Arctic Drift

“Assuming it is one of the Franklin ships, it might well be critical to identify the vessel, in case the mineral was not brought aboard both Erebus and Terror,” Pitt noted.

“I’m afraid Koo-nik never identified the ship. And both vessels were nearly identical in appearance,” Perlmutter said.

“But he said the crew had a name for themselves,” Loren said. “What did he call them, the ‘black men’?”

“The ‘men of blackness’ is how they were described,” Perlmutter replied. “Somewhat odd. I suppose they called themselves that for having survived so many dark winters.”

“Or there might be another reason,” Pitt said, a wide grin slowly spreading across his face. “If they were indeed the men of blackness, then they just told us which ship they served.”

Loren looked at him with a quizzical gaze, but the light went on for Perlmutter.

“But of course!” the big man roared. “It must be the Erebus. Well done, my boy.”

Loren looked at her husband. “What did I miss?”

“Erebus,” Pitt replied. “In Greek mythology, it is an underworld stopping place on the road to Hades. It is a place of perpetual darkness, or blackness, if you will.”

“Fair to say that’s where the ship and crew ended up,” Perlmutter said. He gave Pitt a studious look. “Do you think you can find her?”

“It will be a sizable search area, but it’s worth the gamble. The only thing that can prevent us from succeeding is the same peril that doomed Franklin: the ice.”

“We’re nearing the summer season, where the melting sea ice is navigable in the region. Can you get a vessel there in time to conduct a search?”

“And don’t forget the Canadians,” Loren cautioned. “They might not let you in the door.”

Pitt’s eyes sparkled with optimism. “It just so happens that I have a vessel in the neighborhood and the man in place to find the way,” he said with a confident grin.

Perlmutter located a dusty bottle of vintage port wine and poured small glasses all around.

“Godspeed to you, my boy,” he toasted. “May you shed some light on the darkened Erebus.”

After thanking Perlmutter for the meal and receiving a promise from the marine historian that he would provide copies of any materials he had on the ship’s likely position, Loren and Pitt stepped out of the carriage house and returned to the car. Climbing into the car, Loren was unusually quiet. Her sixth sense had kicked in, warning of an unseen danger. She knew she couldn’t stand in the way of Pitt pursuing a lost mystery, but it was always hard for her to let him go.

“The Arctic is a dangerous place,” she finally said in a low voice. “I’ll worry about you up there.”

“I’ll be sure to pack my long underwear and stay well clear of icebergs,” he said with cheery comfort.

“I know this is important, but, still, I wish you didn’t have to go.”

Pitt smiled in reassurance, but in his eye there was a distant and determined look. Loren took one look at her husband and knew that he was already there.

42

Mitchell Goyette was sitting on the fan-tail of his yacht reviewing an earnings report when his private secretary appeared with a secure portable phone.

“Natural Resources Minister Jameson is on the line,” the winsome brunette said as she handed him the phone.

Goyette gave her a smug leer, then picked up the receiver.

“Arthur, good of you to call. Tell me, how are you coming along with my Arctic exploration licenses?”

“It is the purpose of my call. I received the maps of your desired Arctic resource exploration zones. The requested regions encompass over twelve million acres, I was rather shocked to find. Quite unprecedented, I must say.”

“Yes, well, there are riches to be had. First things first, however. Where are we on those mining claims for the Royal Geographical Society Islands?”

“As you know, a portion of the islands’ exploration and production rights are held by the Mid-America Mining Company. My office has drafted up a revocation of their license for due cause. If they fail to meet production output quotas in the next three months, then we can rescind their license. If this political crisis with the U.S. heats up, then we may be able to act sooner.”

“I think we can be assured that they won’t meet their summer quota,” Goyette said slyly.

“The rescission can be accelerated if signed by the Prime Minister. Is that a course you wish to pursue?”

“Prime Minister Barrett will be no impediment,” Goyette laughed. “You might say he is something of a silent partner in the venture.”

“He’s publicly promoted a policy of Arctic wilderness protectionism,” Jameson reminded him.

“He will sign anything I want him to. Now, what about my other license request?”

“My staff has found just a small portion of the Melville Sound area currently under license. Apparently, you’ve beaten most everyone to the mark.”

“Yes, because a large part of the area has been inaccessible. With the warming temperatures and my fleet of icebreakers and barges, I’ll be able to exploit those regions before anyone else can get their foot in the door. With your aid, of course,” he added acidly.

“I’ll be able to assist with your Arctic marine exploration licenses, but a portion of the terrestrial areas will have to be approved by the Indian and Native Affairs Division.”

“Is the head of the division appointed by the Prime Minister? ”

“Yes, I believe so.”

Goyette laughed again. “Then there will be no problem. How long before I can lock up the marine sites?”

“It is a significant amount of territory to review and approve,” Jameson said with hesitation.

“Don’t you worry, Minister. A fat wire transfer will be headed your way shortly, and another one once the licenses are issued. I never forget to pay those who assist me in my business ventures.”

“Very well. I’ll try to have the documents completed within the next few weeks.”

“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.