Glancing at an oval clock that one of the grad students had wired to run counterclockwise, Bretti saw that it hadn’t been more than three minutes since he had fired the shots. Still, much too long. He had to get out of there.
Grunting, Bretti lifted the disconnected Penning trap. Its case was lined with high-efficiency lithium-ion batteries, making up the majority of the weight. Two insulating Dewars, one inside the other, held the Penning trap itself-three strips of room-temperature superconducting magnets that created a precise magnetic field shaped like a bottle, bouncing the p-bars back and forth along the axis. Over time, the bottle would leak, but the lithium-ion batteries would keep the magnetic field alive long enough for him to get to India, while he filled the more efficient crystal-lattice trap that could literally hold nine orders of magnitude more antimatter.
He walked carefully away from the isolated substation as if carrying a suitcase full of bricks. He locked the door to the blockhouse-with any luck, and with many of the temporary hires on break, the agent’s body wouldn’t be found until Bretti was safely out of the country.
Making his way to his car, Bretti realized he didn’t even have time to drive back to his apartment and pick up his bags. He had a plane to catch.
This early on Tuesday afternoon, Bretti didn’t have to worry about rush hour traffic heading into downtown Chicago. Still, with his battered nerves, he didn’t want to push his luck finding a parking spot for his small red Saturn-leased, but still a good bargain on his grad-student salary. He couldn’t walk for blocks lugging the bulky Penning trap. Every bag lady and cab driver would spot him and wonder. He tossed a cigarette out the window and started for the embassy.
But first he pulled off to the side, stopping by a jetty on the shore of huge, gray Lake Michigan. The old concrete jetty was just remote enough that no one questioned people who stopped to gawk. Gold and red leaves from a cluster of trees hid him from others along the shoreline. A place for early-morning joggers; not many in the midafternoon.
The traffic was sparse, and he waited scant seconds before he fumbled in his pocket for the stolen FBI handgun. The gun was slick and still seemed hot-hot from firing the bullets that had torn into the agent’s flesh. Bretti thought he could still feel the heat on the barrel, the unexpected kick from the recoil as he reacted without thinking.
Standing on the jetty, he tossed the handgun underhand into the chilly depths where waves churned with the brisk October breeze. The heavy gun made a soft splash like a gulp, and was swallowed up by the gray surface.
Much farther down the shore, a kid threw stones into the water, then ducked back as a wave splashed against the rocks. He waved at Bretti, who was too terrified not to wave back. Bretti was back in his car and jockeying into the fast lane in less than a minute.
“Not enough time as it is,” he muttered while clutching the steering wheel. And I’ve just shot a man over a difference of ten minutes. The embassy can damned well treat me like a VIP for once. And the man was FBI yet! They’ll be crawling all over my ass.
Racing down embassy row near Lakeshore Drive, Bretti passed stately buildings hidden behind ten-foot wrought-iron and brick fences. Immaculate guard shacks nestled beside every gate, partially obscured by thick shrubbery. Some embassies were protected with bulletproof glass windows; others were more inviting, giving an impression of openness-friendly nations, proud and colorful flags. The whole area oozed high society-the kind of life Bretti deserved, not some apartment hole in the burbs.
Bretti pulled up to the guard gate of the Indian embassy. Inside the shack, a guard took notice and motioned for him to stop. He hadn’t thought what he would say, but he rolled down his window anyway.
The faint smell of flowers and spice drifted into the car. A curving cobblestoned driveway wound around immaculately kept gardens. Not much like the boring homes around Batavia and Aurora -he would sure as hell be glad to get away from that. But first he had to get through the gate.
The embassy itself stood behind a fortress of aesthetically pleasing protective buffers-beige flower planters each the size of a small car, thick stone columns, ornate wrought-iron fencing. Unseen among the splendor, Bretti knew sophisticated microwave sensors stood watch over the compound.
A dark man wearing a white coat and turban, maroon pants, and a long ceremonial sword emerged from the guard shack. The man smiled through a black beard and mustache, but his eyes never lingered on Bretti. Instead, they swept back and forth along the red car for unforeseen threats.
Bretti recognized him. This was the same guard who had been present the two previous times he had visited the Indian Embassy.
Placing his hand on the silver hilt of his curved sword, the guard smiled tightly. “Welcome to the Indian Embassy, sir. What may I do for you here today?”
“I’m Nicholas Bretti,” he snapped, irritated that the man didn’t recognize him. “I have an appointment with Mr. Chandrawalia.”
“Very good, sir.” The guard reached into the shack, pulling out a clipboard. He ran his white-gloved fingers down a list. “Ah, yes, Mr. Bretti. You are somewhat late. Would you please park your car outside and enter through this gate?”
“I have an important… delivery for Mr. Chandrawalia. It’s in the trunk.”
