Deep Time Page 10

  Because he’d planted hidden cameras and listening devices in Renatus’s lab, he knew he was working twenty-hour days. What he resented was that some of that time was spent on research into the mysteries of the HTV. He couldn’t bully or threaten Renatus, because he was in too deep to do without him.

  If Renatus succeeded, so much money would pour in that he could steamroll over anything in his way. But every day that passed without success, the knot in his stomach got more painful. If the Law of the Sea Treaty was ratified and the ISA shut him down, he could never recover.

  He’d depended on persuading Strider to get Gorton to pressure a few senators. How big a deal was that? In most countries where he did business, that would take just a phone call followed by an envelope. He’d tried to be nice to the guy, hiring his law firm even though he had no intention of being transformed into some sort of environmental angel. How dare that stiff-necked bastard refuse his simple request?

  Strider should have been able to see this situation from Odyssey Properties’ point of view. He employed thousands around the world. His tankers were a key factor in international commerce. His success with this project could mean huge benefits for world economies. Instead of confronting him, Strider should have cheered him on.

  He clenched his fists and wished Strider would walk through the door.

  Now he’d have to use a far more risky strategy. There were senators he could exploit if he could identify them in time. He still had enough cash to stuff a few pockets. He’d pay or he’d play rough, whichever was necessary. From running a shipping and construction empire, he knew when to break bread and when to break heads.

  He pressed a button to connect with his communications office. “Get Simms.”

  Simms had the temperament of a Rhodesian Ridgeback with a score to settle, so he’d snap at the assignment he was about to get.

  In seconds, his handset pinged. “Simms, have Strider’s firm thrown out of their offices as soon as the law allows. Between now and then, raise hell on Pier 9. Make it impossible for them to practice law.”

  He hated not having gotten Debra Vanderberg to Chaos for a couple of days. He was sure Strider had fouled that up too. Firing and evicting him weren’t even close to enough. He’d screwed women for a lot of reasons, but doing it to emasculate their men was always sweet. If he got another shot at Debra, he wouldn’t miss.

  Chapter 15

  July 21

  6:30 p.m.

  Astoria, Oregon

  KILLING TIME IN the Columbia River Maritime Museum, Jack had watched a video of forty-foot storm waves pounding the infamous Columbia River Bar called the “Graveyard of the Pacific” at the entrance to the port of Astoria. Exhibits of steamboats, cannery operations, and sailing vessels had held his attention for a while. He’d even looked at the photographic history of maritime tattoos. Now, standing next to a simulated tugboat, he was fed up. Where the hell is Gano?

  He couldn’t help thinking about his law firm under attack and his failure to meet his commitment to the Armstrong plaintiffs. And Barbas’s mining operations were a serious threat to the Columbia River downstream from it. But what worried him most was his gut feeling that Barbas was also engaged in some much more malevolent enterprise. His brain felt like a gerbil running on a wheel as it recycled those thoughts.

  His plan had been for Gano to stake out the Astoria airport until Barbas came in from the platform on his helo, and then track him from there without being spotted. If they were lucky, Barbas would meet someone or go somewhere that would shed light on what was really going on at the platform.

  Gano had agreed to meet Jack at the museum at half past five to report. He was already an hour late. Could Barbas’s men have grabbed him?

  “Ahoy there, Captain America,” Gano called across the exhibit room. “Come on outside. There’s a place by the river where we can talk.”

  They were barely seated on a concrete bench when Gano said, “Your plan fell apart right after the tip-off. I rented a truck and staked out the airport. Boring, boring, boring until Barbas’s whirlybird dropped in, the same one that took us out to the platform. The pilot got out and had the bird loaded with fuel. I was ready to get on Barbas’s trail as he drove away from the airport. Then, instead of Barbas getting out, the helo went airborne. I sprinted over to my Cessna, powered up, and headed north up the coast in pursuit. He had a head start, but I was much faster, so I caught up. I stayed above him in his visual blind spot and kept clouds between us.

