The Inside Passage (Ted Higuera Series Book 1)

by Pendelton Wallace

  “It’s better that we use public computers,” Mohammed said quietly as the people in the street walked past, ignoring their presence.

  Mohammed was a small, dark man, his upper lip hidden by a bushy mustache. His Pakistani background was much different than Ahmad’s Iranian heritage. Mohammed’s peasant parents immigrated to Canada seeking economic opportunity.

  “The authorities can track the sites you visit from your own PC. Don’t go to these sites at work,” Mohammed reminded Ahmad.

  Ahmad opened the door and he and Mohammed climbed the stairs to the Internet café.

  This place is perfect for our purposes, Ahmad thought. It was busy enough that no one would remember them. The tables were partitioned off so no one else could see what they were working on.

  “Bon jour,” the tiny French-Canadian brunette behind the counter sang out as Ahmad and Mohammed entered the café. The room was tastefully decorated in reds and yellows. A vase of fresh flowers sat on each table and prints of Renaissance artworks hung on the walls.

  Don’t return her smile. Do nothing to make yourself memorable.

  “Morning,” Ahmad replied quietly, head down, heart pounding in his throat. He refused to look the barista in the eye.

  The diminutive woman prepared a raspberry Italian soda for Ahmad and an espresso for Mohammed.

  “Six fifty, table five,” the brunette said, handing them the drinks and starting a mechanical timer labeled “Five.”

  Ahmad handed her three twoonies and a loonie, Canadian two and one dollar coins, and carefully placed the change into his plastic coin purse. Ahmad and Mohammed walked quickly to their table. Ahmad hung his black leather jacket on the back of the chair, carefully arranged his drink and put the keyboard and mouse in precisely the proper positions.

  He opened a browser session and typed in the URL for quawin.org. He felt like a school boy looking at dirty pictures.

  To his great relief, he discovered that this site recently added English language pages. He frequently visited English language sites such as jihadunspun.net and maktab-al-jihad.com but Arabic language sites like qawim.org or Maac.ws, were better sources of information, free from Western bias. It embarrassed him that he needed help with the language barrier.

  “This Daleel Al-Mojahind is a great man.” Ahmad settled into his chair and clicked through the website. “He can communicate for al-Qaeda, keep us informed of how the jihad is going and provide the jihadist instruction manuals.”

  “The problem is that the kaffirs keep shutting him down.” Mohammed ran his fingers over his mustache. “I have to be in constant contact with the other members of my mosque to get the new locations of his site. His Web site may only be at a particular URL for a few weeks, then it’s gone.”

  “How do they find the locations of his site?” Ahmad tried to keep his voice down despite the loud chatter in the café.

  “It’s the infernal Internet Haganah.”

  “The Haganah?” Ahmad’s forehead wrinkled as he puzzled what Mohammed just said. He knew that the Haganah was a long dead Zionist terrorist organization that helped wrest control of Palestine from the Arabs when the cursed state of Israel was formed in the 1940’s, but what was an Internet Haganah?

  “They’re a group of Israeli civilians that track jihadist websites,” Mohammed responded. “As soon as they find one, they go to the authorities and get it shut down. Fortunately, more and more of the sites are now hosted in Dubai. There, we have freedom of speech.”

  Chapter 4

  Edmonds, Washington

  “Ees everyone ready for breakfast?” Mama wrapped an apron around her slight frame.

  She seemed totally at home in the Hardwick’s kitchen. Ted watched as she easily made her way among the Italian tiled counters and backsplashes. She searched the glass-doored oak cabinets and the copper pots and pans that hung from a rack above the butcher block for the tools of her trade. This was a far cry from the yellow Formica countertops with chrome trim, cabinets painted green, white and red like the Mexican flag and the picture of the Virgin de Guadalupe that smiled down over the kitchen table at home.

  Candace insisted that Mama stay at Harry’s house during her visit.

  “Morning all.” Chris slipped through the sliding glass doors from the deck with Skipper, the family’s aging Chocolate Labrador Retriever, in tow.

