by Tom Grace
‘Bottom line,’ Nolan said, ‘the men who did this were well trained, possibly former Russian Special Forces.’
‘Do you have any idea who might be responsible for this attack?’
‘No.’
‘Sandstrom and Paramo’s research was very cutting-edge stuff,’ Kelsey offered, ‘and in recent years they didn’t publish much of what they were working on.’
‘And the device, this quantum energy cell, how many people knew about that?’
Nolan thought for a moment. ‘Outside of the boards of MARC and ND-ARC and the regents of their respective universities, I can’t think of anyone who knew about the cell or our plans to develop it commercially.’
‘Can you provide a list of those who did know about it?’
‘Certainly, as soon as we get back to Ann Arbor, I can fax you the contact information. I’d be very surprised if any of those people are involved with this attack.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Agent Young asked.
‘Economics. The people I’m going to name will all be shareholders of the company we’re setting up to license quantum energy cell technology. Should things go the way we believe, the shares they purchase as insiders will be worth a fortune. What happened here today is simply not in their best interests.’
‘But someone did think this attack was worth doing,’ Young said.
‘Yes,’ Nolan agreed, ‘but keep in mind that this is more than a violent case of industrial espionage. The person or persons ultimately responsible for this have stolen a technology that could disrupt the industrialized world’s economy in a way that hasn’t been seen since the Great Depression.’
‘Thank you, Mr Kilkenny,’ Agent Harris said after a pause. ‘If we have any further questions, or information regarding this matter, we’ll be in touch.’
‘I’d appreciate being kept in the loop. How about security for Sandstrom?’
‘The local police have posted officers at the hospital ’round the clock, assuming he survives.’
Young’s cell phone chirped in his pocket, and he answered it. After a few single-syllable responses, he scrawled down some hasty notes and finished the call.
‘They found three bodies stuffed in some barrels just outside of town, all dressed in the moving company’s uniforms. Looks like our gunmen hit ’em on the way in.’
‘We have to go,’ Harris announced. ‘Again, thank you both for your help.’
As the FBI agents left, Nolan and Kelsey began walking over to his SUV.
‘Three more innocent people murdered,’ Kelsey said slowly, trying to comprehend it all.
Nolan placed his arm around Kelsey’s shoulder and pulled her close. He was a former SEAL; violence and death had been a part of his life – a part he’d hoped was behind him.
‘Nolan?’
‘Yeah, hon?’
‘Do you think we’re in any danger from these men?’
‘No. They got what they came for. We don’t know enough about Ted’s work to cause them any real concern. The only person who might still be in any danger is Ted. He and Paramo were the ones they were out to kill.’
‘This whole situation makes me feel so vulnerable, so helpless. I just wish there were something we could do.’
‘Well, there is one more thing I’m going to do.’
Nolan pressed the button of the SUV’s key fob and popped the locks. He opened the rear driver-side door and fished out his PalmPilot and a digital phone from his soft-sided briefcase. From the Pilot, he looked up a number and keyed it into the phone.
‘Mosley here,’ a voice answered.
‘Cal, this is Nolan Kilkenny.’
‘Kilkenny?’ Mosley paused for a moment, recalling the Spyder incident that they had both been involved in a year earlier. ‘How’ve you been, young man? Stayin’ out of trouble?’
‘Cal, I’d love to say this is just a social call, but it ain’t. I’ve got a problem – something along the lines of the last one we worked on together. I think the CIA might be interested.’
Nolan heard a click on the line.
‘I hope you don’t mind if I tape this.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Good, then tell me your story.’
11
JUNE 24
Chicago, Illinois
Dmitri Leskov gazed down at his brother Pavel’s body one last time. The open wound, the result of two tightly placed 9-mm rounds, disfigured both the young man’s handsome face and Leskov’s memory.
‘I’m ready,’ Leskov announced.
