The Inside Passage (Ted Higuera Series Book 1)

by Pendelton Wallace

  “She is my friend. She was designed for speed. I hate wasting time. She will do seventy-five knots on a calm sea.”

  “Dios mío. That’s faster than most speed boats.”

  “I come from a family of sailors.” Meagan picked up the hint of disgust in Chris’ voice.

  Chris smacked the cue ball so hard that it skipped off of the table.

  Meagan had already heard Chris say “If God had intended for man to go faster than eight knots, he would have made the wind blow harder” more times than she cared to recall.

  “Yes, sailing, it is a very creative sport.” Yves scooped the cue ball off of the floor.

  Meagan admired the view as he bent over.

  “To take the wind, to shape it and bend it to your will. It is very satisfying, no?”

  “What do you do for a living?” Chris smirked when Yves missed another shot.

  “I deal in surplus industrial equipment. I buy it from companies that no longer need it and sell it to companies that want it.”

  “It must be a good business.”

  Meagan picked up on the sarcastic tone of Chris’ words. He doesn’t like Yves.

  Yves gave a Gallic shrug of his shoulders. “I do all right.”

  Meagan’s next shot was a stretch. She wasn’t tall enough to reach, so she sat on the edge of the table.

  “Hold on, chica.” Ted slapped a bridge onto the pool table. “Rules say you have to keep one foot on the floor.”

  She took the bridge and coolly sank the three ball, tossing a sarcastic smile Ted’s way.

  The game continued until closing time. Yves, contrary to what he said, was an excellent player. Meagan was delighted when they won game after game.

  “You must come aboard the Pegasus.” Yves said as Meagan returned from the ladies room. “Let me show you my yacht and give you a, how you say, night hat?”

  “Night cap,” Meagan corrected.

  “Oui, a night cap.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Chris said. “It’s late and we’re tired. Maybe another time.”

  Chapter 32

  Ottawa, Canada

  Pierre Chasson sat at his desk in the southeast corner of the steel and glass tower in Ottawa watching the sun rise. He was a morning person. Even in July, when the sun broke the eastern horizon at an ungodly hour, Chasson beat it to his desk. He loved this part of the day. So full of promises for a new beginning, each morning gave him a fresh chance to get things right.

  An un-earthly orange glow swathed the puffy clouds as the world slowly revealed itself below him. It looked like the fire of the gods. He held onto his mug of tea and drank in the day. Like Zeus on Mount Olympus, he sat ready to judge his world, to hurl down thunderbolts on those who dare violate the sanctity of his domain. And, as Canada’s Deputy Minister of Defense, he had thunderbolts to hurl.

  Chasson stood and walked to the windows. He saw a trace of his reflection in the glass. With his height and a good tailor he hardly noticed his growing pot belly. He hated the shine of his bald head. Maybe he should consider a rug.

  Manila folders littered the large desk behind him, the inbox overflowed. A busy man, he had the well-being of the entire nation in his hands.

  He heard a quiet knock at the door.

  “Good morning.”

  “Jean?” Chasson turned to the door. “Good, come in. Care for tea?”

  “Thank you, no sir. I just had coffee.”

  A small, red-haired woman in her late thirties, Jean Broussard responded quickly to any requests to her agency. In her twelve years in the CSIS, the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service, she had climbed rapidly to Assistant Director.

  “I have the report you requested ready.”

  “Come in. Sit down. I have to report on international terrorist activity to the new PM Monday.”

  “We’ve been getting a lot of noise on the network.”

  Chasson’s eyes locked on her legs. Jean tugged at her gray skirt as she took a chair. Too bad she’s wearing that darned jacket, he thought as she buttoned her jacket. Why do women always try to hide their chests?

  “Go on.”

  “Something’s up. Sources in Iraq and Afghanistan say there’s a lot of activity going on. We don’t know yet what it is or who it’s aimed at. We think London is a likely target again. We’re passing off our information to MI5.”

  “What about the CIA?”

  “We’ve kept them in the loop, too. They don’t have much to add to what we already know.”

  Chasson’s eyes fell on the swell of her breasts.