  “It smells great, Mama.” Ted poured himself a second cup of coffee and looked out the windows at morning sun sparkling on the waters of Puget Sound. Far below the house on the cliff, white sails already dotted the blue water. Across the Sound, a super-ferry pulled into the harbor at Kingston. Beyond Kingston, the snow-capped Olympic Mountains stood against the blue sky. A giant container ship loaded with stacks of steel shipping containers on deck slid up the water way.

  “Chris, Ted, I’m glad I finally found you.” Harry grabbed an empty spot at the table. “I’ve wanted to have a little chat about your future.”

  “Dad, do we have to do this now?” Chris bristled at his father’s comment.

  “I’m not going to put any pressure on you.” Harry held up the palms of his hands making a peaceful gesture. “I was just thinking that I haven’t given you your graduation present yet.”

  There was a long pause. Ted looked over at Chris. Chris didn’t respond. Ted didn’t want to get involved in another tussle between Chris and his father.

  “You guys have worked hard,” Harry continued. “You’ve earned a reward. Ted, I’m as proud of you as I am of my son. I thought I’d give you both a little gift.”

  He pulled two packages from his bathrobe pockets and handed them to Ted and Chris. Again there was a long silence.

  Ted weighed the small box in his hands. It feels solid. It was about nine inches long, three inches wide, wrapped in gold foil with an elaborate bow. It didn’t rattle when he shook it. His spider sense was tingling.

  What do I know about Harry’s gifts? Chris said they’re extravagant, but they always come with strings attached. For Chris’ high school graduation, his dad gave him a shiny silver Porsche Boxster. With it came the understanding that Chris would accept the offer to attend the University of Washington and stay close to home. Chris wanted to go to school out of state, to get away from his dad’s influence, but he couldn’t resist the Porsche.

  Big deal. Ted should only have that kind of problem. This box was definitely not a Porsche.

  “Go ahead, open them,” Harry urged.

  Ted tore the wrapping from his package. It contained an expensive looking knife.

  “Mr. Hardwick . . . thank you?” Ted removed the knife from its leather scabbard. He slowly turned it over and over in his hand. It was heavy, about eight inches long, with a rosewood handle. The wide stainless steel blade had a blue whale engraved on the blade. Hmm, this knife has a serial number, I wonder if it’s a kind of limited edition thing? The blade was incredibly sharp, the back side of the blade had an inch-long serrated section near the handle. What the hell is this thing for? A metal spike, kind of like a giant needle, with a hole in the end for a lanyard, fit into the scabbard next to the knife.

  “Dad, I don’t get it, a Myerchin rigging knife?” Chris stared down at his knife.

  “I’m thinking that you boys need a break, a long vacation. How about you take the Defiant on a cruise this summer? Up the Inside Passage. Princess Louisa Inlet, Desolation Sound, the Queen Charlotte Strait. Who knows, maybe go all the way to Alaska. I hear that Glacier Bay is incredible.”

  “What ees the Defiant?” Mama had a worried look on her face.

  “She’s my C&C 40,” Harry responded.

  Mama gave him a blank stare.

  “She’s a forty-foot sailboat.” Harry explained.

  Chris had told Ted stories about growing up on the Defiant. Twenty-five years ago, he said, she had been the scourge of the Puget Sound racing circuit. A fierce competitor, Harry drove his crew to perfection. Ted deduced that sailing with Harry was the only time Chris had ever felt close to his fat
her.

  “We haven’t used her much since Chris’ mom got sick.” Harry looked at Mama as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “She used to be a great cruiser.”

  “So this ees a boat trip?” Mama wrung her tiny hands.

  Ted could see the gears spinning in Mama’s head. “Mama!” He needed for her not to interfere.

  “When Chris’ mom was alive,” Harry told Mama, “we used to take an annual family cruise north through the San Juan Islands and into the Canadian Gulf Islands. Once we even went as far as Princess Louisa Inlet on the British Columbia coast.”

  “Ees it safe?” Mama patted her dark hair in place. “How deep ees the water? You will wear life jackets, no?”

