbee. “Look at the composite images Kingston and I developed. It’s open and shut.”
“OK, Turbee,” said Dan, making no attempt to contain his temper or the biting humor he was inclined to use. “So where the hell is it? And why didn’t we find it before? Are all those SEALs just that damn stupid? Is that why they’re out there representing our country?”