“I’ll pick you up at noon,” he promised.
He reached his office by eight o’clock and sat through a pair of research briefings before phoning Dan Martin later in the morning. The FBI director sounded excited to hear from Pitt.
“Dirk, your tip yesterday was a good one. You were correct, the janitorial service at the George Washington University lab works in the evenings. We reviewed the lab’s security video and found a clean shot of your wayward morning janitor. He fit your description to a tee.”
Sitting in the airport lounge in Elliot Lake, Pitt had finally made the connection between the man at the Co-op and the janitor he had bumped into at the lab just prior to the explosion.
“Have you been able to identify him?” Pitt asked.
“After confirming that he was not part of the building maintenance and janitorial staff, we ran his photo through the Home-land Security identification database. Not an exact science, mind you, but we came up with a potential hit list and one pretty good match in particular. On this side of the border, he goes by Robert Ford of Buffalo, New York. We’ve already confirmed that the registered address is a fake, as well as the name.”
Pitt repeated the name Robert Ford, then thought of the alias he had used in Blind River, John Booth. Too coincidental, Pitt thought. John Wilkes Booth was the man who had shot Lincoln, while Robert Ford had killed Jesse James.
“He has an admiration for historical assassins,” Pitt offered.
“Might be his line of work. We crossed our records with the Canadian authorities, and they think they have him pegged as a fellow named Clay Zak.”
“Are they going to pick him up?”
“They would if they knew where to find him. He’s a suspect in a twenty-year-old murder at a Canadian nickel mine. His whereabouts have been unknown ever since.”
“A nickel mine? Might be a tie to his use of dynamite.”
“We’re following up on that now. The Canadians might not find him, but if he sets foot in the country again we’ll have a good chance at picking him up.”
“Nice work, Dan. You’ve accomplished a lot in short order.”
“A lucky break that you recalled your encounter. There’s one more thing that you might be interested in knowing. Lisa Lane’s lab assistant, Bob Hamilton. We were able to obtain a search warrant on the guy’s financial records. It seems that he just had fifty thousand dollars wired into his bank account from an offshore entity.”
“I suspected something was amiss with that one.”
“We will do a little more digging, then bring him in for questioning at the end of the week. We’ll see if there is a connection, but I have to say, things look promising at the moment.”
“I’m glad the investigation has legs. Thanks for your efforts.”
“Thank you, Dirk. You’ve given us a nice jump on the case.”
Pitt wondered how his own research was going and took the stairwell down to the tenth-floor computer operations center. He found Yaeger seated at his console conversing again with Max, who stood before a large projection screen. A flattened map of the globe was displayed, with dozens of pinpoint lights flashing from scattered points across the oceans. Each light represented a buoy that relayed sea and weather info via satellite link to the headquarters building.
“Problem with the sea buoy system? ” Pitt asked, taking a seat beside Yaeger.
“We’ve had an uplink problem with a number of segments,” Yaeger replied. “I’m having Max run some software tests to try and isolate the problem.”
“If the latest software release had been properly tested before going operational, we wouldn’t be incurring this problem,” Max injected. Turning to Pitt, she said good morning, then eyed Pitt’s bandage. “What happened to your head?”
“I got in a slight fender bender on a rocky road,” he replied.
“We’ve tracked the information on the jet tail number that you phoned in about,” Yaeger said.
“It can wait. Fixing the sea buoy data is more important.”
“I can multitask with the best of them,” Max offered with a touch of indignation.
“She’s running a test that will take twenty minutes,” Yaeger explained. “We can exercise her until the results come back.”
Turning to the holograph image, he said, “Max, bring up the data on the Canadian Gulfstream jet.”
“The aircraft is a brand-new Gulfstream G650 eighteen-passenger jet, manufactured in 2009. According to Canadian aeronautical records, the tail number C-FTGI is registered to Terra Green Industries, of Vancouver, British Columbia. Terra Green is a privately held company, chaired by a man named Mitchell Goyette.”
