“Mitchell Goyette, King of the Arctic, eh? I must say, I have seen photographs of your oceangoing barges and am quite awed. A stirring display of naval architecture.”
“They were specifically designed for the task,” Goyette said, finally finding his voice. A look of annoyance remained etched on his face, and he made a mental note to have a word with his security detail. “Fully loaded, they can sail through a Category 2 hurricane without risk.”
“Impressive,” Zak replied, between sips of his martini.
“Though I suspect your environmental worshippers would be disappointed to know that you are raping the country’s pristine landscape of natural resources strictly to make a buck off the Chinese.”
“I didn’t expect to see you back so soon,” Goyette replied, ignoring the remark. “Your project to the States was accomplished with success?”
“Indeed. You were correct in taking an interest in the lab’s work. I had a remarkable conversation about artificial photosynthesis with your research mole.”
Zak proceeded to describe the details of Lisa Lane’s work and her recent discovery. Goyette felt his anger at Zak diminish as the magnitude of Lane’s scientific breakthrough sank in. He peered out the window once more.
“Sounds like they could build an industrial carbon dioxide conversion facility that could be easily replicated,” he said. “Still, they’ve got to be talking years or decades in the future.”
Zak shook his head. “I’m no scientist, but according to your boy on the inside that is not the case. He claims the actual working process requires little in the way of capital resources. He suggested that within five years, you might have hundreds of these facilities built around major cities and key industrial emission sites.”
“But you put an end to such possibilities? ” Goyette asked, his eyes boring into Zak.
The assassin smiled. “No bodies, remember? The lab and all their research materials are history, as you requested. But the chief researcher is still alive and she knows the formula. I’d venture there’s a good chance plenty more people know the recipe by now.”
Goyette stared at Zak without blinking, wondering if it had been a mistake to rein in the assassin this one time.
“Your own mole is probably off selling the results to a competitor as we speak,” Zak continued.
“He won’t live long if he does,” Goyette replied. His nostrils flared as he shook his head. “This could kill my carbon sequestration plant expansion. Worse still, it would permit the Athabasca refineries to come back on line, even expand. That’d drive down the price of Athabasca bitumen, it’d ruin my contract with the Chinese! I won’t have it!”
Zak laughed at Goyette’s greed-induced anger, which drove the mogul to more fury. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small gray pebble and bounced it across the desk. Goyette instinctively caught it against his chest.
“Mitchell, Mitchell, Mitchell . . . You are missing the big picture. Where’s the grand environmentalist, the King of Green, the tree hugger’s best friend?”
“What are you babbling about?” Goyette sneered.
“You’re holding it in your hand. A mineral called ruthenium. Otherwise known as the catalyst to artificial photosynthesis. It is the key to the whole thing.”
Goyette studied the stone with quiet regard.
“Go on,” he replied curtly.
“It is rarer than gold. There are only a few places on earth where the stuff has ever been mined and every one of those mines has gone kaput. This sample came from a geology warehouse in Ontario, and they might well be the last source of the stuff. Without ruthenium, there can be no artificial photosynthesis, and your problem is solved. I’m not saying it can be done, but whoever owns the supply of the mineral will own the solution to global warming. Think how your green friends would worship you then?”
It was the perfect tonic of greed and power that made Goyette tick. Zak could almost see the dollar signs light up in his eyes as he digested the possibilities.
“Yes,” Goyette nodded hungrily. “Yes, we’ll have to explore the market. I’ll get some people on it at once.”
Staring back at Zak, he asked, “You seem to have a bit of the bloodhound in you. How would you like to visit this warehouse in Ontario and find out where this ruthenium came from and how much of a supply is left?”
“Providing Terra Green Air is operating a scheduled flight,” Zak replied with a smile.
“You can use the jet,” Goyette grumbled. “But there’s another matter of minor importance that requires your attention beforehand. It seems I have a small annoyance in Kitimat.”
