“That’s my boy. You know where to find me,” Goyette said, then hung up the phone.
In his office in Ottawa, Jameson hung up the phone and looked across his desk. The commissioner of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police turned off a recording device, then hung up the second handset on which he had been listening in.
“My God, he has indicted the Prime Minister as well,” the commissioner muttered, shaking his head.
“Deep pockets easily corrupt,” Jameson said. “You will have my immunity agreement by tomorrow?”
“Yes,” the commissioner replied, visibly shaken. “You agree to turn state’s evidence and there will be no criminal charges filed against you. You will, of course, be expected to resign your post immediately. I’m afraid your career in public service will effectively be over.”
“I can accept that fate,” Jameson replied with a sullen look. “It will be preferable to continuing as an indentured servant to that greedy swine.”
“Can you live with taking down the Prime Minister as well?”
“If Prime Minister Barrett is in Goyette’s pocket, then he deserves no less.”
The commissioner rose from his chair and packed the listening device and a notepad into an attaché case.
“Don’t look so distraught, Commissioner,” Jameson said, observing his troubled expression. “Once the truth about Goyette is revealed, you’ll be a national hero for putting him away. In fact, you would make a good law-and-order candidate for the Prime Minister’s replacement.”
“My aspirations don’t run that high. I’m just dreading the havoc a billionaire will wreak on the criminal justice system.”
As he stepped toward the door, Jameson called out to him once more.
“Right will win out eventually.”
The commissioner kept on walking, knowing it wasn’t always the case.
43
THE EXPOSED PORTION OF TREVOR’S BOAT WAS still smoldering when a lift barge borrowed from the aluminum smelter moored alongside and hoisted the wrecked vessel aboard. Chugging to a nearby boatyard, the barge deposited the waterlogged hulk onto a cement pad, where it would await investigation by the police and an insurance claims adjuster. His cuts bandaged and his report to the police completed, Trevor poked through the charred hull, then made his way back over to the NUMA research boat. Dirk waved him aboard, inquiring about the police response.
“The chief isn’t ready to concede that it was a planted explosion until his arson investigator can have a look,” Trevor said.
“Boats just don’t blow up, certainly not in that fashion,” Dirk replied.
“He asked if I had any suspicions, but I told him no.”
“You don’t think he can help?” Summer asked.
“Not yet. There’s just not enough evidence to be able to point fingers.”
“We all know someone from the sequestration plant is behind it.”
“Then we need to find out what the mystery is all about,” Trevor replied. He looked at Dirk and Summer steadfastly. “I know you’re short on time, but can you still oblige me with a search off Gil Island before you have to leave?”
“Our boat is loaded, and we’re more than ready,” Dirk replied. “Man the lines and we’ll be on our way.”
The ride down Douglas Channel was made in relative silence, with each wondering what sort of danger they had stumbled into. As they passed the sequestration facility, Dirk took note that the LNG tanker had departed the covered dock. He nudged the throttle to its stops, anxious to get on-site and see what lay beneath the waters off Gil Island.
They were nearly to the sound when Summer stood and pointed out the windshield. The black LNG tanker loomed up around the next bend, steaming slowly down the channel.
“Look how low she’s sitting,” Dirk said, noting that the tanker rode near her waterline.
“You were right, Summer,” Trevor said. “She was in fact taking on liquid CO2 at the plant. It doesn’t make any sense.”
The NUMA vessel charged past the tanker, quickly reaching the open strait. Dirk steered to the southern end of the strait, stopping the boat when he was even with the tip of Gil Island. He moved to the stern and lowered a sonar fish over the rail while Summer programmed a search grid into the navigation system. Within a few minutes they were under way again, moving back and forth across the strait, with the sonar fish tailing behind.
The sonar images revealed a steep and rocky bottom, which dropped from a fifty-foot depth near the shoreline to over two hundred feet in the center of the strait. Dirk had to play yo-yo with the sonar cable, raising and lowering the fish to match the changing depths.