Дэвид Балдаччи - Zero Day

“What else?”

“We identified the wadding in Colonel Reynolds’s body. It was a twelve-gauge.”

“Anything else. Manufacturer?”

“Nope, sorry.”

“Okay, keep going.”

“The doc up there who did the posts was good. Our guys have basically validated everything he did. We don’t have the bodies down here, obviously, but the guy knew what he was doing.”

“Okay.” Validation was good, but what Puller really wanted was some info that could help him solve the case.

“We did find something strange on the twenty-two-caliber round you sent down.”

“What was that?”

“Well, I had it confirmed by three different people down here, because it’s not something you’d expect to find on a round fired into someone’s brain.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense, Kristen.”

“It was gold foil. West Virginia is coal country, not gold, right?”

Puller thought of the Trents in the big house. “Well, for some people up here it’s apparently the same thing. But gold foil?”

“That’s what it is. Just a nearly microscopic bit, but we confirmed that’s what it was. Don’t know what it means.”

“You make any sense of that soil report I sent down?”

“The soil report didn’t reveal anything startling. The uranium levels were normal, particularly for coal country. There was nothing else remarkable. If someone was killed because of it, damned if I know why.”

“You and me both. What about the stuff from the meth lab?”

“Now that was interesting. You sure it was just a meth lab?”

“It looked like one. It had the stuff you’d normally associate with one.”

“Yes, it did, but it also had one item that you wouldn’t normally find in one.”

“Like what?”

“Tungsten carbide.”

“What did you find that on?”

“Some of the bottles, the tubing, and some coils. Enough to where it couldn’t be just some trace residue.”

“So it might have been on Treadwell’s or Bitner’s hands?”

“Possibly. We did find Treadwell’s prints on the equipment.”

“So it wasn’t just planted there,” said Puller. “That’s good to know.”

“You were thinking it was planted?”

“No. But I like confirmation of my ideas as much as the next person. So tungsten carbide? That can be used in industrial tools, as an abrasive, in the jewelry trade?”

“That’s right. Stiffer and more dense than steel or titanium.”

“Treadwell had a ring. Maybe it was made of tungsten and it leached somehow onto his skin.”

“It wasn’t. We checked the ring.”

“He worked at a chemical shop. And he had a Harley.”

“Again, that doesn’t necessarily explain the presence.”

“Anything else?”

“Isn’t that enough?” Kristen said.

“You haven’t given me any answers.”

“I only provide facts. You have to come up with the answers, my friend.”

She clicked off and Puller slowly put his phone away.

There was another use for tungsten carbide that he, being in the military, well knew. It was very often used in armor-piercing ammunition, particularly when the material of choice, depleted uranium, wasn’t available.

But if Treadwell were making such ammo, there wasn’t any other evidence of it in his home. You needed space, and specialized equipment to manufacture it. And money. And many of the components on the list to make ordnance utilizing depleted uranium were ones that the government watched very carefully. How could a Harley-driving redneck who worked at a chemical supply store in nowhere West Virginia manage that? And if Treadwell had managed to do that, why had he been murdered? Maybe whoever he was building it for found out he might have gotten cold feet and was working with the government through Reynolds.

Puller would have to check at Treadwell’s place of business to see if they might be missing a quantity of tungsten carbide, if they even carried it. And if so, the case might take on a whole new light. He pondered how this could be tied into what Mason had told him. If the targets were the pipeline and the reactor, that type of ammo could be used to puncture the pipeline and maybe the reactors. If so, that meant Treadwell was tied up with jihadists. And Puller wondered how that was possible. How could folks like that operate in an area like this and no one the wiser?

Then he started to think about the pipeline. Owned by a Canadian company but operated by Trent. Was Trent working with terrorists? Was he being paid to help them carry out this mission? But why would a fabulously successful coal mogul do that? Blowing up a nuke reactor could make all of Trent’s coal mines radioactive.

Unless they were paying him for more than his business was worth. And that might explain the death threats. And Trent being so nervous. Maybe he’d had a falling-out with his “business partners.”

Puller eased the Malibu from the curb. He had fewer than three days to discover the truth. He knew the odds were long against him. But he had put on the uniform to serve his country. And serve it he would. Even at the cost of his life.

The Mercedes SL600 was parked in front of Puller’s motel room when he drove in around two o’clock. Jean Trent was sitting in the driver’s seat. The car was running and the AC was cranked. Puller parked next to the other car and got out. Jean Trent did the same. She had on a sleeveless pale yellow dress with a V-front and a white sweater over top, coordinated pumps, and a white pearl necklace. Her hair and makeup were flawless. The old motel seemed an incongruous backdrop for such glamour.

“Looking for a room at the motel?” Puller said as he walked over to stand next to her.

She smiled. “When I was fifteen I used to clean this place for four dollars an hour and thought I was rich. Sam did the same, but she only got three dollars an hour.”

“Why the discrepancy?”

“She was smaller and couldn’t work as hard. People around here drive tough bargains.”

“I believe it.”

“You got time for lunch? Or have you already eaten?”

“I haven’t. At the Crib?”

She shook her head. “Another place. Nicer. Over the county line. I’ll drive.”

Puller thought about this. He had short time to divert a possible catastrophe. Did he have time for a leisurely lunch? Then his thoughts went back to what Mason had said. Trent operated that pipeline.

“What’s the occasion?”

“It’s lunchtime and I’m hungry.”

“Have you been waiting long?”

“Long enough. Guess you’ve been busy.”

“Guess I have.”

“How’s the investigation coming?”

“It’s coming.”

“You are remarkably tight-lipped.”

“It’s an Army thing.”

“No, I think it’s a cop thing. My little sister is the same way.”

“Saw your hubby was back in town. He joining us for lunch?”

Her radiant smile diminished a few watts. “No. He won’t. You ready?”

He looked at her fine clothes and then down at his own work ones.

“Fancy place? Not sure I’m dressed for the occasion.”

“You look just fine.”

She drove the country roads with an expert’s touch, hitting the turns and accelerating at just the right moment so the big Mercedes engine was at optimal rpm on the straightaways.

“You ever think of signing up for NASCAR?” he said.

She smiled and punched the gas on a particularly long stretch of road, winding the car up to eighty. “I’ve thought about a lot of things.”

“So why lunch with me, really?”

“Got some questions, hope you have some answers.”

“I doubt it. Remember the tight-lipped thing.”

“Then your opinion. How about that?”