  “I don’t know, Dad.” Chris stared at the rigging knife in his hands. “I’ve taken her out for a few day sails. But a big cruise? I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “You’ll be fine.” Harry looked out over the bright waters of Puget Sound below them. “You know everything you need to know to sail the boat.”

  “But, I don’t know anything about navigation. . . I don’t know where we’d go. It’s been years since I crossed the border”

  “You have to learn sometime, Chris. We all started out that way once.”

  “What’s the catch?” Chris looked up at his father. “What do we have to do?”

  A hurt look flashed through Harry’s eyes. This was beginning to get uncomfortable. Ted didn’t want to be caught in the cross-fire.

  “There’s no catch, son.” Harry stared at Chris. “Take the boat, go north, blow off some steam. Have a good time. Get yourself refreshed, then in the fall, you’ll be ready to tackle law school.”

  “You know I haven’t decided about that yet.” Chris snapped. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “That’s OK, Chris. I’m not pressuring you.” Harry leaned forward and patted Chris’ knee. Chris stiffened at the contact. “Take the boat, have a good time. Sort things out. When you get back, you’ll be ready for your next step.”

  ****

  Toronto, Canada

  Ahmad sat opposite an exotic looking beauty at his neighborhood Starbucks. Things had not been going smoothly. She refused to see the true path. Clearly she was not following Mohammed’s way. Make-up, uncovered head, the latest fashions . . . He must save her from herself.

  “I’m sorry, this just isn’t working.” Bushra Dahir’s dark, mesmerizing eyes flitted from him to the coffee cup in her hands.

  “Bushra,” Ahmad gasped. “What’re you saying?”

  “You’re too old-fashioned.” Bushra glanced at her watch. “You want to go back to the Middle Ages.”

  “No, I just want the world to return to its rightful order.” The coffee shop began to spin. Ahmad fought to keep his mind focused.

  “Ahmad, I’m tired of your criticism. We’re not living in Iran. This is Canada. Women have rights here. We’re free to make a life of our own.” Bushra didn’t look him in the eyes.

  “But the Qur’an says . . .” Beads of perspiration formed on Ahmad’s brow.

  “I don’t care what the Qur’an says. I have a career. I have a life of my own. I’m not going back to being a good little housewife because of some outdated religious beliefs.”

  Maybe he was being too old-fashioned? Surely Allah would allow him to bend a little to keep up with the times? No, what am I thinking? I must be strong.

  “But our parents . . .”

  “I’ve talked to my parents.” Bushra looked at her cup, turning it around and around in her hands. “They agree.”

  “Something happened. What is it?”

  “Ahmad, don’t. Let’s just part as friends.”

  Ahmad grabbed her wrist. She pulled away.

  What could her father possibly have against him? “Bushra, tell me. What is it?”

  Bushra’s eyes fell to her hands. She spoke in a weakened voice.

  “My father. . . he says that some CSIS agents came to talk to him. He says that you’re being investigated.”

  Ahmad’s mouth dropped open. Why? What did they know? How had they found him? No, he had done nothing wrong. He had broken no laws.

  “What have you gotten yourself involved with?” she asked.

  If only I could tell you. You’re not ready to hear what I have to say. You don’t understand the great evil that we’re facing. Someday, maybe someday soon, you’ll understand.

  The words would not come. Ahmad answered with silence.

  ****

  Seattle, Washington

  Ted smelled the enticing aroma of coffee as he turned the corner in the staircase. He shuffled down the stairs and into the kitchen of the 1920’s Craftsman-style house that he shared with Chris, about a mile north of the University campus.

  An atlas of sea charts, cruising guides and tide tables spread over the scarred old maple table in the kitchen. Ted poured himself a cup of coffee and looked for his roomie.

  Chris stood on the back porch staring blankly into space.

  “Dude, whatcha doin’?”

  Chris remained frozen for a moment, then slowly turned and spoke through the screen door. “I’ve been thinking. Dad is really pushing hard for us to take this trip. I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “I don’t know much about sailin’, there weren’t no yacht clubs in East LA, but how hard could it be? We pack a few brewskies, take the boat, head north.”