The guard lifted an eyebrow. “You may unload the item here if you please while you park your car outside.”
“It’s quite bulky and-look,” said Bretti in exasperation, “this is extremely important, and Mr. Chandrawalia is expecting this right away. I’m late as it is, and I’m sure you don’t want to upset anyone else.” Especially me. He felt sweat prickling along his clothes.
He wondered if the FBI agent’s body had been found yet. His stomach lurched with nausea. My God, he had killed a man, shot him-how many times? Bretti didn’t even know.
“Why don’t you pick up the phone and call Mr. Chandrawalia. I’m sure he’ll authorize you to let me in with my car.”
“I will do what I can, but we usually do not go to such lengths to accommodate a guest.” Turning briskly, the guard’s white coat flapped in the air. His eyes continued to scan the street as he spoke to Bretti, as if a horde of terrorists might suddenly appear to storm the embassy. And in Chicago, for God’s sake, Bretti thought. Can you believe the security?
Rapidly tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, Bretti felt confined. What if someone had seen him leaving Fermilab? He had to get to cover somehow, and the Indians were his only hope.
A bearded face thrust into the car window. “Mr. Bretti? You are quite correct. Mr. Chandrawalia is indeed anxious to see you. A driver will be out shortly to bring your car to the front. Please walk into the complex to meet him.” The guard opened the car door and waited for Bretti to get out.
Cursing under his breath, Bretti scooted out from the seat and left the keys dangling in the ignition. He nervously ran a hand through his black hair, then popped the trunk. The guard towered over him, emotionless as he carefully closed Bretti’s car door. Turning a key in a control box, the guard swung open the gate. “We will take good care of your car, sir.”
Bretti walked around to the trunk and lifted the unwieldy suitcase out of the car. No fuckin‘ way he was going to let these towelheads get hold of his Penning trap. It was only Phase One of the down payment he owed the Indians, but he wasn’t going to let this get out of his sight. Swinging the bulky case by his side, he made for the embassy house.
Inside the fence a short man in a white tunic ran from the main building, taking no notice of him. Bretti passed bumblebees drifting lazily around the garden. The flowers made the air thick, sweet, and nauseating. He entered the embassy, glad to be behind the protective walls.
Bretti had never been able to figure out Chandrawalia’s exact title and position in the Embassy. But it had to be high up in the food chain, judging from everything he had promised Bretti. The man smiled graciously as he sat behind a polished wooden desk, gesturing him into the private office.
Paintings of Hind
i women dressed in colorful garb were positioned across the wall next to photographs of elaborate Mughal-era temples, photos of vast cities taken from the air, and the standard picture of the Taj Mahal. Green marble elephants stood two feet tall on either side of the desk.
“Welcome, Dr. Bretti. I am honored to listen, though my time is somewhat at a premium this afternoon.” Chandrawalia’s dark face contrasted with his impossibly white teeth. He had deep wrinkles, and a white beard shot with strands of iron gray.
“This is important enough to be worth your time.”
“Very well, Dr. Bretti. Would you care for some tea?”
Tea? How could Bretti think of tea at a time like this? His whole life, his future had just disintegrated around him-like an antimatter explosion. He wondered if he should confess to Chandrawalia, explain about the FBI agent, his flight, all because the Indian government wanted a secret stash of p-bars. Would Chandrawalia help him out of this mess?
Bretti knew it would be a mistake to think of this man as his friend.
“No. No tea.” Bretti shifted in his chair, setting the heavy suitcase of p-bars on the floor beside him. He plugged an extension cord from the wall to the suitcase, recharging the lithium batteries. “Things have changed at the Lab. I need to get out of here today like we planned, but I won’t have as much of the… uh, product as I had promised. I have a more efficient trap collecting particles of antimatter right now. In less than a week- after the excitement cools down-it’ll have a full supply. When I return, I can make good on the final delivery.”
Chandrawalia’s facial expression remained frozen in a perpetual smile. “I am sorry to hear that. Will this affect our agreement, Dr. Bretti?‘’
“Mr. Bretti. Call me mister.” Bretti screwed up his face. The man knew damned well he was still a grad student. “I’ve got some antimatter, enough for your people to start their medical isotope project. And that’s the important thing. Now get me out of here.”
“We’ve inspected your holding apparatus,” said Chandrawalia smoothly. “Your device is making our security people nervous. They think it could be some sort of sophisticated bomb.”
“Just don’t x-ray the container. That would increase the antiproton diffusion rate out of the magnetic bottle.” To Chandrawalia’s blank stare, Bretti growled, “You’ll make it leak faster. It’s tough enough keeping the p-bars contained in this type of trap without agitating them.”
