Black Wind by Clive Cussler

hospital, but it was to no avail. The mercurial self-centered leader of the global company was dead.
    Few people had paid any attention to the bald man with dark eyes and droopy mustache who had crowded up close to the speaker’s platform. Wearing a blue lab coat and plastic identification badge, he looked like any other SemCon employee. Fewer still noticed that he carried a plastic drinking cup with an odd bamboo straw sticking out the top. And in the confusion of the explosions, not a single person had noticed as he pulled out the straw, placed it to his lips, and fired a poisoned bead at the head of the giant corporation.
    Casually losing himself in the crowd, the bald assassin made his way to the edge of the property’s grounds, where he tossed his cup and lab coat into a streetside trash can. Hopping onto a bicycle, he paused briefly as a clanging fire truck roared down the street toward the engulfed building. Then, without looking back, he casually pedaled away.
    *  *  *
    A DINGING BELL echoed in Dahlgren’s mind like some distant train at a railroad crossing. The feverish hope that the sound was part of a dream fell away as his consciousness took hold and told him it was a ringing telephone. Groping for the receiver on his nightstand, he yawned a weary “Hullo.”
    â€œJack, you still sawing logs?” Dirk’s voice laughed over the line.
    â€œYeah, thanks for the wake-up call,” he replied groggily.
    â€œI thought bankers didn’t like to stay up late.”
    â€œThis one does. And likes to drink vodka, too. I think a dinosaur crapped in my mouth during the night,” Dahlgren said with a belch.
    â€œSorry to hear. Say, I’m thinking of taking a drive to Portland to stretch out my sea legs and take in a car show. Care to ride shotgun?”
    â€œNo thanks. I’m supposed to take the teller kayaking today. That is, if I can still stand up.”
    â€œOkay. I’ll send over a Bombay martini to get you started.”
    â€œRoger that,” Dahlgren replied with a grimace.
    *  *  *
    D IRK HEADED south from Seattle on Interstate 5 in the NUMA jeep, enjoying the sights of the lush forested region of western Washington. He found cross-country drives relaxing, as they allowed his mind to roam freely with the open countryside. Finding himself making good time, he decided to detour west along the coast, taking a side road to Willapa Bay before continuing south along the Pacific waters of the large bay. Soon he reached the wide blue mouth of the Columbia River, and cruised the same shores upon which Lewis and Clark had triumphantly set foot back in 1805.
    Crossing the mighty river over the four-mile-long Astoria-Megler Bridge, Dirk exited at the historic fishing port of Astoria. As he stopped at a red light on the bridge off ramp, a road sign caught his eye. In white letters on a green field, WARRENTON 8 MI. was preceded by an arrow pointing west. Prodded by curiosity, he followed the sign right, away from Portland, and quickly traversed the few miles to Warrenton.
    The small town at Oregon’s northwest tip, originally built on a tidal marsh as a fishing and sport boat passage to the Pacific, supported some four thousand residents. It took Dirk only a few minutes of driving about the town before he found what he was looking for on Main Street. Parking his jeep next to a white Clatsop County official vehicle, he strolled up a concrete walkway to the front door of the Warrenton Community Library.
    It was a small library but looked like it had been in existence for six or seven decades. A musty smell of old books and older dust wafted lightly in the air. Dirk walked straight to a large metal desk, from which a fiftyish woman with contemporary eyeglasses and short blond hair looked up suspiciously. A plastic green badge pinned to her blouse revealed her name: MARGARET.
    â€œGood morning, Margaret. My name is Dirk,” he said with a smile.