  “We’ve got intel on a couple of US issues, sir.” She handed Chasson a file folder. He looked at it through his half-lens reading glasses.

  “This can’t be serious?” He drained his tea cup. “Molly, a refill?” he yelled at the empty door.

  “It’s not really much of a threat sir. A handful of crazy Islamic radicals plotting to attack Fort Dix, New Jersey.” Jean leafed through her copy of the file.

  “Don’t they know that that’s a US Army base? They wouldn’t last five minutes.”

  “I think that’s the idea.” She put down her file and looked at Chasson. “It’s a suicide mission. They plan to die for the glory of Allah. They want to show the world that there’s no safe place on the planet for their enemies. She handed him another folder. “Here’s a more serious threat.”

  “Still American, I see. Hmmm . . .” Chasson raised his eyebrows. “They plan to blow up JFK?”

  “Yes sir. The plan is to blow up the jet fuel lines that feed the airport. The pipes run under residential neighborhoods. It could kill thousands.”

  “How strong a threat is this?”

  “Not very, sir.” Jean glanced at her copy of the file, as if she was afraid she might miss something.

  A tingle ran up and down Chasson’s spine. He loved feeling power over a lesser person.

  “There are about six Caribbean immigrants, all US citizens I think, that are working on this. They don’t seem very credible. The FBI has a CI inside the group. They’ll pick them up long before they can cause any harm.”

  “Hmmm. . .”

  “Here’s what disturbs me, sir.” She handed him an eight and a half by eleven black and white photograph.

  “That man is Qayyum ali Adham. Saudi Arabian by birth. He’s one of bin-Laden’s right hand men. He’s dropped out of sight. We’ve had fairly regular reports on him until last week. He was seen entering North Korea, now he’s just disappeared.”

  “Do we have any assets on the ground in North Korea?”

  “No sir. But we haven’t heard anything about him from any sources. It makes me nervous.”

  “Okay,” Chasson dropped the photo on the pile of folders on his desk. “What else do you have?”

  “Money moving around.” She handed him another black and white photograph.

  “This is Yasim Shareef Hassan. Toronto resident. Unemployed. His wife supports him as a cab driver. He’s a known Islamic sympathizer. An Abdul Shayub just wired him a million dollars, US.”

  “Who is this Shayub?”

  “A US citizen living in Arizona. He knows nothing about the transaction. He certainly doesn’t have a million dollars. His passport and credit cards were reported stolen last year on a trip to Spain.”

  “How credible is this information?” Chasson looked up over his half-glasses.

  “It’s from Interpol, sir.” Jean withered at his glance. “I think we can trust it.”

  “So someone was using his identity?”

  “Yes, sir.” Jean pulled her jacket down again, then resumed looking for answers in her file. “We think it was ali Adham’s subordinates. They wired the money from Hamburg, Germany to Toronto, then Hassan dropped off the radar.” She put down her folder and looked up at Chasson. “Something’s up, we just don’t know what. We don’t think Hassan’s connected with the Toronto plot though. As far as we know there has never been any contact between them.”

  A pretty young woma
n in a short skirt brought Chasson another cup of tea.

  “Thank you, Molly.” Chasson stopped to watch his assistant enter the room. Her legs went on forever. “Where’s the money coming from? It always helps to follow the money.”

  Jean didn’t respond. Molly handed Chasson the mug of tea and turned to go. His eyes followed her until she was out of sight.

  “Ahem!” Jean cleared her throat. “We think it’s from identity theft. The German police and Interpol have just arrested two Pakistani nationals. The Pakistanis set up an elaborate phishing scheme to steal credit card numbers, social security numbers, address info, etc. They used the credit cards to buy airline tickets, night vision goggles, outdoor equipment. They used the identities to bleed the victims debit card accounts. Interpol thinks they’ve stolen millions.”

  “I see. . .” Chasson paused and sipped at his tea. “How’s the Toronto plot going?”

  Jean passed him another stack of black and white photos. “Here they are.”

  “These are them, then, eh?” Chasson flipped through the photos.

