The second enforcer lunged at them with an unsheathed knife, but Zak deftly stepped aside, kneeing him in the groin. The man rolled on the pavement in agony. “Let’s get the hell out of here, Zak,” said Richard, grabbing Kumar by his shoulder and stepping away from the scene.
“Just let me pick up this money . . .” said Zak.
“No, Zak. I’ve got enough. Go.”
The three of them fled the scene. Behind them, a motley collection of addicts scurried across the back alley, fishing up the hundreds that were drifting along the pavement. As it was, Richard was able to sidle into the Salvation Army thrift store. They were ultimately successful in bootstrapping their way into skid row respectability from there. They found a dilapidated ninety-yearold hotel, home to multiple species of insects and rats, and bunkered in for the day. They needed time to formulate their next move.
At that moment, the Allegro Star was 500 miles due west of Vancouver, on a great circle route to Indonesia. She was picked up by NOSS-26, a component of the Navy satellite surveillance system used by the Office of Naval Intelligence in conjunction with the National Reconnaissance Office. The ONI had the profiles of hundreds of thousands of ships in its database. One of those profiles was that of the Allegro Star.
39
“Turbee’s on the witness stand right now,” said Tyra.
“What witness stand?” asked the president, his complexion reddening.
“That trial in Vancouver,” she replied. “The Leon Lestage trial. You know, that Canadian drug dealer who was involved in the Colorado River terrorist attack.”
“So, what the hell is Turbee doing there?”
The deputy attorney general was also present at the meeting. He attempted to answer the president. “The question is not what he’s testifying about, it’s who he’s testifying for,” he said.
The president had no time for riddles. “What the hell is this about? Someone tell me,” he snapped.
“He’s testifying on behalf of the defense,” said Tyra. “That means he has to be supporting the view somehow that Leon Lestage is not guilty.”
“So who cares if some two-bit thug in Canada is guilty or not guilty?”
“Sir, it ties into that damned conspiracy theory that won’t die. Lestage has been charged with murdering some 20,000 people, some of whom apparently were Canadians, as a result of the destruction of the Glen Canyon Dam. He has pleaded not guilty.”
“Sir,” added Dan Alexander, who was also present in the tense meeting room, “we are almost certain that Turbee was involved in putting up some of those websites. He and some of those characters at TTIC who have gone rogue are of the view that Yousseff, our Afghanistan connection, was the key figure behind the attack. They say that Lestage did not know that Semtex was being shipped through his mine and into the US. This is directly contrary to the finding CJ made in the Colorado inquiry report. It is extremely dangerous to have someone holding those views in any kind of a public forum.”
“So who pays attention to some bullshit murder trial up in Canada?” asked the president.
“That’s the problem, sir,” said Tyra. “Court TV picked it up. The trial judge is a little off-key. There are four super sharp prosecutors, and one dumb, inexperienced, very junior defense lawyer. There is something compelling about it. The major networks have mentioned bits and pieces of it. There are now several million people around the world watching this trial. Many Americans are watching it. Hamilton Turbee is now on the stand. Anything can happen. This needs to be stopped.”
“How do we stop it?” asked the president, looking at his deputy AG.
“We can stop it for a day,” he responded. “We can get the senior partners from a distinguished Vancouver or Canadian superfirm, someone of prominence in the profession, to make an appearance in the trial. We can at least stop it for today while we put some affidavits and motion materials together.” “Do it,” the president ordered. “Get to a phone. Now.”
The deputy AG scurried off, and within minutes was talking to the senior partner of a Canadian megafirm with a prominent Vancouver presence, Inverness McPhail International. Events can develop quickly when the receptionist’s call display shows the caller to be the White House, Washington, DC, and the caller identifies himself as the deputy attorney general of the United States of America. Mr. McPhail happened to be in the office that day.
Back in the conference room, the president was about to excuse himself when CJ, the secretary of defense, added a further point. “There is one other detail, Mr. President,” he said cautiously.
“What, CJ? I’m in a hurry here. There’s a photo-op in the Oval Office right now and I’m here listening to you guys.” “I have an email from ONI,” he began.
“Who’s that?”
“Office of Naval Intelligence, sir. They have picked up the Allegro Star.”
“Where is she? In international waters?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get our closest Navy asset, submarine, destroyer, or whatever aircraft we have in the area to sink the fucking thing. I have already ordered that.”
“But sir—”
“This is an order, CJ. Sink the fucking thing. We can put any disinformation we want into the news cycle should that become necessary, which I doubt. We know who’s on board that ship.”
“But sir, we don’t.”
The president had stood up and was heading for the door. “What do you mean? Isn’t it a given that Zak, Richard, and Kumar are on that ship?”
“Sir, she was going west. Away from the Canadian mainland. We reverse plotted the course and she came from Juan de Fuca Strait, which is the main shipping route that leads to the Port of Vancouver.”
“I don’t care where the fuck it was coming from. I