Out of the corner of the room, Oleg Artuzov appeared, gliding silently across the polished terrazzo floor. The forty-four-year-old mortician plied the same trade in Chicago’s ethnic Russian community as he had in Smolensk, before emigrating to the United States. Though profitable in its own right, the Artuzov Funeral Home augmented its bottom line by laundering money and providing discreet ‘private services’ for the growing community of Russian Mafiya in Chicago.
Artuzov closed the simple casket that bore the body of Pavel Leskov. This was the third and last coffin that he would wheel into the adjacent room for cremation.
Leskov watched through the glass wall that separated the viewing room from the crematory as Artuzov rolled the stainless-steel charge trolley up to the door of the furnace. After docking the trolley, Artuzov moved to a control panel in the far corner of the room. At the press of a button, the automated process began. The furnace door slid upward, revealing a chamber heated to nearly one thousand degrees Celsius. Slowly, Pavel Leskov’s coffin moved into the fiery maw. When the coffin’s journey was finally complete, the furnace door dropped down and sealed the chamber.
Over the next two hours Pavel Leskov’s body would be reduced to a fine gray ash. In that form, the remains would then be mixed in with those of a legitimate client and dispersed over Lake Michigan. Smuggling three dead men out of the United States and back to Russia, in any form, was far too great a risk.
Leskov stepped outside of the air-conditioned funeral home and walked into a thick wall of humid air. Within seconds, the pressed white collar of his shirt was damp. The day was overcast, which matched his mood.
In front of the funeral home, a corpulent man who was packed like a sausage in an ill-fitting suit leaned against a dark blue Lincoln Town Car. Pyotr Voronin’s thinning black hair was slicked back like stringy lines of paint on his fleshy head.
‘Did Oleg take care of everything?’ Voronin asked.
‘Da, Pavel and the others will be scattered into your Great Lake Michigan later this week. Thank you for making the arrangements on such short notice.’
‘When Victor Orlov asks for a favor, well—’ The man shrugged his shoulders. No further explanation was required.
‘How are the other arrangements coming?’
‘Both trucks were taken to a chop shop and parted out, so neither exists anymore. Your cargo has been placed inside an air freight container with a few nondescript pieces of furniture. The furniture is camouflage; the bill of lading lists the contents as household goods and miscellaneous personal effects. Since there’s no contraband, we don’t need to lie about what we’re shipping. We’ve insured the entire lot for a few thousand dollars, low enough that no one on either end will be curious about it. It flies out Tuesday and lands in Moscow on Wednesday.’
‘Good. And the surveillance?’
‘I have a few people, former KGB, working on that. In a few days we should have Sandstrom and his associates well covered. How long do you think Orlov will want us to keep an eye on these people?’
‘I have no idea. Just don’t drop the surveillance until he tells you to.’
‘I’m not that stupid. Orlov will get regular reports until he tells me to stop.’
‘I am certain that he will be most appreciative of your efforts on his behalf.’
12
JUNE 26
South Bend, Indiana
‘This mass is ended,’ Father Blake said from his place on the gilde
d altar of the basilica. ‘Go in peace.’
With that final pronouncement, Sacred Heart Basilica, the ornate centerpiece of the Notre Dame campus, filled with music. The vaulted ceilings and carved recesses shaped each note as it emerged from the organ pipes, transforming ‘Amazing Grace’ into a triumphant edifice of sound.
A phalanx of priests and altar servers accompanied the polished oak coffin down the main aisle, a somber procession in honor of Raphaele Paramo. Pew by pew, members of Paramo’s family and those who held him in regard as a friend, colleague, or mentor filed out into a perfect summer day. High in the carillon, the great seven-ton bell named in honor of Saint Anthony of Padua pealed out its solemn thunder.
‘Thank you for such a lovely service, Joe,’ Paramo’s widow said, clasping Father Blake’s hand in both of hers.
‘It was my pleasure, Dorothy,’ Notre Dame’s President replied. ‘Raphaele was a good man and a true friend.’
‘Yes, he was,’ she agreed, knowing both descriptions to be true. ‘Excuse me, Joe, but I see someone I have to speak to.’