  “Yes, sir. At present we have identified seventeen men in the plot.” Jean looked down at her notes. “All with ties to al-Qaeda. We have a CI inside the cell. They’re planning on blowing up Parliament. They want to take the Prime Minister captive. Then they plan to take over a TV station and behead him on national TV.”

  “We’re on top of them, of course?”

  “Of course, sir.” Jean stopped fumbling with her folders and looked Chasson in the eye. “The RCMP is setting up a sting now. They’re going to sell them the nitrates to make the bomb. The terrorists are asking for three times the amount used to blow up the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City.”

  “And then . . . “

  “And then, we’ll nab them sir. We’ll have assets in place to grab all seventeen of them at the same time. It’s well planned. I’m confident that none of them will get away.”

  “Good. Make sure of that. I don’t want a single Canadian citizen hurt. I won’t have a 9/11 in this country.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And by the way, I want this Hassan found. What’s an unemployed sympathizer going to do with a million dollars?”

  Chapter 33

  Johnstone Strait, Canada

  “I’ve timed our departure to coincide with flood tide.” Chris pushed the starter button and brought the Defiant to life. “It’ll carry us through the Johnstone Strait and into Blackfish Sound.”

  Two hours later, while Meagan was buried in a paperback, Ted felt like he was once again afloat in an enchanted water world, dotted with emerald islands. Seagulls soared lazily overhead, calling their greeting to the morning.

  “Madre de Dios, check that out, Chris.” There was a hint of alarm in Ted’s voice as they crossed the narrow pass between Cormorant and the Pearse Islands.

  A wall of water four feet tall rushed through the pass. Chris altered course to starboard. “That’s the biggest tide rip I’ve ever seen.”

  “This is worse than the rips in Seymour Narrows.” The on-rushing mass of water transfixed Ted. Visions of the Defiant, over-whelmed by a wet avalanche ran through his mind.

  “You don’t want to get tangled up in a tide rip like that.” Chris set his thermal coffee mug on deck and gripped the wheel with both hands.

  “It talks about them in Waggoner.” Meagan reached for the cruising guide. “Here it is. I read it a couple of days ago. It says that the author had a friend on a big commercial fishing boat that got caught in a tide rip off of Malcolm Island. The boat sank and his friend drowned.”

  “Dad always told me how dangerous they were, but I’ve never seen anything like this before.” Chris carefully steered the Defiant away from the tide rip. “Look at the debris being shoved along the tide line.”

  The waterfall pushed everything from Styrofoam cups to branches from trees in front of it. A large log tossed end over end as it went over the cascade.

  “Look at the whirlpool.” Meagan pointed as the Defiant came out of the lee of Cormorant Island.

  Ted followed her finger to a whirling pool of water a quarter of mile across. With a slight lip around the edge, He looked down into the bottom of the pool, five or six feet below the level of the water’s surface. “That can’t be good,” he said.

  “A whirlpool that big can suck a boat in and cause a lot of damage.” Chris altered course further south to give the whirlpool wide clearance. “My dad told me stories about boats getting sucked under in big whirlpools.”

  The Defiant entered Baronet Passage on the slack tide.

  Hundreds of bald eagles circled the sky. Occasionally, one swooped down, flared its wings just above the water and reached down with its talons. Virtually every time it flapped its wings and climbed back into the sky with a salmon in its grip.

  They couldn’t make it all the way to Nelson Inlet on one tide, so they decided to seek refuge at the tiny marina in Lagoon Cove. In the morning they would try the passage again.

  ****

  Ted grudgingly put his feet on the cabin floor and stood. Whoever invented mornings should be shot. He pulled a sweat shirt over his head, stepped into his jeans and poked his head out of the companionway hatch.

  The tall hills behind the marina disappeared into a heavy fog. Chris sat in the cockpit, mug of coffee in hand, a dumb smile on his face.

  “Morning, amigo.” Even his voice was grating.

  I hate morning people.

  A large heron waded among the rocks along the tide line, fishing for his breakfast. Even the gulls’ cries seemed muffled by the fog. To add insult to injury, the fog lifted but a steady drizzle hindered visibility.