  “He flew across Washington State and over Vancouver Island, British Columbia. Then he veered east over the Strait of Georgia toward the Canadian mainland. Suddenly, through a broken cloud layer, I saw him dropping out of the sky like a goose full of buckshot. I couldn’t see where he went, but I noticed on my map that a village called Powell River had an airport. I figured that was my only choice. I couldn’t land right after he did without being obvious, so I circled a few times above the clouds before I went down. As I was on final approach, too late to stay airborne, I saw there was no helo on the tarmac or in the air.

  “No one was around the airstrip except two guys working under an airplane engine about fifty yards away. Both slid halfway out, looked at me kind of sideways. I asked if a helo had just landed there. One of the fellows said, ‘Yep.’ I asked whether a man had gotten out. ‘Yep,’ and both of them started sliding back under the engine. I said, ‘Hold on,’ and gave him fifty dollars, your money of course, and asked, ‘You know where he went?’ If he had said ‘Yep’ again I was going to stomp on his neck, but he must have seen that coming. He said, ‘He drove off in a Land Rover. Always leaves it down on the waterfront next to Jake’s Bar and heads for somewhere out there.’ He jerked his head toward the strait and rolled back under the truck. Those two northern rednecks figured I’d used up your fifty bucks.”

  “That’s weird. You know anything about the Strait of Georgia?” Jack asked.

  “I do now. It’s about 150 miles long with a few big islands in it and lots of small ones. It’s a magnet for the scuba-diving, whale-watching crowd. Anyway, the waterfront wasn’t far so I got there fast.”

  “What did you find?”

  “The Land Rover but no Barbas. So there I was, sucking my thumb. Nothing to do but go into Jake’s Bar to do some, you know, research. Place was empty except for a hunched-over old geezer wearing a gray fisherman’s sweater. He looked up and smiled. No teeth. I knew he was my man. After I loosened him up with two shots of rum, he started rambling about bizarre cults and secret societies up and down the banks of the strait. He said one island, named Ironbound, is so hexed locals are afraid to go there. Then he started in on all the drugs, guns, and murder in the villages along the strait. But Barbas was getting farther away, so I cut him off and asked about the guy in the Land Rover. His mouth snapped shut like a clam. He turned away and started talking with the bartender. If he knew the answer he wasn’t going to give it to me. I guess it’s their code that outsiders are lower than whale shit, maybe tolerated but never trusted.

  “I got out my electronic magic carpet and checked out the Internet. There are a lot of homes on the big islands, but I figure Barbas wants privacy so he wouldn’t go to any of them. In the little port villages along the mainland everybody knows everybody, so he’d stand out like Bigfoot. That left the small islands, but most of them are inaccessible. I wanted to take a look, but that would mean going lower and slower than I can in my Cessna.”

  “Barbas must have left by boat, so you got a boat, right? Did you rent one or steal it?”

  Gano flashed a look of fake offense. “Neither. I was too far behind to use a boat. But there was a rack of tourist brochures next to the door. One had an ultralight on the cover, and there were some for rent on a big island called Texada. I hitched a ride over there and mounted up.”

  “You know how to fly one of those things?”

  “I
can fly anything. One time in Nepal near Annapurna—never mind, I’ll tell you about that some other time. Anyway, it was a great way to look for Barbas in a boat and cruise past the small islands within reasonable range. Problem was, nothing lit me up, so I decided to check out the place that rumpot fisherman mentioned where no one goes. Ironbound is a few miles north from Powell River and about a mile offshore. It’s totally forested with a center ridge running its length. Pleasure boats stay away, because it’s surrounded by jagged granite ledges and the current screams past.

