A large and imposing man, Goyette had a polished demeanor that bordered on slick. With wide eyes, greased-back hair, and a permanent grin, he had the look of a wild boar. Yet he moved in a fluid, almost graceful manner that belied his simmering arrogance. It was the conceit of a man who had amassed his wealth through shrewdness, deceit, and intimidation.
Though not the product of a rags-to-riches story, Goyette had parlayed a family land inheritance into a small fortune when a power company solicited a portion of the site for a proposed hydroelectric project. Goyette astutely negotiated a percentage of the power revenues for use of the land, correctly predicting the insatiable power demands of a booming Vancouver. He leveraged one investment after another, acquiring mineral and logging rights, thermal power resources, and his own hydroelectric plants. A powerful publicity campaign carefully focused on his alternative energy holdings and painted him as a man of the people in order to increase his negotiating strength with the government powers. With his assets privately held, few knew of his major holdings in gas, coal, and oil properties, and the complete hypocrisy of his carefully cultivated image.
Goyette watched as the Sikorsky S-76 hovered briefly, then touched its wheels down onto a wide circular landing pad. The twin engines were shut down, then the copilot climbed out and opened the side passenger door. A short man with shiny silver hair stepped out and held his head low under the swirling rotor blades, as two aides followed him close behind.
“Mr. Prime Minister, welcome to Kitimat and our new Terra Green facility,” Goyette greeted with an extrawide smile. “How was your flight?”
“That’s one plush bird. I’m just glad the rain let up so we could enjoy the view.” The Canadian Prime Minister, a polished man in his own right named Barrett, reached over and shook Goyette’s hand. “Good to see you again, Mitch. And thanks for the lift. I didn’t realize that you were also abducting one of my own cabinet members.”
He motioned toward a droopy-eyed man with a receding hairline who stepped off the chopper and approached the group.
“Natural Resources Minister Jameson was instrumental in approving our facility here,” Goyette beamed. “Welcome to the finished product,” he added, turning to Jameson.
The resources minister didn’t return the exuberance. With a forced grin, he replied, “I’m happy to see the facility operational.”
“The first of many, with your help,” Goyette said, winking at the Prime Minister.
“Yes, your firm’s capital planning director tells us that you already have a site under development in New Brunswick.” Barrett pointed back toward the helicopter.
“My capital planning director?” Goyette asked in a confused tone. He followed the Prime Minister’s gaze and turned toward the helicopter. Another man exited the side door and stretched his arms skyward. He crinkled his dark eyes at a fleeting burst of sunlight, then ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. The tailored blue suit he wore failed to hide his muscular build but passed the mark for corporate executive attire. Goyette had to fight to keep his jaw from dropping as the man approached.
“Mr. Goyette”—he grinned with a self-confident smile—“I have the papers on our Vancouver property divestiture for your signature.” He tapped a leather satchel held under one arm for effect.
“Excellent,” Goyette snorted, regaining his composure at the sight of his hired hit man strolling off his private helicopter. “Why don’t you wait in the plant manager’s office, and we’ll attend to it shortly.”
Goyette turned and hurriedly escorted the Prime Minister into the white tent. Wine and hors d’oeuvres were served to the accompaniment of a string quartet before Goyette led the dignitaries to the entrance of the sequestration facility. A droll-faced engineer identified as the plant manager took charge of the group and led them on a short tour. They walked through two large pump stations, then moved outside, where the plant manager pointed out several mammoth holding tanks that were partially concealed in the surrounding pines.
“The carbon dioxide is pumped as a liquid from Alberta and received into the holding tanks,” the manager explained. “It is then pumped under pressure into the ground beneath us. An eight-hundred-meter well was dug here, driving through a thick layer of caprock until reaching a porous sedimentary formation filled with brine. It is the ideal geology to hold CO2 and virtually impervious to surface leakage.”
“What would happen if an earthquake should strike here?” the Prime Minister asked.