  “I guess it’s good news, bad news,” Chris smirked at breakfast. “We may not have the sun, but at least we have a steady wind.”

  The previous three days, though warm and sunny, were completely devoid of wind. Today the steady fifteen-knot wind allowed them to sail again.

  They beat into the wind through the pass between Turnour and Minstrel Islands. Ted looked up the mast at the white sails, billowed out with the wind. The Canadian flag, flying from the signal halyard, flapped wildly in the breeze. He turned his head to check on the American ensign at the taff rail. Old Glory stood out proudly. The Defiant heeled hard to starboard, white water creaming along her rails. Okay, so maybe mornings aren’t that bad after all.

  The islands hid in the mist, only the shoreline of the narrow pass visible from the deck. Coming out of the pass, they had the wind under their coat tails all the way up Knight Inlet. A long, hard day of sailing brought them to Echo Cove.

  On the Third day, they slipped through Cramer Passage on their way to Nelson Inlet.

  The depressing weather persisted. Chris and Ted stayed on deck, in their rain suits, while Meagan remained in the cabin with Oscar, who also showed misgivings about going on deck in the rain.

  After Meagan’s persistent complaining about the cold, Chris went below to fire up the propane heater.

  “I can be cold and wet and miserable up there or warm and dry and miserable down here,” Meagan said.

  Oscar took possession of a pillow on the settee in front of the heater and soaked up the warmth.

  “I don’t think I can see a hundred yards in this crap.” Ted wiped the drizzle from his eyes when Chris returned to the cockpit.

  “Just keep a sharp eye on the GPS.” Chris patted the little electronic box mounted on the steering pedestal. “If we follow the course I’ve programmed in, we’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Meagan shouted up from the companionway hatch. “Even if we get to the hot springs, it’s going to be too cold and wet to go in.”

  “It’ll clear up,” Chris replied, he was always a damned optimist. “It never stays lousy up here for more than a couple days at a time.”

  Ted thought that he sounded a little too confident. La Ley Higuera (Higuera’s Law), Ted had made up a corollary to Murphy’s Law. If it can rain on your parade, it will
.

  Chris lifted the plastic cover from the chart, which he now kept on deck at all times, for another peek.

  “William and Mary Island is in the entrance to Nelson Inlet.” Chris pointed towards the opening in the shoreline ahead. “The water forced up the inlet by the flood tide sweeps back around both sides of the island on the ebb tide. Keep a sharp lookout as we approach the entrance.” Chris thumbed through the tide book, then replaced it under the plastic cover. “We don’t want to get caught in the tide rips.”

  Chris took the wheel and Ted went forward. “There’s a lot of white water on the right side of the pass.” Ted, standing on the bow, holding onto the forestay, was coming into visual range of the pass.

  “According to Waggoner there’s deep water on the west side, but it’s really rocky on the east side. We need to stick close to the western shore.” This time Chris had done his homework.

  In addition to having the chart and tide table on deck, Ted watched him pour over both of his cruising guides in detail last night. He knew that Chris could easily pull up the material with his photographic memory.

  “Sheet in the main and jib,” Chris ordered. “We’re going to be on a beam reach.”

  Ted returned to the cockpit and hauled in on the sheets as Chris eased the helm to the north.

  AH-OOOOOOHH, OOH, OOH, OOH, OOH.

  The loud horn nearly made Ted jump out of the cockpit.

  “Madre de Dios,” Ted flinched and raised his hands to cover his head. “What’s that?”

  “What’s happening?” Meagan climbed on deck to see what was going on. Oscar stood in the companionway, the hairs on his back bristling.

  “A big ship,” Chris answered. A huge white shape loomed in front of them in the passage. “What the hell is a cruise ship doing way out here?”

  “That’s no cruise ship,” Ted yelled. “It’s a yacht,”

  “Well, get out of his way,” Meagan shrieked.

  “We have the right of way. We’re under sail. He has to yield to us.”

  “Tell that to him. He’s not yielding.” Meagan’s screamed hysterically.