“Kitimat. Isn’t that near Prince Rupert?”
Goyette nodded and handed Zak the fax he had received from the natural resources minister. Reading the document, Zak nodded, then gulped down his martini.
“I’ll take care of it on the way to Ontario,” he said, stuffing the fax into his pocket and rising from the chair. He moved toward the door, then turned back toward Goyette.
“You know, that research mole of yours, Bob Hamilton? You might consider posting him a nice bonus for the information he provided. Might make you a bit of money down the road.”
“I suppose,” Goyette grunted, then he closed his eyes and grimaced. “Just knock next time, will you please?” he said.
But when he opened his eyes, Zak was already gone.
33
THE TRUE DIE-HARD MEMBERS OF THE POTOMAC Yacht Club had already capitalized on the sparkling Sunday-morning weather and taken to the river in their sailboats by the time Pitt stepped onto the main dock at nine o’clock. An overweight man toting an empty gas can trudged toward Pitt, sweating profusely in the muggy morning air.
“Excuse me,” Pitt asked, “can you tell me where the Roberta Ann is berthed?”
The fat man’s face brightened at the name. “That’s Dan Martin’s boat. He’s on the far dock, the third or fourth berth down. Tell him Tony wants his electric drill back.”
Pitt thanked the man and made his way to the last dock, quickly spotting the Roberta Ann as he stepped down a ramp from the quay. She was a gleaming wood sailboat of just under forty feet. Built in Hong Kong in the 1930s, she was all varnished teak and mahogany, accented by loads of brass fittings that sparkled in the sunlight. In impeccable condition, she was a boat that oozed the romance of another era. Admiring the sleek lines, Pitt could practically envision Clark Gable and Carole Lombard sailing her under the stars to Catalina with a case of champagne aboard. The image was shattered by a string of four-letter words that suddenly wafted from the stern. Pitt walked closer, to find a man hunched down in a bay that housed the sailboat’s small inboard motor.
“Permission to come aboard?” Pitt called out.
The man popped upright, a frustrated snarl on his face softening at the sight of Pitt.
“Dirk Pitt. What a pleasant surprise. Come to mock my sea-faring ways?”
“On the contrary. You have the Roberta Ann looking shipshape and Bristol fashion,” Pitt said, stepping aboard and shaking hands with Dan Martin. A tough Bostonian with thick brown hair, Martin gazed at Pitt through a pair of elfin blue eyes that seemed to dance with mirth.
“Trying to get her prepped for the President’s Cup Regatta next weekend, but the inboard motor is giving me fits. New carburetor, wiring, and fuel pump, yet she still doesn’t want to fire up.”
Pitt leaned over the hatch and studied the four-cylinder engine.
“That looks like the motor from an old American Austin,” he said, recalling a minuscule car built in the twenties and thirties.
“Good guess. It’s actually an American Bantam motor. The second owner had an American Bantam dealership and apparently tore out the original engine and inserted the Bantam. She ran fine until I decided to overhaul her.”
“Always the case.”
“Can I get you a beer?” Martin offered, rubbing his oil-stained hands on a rag.
“A little early for me,” Pitt replied, shaking
his head.
Martin kicked open a nearby ice chest and rummaged around until he located a bottle of Sam Adams. Popping the cap, he leaned on a rail and inhaled a large swig.
“I take it you didn’t come down here strictly to talk boats,” he said.
“No, that’s simply a bonus,” Pitt said with a grin. “Actually, Dan, I was wondering what you know about the explosion at the George Washington University research lab last week.”
“Since the Director of NUMA isn’t calling at my office, I presume this is an unofficial inquiry?”
“Entirely off-the-record,” Pitt replied with a nod.
“What’s your interest?” Martin turned his gaze to the beer bottle, studying its label.
“Lisa Lane, the scientist whose lab exploded, is a close friend of my wife’s. I had just walked into the building to give her a report when the place detonated.”
