“Completely. There could have been a leak in one of our pressure canisters that somehow ignited, but I think it was something in the building. A freak accident, whatever the source, and now all of Lisa’s research is destroyed.”
“Is that true?” Pitt asked.
“All the computers were destroyed, which contained the research databases,” Bob replied.
“We should be able to piece it together once I get back to the lab… if I still have a lab,” Lisa said.
“I’ll demand that the president of GWU ensure that it is safe before you step into that building again,” Loren said.
She turned to Bob. “We were just leaving. Very nice to meet you, Bob.” Then she leaned over and kissed Lisa again. “Take care, honey. I’ll visit again tomorrow.”
“What a terrible ordeal,” Loren said to Pitt as they left the room and walked down the brightly lit hospital corridor to the elevator. “I’m so glad she is going to be all right.”
When all she got from Pitt was a slight nod in reply, she looked into his green eyes. They had a faraway look, one she had seen on many occasions, usually when Pitt was struggling to track down a lost shipwreck or decipher the mystery of some ancient documents.
“Where are you?” she finally prodded him.
“Lunch,” he replied cryptically.
“Lunch? ”
“What time do most people eat lunch?” he asked.
She looked at him oddly. “Eleven-thirty to one, I suppose, for whatever that is worth.”
“I walked into the building just prior to the explosion. The time was ten-fifteen, and our friend Bob was already having lunch,” he said with a skeptical tone. “And I’m pretty sure I saw him standing across the street looking like a spectator after the ambulance left with Lisa. He didn’t seem to show much concern that his coworker might be dead.”
“He was probably in a state of shock. You were probably in a state of shock, for that matter. And maybe he’s one of those guys that goes to work at five in the morning, so he’d hungry for lunch by ten.” She gave him a skeptical look. “You’ll have to do better than that,” she added, shaking her head.
“I suppose you are right,” he said, grabbing her hand as they walked out of the hospital’s front door. “Who am I to argue with a politician?”
17
Arthur Jameson was tidying up his mahogany desk when an aide knocked on the open door and walked in. The spacious but conservatively decorated office of the natural resources minister commanded an impressive view of Ottawa from its twenty-first-floor perch in the Sir William Logan Building, and the aide couldn’t help but peek out the window as he approached the minister’s desk. Seated in a high-back leather chair, Jameson peered from the aide to an antique grandfather clock that was ticking toward four o’clock. Hopes of escaping the bureaucracy early vanished with the aide’s approaching footsteps.
“Yes, Steven,” the minister said, welcoming the twenty-something aide who faintly resembled Jim Carrey. “What do you have to sour my weekend?”
“Don’t worry, sir, no environmental disasters of note,” the aide smiled. “Just a brief report from the Pacific Forestry Centre in British Columbia that I thought you should take a look at. One of our field ecologists has reported unusually high levels of acidity in the waters off Kitimat.”
“Kitimat, you say?” the minister asked, suddenly stiffening.
“Yes. You were just there visiting a carbon waste facility, weren’t you?”
Jameson nodded as he grabbed the file and quickly scanned the report. He visibly relaxed after studying a small map of the area. “The results were found some sixty miles from Kitimat, along the Inside Passage. There are no industrial facilities anywhere near that area. It was probably an error in the sampling. You know how we get false reports all the time,” he said with a reassuring look. He calmly closed the file and slid it to the side of his desk without interest.
“Shouldn’t we call the B.C. office and have them resample the water? ”
Jameson exhaled slowly. “Yes, that would be the prudent thing to do,” he said quietly. “Call them on Monday and request another test. No sense in getting excited unless they can duplicate the results.”
The aide nodded in consent but stood rooted in front of the desk. Jameson gave him a fatherly look.
“Why don’t you clear out of here, Steven? Go take that fiancee of yours out to dinner. I hear there’s a great new bistro that just opened on the riverfront.”
“You don’t pay me enough to dine there,” the aide grinned. “But I’ll take you up on the early exit. Have a great weekend, sir, and I’ll see you on Monday.”
Jameson watched the aide leave his office and waited as the sound of his footsteps faded down the hallway. Then he grabbed the file and read through the report details. The acidity results didn’t appear to have any correlation to Goyette’s facility, but a feeling in Jameson’s stomach told him otherwise. He was in too deep to get crossways with Goyette now, he thought, as the instinct for self-preservation took over. He picked up the telephone and quickly punched a number by memory, grinding his teeth in anxiety as the line rang three times. A woman’s voice finally answered, her tone feminine but efficient.
“Terra Green Industries. May I help you?”
“Resources Minister Jameson,” he replied brusquely. “Calling for Mitchell Goyette.”
18
Dirk and Summer quietly shoved their boat away from the municipal dock and drifted into the harbor. When the current had pushed them out of view of the dock, Dirk started the engine and guided them slowly down the channel. The sky overhead had partially cleared, allowing a splash of starlight to strike the water as the midnight hour was consumed. The bellow from a bay-front honky-tonk provided the only competing sound as they motored slowly away from town.
Dirk kept the boat in the center of the channel, following the mast light of a distant troll boat heading out early in search of some prize coho salmon. Easing away from the lights of Kitimat, they sailed in darkness for several miles until navigating a wide bend in the channel. Ahead, the water glistened like polished chrome, reflecting the bright lights of the Terra Green sequestration plant.
As the boat moved downstream, Dirk could see that the facility grounds were dotted with brilliant overhead floodlights, which cast abstract shadows against the surrounding pines. Only the huge covered dock was kept muted by the spotlights, shading the presence of the LNG tanker that lay moored inside.
Summer retrieved a pair of night vision binoculars and scrutinized the shoreline as they cruised past at a benign distance.
“All quiet on the Western Front,” she said. “I only got a quick glimpse under the big top but saw no signs of life around the dock or the ship.”
“Security at this hour can’t be more than a couple of goons in a box staring at some video camera feeds.”
“Let’s hope they’re watching a wrestling match on TV instead, so we can grab our water samples and get out.”
Dirk held the boat at a steady pace until they had traveled two miles past the facility. Safely lost from view behind several bends in the channel, he spun the wheel to starboard and brought the boat up tight along the shoreline, then cut the running lights. The patchy starlight provided enough visibility to distinguish the tree-lined bank, but he still eased off the throttle while keeping one eye glued to the depth readings on an Odom fathometer. Summer stood alongside, scanning for obstructions with the night vision binoculars and whispering course changes to her brother.