“Hence the TGI in the tail number,” Yaeger said. “At least he didn’t flaunt his personal initials, like most filthy rich jet owners.”
“Goyette,” Pitt mused. “Isn’t he big into green energy?”
“His holdings include wind farms, geothermal and hydroelectric power plants, and a small number of solar panel fields,” Max recited.
“Being privately held tends to obscure things,” Yaeger said, “so we did a little digging. Found over two dozen other entities that trace their ownership to Terra Green. Turns out, a number of the holdings were related to gas, oil, and mining exploration activities, particularly in the Athabasca region of Alberta.”
“So Terra Green is apparently not all that green,” Pitt quipped.
“It’s worse than that. Another Terra Green subsidiary apparently controls a recently discovered natural gas field in the Melville Sound. Its value could conceivably outweigh his other holdings combined. We also found an interesting nautical link to NUMA. It seems that over the past few years, Terra Green has contracted for the construction of several big icebreakers from a Mississippi Gulf shipyard, along with a number of very large LNG and bulk-carrier barges. It was the same yard that built our last research ship, which was delayed in launching due in part to their work for Terra Green.”
“Yes, the Lowden Shipyard in New Orleans,” Pitt recalled. “I saw one of those barges in dry dock. It was a massive thing. I wonder what they’re transporting?”
“I have not attempted to locate the vessels, but I can try if you like,” Max said.
Pitt shook his head. “Probably not important. Max, can you determine if Terra Green is conducting any research related to artificial photosynthesis or other countermeasures to greenhouse gas emissions?”
Max stood motionless as she scanned her databases for published research reports and news releases.
“I find no references to Terra Green and artificial photosynthesis. They operate a small research facility devoted to solar research and have published work in carbon sequestration. The company has in fact just opened a carbon sequestration facility in Kitimat, British Columbia. The company is known to be in discussions with the Canadian government to build an unknown number of additional sequestration facilities across the country.”
“Kitimat? I just received an e-mail from Summer, who was writing from there,” Yaeger said.
“Yes, the kids apparently stopped there for a few days on their way down the Inside Passage testing the local sea alkalinity,” Pitt said.
“Do you think the carbon sequestration plants figure in as a motive to halt Lisa Lane’s research?” Yaeger asked.
“I can’t say, but it could be a possibility. It’s clear that Goyette is after the ruthenium.” He explained his visit to the Miners Co-op and the chance encounter with the man he’d seen at the GWU lab. He recited the portion of the journal entry he had read, and pulled out his notes for Yaeger.
“Max, last time we talked, you indicated that there was little, if any, mining of ruthenium taking place,” he said.
“That’s correct, just a small quantity of low-grade ore being produced from a mine in Bolivia.”
“The mining Co-op has a finite inventory left. Do you have any data on potential deposits in the Arctic?”
Max stood motionless for a moment, then shook her head
. “No, sir. I find no mention in any recorded surveys or mining claims that I have access to, which mostly date from the 1960s.”
Pitt eyed his journal notes, then said, “I have a record from 1917 that a quantity of ruthenium called Black Kobluna was obtained some sixty-eight years earlier by a number of Adelaide Peninsula Inuit. Does that mean anything to you, Max?”
“I’m sorry, sir, I still don’t find any relevant mining references,” she replied, a hurt look in her transparent eyes.
“She never calls me sir,” Yaeger muttered quietly.
Max ignored Yaeger as she tried to generate an added response to Pitt.
“The Adelaide Peninsula is located on the north coast of Nunavut, just to the south of King William Island. The peninsula is considered an essentially uninhabited landmass, historically occupied at certain seasons by small groups of migrating Inuit.”
“Max, what is meant by the term ‘Black Kobluna’?” Yaeger asked.
Max hesitated while accessing a linguistics database at Stanford University. She then tipped her head at Yaeger and Pitt with a confused look on her face.