“We are at least thirty miles from the nearest known fault line, so the odds of a large quake occurring here are quite remote. And at the depths we are storing the product, there is virtually no chance of an accidental release from a geological event.”
“And exactly how much of the Athabasca refineries’ carbon dioxide output are we sequestering here?”
“Just a fraction, I’m afraid. We’ll need many more facilities to absorb the full output from the oil sand fields and allow them to operate at peak production again.”
Goyette capitalized on the line of questioning to insert a sales pitch. “As you know, Alberta oil production has had to face serious cutbacks because of the tighter carbon emission mandate. The situation is equally dire for the coal-fired power plants back east. The economic impact to the country will be enormous. But you are standing at the heart of the solution. We’ve already scouted more locations in the region that are suitable for sequestration facilities. All we need is your help to move forward.”
“Perhaps, but I’m not sure I like the idea of British Columbia’s coastline being a receptacle for Alberta’s industrial pollution,” the Prime Minister said drily. A product of Vancouver, he still had a homegrown pride in his native province.
“Don’t forget the tax that British Columbia imposes for each metric ton of carbon transferred across its border, a fraction of which goes back to the federal coffers. The fact is, it is a safe moneymaking play for the province. Plus, you may have noticed our dock facility.” Goyette pointed to a huge covered building across the grounds that sat adjacent to a small inlet. “We have a five-hundred-foot covered dock capable of accommodating tanker ships that can carry liquid CO2. We’re already receiving shipments and intend to show that we can process carbon waste from Vancouver industry, as well as logging and mining businesses up and down the coast. Allow us to build similar facilities across the country and we’ll be able to manage a large portion of our national carbon quotas. And with excess capacity built into the new coastal facilities, we can even bury American and Chinese carbon at a nice profit.”
The politician’s eyes glimmered at the prospect of additional revenues flowing to the government’s ledgers.
“The technology, it is perfectly safe?” he asked.
“We’re not talking nuclear waste here, sir. This facility was built as a prototype and has been operating flawlessly for several weeks now. Mr. Prime Minister, it is a no-lose proposition. I build and operate the plants, and ensure their safety. The government just gives me the go-ahead and receives a cut off the top.”
“And there is plenty left for you?”
“I’ll get by,” Goyette replied, roaring like a hyena. “All I need is the continued site and pipeline approvals from you and the resources minister. And that won’t be a problem, will it, Minister Jameson?”
Jameson looked at Goyette with a beaten subservience. “I should think there is little to interrupt our trusting relationship,” he replied.
“Very well,” Barrett said. “Send me your draft proposals and I’ll run it past my advisers. Now, where’s some more of that fine champagne? ”
As the group made their way back to the refreshment tent, Goyette quietly pulled the resources minster aside.
“I trust you received delivery of the BMW?” Goyette asked with a sharklike grin.
“A generous gift that my wife is quite ecstatic about. I would prefer, however, that future compensations remain less conspicuous.”
“Not to worry. The contribution to y
our offshore trust account has already been made.”
Jameson ignored the comment. “What is this nonsense about building new facilities along the coast? We both know the geology here is marginal, at best. Your so-called aquifer at this site will reach capacity in just a matter of months.”
“This site will run indefinitely,” Goyette lectured. “We have solved the capacity issue. And as long as you send me the same geological assessment team as before, there will be no problem with our coastal expansion plans. The chief geologist was quite amenable to revising his conclusions for a rather nominal price.” He grinned.