  “It’s a lot more complicated than that.” Chris came back into the kitchen. “I’ve been going over the charts. You have to know a lot about navigation. There’re no highway signs on the water. If you get lost, it could be big trouble. The tides up there are ferocious. Boats have been lost in tide rips and whirlpools. We’d be crossing into a foreign country. We’d be a long way away from help if we got into trouble.”

  Well, maybe it was a little more involved than packing the car and taking off, still . . . “You know all about sailin’ and stuff, don’t you? You’re always talkin’ about how you used to race that boat with your dad.”

  Chris seated himself at the table and made room in the muddle of books and charts for his coffee cup. “I can handle the boat. I’m not worried about that. If there’s anything I’m good at, it’s sailing. I’ve always wanted to take a long cruise; I used to dream about sailing to Mexico or the South Pacific. It’s all the other shit that has me worried.”

  “What other shit? What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “I don’t know, Ted. I’ve never done this by myself before. It’s a lot of responsibility. What happens if we get into trouble? What if we run aground or get caught in a tide rip? What if we get hurt or sick? There’s no hospitals up there. We could be days away from help.”

  “Now you’re beginnin’ to worry me.” Ted picked up the chart atlas. “What is all this shit?”

  “That’s a chart of the Straits of Georgia. The green is land, the white’s water. See these little numbers?” Chris pointed. “They show you how deep the water is. The compass rose shows the direction, these red lines are suggested courses. These scales along the sides of the chart are latitude and longitude.”

  “There’s nothin’ on the land part. This ain’t like a map at all. There’s no roads, buildings, no land marks.”

  “That’s not quite true.” Chris picked up a set of stainless steel dividers.

  Those do-hickies look like the compasses we used in grade school.

  “See these little lines?” Chris pointed with the dividers. “They show you the contour of the land. From the water, you might want to know how high a point is, or the shape of a hill. Then there’s landmarks. See this symbol? It’s a radio tower. This is a town. Here’s a ferry dock. The chart has stuff you can see from the water. On a boat, you don’t care if there’s an interstate running through town, you can’t see it.”

  Ted saw two things. First of all, there was a lot more to this navigation shit than met the eye. Secondly, Chris knew what he was talking about. “What happens at night, when you can’t see
the landmarks?”

  “We’d never sail at night, but if we had to, there’s all sorts of aids to navigation. During the day you can see the buoys and channel markers, range markers. At night, you rely on lights. In the old days, they used to have light houses, now they’re mostly automated lights. Look at this.” He pointed to the chart. “This is the light off Point Roberts. The chart says its thirty feet above the water and flashes once every fifteen seconds. That’s how you tell where you are.”

  Ted pushed back from the table and looked at his friend. “Damn, you really do know a lot about this stuff.”

  Ted got up and crossed the kitchen. He reached in the cabinet for a bowl, then pulled down a box of Raisin Bran. “Other people do this all the time right?” He reached for a carton of milk in the old white Frigidaire with rounded corners and a chrome handle. “You’re the smartest guy I know. You remember stuff that no one else does. You can’t convince me that those other mensos know more about this shit than you do.”

  “I know it. I’ve read a thousand books, but I’ve never done it.”

  “Dude, that’s just an excuse.”

  Chris thought for a moment. “Still, my dad . . .”

  “What does your dad know that you don’t know?”

  “He’s done it all a thousand times. He’s crossed the border, he’s taken the boat through the Malibu Rapids.”

  “But he said it himself. You have to start sometime. Dude, this is gonna be an adventure. I’ve never done anything like this before. A whole summer. Think about it. No alarm clocks, no classes. Nowhere to be, no one to answer to. And girls. There’s bound to be bunches of chicks hangin’ out on those expensive yachts, loungin’ on the beaches. . . “

  Chris waved his hand dismissively at Ted. “You’ve obviously never gone cruising before. You sail with the tides. If that means leaving at four thirty in the morning, you leave at four thirty in the morning. And don’t expect to see many girls in bikinis. Most of the people up there are older folks or families with little kids. People our age can’t afford to go cruising.”