“It is a contradictory phrase,” she said.
“Please explain,” requested Yaeger.
“Kobluna is an Inuit term for ‘white man.’ Hence it is a mixed translation of ‘black white man.’ ”
“Contradictory, indeed,” Yaeger said. “Perhaps it means a white man dressed in black or vice versa.”
“Possibly,” Pitt said. “But that was a remote section of the Arctic. I’m not sure a white or black man had even set foot there by that point in time. Isn’t that true, Max?”
“You are nearly correct. Initial exploration and mapping of the Canadian Arctic came in a British-inspired quest for a northwest passage to the Pacific Ocean. A large portion of the western and eastern regions of the Canadian Arctic had been well charted by the mid-nineteenth century. The middle regions, including a number of passages around Adelaide Peninsula, were in fact some of the last areas charted.”
Pitt glanced at his notes from the Miners Co-op. “The record indicates that the Inuit recovered the ruthenium in or around 1849.”
“The historical record shows that an expedition under the guise of the Hudson’s Bay Company surveyed a region of North American coastline in the vicinity between 1837 and 1839.”
“That’s a little too early,” Yaeger remarked.
“The next known forays were made by John Rae in 1851, during his search for survivors of the Franklin Expedition. He was known to have traveled along the southeast coast of Victoria Island, which is still approximately a hundred miles from the Adelaide Peninsula. It was not until 1859 that the area was reached again, this time by Francis McClintock, who visited nearby King William Island, just north of Adelaide, during another search for Franklin.”
“That’s a little late in the game,” said Yaeger.
“But there’s Franklin,” Pitt said, searching his memory. “When did he sail into those waters and where was he lost?”
“The Franklin Expedition sailed from England in 1845. They wintered the first year at Beechey Island, then traveled south until becoming trapped in the ice off King William Island. The expedition ships were abandoned in the spring of 1848, with the entire crew later dying onshore sometime later.”
Pitt mulled the dates in his head, then thanked Max for the information. The holographic woman nodded and turned aside, resuming her software test calculations.
“If Franklin’s men left their ships in 1848 well north of the peninsula, it doesn’t figure they would be lugging some minerals around with them,” remarked Yaeger.
“It’s possible that the Inuit erred in the date,” Pitt replied. “The other point to consider is Max’s comment about the Adelaide Peninsula being an Inuit migration stop. Just because the Inuit were known to camp on the peninsula doesn’t mean that it’s where they acquired the mineral.”
“Good point. Do you think there’s a connection with the Franklin Expedition?”
Pitt nodded slowly. “Might be our only real link,” he said.
“But you heard what Max said. The entire crew perished. That would seem to eliminate any hope of finding an answer there.”
“There’s always hope,” Pitt said, with a glint to his eye. He looked at his watch, then rose to leave. “As a matter of fact, Hiram, I fully expect to be on the right path just this afternoon.”
41
Pitt borrowed an agency jeep and picked up.
Loren on Capitol Hill, then drove across downtown D.C.
“You have time for a long lunch?” he asked, sitting at a stop-light.
“You’re in luck, I have no hearings scheduled for today. I’m just reviewing some draft legislation. What did you have in mind? ”
“A side trip to Georgetown.”
“To my condo, for a little afternoon delight?” she asked coyly.
“A tempting proposition,” he replied, squeezing her hand, “but I’m afraid we have a lunch reservation that can’t be canceled.”
The noontime traffic clogged the streets until Pitt maneuvered onto M Street, which led to the heart of Georgetown.
“How’s Lisa coming along?” he asked.
“She’s being released from the hospital today and is anxious to get back to work. I’m arranging a briefing with the White House Office on Science and Technology once she has the chance to document and summarize her findings. That might take a few weeks, though. Lisa called me this morning a little upset — her lab assistant has apparently taken another position out of state, just quit on her without notice.”
“Bob Hamilton?”
