Very likely more.
93
The Kenoah River was tainted only in and around the city of Ferrington, where twentieth-century capitalism and, more recently, Marty Harmon himself had laced the broad waterway with exemplary toxins.
As the current flowed downstream and the chemicals dissipated, the river took on a different tone, the color mellowing from bile to gentle brown. Now here its banks grew lush with trees and plants that could never survive within the city limits. Thirty miles along, where the river broadened to a width of two hundred yards, waterfront development blossomed. Restaurants, shops and pleasure craft docks.
Also working piers, where transport ships were tied up. These weren’t big oceangoing container ships or Ro-Ros — roll on, roll offs. They were old-style break-bulk vessels that carried not containers but pallets.
The ships were usually named after individuals; the owners didn’t paint on the stern clever phrases and puns like the ones doctors and lawyers with sailboats come up with after a martini or two. The ship Martin Harmon had chosen was the Jon Doherty — the first name ironic in the extreme.
Measuring one hundred and ten feet, stem to stern, she was sixty-two years old, abraded and rusty, aromatic of grease and diesel fuel, but she had one feature for which Marty Harmon had paid the captain a hundred thousand dollars: a scuffed but spacious stateroom for a passenger. It would be his home for the next week — which was as long as it took the Jon Doherty to travel west to, and then down, the Mississippi River, terminating in New Orleans.
There, another ship — this one a container vessel, with bigger and better accommodations — would take him to the Lagos Port Complex in Nigeria.
Africa...
The continent that was the future of the world.
The continent in which he would begin to seed his small modular reactors, once he got his new company up and running. He would be two years late, but no matter; the miraculous devices would see the light of day. He actually smiled at the clichéd thought.
A long voyage, and boring, though he would have his computer, a printer and reams upon reams of paper. Also, an encrypted satellite phone, on which he would spend the time laying the groundwork for his new life.
The truck turned off the highway and the ride grew rougher.
As he held tight to canvas tie-downs, Harmon thought of the incidents of the past six weeks: the radioactive spill, killing the driver, racing to find the toxic sludge to pump into the Kenoah and arranging for the iodide water to hand out to the good citizens of Ferrington.
A smart plan, constructed on the fly... and all brought down by a goddamn sixteen-year-old girl and her selfies.
Jesus Christ...
The truck squealed to a stop. The driver banged twice on the wall. They hadn’t settled on a code, but it was obvious this meant they’d arrived at the pier where the Jon Doherty was docked.
He lifted the door and looked out. At 11 p.m. the area was deserted, except for a few workers loading boxes onto pallets and tying them down. Latin music played from a boom box.
He hopped out and grabbed his bags, then walked to the driver’s side of the truck. Harmon handed him another $10K. “Thank you, Ramon Velasquez.” A reference to the fact that he was undocumented and Harmon knew his full name and if he didn’t keep quiet, he would be shipped back to Mexico by Customs and Border Protection in a lick.
“Is all good, Mr. Harmon.”
The transmission clattered into gear and the truck drove off.
Smelling fuel and a faint but rich swamp scent, Harmon walked toward the pier where the ship was docked. A half-dozen lights were on inside the superstructure. He’d been assured by the captain that he was welcome at any time.
A hundred K in small bills buys one an armful of hospitality.
The tied-up ship rocked gently. Low waves lapped. No spray. The night was sedate. Lewisport had once been a tribal village and later a trading post and way station for travelers. At this time of night, it probably looked much the same as it had then: a cluster of low, darkened structures, the river’s rippling surface, on which moonlight danced, the silhouette of uneven and uninhabited swamp and forest on the far shore.
He was now feet away from the gangplank and he had a sense that when he set foot on board he would be immune. Of course, it wasn’t as if he’d be in international waters. He would be subject to the laws of whatever state the ship was passing through. Still, the protection he was afforded was not of legality but of anonymity. Which was by far the better of the two.
And he had the added safety net that even if the hounds were focusing on him they would be pursuing hapless Marianne, the remnants of Dom Ryan’s crew and a black Cadillac.
Ten feet, then five. His footsteps gritted on the asphalt.
The chunky pulse of marimbas and horns and guitar filled the air.
Then he heard:
“Martin Harmon! FBI! Drop the bags and put your hands up!”
“Hands up!”
“Now!”
He exhaled in disgust.
He turned. The three workers were not workers at all. And they were joined by a number of other men and women, wearing navy-blue windbreakers with the letters of their employer on the front and back. All had pistols in their hands and half were aiming directly at him. The others were scanning the dock for any hostiles Harmon might have invited along.
Jesus Lord...
“Drop the bags! Hands up!”
He complied.
Several charged forward, clicking on handcuffs and frisking, removing everything in his pockets, looking through the luggage and backpack.
“Weapon,” one called.
Harmon had brought an old revolver and a box of ammunition. He hadn’t fired a gun in years but he thought it might be helpful.
The gun was unloaded and sealed into an evidence bag.
The man who seemed to be the lead agent approached and formally arrested him on a blur of charges, flight to avoid prosecution, conspiracy to commit murder, wire fraud, battery... Harmon lost track. He did not waive his right to remain silent.
Another figure approached.
Ah, but who else could it possibly be?
The FBI agent looked to Colter Shaw. “You got it right. What’d you say the odds were that he’d trick the drones at a truck stop and head here?”
The man said laconically, “I recall, it was about eighty-five percent.”
The agent looked Harmon over. “Mr. Shaw had the idea that the only place you could hide is Africa and the only way you’d beat the watchlists was to take a cruise.”
“What proof do you—”
Shaw interrupted. “Sonja matched the explosives in the bomb at her Range Rover to what was used in the Pocket Sun triggers. And she got you on tape going into the Secured Substances room at HEP an hour before the explosion. And before you ask how could a CEO like you make a bomb, remember that you’re an engineer with a chemistry degree.”
Shit...
An agent gripped the man’s arm. “This way.”
Harmon, though, turned and looked from Shaw to the agent. “You have to understand. I wanted to improve people’s lives. Get them out of poverty. My Pocket Suns could do that! I did what I did to make the world a better place.”
The look Shaw gave him seemed to say: Which is exactly what we’re doing right now.
Part Three
Never
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 23
94
Colter Shaw was in the office of FPD detective Dunfry Kemp.