Wilbanks leaned back and thought a moment. “A boat of this size and configuration calls for pretty radical fiberglass forming. Glastec Boats in San Diego could do the job, as could Heinklemann Specialty Boat Builders in Kiel, Germany.”
“What about the Japanese?”
“They’re not players in the yacht industry. Hong Kong has a number of small boatyards, but they primarily build in wood. Most fiberglass-boat builders stick to tried and proven concepts.”
“Then in your judgment it’s either Glastec or Heinklemann,” said Giordino.
“Those are the two I’d call in to bid on my design,” Wilbanks assured him.
“What about the architect?”
“I can think of at least twenty off the top of my head who specialize in radical design.”
Giordino smiled. “I was lucky in stumbling onto number twenty-one.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Seaside Motel.”
“NUMA doesn’t exactly splurge with their expense accounts, do they?”
“You should meet my boss, Admiral James Sandecker. He and Shylock were bosom buddies.”
Wilbanks laughed. “Tell you what, drop back by my office about ten in the morning. I should have something for you.”
“I’m grateful for your help.”
Giordino shook Wilbanks’ hand, then took a long walk along the waterfront before returning to his motel room, where he read a mystery novel before finally falling asleep.
At ten o’clock on the nose, Giordino entered Wilbanks’ studio. The boat architect was studying a set of plans. He held them up and grinned.
“After you left last night,” he said, “I refined the sketches you gave me and ran off scaled plans. Then I reduced the size and faxed them to San Diego and Germany. Because of the difference in time, Heinklemann had responded before I came in this morning. Glastec replied to my inquiry only twenty minutes before you walked in.”
“Were they familiar with the boat in question?” asked Giordino impatiently.
“Bad news on that end, I’m afraid,” Wilbanks said deadpan. “Neither designed or built your boat.”
“Then it’s back to square one.”
“Not really. The good news is that one of Heinklemann’s engineers saw and studied your boat when it was moored in Monaco about nine months ago. He reports the manufacturer was a French firm, a new one in the industry I wasn’t aware of. Jusserand Marine out of Cherbourg.”
“Then we can fax them a set of your plans,” said Giordino, his hopes on the rise again.
“No need.” Wilbanks waved him off “Though the subject never came up, I assumed your real reason for tracing the boat manufacturer was to learn the identity of the owner.”
“I have no reason to deny it.”
“The Heinklemann engineer who spotted the boat in Monaco was also kind enough to include the owner’s name in the fax. He mentioned that he inquired only after he noticed that the crew looked more like a band of Mafia toughs than polished seamen maintaining and sailing a luxury yacht.”
“Mafia toughs`.”
“He claimed they all packed guns.”
“The name of the owner?”
“A woman, a wealthy Australian. Her family made ii fortune in diamond mining. Her name is Boudicca Dorsett.”
While Pitt was on a flight to Ottawa, Canada, Giordino called his plane and briefed him on the mystery yacht.
“There is no doubt?” asked Pitt.
“Not in my book,” replied Giordino. “It’s almost a dead certainty the boat that fled the death scene belongs to the Dorsett family.”
“The plot thickens.”
“You might also be interested in learning that the admiral asked the Navy to conduct a satellite search of the central and eastern belt of the Pacific Ocean. The yacht was discovered and tracked. It made a brief layover in Hawaii and then continued on toward your goal.”
“Kunghit Island? Then I can kill two stones with one bird.”
“You’re just full of pathetic clichés this morning.”
“What does the yacht look like?”
“Unlike any boat you’ve ever seen before. Strictly a space-age design.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for it,” Pitt promised.
“I know it’s a waste of breath saying this,” Giordino said cynically, “but stay out of trouble.”
“I’ll wire if I need money.” Pitt laughed as he hung up, thankful that he had a caring friend like Albert Cassius Giordino.
After landing and renting a car, Pitt took the bridge across the Rideau River into Ottawa, the Canadian capital city. The weather was colder than the inside of a refrigerator, and the landscape appeared ugly and barren without leaves on the trees. The only havens of color that sprang from a thick sheet of snow covering the ground were scattered stands of green pines. He glanced over the railing at the river below. The river, which ran into the Ottawa River and thence to the mighty St. Lawrence, was flowing under a coating of ice. Canada was an incredibly beautiful country, thought Pitt, but its harsh winters should be sent far to the north, never to return.
As he drove across the bridge over the Ottawa River and into the small city of Hull, he glanced at his map and memorized the streets leading to a group of three upscale buildings that housed several government offices. The one he was looking for was Environment Canada, a department of the government that corresponded to the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency in Washington.
A security guard at a gatehouse gave him directions and waved him through. Pitt slipped the car into a slot in the visitors’ parking lot and entered the building. A quick glance at the building directory, and he was into the elevator and on his way up to Environment Canada’s offices.
A receptionist nearing retirement looked up and forced a thin smile. “May I help you?”
“My name is Pitt. I have an appointment with Mr. Edward Posey.”
“One moment.” She dialed a number, announced his arrival and then nodded. “Please take the hallway down to the doorway at the end.”
Pitt thanked her and did as he was told. A pretty redhaired secretary met him at the door and ushered him into Posey’s office.
A short man with glasses and a beard rose from his chair, leaned over the desk and pressed Pitt’s extended hand. “A pleasure to see you again, Dirk. How long has it been?”
“Eleven years ago, during the spring of 1989.”
“Yes, the Doodlebug Project. We met at the conference when you gave a report on your discovery of the oil field near Baffin Island.”
“I need a favor, Ed.”
Posey nodded to a chair. “Sit down, sit down. What exactly can I do for you?”
“I’d like your permission to investigate the mining activities being conducted at Kunghit Island.”
“You talking about Dorsett Consolidated’s operations?”
Pitt nodded. “The same. NUMA has reason to believe their excavating technology is having a devastating effect on sea life as far away as the Antarctic.”
Posey gave him a thoughtful look. “This have anything to do with that Australian cruise ship and its dead passengers?”
“Any connection is purely circumstantial at this date.”
“But you have your suspicions?” Posey inquired.
“We do.”
“Natural Resources Canada is who you should talk to.”
“I don’t think so. If your government operates anything like mine, it would take an act of Parliament to allow an investigation onto land that is legally leased by a mining company. Even then, Arthur Dorsett is too powerful to allow that to happen.”
“It would seem you’ve crawled into a pipe with no outlet,” said Posey.
“There is a way out,” Pitt said, smiling, “providing you cooperate.”
Posey looked uneasy. “I can’t authorize you to snoop around Dorsett’s diamond mine, certainly not without hard evidence of unlawful damage to the environment.”