Gauntlet (32 page)

“I’ll make you a good deal,” Bartholomew said, stroking his chin in thought. “You can pay me over time from the profits you make. You don’t even have to make a down payment. Just pay me over two or three years. But not in cash. I want real money. Clean money. In foreign banks.”

“Well,” said Yousseff thoughtfully, “I will need to be able to connect with the purchasers in North America. I need to be properly introduced to those people in the US and Mexico and Canada. I need to be more than just another sailor standing around holding an AK-47. I need to know how you contact those people, and how arrangements are made. If you do that for me, I might consider it.”

Bartholomew knew that Yousseff would ask this. It was a fair question. Yousseff knew as well as Bartholomew that the ship didn’t make a nickel of profit in bringing its scant 80 or 90 containers across the ocean; that was just for cover, in case they were boarded by authorities. The only profits he made were through the transportation of drugs. Bartholomew looked Yousseff up and down, considering. He saw Yousseff’s hard gaze. He realized that there was a great deal more to this young man than he had originally thought. He also sensed that Yousseff would keep his side of the bargain.

“That’s a reasonable request,” he said at length. “Pay me over two years. Let’s talk price.”

Yousseff drove a hard bargain, regardless of the fact that he could have paid the price, in laundered dollars, many times over, on the spot. They finally agreed on a sum, and a scheme for monthly payments. Captain Bartholomew would introduce him, over the next four or five months, to his contacts in America, Mexico, and Canada.

T
HE NEXT TRIP to Vancouver’s harbor was the last that Bartholomew was to take. The ship waited for a few days in the outer harbor before docking at the container terminal on the other side of Stanley Park. Bartholomew, for all his lack of industry and discipline, had developed an ingenious method for off-loading his illicit wares. On the port side of his ship, a few feet above the waterline when the ship was fully loaded, he had, through a hidden recess in the ship’s hull, created a slot in which he stored a small 18-foot runabout, with two very powerful outboard engines. The recess was designed so that it was invisible to anyone conducting either an interior or exterior inspection. A crude winch and pulley system raised and lowered the runabout to and from the water. This craftily designed interior space was the primary reason for Bartholomew having stayed in business for so long. Between that, the constant repainting and renaming of his ship, and the care that he took when transferring product, his operation was more successful than it should have been. These were the reasons that he could retire, with wheelbarrows full of money, with an estate on the coast, a home in downtown London, another in Paris, still another in Karachi, and a lovely 50-foot yacht, on which he spent most of his time, plying the west India and Pakistan coastlines.

The Vancouver introduction was uneventful. No names were used. All Bartholomew told his contacts was that Yousseff was his successor, that he could be trusted, and that they would be doing business with him from now on. The apparent leader of the Canadians was a young man, about Yousseff’s age, with a long ponytail and hard, pale blue eyes. He had three men with him, all openly displaying firearms. There were no handshakes. No pleasant conversation. Two hundred kilos of heroin was traded for 20 suitcases of American currency. The whole exchange lasted less than two minutes. Bartholomew and Yousseff were back in the runabout the instant the exchange was made, headed straight for the ship. The captain told Yousseff that this was the most dangerous part of any transfer. It was not safe to trust the purchasers — you could never tell if they were going to pull their guns on you at the last second. And the harbor police were always around, hiding in the shadows. He pointed out a number of the taller Vancouver buildings and told Yousseff that police with powerful binoculars were almost always scanning the harbor for suspicious activity from any available building. For these reasons, the meetings were always a gamble.

Yousseff nodded. He had been watching the whole process intently for two years. And he had discovered another quality that had made Bartholomew so successful. Luck. Sheer, blind luck. He could think of dozens of improvements, especially with the engineering now available to him through Kumar’s thriving company. Improvements to make the transfers more efficient, faster, and safer. Improvements that would make every trip more profitable.

To conclude that night, Yousseff had been given a telephone number — in four weeks he was to call the number and be given the particulars of the next drop, which would take place eight weeks later.

W
HEN HE HAD DOCKED the ship upon his return, Yousseff found that KDEC did not have enough time to replace the engines, as he had hoped; they had too much work to do as it was. New engines would have to wait until the next trip home. But Kumar was able to make some of his usual modifications. His men also put a false bottom in the runabout, to create an invisible storage area, where Yousseff stashed 400 kilograms of heroin.