  “I figured if anyone was watching and saw me gliding by they wouldn’t feel threatened. I spotted a big ol’ shingle-covered lodge. Verandas, gazebo, even a tennis court that looked like it hadn’t been played on since F. Scott Fitzgerald’s time. Classy place, except for three long metal buildings in a line off to one side. And I saw twin generators big enough to power a cruise ship. If the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang had a hideout like that, they’d still be in business.”

  Jack thought about that. “So whatever is going on in those buildings requires a lot of juice, a lot more than a vacation cottage. Anything else?”

  “Damn right. There’s a concertina wire fence around most of the compound. Barbas doesn’t want visitors. But since there’s a lodge, there must be a path through the rocks and maybe a concealed boathouse.”

  “Any sign of life?”

  “Lights on in the lodge, so our raptor might be in his nest. I was thinking what to do next when the little lawn mower motor on the ultralight started cutting on and off, so I decided to get my ass back to Texada.”

  “Anything else important you can think of?”

  “Not really important, but on my way back to Texada the motor conked out. I had to ditch it in the strait. Talk about cold water. I got pulled out right quick by a salmon fisherman on his way back to Powell River. If the rental place hassles you about the ultralight, tell them I’ll sue them for nearly killing me. Hell, that thing can’t be worth much anyway. It was just a go-cart hanging under a kite. I wouldn’t have minded warming up in Jake’s Bar, but since I was still on the clock I fired up the Cessna and headed back here. Just another fun-filled day in the Gano LeMoyne Mission Impossible series.”

  Jack admired, even envied, Gano’s damn-the-torpedoes attitude about life. He responded to danger as though it were high octane fuel.

  “Glad you’re okay. Now let’s see what we know for sure. Barbas’s helo flies to Powell River and drops a passenger on a regular basis. The passenger leaves Powell River and may or may not go to the hexed island. If he does, we don’t know why. In other words, we’re still at the starting line.”

  “Well damn, I busted my butt all day. Thought I did better than that, and I know I earned a quart of black rum.”

  “I’m fine with that. A bar could be a good place to get information from the locals about what kind of work they do on Chaos and at the processing plant.”

  “If they’re like the folks I dealt with today, what makes you think they’ll even tell us what time it is?”

  “Because I’ll tell them I represent out-of-state investors who are considering building a hotel. No, starting a grocery, or buying an existing one and expanding it, so I need to find out about the local economy.”

  “Are lawyers allowed to lie like that?”

  THEY STROLLED along a row of canneries between them and the waterfront. On their left beyond the small business district, the Victorian architecture of the homes gave character to the hillside. After a few minutes, they spotted the Bridgewater Tavern and walked in. It was packed. The biggest flat screen showed a NASCAR race, another featured a truck destruction derby, and a third showed pro football. Country music filled the main room as background for loud, jovial conversations.

  Gano nudged him. “Take a look at that gorgeous bartender.”

  Her white blouse would have looked at home on an eighteenth century pirate ship. Her auburn hair was gathered in a loose braid over her shoulder. She was holding a bottle of red wine up to the light to appraise its color and clarity.

  All bar stools were taken, so Gano pounced on a table in the middle of the room just as it was vacated.

  “I’ll have a ‘Dark ’n Stormy,’” Jack told the server.

  “Your best dark rum, my man, and bring the bottle,” Gano ordered.

  The server’s eyes widened, and she headed for the bar without comment.

  Jack looked around. Mostly men, maybe a half-dozen women, no kids. Mustaches, beards, or several-day stubble were the norm. He saw a sea of real or knock-off Pendleton products: tartans and plaids, dark blues and greens, peacoats, pullovers, and knit seaman’s caps. Not a button-down or polo shirt in the place. Faces were weathered and rough, the kind seen aboard trawlers, in saw mills, and on lumberjack crews. He and Gano had walked in on a tribe. No one was openly paying attention to them, but he knew they were being thoroughly scanned. Verdicts were pending.

  “Pardon me, gentlemen.”

  A woman’s voice came from close behind Jack, but the look in Gano’s eyes told him the speaker was the beautiful bartender. She came around and stood by the side of the table between them.

