Arctic Drift (Dirk Pitt 20)

“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.”