Jameson grimaced at the knowledge that corruption flourished within the department well beyond his own dirty hands. He could never recall the exact day that he woke up and realized that Goyette had owned him. It was several years past. The two had met at a hockey game, when Jameson was making his first bid for a seat in Parliament. In Goyette, he had seemingly found a wealthy benefactor who shared a progressive vision for the country. The political campaign contributions grew as Jameson’s career advanced, and somewhere along the way he had foolishly crossed the line. Campaign contributions progressed to jet rides and free vacations, ultimately leading to outright cash bribes. With ambition in his heart and a wife and four children to support on a civil servant’s salary, he blindly took the cash, convincing himself that the policies he promoted for Goyette were just. It wasn’t until he was appointed natural resources minister that he saw the other side of Goyette. The public perception of him as an environmental prophet was just a cleverly designed façade, he came to learn, disguising Goyette’s true nature as a money-hungry megalomaniac. For every wind farm he developed with public fanfare, there were a half dozen coal mines he operated, his actual ownership buried in a laundry list of corporate subsidies. Phony mining claims, forged environmental impact statements, and outright federal grants to Goyette’s holdings were all jury-rigged by the minister. In return, the bribes had been steady and generous. Jameson had been able to purchase an elegant house in the upscale Ottawa neighborhood of Rockcliffe Park and accumulate more than enough cash in the bank to send his kids to the finest schools. Yet he had never intended for things to slip so far, and he knew there was nothing he could do to escape.
“I don’t know how much more of this I can support,” he told Goyette in a tired voice.
“You will support as much as I need,” Goyette hissed, his eyes quickly turning ice cold. “Unless you wish to spend the rest of your days at Kingston Penitentiary.”
Jameson physically wilted, accepting the reality with a weak nod.
Confident in Jameson’s indenture, Goyette, features softened, waved an arm toward the tent.
“Come, cheer up now,” he said. “Let us join the Prime Minister and drink a toast to the riches he is about to bestow upon us.”
9
CLAY ZAK HAD HIS FEET UP ON THE PLANT MANAGER’S desk while casually perusing a book on frontier history. He glanced out a picture window as the thumping from the departing helicopter rattled the glass panes. Goyette entered the room a few seconds later, a suppressed look of annoyance on his face.
“Well, well, my capital planning director,” Goyette remarked, “looks like you missed your flight out.”
“It was rather a cramped ride,” Zak replied, placing the book into his satchel. “Quite stuffy, as a matter of fact, with all those politicians aboard. You should really get a Eurocopter EC-155. A much faster ride. You wouldn’t have to spend as much time trapped conversing with those prostitutes. By the way, that natural resources minister? He really doesn’t like you.”
Goyette ignored the remarks and slid into a leather chair facing the desk. “The PM was just notified of Elizabeth Finlay’s death. It was reported as a boating accident.”
“Yes, she fell overboard and drowned. You’d think a woman of her means would know how to swim,” he smiled.
“You kept things tidy?” Goyette asked in a hushed voice.
A pained look crossed Zak’s face. “You know that is why I don’t come cheap. Unless her dog can talk, there will be no reason to suspect it was anything but a tragic accident.”
Zak leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling. “As Elizabeth Finlay goes, so goes the movement to halt natural gas and oil exports to China.” He then leaned forward and prodded Goyette. “Exactly how much would that bit of legislature have cost your Melville gas field operation?”
Goyette stared into the killer’s eyes but saw nothing illuminating. The man’s weathered, slightly longish face showed no emotion. It was the perfect poker face. The dark eyes offered no window to his soul, if he even had one, Goyette thought. Hiring a mercenary was playing with fire, but Zak was clearly a tactful professional. And the dividends were proving to be enormous.
“It is not an inconsequential amount,” he finally replied.
“Which brings us to my compensation.”
“You will be paid as agreed. Half now, half after the investigation is closed. The funds will be wired to your Cayman Islands account, as before.”
“The first stop of many.” Zak smiled. “It might be time for me to check in on my little nest egg and enjoy a few weeks of R and R in the sunny Caribbean.”
“I think vacating Canadian soil for a short time would be a good idea.” Goyette hesitated, not sure whether to keep rolling the dice. The man did nice work, he had to admit, and always covered his tracks. “I’ve got another project for you,” he finally proposed. “Small job. It’s in the States. And no body work required.”
“Name your tune,” Zak said. He had yet to turn down a request. As much as he thought Goyette a cretin, he had to admit that the man paid well. Extremely well.
Goyette handed him a folder. “You can read it on the next flight out of here. There’s a driver at the gate who will take you to the airport.”