Eight weeks later Yousseff returned to Vancouver for his first deal. He had hired a whole new crew of his own men for the ship. They were virtually all from the Pashtun mountain villages. They all knew Yousseff, and trusted him. Most importantly, they were all absolutely dedicated to him. None of them knew a great deal about the sea, but Yousseff knew from experience that it was easier to teach a loyal crew any trade than it was to teach an experienced crew loyalty. And Vince had no difficulty with training new sailors.

The meeting was at an abandoned dock near Port Moody, at the east end of Burrard Inlet. Yousseff himself took part, with three of his crew as his personal bodyguards. They all packed AK-47’s, and were very comfortable showing them off, so they painted an intimidating picture. But none of them had ever experienced a deal of this nature. Yousseff was decidedly nervous, and his men were downright terrified. Yousseff was also dealing with a personal conflict. He had never considered himself a criminal; he thought of himself as a businessman, and one who kept hundreds of farmers and workers in Afghanistan and Pakistan happily employed. He did not like dealing with the criminal element, and the Vancouver drug dealers were clearly practicing members. The same youthful man with the hard blue eyes appeared, at the appointed place and hour. Yousseff, who had scouted the area out a few hours earlier, was ready and waiting.

“What’ve ya got?” asked Hard-eyes.

“Four hundred kilos,” Yousseff answered.

“Where?”

“In the runabout.”

“Get it.”

“Show me the money,” Yousseff answered.

Hard-eyes motioned to the old pickup truck parked about 50 feet away. Yousseff’s eyes did not leave the young Canadian.

“Show it to me,” Yousseff repeated.

“You get the horse. I’ll get the money. Then we trade,” said Hard-eyes.

Yousseff motioned to Vince, who was in the runabout. Vince activated a hidden switch, and a hidden panel silently slid back, revealing a small scissors lift. The scissors lift rose up from the hidden chamber, bringing the drugs into view over the edge of the small boat. The heroin had been placed on a small wheeled pallet, so that the sailor could simply push it forward onto the dock. It was a simplified system that made Yousseff cringe, but was the best that Kumar had been able to do in the two weeks between trips. As the drugs were rolled out, 20 Samsonite suitcases appeared from the truck. Yousseff had a lot of experience with packing money into medium-sized Samsonite suitcases and estimated that the 20 suitcases contained approximately $10 million. He also remembered that Bartholomew had been given 20 suitcases as payment for 200 kilos of heroin. The Canadian was trying to cut the price in half.

“No,” said Yousseff. “Four hundred kilos. Forty cases. That’s the deal. No bullshit.”

Hard-eyes look directly at Yousseff. “You’re in no position to bargain, towel-head.”

“I’m not bargaining,” Yousseff answered. “You know the price. No discounts here.”

The Canadian motioned to one of his men. Shots were fired, and two of Yousseff’s men fell to the dock, dead. Yousseff now stood alone with Vince, who stood in the runabout.

Yousseff had grown up when the Soviets invaded his land. He was familiar with the tribal wars in the Frontier Provinces. He had personally done battle with his rivals in Pakistan and Afghanistan on several occasions. He was no stranger to death. But those had been situations where there was no alternative; it was kill or be killed. This was nothing like that. The drug-runner’s action was senseless. The deaths of his men had been completely unnecessary, and it enraged him. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands and bit his tongue, telling himself not to show the anger boiling beneath the surface. But his voice dropped, and his stare became dangerously intense.

“You have made your point, sir.” He calmly walked over to the cases, which he and Vince then loaded into the runabout. Yousseff picked up one of their fallen comrades.

“Vince, help me carry these two. We will not leave them here on the docks. We’ll bury them at sea.” Yousseff’s voice was soft and even.

Vince was terrified, but followed Yousseff’s lead. He stepped out of the runabout and half carried, half dragged the second dead crewman back into the small boat.

“Wait,” said Hard-eyes. “Here are the numbers for the next shipment.” He walked to the boat and gave Yousseff a sheet of paper. Yousseff took it without a word, turned to the wheel, and left. He knew that the man would not harm him; he would not want to jeopardize his supply line. The Canadian had a good deal going. Yousseff also realized, though, that he needed to make a stand, to start off this new business relationship.

E
IGHT 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.