Dorothy Paramo waded through the milling crowd, leaving her children and grandchildren beside the limousine that was to carry them to the cemetery.
‘Professor Newton. Mr Kilkenny,’ the diminutive woman called out. ‘A word, if I may?’
Kelsey dabbed the corner of her eye with a handkerchief, then smiled bravely at the approaching widow. ‘Of course, Mrs Paramo. And please call me Kelsey.’
‘I prefer Nolan, ma’am.’
‘Very well, but in return you must call me Dorothy,’ she replied, a faint smile appearing momentarily on her face. Then the sadness returned. ‘The police told me what happened the day my husband was murdered. Nolan, they told me that you risked your life to stop the men responsible for this tragedy.’
‘I’m sorry it wasn’t enough.’
‘It could have been far worse. My only consolation is that the two of you and Ted survived. Did you know that Raphaele and I thought of Ted as a son? Burying a spouse is a sad eventuality, but a child is meant to live on after the parents are gone.’
‘Ted will recover from this,’ Nolan said reassuringly.
‘My prayers are most certainly with him. I was wondering, can you both stop by the house after the reception?’
Kelsey looked at Nolan, who nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Good, I have a favor to ask.’
Nolan followed the silver Buick, driven by Dorothy Paramo’s eighteen-year-old grandson, into the farm country just outside of South Bend. They stopped at a brick Victorian home with a weathered aluminum mailbox bearing the name PARAMO.
Nolan parked his SUV behind the Buick and followed Dorothy Paramo and her grandson into the house. Once inside, the young man bolted up the stairs, intent on trading his blazer and tie for a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a T-shirt.
‘This way,’ Dorothy Paramo said, leading her guests through the parlor toward the rear of the house.
She turned the crystal knob and opened the raisedpanel door that led to a small room lined from floor to ceiling with books. The only furnishings in the room were a couch, a small desk, and a chair.
‘This is where my husband came to think. Please, have a seat.’
Kelsey sat with Nolan on the couch as Paramo’s widow sat in Raphaele’s chair. A gnarled pipe, unsmoked in almost twenty years, still sat near the corner of the desk.
‘Raphaele always said that physicists came in two flavors: thinkers and doers. Einstein was a thinker; Fermi was a doer. In his collaboration with Ted, Raphaele was the thinker and Ted was the doer. My husband was an accomplished thinker and a gifted instructor; teaching physics was his avocation. Raphaele knew his limitations, physically and mentally. In both regards he knew he wasn’t up to the challenge of tackling Ted’s discovery.’
Dorothy Paramo swiveled the chair and leaned forward to open one of the desk drawers. She withdrew a thick clasped envelope from inside the drawer and set it upon her lap.
‘Of all my husband’s papers, these were the most dear to him. Whenever a particular problem vexed him, he would invariably return to these. They were his inspiration. These are letters – a correspondence he had long ago with the greatest mind he’d ever known. Raphaele never talked about the man; their correspondence was over a year before Raphaele and I met. Once, shortly after we were married, I snuck a peek, thinking they were love letters from an old girlfriend. Except for a few personal notes, I didn’t understand a word. Raphaele was quite amused when I told him what I’d done, then he explained how important the letters were to him. He said they were ‘a brief glimpse into the mind of a genius.’ I don’t know what happened, but their correspondence ended abruptly. This is something that hurt Raphaele deeply.’
Dorothy paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. She closed her eyes, trying to quell the emotions rising within her.
‘A terrible thing has happened. My husband is dead, and our sweet Ted is lucky to be alive. He’s going to have a hard time recovering from all this, and I don’t want him to give up. Here’ – she handed the envelope to Kelsey – ‘I want you to take these to Ted. Raphaele wanted him to have them.’
‘Shouldn’t this come from you?’ Kelsey asked.