“Amazing nobody was killed,” Martin replied. “But it does appear to have been a measured blast.”
“You have people working on it?”
Martin nodded. “When the D.C. police couldn’t identify a cause, they flagged it as a potential terrorist act and called us in. We sent three agents over a few days ago.”
Dan Martin was the director of the FBI’s Domestic Terrorism Operations Unit within the agency’s Counterterrorism Division. Like Pitt, Martin had an affinity for old cars as well as boats, and had become friends with the NUMA Director after competing against him at a vintage auto concours some years earlier.
“So nobody believes the explosion was an accident?” Pitt asked.
“We can’t say definitively just yet, but things are looking in that direction. A ruptured gas line was the first thing police investigators looked at, but the epicenter of the explosion was well away from the nearest gas line. The building’s gas line didn’t in fact rupture from the explosion, which could have caused much more damage.”
“That would seem to suggest that the source was a planted device, if not something in the lab itself.”
Martin nodded. “I’ve been told that there were canisters of oxygen and carbon dioxide in there, so that’s one suspicion. But my agents have performed a full residue sampling test, so that ought to tell us if there was any foreign material involved that can’t be placed in the lab. I’m expecting the results on my desk tomorrow.”
“Miss Lane didn’t seem to believe it was caused by anything that she brought into the lab. Are you familiar with her area of research? ”
“Some sort of biochemistry related to greenhouse gases, is what I was told.”
Pitt explained Lisa’s attempt to create artificial photosynthesis and her breakthrough discovery right before the explosion.
“You think there might be a connection with her research work?” Martin asked, draining his beer and tossing the empty back into the cooler.
“I have no evidence, just a suspicion. You’ll know as much when you determine if there was a planted explosive.”
“Any likely culprits?”
Pitt shook his head. “Lane had no conceivable suspects when I asked her directly.”
“If we rule out an accidental explosion, then we’ll start the background investigations and see if there were any personal motivations lurking about. But I’ll add potential industrial sabotage to the list. There might be some outstanding lawsuits against GWU that will give us a direction to look.”
“There’s one other avenue you might examine. Lane’s assistant, a fellow named Bob Hamilton. Again, I’ve got no evidence, but something struck me as odd regarding his absence from the area when the lab went up.”
Martin looked at Pitt, reading a disquieting sign in his eyes. He knew Pitt well enough to realize he wasn’t engaging in baseless hunches or abject paranoia. If Pitt had an instinct, it was probably as good as money in the bank.
“I’ll have him checked out,” Martin promised. “Anything else on your mind?”
Pitt nodded with a sly smile. “A case of misalignment,” he said, then climbed into the small engine bay. He reached over the engine and unclipped a high-mounted distributor cap. Rotating it one hundred and eighty degrees, he set it back on the distributor housing and replaced the clip.
“Try her now,” he told Martin.
The FBI man stepped over to the sailboat’s cockpit and hit the starter button. The little engine turned over twice, then fired to life, idling like a sewing machine on steroids. Martin let the engine warm up for a few minutes, then shut it off, a look of embarrassment on his face.
“By the way, Tony is looking for his drill,” Pitt said, rising to leave.
Martin smiled. “Good of you to stop by, Dirk. I’ll let you know what we come up with in the lab.”
“I’d appreciate it. Good luck in the regatta.”
As Pitt climbed onto the dock, Martin remembered something and yelled over.
“I heard you finished the restoration on your Auburn and have been seen racing around town in her. I’d love to see her run.”
Pitt shook his head with a pained look. “A nasty rumor, I’m afraid,” he said, then turned and walked away.
34
THE FORENSIC ANALYSIS OF RESIDUE FOUND IN the GWU lab reached Martin’s desk at ten the next morning. After consulting with the lead investigative agent, Martin picked up the phone and called Pitt.
“Dirk, I’ve got our first look at the lab site-residue analysis. Afraid I can’t release a copy of the report to you, however.”