“Flying commercial? You may have to get a new capital planning director if this keeps up.”
Zak rose and strode out of the office like an emperor, leaving Goyette sitting there shaking his head.
10
LISA LANE RUBBED HER TIRED EYES AND AGAIN scanned the periodic table of elements, the same standard chemistry chart posted in most every high school science class across the land. The research biochemist had long ago memorized the table of known elements and could probably recite it backward if given the challenge. Now she gazed at the chart hoping for inspiration, something that would trigger a new idea.
She was searching for a durable catalyst that would separate an oxygen molecule from a carbon molecule. Scanning the periodic table, her eyes stopped at the forty-fifth element, rhodium, symbol Rh. Lane’s computer modeling kept pointing to a metal compound as a likely catalyst. Rhodium had proved to be the best she had found so far, but it was totally inefficient, in addition to being a horribly expensive precious metal. Her project at the George Washington University Environmental Research and Technology Lab had been called “blue sky research,” and maybe it would stay that way. Yet the potential benefits of a breakthrough were too enormous to overlook. There had to be an answer.
Staring at the square denoting rhodium, she noticed the preceding element had a similar symbol, Ru. Absently twisting a lock of her long brown hair, she said the name aloud: “Ruthenium.” A transitional metal of the platinum family, it was an element that she had not yet been able to test.
“Bob,” she called to a wiry man in a lab coat seated at a nearby computer, “did we ever receive that sample of ruthenium that I requested? ”
Bob Hamilton turned from the computer and rolled his eyes. “Ruthenium. The stuff is harder to obtain than a day off. I must have contacted twenty suppliers, and none of them stocked it. I was finally referred to a geology lab in Ontario that had a limited amount. It cost even more than your rhodium sample, so I only ordered two ounces. Let me check the stockroom to see if it came in yet.”
He walked out of the lab and down a hall to a small storeroom where special materials were kept under lo
ck and key. A graduate assistant behind a caged window retrieved a small box and slid it across the counter. Returning to the lab, Bob set the container on Lisa’s desk.
“You’re in luck. The sample arrived yesterday.”
Lisa opened the box to find several tiny slivers of a lusterless metal housed in a plastic container. She selected one of the samples and placed it onto a slide, then examined it under a microscope. The tiny sliver resembled a furry snowball under magnification. Measuring the mass of the sample, she placed it in the sealed compartment of a large gray housing that was attached to a mass spectrometer. No less than four computers and several pressurized gas tanks were affixed to the device. Lisa sat down at one of the keyboards and typed in a string of software commands, which initiated a test program.
“Is that the one that’s going to be your ticket to the Nobel Prize?” Bob asked.
“I’d settle for a ticket to a Redskins game if it works.”
Glancing at a wall clock, she asked, “Want to go grab some lunch? I won’t be able to get any preliminary results for at least an hour or so.”
“I’m there,” Bob replied, slipping off his lab coat and racing her to the door.
After a turkey sandwich in the cafeteria, Lisa returned to her tiny office at the back of the lab. A minute later, Bob ducked his head around the door, his eyes opened wide in bewilderment.
“Lisa, you better come take a look at this,” he stammered.
Lisa quickly followed him into the lab, her heart skipping a beat as she saw Bob approach the spectrometer. He pointed to one of the computer monitors, which showed a string of numbers rushing down the screen beside a fluctuating bar graph.
“You forgot to remove the rhodium sample before you initiated the new test. But look at the results. The oxalate count is off the charts,” he said quietly.
Lisa looked at the monitor and trembled. Inside the spectrometer, a detector system was tabulating the molecular outcome of the forced chemical reaction. The ruthenium catalyst was successfully breaking the carbon dioxide bond, causing the particles to recombine into a two-carbon compound called an oxalate. Unlike her earlier catalysts, the ruthenium/rhodium combination created no material waste by-product. She had stumbled upon a result that scientists around the world had been seeking.
Arctic Drift (A Dirk Pitt Novel, #20) Page 6