‘No, they were supposed to have come from Raphaele. He was going to give them to Ted after the lab had moved. He said that these letters contain ideas that might help a younger mind solve the riddle of their work. Ted is at the hospital in Ann Arbor now, and I don’t know when I’ll get up there to see him. The poor man has lost his life-work and his mentor. If these letters are all my husband said they are, I think Ted needs to see them as soon as possible.’
13
JUNE 27
Ann Arbor, Michigan
Nolan and Kelsey followed the blue-and-white directional signs that led them through the first floor of University Hospital. They were there to visit Ted Sandstrom, who had been transported by air ambulance to Ann Arbor after receiving emergency medical treatment in South Bend. Though more than fifty percent of his body was severely burned, Sandstrom’s prognosis was good.
Wending their way through the maze of corridors, the two of them finally arrived at the Burn Unit, which was located in a remote corner of the hospital. When they reached the electronically locked double doors of the unit, the head nurse buzzed them through and had them sign the visitors’ sheet.
The unit was built in a curved, two-story block that jutted out from the hospital’s north face. Twelve singlepatient rooms followed the outer curve. Sealed windows in each provided a view of the Huron River. A glass-curtain wall isolated the patient room from the hallway while providing a direct line of sight for the medical staff. SpaceLab monitors hung from the ceiling, displaying the vital signs of each of the patients.
‘You have visitors,’ the nurse announced pleasantly upon entering Sandstrom’s room.
She quickly checked the IV bags and glanced at all the vitals displayed on the small in-room monitor. Satisfied, she moved on.
‘Hey, Ted,’ Nolan said as they entered.
A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. The sight of Sandstrom’s burned flesh didn’t shock him; he had seen far worse on SEAL missions around the world. Instead, it triggered memories and feelings he had hoped to leave behind upon his discharge.
‘Aren’t you going to ask how I’m doing?’ Sandstrom wanted to know, a bitter tinge of sarcasm in his raspy voice.
‘No, because you’ll either lie to spare our feelings or, worse yet, you’ll tell us the truth.’
‘Nolan,’ Kelsey barked, annoyed by his insensitive comment.
Sandstrom feebly raised his hand. ‘He’s right, Kelsey, I feel as good as I look. At least they’re treating me well, and the pain meds keep the edge off. How’s Dorothy?’
‘She’s holding up very well,’ Kelsey replied. ‘She sends her love.’
Nolan pulled a chair around to the side of the bed for Kelsey and then sat on the chair’s flat wooden arm.
‘Any word on the guys who did this?’ Sandstrom asked.
‘Nada,’ Nolan answered. ‘The police set up roadblocks all over the area but came up empty. The FBI is slowly sifting through what’s left of your lab for any physical evidence, but that’s going to take a while. I’ve asked a guy I know at the CIA to take a look at this as well.’
‘CIA?’
‘Yeah, there’s an international angle to this that the folks at Langley are better equipped to handle than the Indiana State Police. The guys who hit your lab looked and sounded an awful lot like Spetsnaz.’
‘What’s Spetsnaz?’
‘Russian army Special Forces. No one in the Russian government is crazy enough to launch a mission like this on U.S. soil, so it’s more likely that these guys are mercenaries and somebody with very deep pockets sent ’em here. Enough with this talk, though. How about some good news?’
‘Please,’ Sandstrom said with a desperate weariness.
‘The boards of MARC and ND-ARC had a teleconference this morning regarding the joint venture for your project.’
‘I thought you said this was good news.’
‘I did,’ Nolan replied. ‘Despite the setback due to this incident, both boards have decided to pursue the project. This, of course, depends upon your ability to resume your work after you get out of here.’
‘So, are you telling me I still have a job?’
‘Yep, they still think you’re a good bet.’
‘As bad as this whole situation is, it’s temporary,’ Kelsey added. ‘You’ll recover, the lab will be rebuilt, and your work will proceed.’
‘I know, life goes on and all that jazz,’ Sandstrom said bitterly, his anger and sadness readily apparent.
‘Yes, Ted, it does. You and Raphaele made an important discovery, and now you have to follow it wherever it leads. It’s what Raphaele would have wanted you to do.’