By the time Mason left the Federal Building, the sun was preparing to set once more. The exhaustion was a physical entity inside his body. His cell phone let him know that he had fifteen missed calls but only three messages. He listened to them as he and Layne walked without a destination in mind. Traffic across the entire city was in gridlock, so they weren’t getting out of there anytime soon.
“James?” his father said. “I just wanted to call to make sure you were okay. I heard that you were right there when … you know, when everything happened. I’m sure you have your hands full, but just … just call me back when you can, okay? Or text me. Either way. I need to know you’re safe.”
The second call was from Gunnar, who was already talking when the recording started.
“… to talk to you pronto. I figured out something you’re definitely going to want to hear.”
His phone vibrated in his hand. He recognized the number right away.
“I was just listening to your message—”
“It doesn’t matter. Just shut your mouth and listen, okay?”
Gunnar had his undivided attention.
“Give me a second, okay?” Mason said, and put the call on speaker so Layne could hear. “What did you find?”
“So I was sitting there in the car, waiting for your GPS signal to pop back online, when it hit me that Novichok gas could come up through the grates in the sidewalk at any moment and that the car windows wouldn’t be able to keep it out. Not that I didn’t have complete faith in your ability to stop the attack on the subway, but it’s only natural for a man sitting on enough Novichok to wipe out the population of the entire eastern seaboard to at least consider the idea of saving his own skin, which brought to mind Major Delvin Roybal, who’s got to be so deep in the Canadian Rockies by now that he’s probably speaking French.”
“You found Roybal?” Layne said.
“Just listen, okay? So that got me thinking about the company that paid him to dispose of the flatbeds, which he would have done had that trooper not recognized the significance of the trucks and had them hauled to impound. But here’s the thing. That’s not a quarter-of-a-million-dollar job. Not by a long shot. The guys who actually started the fire and tried to kill you to cover it up? They only received ten grand apiece and they took all the risks. What could Roybal have possibly done for these guys that was worth twenty-five times as much? And then it hit me.”
“He was in charge of the Hazardous Material Transportation Unit,” Mason said.
“And special operations for Homeland Security, don’t forget. So I hacked into the computer network of East Coast Transportation Services—you know, the guys who paid him for his consultation—and did a little poking around. And guess what I found? A contract signed on November eighth for the lease of two flatbed trucks. That’s not out of the ordinary at all. In fact, they leased a dozen others that same day. What is, however, is the fact that they were paid half a million dollars for those trucks.”
Mason nodded toward a plaza with an odd maze of benches beside the Federal Building, where they found seats away from the handful of other people braving the cold.
“There’s the source of the money,” Layne said. “Who signed the check?”
“Aegis Asset Management,” Gunnar said. “The same company that owned the apartment where Charles Raymond was living.”
“Do you know where the trucks were heading?” Mason asked.
“Not very far at all. In fact, they never even left Newark.”
“How do you know?”
“The license plates of the vehicles were listed on the lease, as were the numbers of the RFID tags the Port Authority registers to commercial vehicles for automated entry through the marine terminal gates. I was able to confirm both passed through security at the Port Newark Container Terminal that same day.”
“Roybal was in charge of Marine Services. That’s where he earned his money.”
“There’s no record of the containers being dropped off, though, let alone where they might have been shipped. Assuming they were even shipped at all.”
“Langbroek wouldn’t have been anywhere near the city if they were still sitting on the docks. Any kind of accident and a gust of wind could carry a cloud of deadly gas across the Hudson.”
“So where did it go?”
Mason closed his eyes and tried to imagine where someone like Slate Langbroek would ship thousands of gallons of Novichok. He felt as though they’d tied off just about every loose end except the one Gunnar had brought up on the night he and Layne were nearly killed in the Pine Barrens. When he opened his eyes again, he felt everything falling into place around him.
“Energy futures,” he said.
“What are energy futures?” Layne asked.
“The name’s something of a misnomer,” Gunnar said. “They aren’t like stocks, where you’re investing in the future of a business or industry. They’re essentially deals between a buyer and a seller that a certain amount of a product—in this case, crude oil—will be delivered by a certain date and will be purchased for a prearranged price. Not only does such an agreement reduce the risk in a market where the cost of a barrel of oil changes by the hour; it provides both the producer and the consumer with the price certainty they require for daily operations. Speculators make a killing buying futures. The producer is guaranteed the negotiated price for the oil, but if the market rises, the investor can then turn around and sell it for more than he paid.”
“The higher the price of oil climbs, the more money the futures are ultimately worth,” Mason said. “And there are really only two basic factors that influence that price: supply and demand. So if someone wanted to increase the price, he’d either need to decrease the availability or create an artificial demand.”
He was reminded of something Gunnar had said earlier, in the back of the car on the way to Edgewood.
What can I say? Langbroeks have long memories.
Mason smiled and looked directly at Layne.
“I know where the Novichok is.”