Gates Of Hades

Chapter Fourteen

U.S.-Canadian border

Near Sumas, Washington

The same day

Rassavitch handed his Canadian driver's license and passport through the car window to the fat immigration and naturalization officer. Neither had his real name nor address. False identification was a cottage industry along the northern side of the U.S.-Canadian border.

The official retreated to the small customs building beside the road, presumably to run the fictional name into the computer for a useless comparison with known terrorists. Since Rassavitch had made the name up, he was less than worried.

Sure enough, the man returned, handing the documents back. "Canadian citizen?"

Rassavitch nodded. "Yes, sir."

No further identification required.

With millions of foreigners in Canada due to the most lax immigration standards in the western hemisphere, Rassavitch and his group caused no suspicion. No one was surprised when they availed themselves of equally liberal welfare laws so they might devote full time to their true purpose.

Even in December of 1999, when Ahmed Ressam had been apprehended near here with a carload of explosives with which to celebrate the new millennium, the Canadian authorities had done nothing to tighten security. It was the Americans, not the Canadians, who had to worry. Ahmed's target had been the Los Angeles airport, not something in Canada. Besides, prosecuting or even extraditing accused terrorists was contrary to the country's open-door policy to all people, a policy that endangered their neighbor to the south, much to the glee of most Canadians.

United States bashing had replaced apathy as the national pastime of Canada.

Don't offend, don't interfere, don't get involved. Canada's national mantra. A national character that rivaled cottage cheese for blandness. And why not? Any external threat would be met not by the few largely ceremonial troops of Canada's military, but by U.S. military might. Like most recipients of charity, Canada was resentful, believing it could avoid global conflict by political correctness and siding against their protector on every issue.

Rassavitch smiled, showing yellowed teeth, as the officer waved him across the border. Didn't even ask for the keys to inspect the trunk. That would be racial profiling, hassling someone to whom English was not a native language. And America, the democracy, would not treat any of its minorities differently from its majority.

Apparently dogs were immune from political correctness. The black Lab had sniffed its way around the car and wagged its tail in a most friendly manner. Of course, there was nothing in the car for the dog to smell. Only Rassavitch, who intended to be much more effective than a few hundred pounds of explosives.

He returned the officer's wish that he have a good day and entered the United States. When he was out of sight of the border station, he pulled to the side of the two-lane road and waited for a fully loaded logging truck to pass before he flicked a flame from a cigarette lighter and burned the driver's license and passport to unrecognizable ash.

Then he turned east and began the long drive to the opposite coast.