Fisher opened the folder and skimmed the CCCD’s report. Finally, he looked up and said, “What in God’s name is PuH-19?”
“Plutonium hydride-19,” Lambert answered. “It’s a negative hydrogen ion that attaches itself to Plutonium-239 that’s exposed to pure oxygen. Usually comes in the form of fine particulates — think of flour, but about a thousand times finer.”
“Almost a gas,” Grimsdottir added. “It’s also pyrophoric, which is a fancy way of saying it’s an autoigniter. Its flash point is below room temperature; it’s also reactive to water or even humid air. In fact, it’s so touchy, the only safe way to handle it is in a pure nitrogen or argon atmosphere.”
“Sounds lovely,” Fisher said. “Contagious?”
“Not once it’s inside the body,” Grimsdottir replied. “The hydride particles settle in the tissues and organs and begin… dissolving them. Sorry, Sam, there’s really no other word for it.”
“It’s okay. Where’s PuH-19 come from?”
“Plutonium-based weapons production.”
“Which is good news,” Lambert said. “It sharply narrows the list of where Peter picked it up.”
Where, maybe, but not how, Fisher thought. After ten years as a Justice Department investigator, Peter had resigned in protest during Gonzales-gate and gone into business for himself as a security consultant. While certain Peter had an inkling of what Fisher did for a living, they’d never discussed it, and neither did they discuss the specifics of Peter’s business. Fisher had long suspected the nature of their work was similar.
“What else?” Fisher said.
Grimsdottir said, “It’s about a hundred times deadlier than plutonium. A speck of PuH-19 the size of a head of a pencil is enough to kill a room full of people — which is why its production and storage has been banned by all countries of the world save two: Russia and the United States.”
Fisher closed the file and slowly slid it back across the table to Grimsdottir. He looked at Lambert and said, “We need to talk.”
Anna took the hint and excused herself. When the door clicked shut, Fisher said, “I’m going to need a leave of absence or—”
“Now, Sam, hold on a second—”
“Or, if you’d prefer, I’ll have my letter of resignation on your desk by—”
“Not necessary.”
“Colonel, I’m going to find whoever did this to Peter.”
“I know.”
“And break a lot of laws doing it.”
“I know that, too.”
“And when I find them, I’m going to kill each and every one of them.”
Lambert laid a hand on Fisher’s forearm. “Stop. Take a breath. I mean it, Sam, take a breath.”
Fisher took a breath.
“While you were in the air with Peter’s body, I was at Langley,” Lambert said. “We’ve got the green light from both the DCI and the NID.” The director of central intelligence at the CIA and the national intelligence director — the president’s intelligence czar. “The mission’s ours. Find where and how Peter was infected, track it back to its source, and find out if there’s more out there. A coffee cup full of PuH- 19 could kill every living thing in New York City. Believe me, we’ve got a free hand on this.”
“They know about my connection to Peter?”
“Yep. It took some doing, but I convinced them you could stay objective. Can you?”
“You have to ask?”
“Normally, no, but there’s nothing normal about this. We need live, talking bodies, Sam, understood?”
Fisher nodded. “Understood.”
“You step outside the rules of engagement, and I’ll take you off this mission faster than you can blink.”
“I hear you, Colonel.”
“Good. Mission briefing in twenty. Anna’s got a lead for you.” Lambert stood up and started for the door. He stopped and turned around. “Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry about Peter.”
7
Fisher refolded his copy of the Montreal Gazette to the Arts & Life page and shifted his eyes left, keeping his target in view. The man was a creature of habit, Fisher had found over the last two days. Same park, same bench, same sack lunch containing a baguette sandwich, an apple, and a pint bottle of milk. Keeping such a routine was a dangerous tendency for a private detective, but then again, Jerry Pults’s seeming laziness was Fisher’s gain.
The park was abuzz with Montrealers flocking to one of the city’s many green spaces. With the last patches of snow gone and the tulips in bloom, spring had fully arrived, and the locals were taking advantage of it.
At ninety acres and more than 125 years old, La Fontaine Park was not only one of the city’s largest green spaces but also one of its oldest. It reminded Fisher of New York’s Central Park, with enough hills, ponds, bike paths, playgrounds, tennis courts, and cafés that it had become one of Montreal’s default get-together spots. In the distance, over the tops of the trees, Fisher could see the row of Second Empire-style houses that lined Rue Sherbrooke.
Pults, a former RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police) detective, though ten years past retirement age, looked a lean and fit fifty years old — save one feature: a stiff left leg that he supported with a cane. Even so, Fisher wasn’t about to underestimate the man. Grimsdottir had worked her cyber magic and hacked into the RCMP’s personnel bureau database. Pults had had a long and distinguished career and had spent the last three years of it at the RCMP Academy in Regina, Saskatchewan, after a crackhead’s bullet had shattered his hip. He was thrice decorated for bravery, an expert marksman, and had for five years been the lead unarmed combat instructor at RCMP Toronto. On the personal side, Grimsdottir had found nothing damning; in fact, Pults and his wife, Mary, his high school sweetheart, had been married for thirty-seven years. Three children, a boy and two girls, all upstanding citizens without so much as a parking ticket.
Unless Pults was hiding some deep secret they’d yet to uncover, he looked as clean as they come. Even so, the man’s detective agency was either failing or going through a slump. Over the past two days, Fisher had seen Pults meet with no one, nor did he leave the office for anything but lunch in the park and to go home at night. Grim’s probe into the agency’s financials showed little activity, and Pults’s personal accounts were exactly what you’d expect from a retired cop.
The lead Grimsdottir had found for Fisher involved Peter’s last credit card purchase a week earlier at Brulerie St-Denis, a café off Chemin Rheaume. A discreet canvass of the café with Peter’s picture led to Jerry Pults, a regular customer.
The question was, what was Pults’s connection with Peter, and had it contributed to his death?
After a five-minute head start, Fisher followed Pults back to his office, which was sandwiched between a Vietnamese restaurant and a Thai restaurant/Internet café in a four-story building on Rue St. Andre. Fisher popped into a gift shop across the street and browsed their selection of snow globes and watched Pults’s building until he saw Pults’s secretary, a mid-forties redhead wearing CD-sized gold hoop earrings, come out the front door and head down the street. Another creature of habit, Fisher had found. She and Pults staggered their lunch hours, same time every day.
Fisher crossed the street, pushed through the building’s door, and took the stairs to the third floor. Pults’s office was the first door on the right; the silver-painted plastic plaque beside it read PULTS INVESTIGATIONS. Fisher turned the knob and walked through. In the back, behind a Formica-topped reception desk, a muted bell sounded.