  Looking at Gano with a smile, she said, “Sorry. We can’t serve a bottle at a table. And before you argue with me”—although Gano seemed to have lost the power of speech—“that’s state law. Besides, I know from experience that nothing good happens when there’s a bottle on a table in a bar.” Gano scrambled to his feet, but she walked away, stopping to chat with people at several tables.

  Gano watched her until she returned behind the bar, and then he signaled for their server, a college-age blond.

  “Pardon me, miss. May I ask you a question about the bartender?”

  “If you want to know if she’s married, I’m not allowed to say. But she’s not a bartender. She owns the tavern. She grew up in Astoria, went away to college, and then taught at Oregon State until a year ago when her father got sick and needed her here. After he died, she stayed to keep this place going, keep people employed. She’s a wonderful boss. Sorry, I have to go.”

  “But wait,” Jack said. “We’re from out of town and thinking about making an investment here. We need to talk with local business people. Will you ask her to come over and talk with us, please?”

  He watched the server deliver the message, saw both women look over at them, then grin at each other. The owner walked from behind the bar and through a door in the back wall of the tavern.

  “Damn, Mr. Charm School, you should have let me handle it. I’ve been around this track before. I’d have said—”

  The auburn-haired woman re-appeared and walked across the room to their table. “Name’s Molly McCoy. I understand you’re thinking of doing business in Astoria.”

  Gano was first to his feet. “I’m Gano LeMoyne. That’s Jack Strider. Please join us.”

  “For just a moment. So, where are you fellows from?”

  “San Francisco,” Jack said and casually laid out his cover story and why they needed to get a sense of the local economy. At the first opportunity, Gano jumped in with his tale of having to ditch the ultralight. At least he had enough good sense to leave out anything about the reason for the flight.

  While Gano, acting like a teenager in heat, continued to banter with Molly, Jack took a closer look at her. Emerald eyes, built-in smile, skin radiantly healthy. She looked like someone who guided kayak trips down the whitewater rapids of the Rogue River. She appeared to be in early to mid-thirties, but there was a sense of self, a calmness that suggested she might look pretty much the same at seventy.

  He glanced at her left hand. No wedding ring. When he looked up, she was watching.

  “No, Jack, not married. My boyfriend, at least a guy who wants to be my boyfriend, works on a big offshore platform.”

  The ideal lead-in. “Do many people from Astoria work
out there?”

  “Just about every plumber, welder, electrician, and everyone with a strong back got sucked right out to sea or upriver at a processing plant. We call it ‘the mill’ because that’s what it used to be. When our walk-in cooler broke down last week, I had to get someone to come all the way from Portland to fix it. But I’m not complaining. This town was dying before Mr. Barbas showed up. All those jobs are like the Holy Grail.”

  “So everyone’s happy that he’s here?”

  Her smile left her eyes. “You won’t hear anyone in Astoria say a bad word about Mr. Barbas.”

  “What sort of work does your boyfriend do on the platform?” He noticed that Molly had said “platform” not “Chaos” so he did the same. Maybe Barbas didn’t use that name with his workers.

  “He’s an electronics technician, but he doesn’t talk about what he does.” Her voice had changed just enough to tell him she was suddenly stressed. She looked at Gano. “My gosh, you still don’t have your rum.” She signaled to the server, who quickly returned with what looked like a triple shot.

  “I need to get opinions about the local economy,” Jack said, “and whether there’s a need for a new grocery store. The more I learn about the local employment situation, the better I can project what’s needed. Think I could talk with some of Barbas’s workers?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she said firmly. “Everyone who works for Mr. Barbas has to sign a paper agreeing to pay a big fine if they shoot off their mouth about their work. When they come back from a six month shift on the platform, they won’t say a word about it, not even in bed. That’s the way Mr. Barbas wants it, and that’s all we need to know. Those jobs saved this town . . . at least for now.”