“Yes, that’s his name. The one you don’t trust.”
“He’s supposed to talk to the FBI later this week. Something tells me he won’t be leaving for that new job anytime soon.”
“It started out as such a promising breakthrough, but it’s certainly turned into a mess. I saw a private report from the Department of Energy which forecasts a much bleaker environmental and economic impact from global warming than anybody else is letting on. The latest studies indicate the atmospheric greenhouse gases are growing at an alarming rate. Do you think a source of ruthenium can be found quickly enough to make the artificial-photosynthesis system a reality?”
“All we’ve got is a tenuous historical account of a long forgotten source. It might turn up empty, but the best we can do is track it down.”
Pitt turned down a quaint residential street lined with historic mansions that dated to the 1840s. He found a parking spot beneath a towering oak tree, and they made their way to a smaller residence constructed from the carriage house of an adjacent manor. Pitt rapped a heavy brass knocker, and the front door flew open a moment later, revealing a colossal man clad in a red satin smoking jacket.
“Dirk! Loren! There you are,” St. Julien Perlmutter boomed in a hearty voice. The bearded behemoth, who tipped the scales at nearly four hundred pounds, gave them each a spine-crushing hug as he welcomed them into his house.
“Julien, you are looking fit. Have you lost some weight?” Loren said, patting his ample belly.
“Heavens, no,” he roared. “The day I stop eating is the day I die. You, on the other hand, look more ravishing than ever.”
“You’d best keep that appetite of yours focused on food,” Pitt threatened with a grin.
Perlmutter leaned down to Loren’s ear. “If you ever get tired of living with this adventuresome old cuss, you just let me know,” he said, loud enough for Pitt to hear. Then rising like a bear, he pounded across the room.
“Come, to the dining room,” he beckoned.
Loren and Pitt followed him past the entryway, through a living room, and down a hallway, all of which were filled to the ceiling with shelved books. The entire house was similarly cluttered, resembling a stately library more than a personal residence. Within its walls was the largest single collection of historic maritime books and journals in the world. An insatiable collector of nautical archives,
Perlmutter himself stood as a pre-eminent expert on maritime history.
Perlmutter led them to a small but ornate dining room, where only a few piles of books were discreetly stacked against one wall. They took their seats at a thick mahogany table that featured legs carved in the shape of lion paws. The table had come from the captain’s cabin of an ancient sailing ship, one of many nautical antiques tucked among the legion of books.
Perlmutter opened a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé, then poured each of them a glass of the dry white wine.
“I’m afraid I already finished off that bottle of airag that you sent me from Mongolia,” he said to Pitt. “Marvelous stuff.”
“I had plenty while I was there. The locals consume it like water,” he replied, recalling the slightly bitter taste of the alcoholic drink made from mare’s milk.
Perlmutter tasted the wine, then set down his glass and clapped his hands.
“Marie,” he called loudly. “You may serve the soup.”
An apron-clad woman appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray of bowls. The physical opposite of Perlmutter, she was lithe and petite, with short dark hair and coffee-colored eyes. She silently placed a bowl of soup in front of each diner with a smile, then disappeared into the kitchen. Pitt took a taste and nodded.
“Vichyssoise. Very flavorful.”
Perlmutter leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. “Marie is an assistant chef at Citronelle here in Georgetown. She is a graduate of one of the top culinary schools in Paris. Better than that, her father was a chef at Maxim’s,” he added, kissing his fingertips in delight. “She agreed to come cook for me three times a week. Life is good,” he declared in a deep bellow, the folds of fat around his chin rolling as he laughed.
The trio dined on sautéed sweetbreads with risotto and leeks, followed by a chocolate mousse. Pitt pushed his empty dessert plate away with a sigh of satisfaction. Loren threw in the towel before finishing hers.
“Outstanding, Julien, from start to finish. If you ever grow tired of maritime history, I do believe you’d have a fantastic future as a restaurateur,” Loren said.
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