“I understand,” Pitt replied. “Can you give me the thirty-thousand-foot view of the findings?”
“You were right on the money. Our lab analysts are nearly certain it was a planted explosive. They found trace samples of nitroglycerin all over the room.”
“Isn’t that the explosive element of dynamite?”
“Yes, that’s how it is packaged, in the familiar dynamite sticks. Not high-tech, but it is a powerful explosive that carries a wicked punch.”
“I didn’t realize they still made the stuff.”
“It’s been around for years, but there is still a heavy industrial demand for it, primarily in underground mining.”
“Any chance of tracing its origin?”
“There are only a handful of manufacturers, and each uses a slightly different formula, so there is in fact an identifying signature in the compound. The lab has already matched the samples up with an explosives manufacturer in Canada.”
“That narrows things down a bit.”
“True, but chances are it will be the end of the line. We’ll send some agents up to talk to the company and check their sales records, but I wouldn’t be too hopeful. The odds are that the explosives were stolen from a mining customer who doesn’t even know the stuff is missing. I just hope this isn’t the start of some serial bombing campaign.”
“I’d bet against it,” Pitt said. “I think Lane’s research was specifically targeted.”
“You’re probably right. There was an additional finding that would support that theory. Our bomb analysts determined that the explosives were packed in a cardboard container. Unlike a pipe bomb, where the shrapnel from the pipe is intended to maim or kill, our bomber used a relatively benign approach. It does appear as if the explosion wasn’t meant to kill, or certainly kill in numbers.”
“A saving grace,” Pitt replied, “but I take it your work is just beginning.”
“Yes, the test results will blow the investigation wide open. We will be talking to everyone in the building. That will be our next hope, that someone saw something or somebody out of place that will give us our next lead.” Martin knew that random explosions were one of the worst crimes to investigate and often the most difficult to solve.
“Thanks for the update, Dan, and good luck. If anything comes to me, I’ll let you know.”
Pitt hung up and walked down the hall to a briefing on NUMA’s hurricane-warning buoys in the Gulf of Mexico. He then cleared his afternoon calendar and made his way out of the headquarters building. The explo
sion at the GWU lab gnawed at his consciousness, and, try as he might, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there were serious consequences at play.
He drove to the Georgetown University Hospital, hoping that Lisa had not yet been released. She was still in her room on the second floor, along with a squat man in a three-piece suit. The man rose from a corner chair and glared at Pitt as he entered.
“It’s all right, Agent Bishop,” Lisa said from her bed. “This is Dirk Pitt, a friend of mine.”
The FBI agent nodded without emotion, then left the room to stand in the hallway.
“Do you believe that?” Lisa said, greeting Pitt. “The FBI has been questioning me all day, and now they won’t leave me alone.”
“They must have a soft spot for pretty research biochemists,” Pitt replied with a warm grin. He was secretly thankful for the guard, knowing that Martin was taking the matter seriously.
Lane blushed at the comment. “Loren phoned a short time ago but didn’t mention that you would be coming by.”
“I became a little concerned after hearing of the FBI’s investigation,” he said.
He noted that Lisa looked vastly improved since his last visit. Her color had returned, her eyes were clear, and her voice was strong. But a leg cast and a shoulder sling indicated that she was still far removed from participating in a game of Twister.
“What’s going on? They haven’t told me anything,” she said, giving him a pleading look.
“They think it may have been a planted bomb that blew up.”
“I figured that’s what they were driving at,” she said in a whisper. “I just can’t believe that would be true.”
“They apparently found residue of an explosive material in your lab. I know that it is hard to figure. Do you have any enemies, personal or professional, that might have a grudge?”
“I went all through that with the FBI agents this morning,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s not a soul I know who could even conceive of doing such an act. And I know the same goes for Bob.”
Arctic Drift (A Dirk Pitt Novel, #20) Page 16