Did they really think he was stupid enough to bring a bomb into this place? And what on earth for? Of course, enough antimatter particles could be as deadly as a bomb-as the vaporized substation proved-but this Penning trap didn’t hold nearly enough p-bars to cause any damage. Later in the week, when he returned for the crystal-lattice trap, then he would have enough antimatter to make someone worry.
“I see.” Chandrawalia reached into a drawer, withdrew a folder and slid it across the polished desktop. “Here are tickets for today’s flight to New Delhi. Your passport is in there as well, stamped with our visa. You leave at five P.M. We are putting your storage device in a diplomatic pouch-a container that can be hooked up to the plane’s electrical system during the trip to India. It will not be inspected by your customs officials.”
Bretti scooped up the ticket. “You’ve got me flying out on the Concord. Cool.” The Indians really wanted those p-bars. Their stake in major new medical research and opening the process to lucrative markets supposedly depended on it.
“The program in Bangalore is anxiously waiting for your material. One of my associates will meet you there.” Chandrawalia held up a finger and frowned for the first time in the conversation. The expression sent a chill through Bretti. “Please remember the need for discretion, Mr. Bretti. This, ah, project is hardly well publicized, or even endorsed by my government. Few people in this embassy are aware of what we are doing. If it proves to be a success”-he shrugged-“then things may change and everyone will want to take credit. But for now, the fewer people who know about this, the better.”
“That’s the tack I’ve been taking,” said Bretti sourly. The less said the better, and the less chance any sort of investigation would finger him. He wasn’t even supposed to be in Illinois this week.
“Good.” Chandrawalia stood, clearly ending the meeting. Placing his hands on the desk, he bowed slightly. “Please instruct my people as to the care and operation of your storage device. We will then escort you to O’Hare and past customs as my official guest to our country.”
“What about my car?” Things were moving too fast. He didn’t even have a suitcase with him, no clothes, not even a toothbrush. But if Chandrawalia came through with the money they had promised, Bretti could buy all he wanted when he got to India.
“It will remain in our garage until you return.” For the first time since things had taken a nosedive at the substation, Bretti actually felt calm and somewhat hopeful again. He allowed a small smile on his face as he shook hands with Chandrawalia. He just might pull this off after all…
But the official’s grip was cold and his expression hard. “Do not forget that your device will be in the passenger hold. If anything goes wrong, both you and your plane will meet the same fate. Have a nice flight… and enjoy India.”
CHAPTER NINE
Tuesday, 3:49 p.m.
Fermilab
The dogs strained on their leashes, intent on their job- professionals, just like everything else the FBI used. But Special Agent Schultz didn’t expect them to find anything. He had already been over the various substations, searching for some hint as to the cause of the massive explosion that had vaporized one of the blockhouses.
The handler from the county sheriff’s office followed the two dogs to the next substation. They barked and sniffed, making a beeline toward the heavy metal door. Schultz had a key to each of the padlocks, and this one looked just as secure as the others had. It would probably be a dud too.
He and his team had been on the scene for two days already, but still had found no clues. His evidence technicians and crime-scene chemists had narrowed the list of possibilities until nothing remained.
Normal bombs left telltale trace compounds, chemical residue, nitrates, by-products-but the fused crater showed nothing at all. The explosion had been clean, with intense heat, and of extremely short duration; electrical power from miles around had been disrupted. At first, the investigators had detected a small increase in the background radiation, but the crater was the wrong shape for even a miniature atomic weapon. Schultz could not begin to imagine what could cause such destruction.
The dogs scratched against the metal door of the blockhouse, anxious and whimpering. “Something’s got them excited,” the handler said.
Schultz came forward, sorting through a string of keys the Fermilab Director’s Office had provided him. “One of the techs probably left a box of takeout chicken inside.”
He didn’t like being in charge of such a high-profile investigation with nothing to show for it. FBI headquarters didn’t look at that too kindly. The other two California agents were working on their own, looking into the radiation exposure case, but they didn’t have any assistance, no backup, no facilities at their disposal. Given those stumbling blocks, he certainly didn’t expect them to uncover anything he and his people had missed.
He twisted a key in the padlock, then pulled the heavy door open. The two dogs impatiently pushed their way into the small substation. One even let out a yip, and Schultz frowned at their poor training. The sheriff’s dogs should behave better than that.
But then he noticed that the lights were on. The last person in there must have left everything on, everything running. The walls were covered with diagnostics racks, oscilloscopes, computers, TV monitors, like props from an old TV show. One of the chairs had tipped over, and notepads and debris had fallen from the shelves.
Sprawled on the floor lay a man in a pool of blood.
Schultz froze, falling into his role as crime scene investigator. He recognized the dark su
it, curly hair, pudgy physique. “It’s that FBI agent from Oakland,” he said, “Goldfarb.” He hurried forward, dropping to his knee as the handler tried to keep his dogs under control.
“Get out your phone,” Schultz snapped. “Call for emergency medical assistance. And get me the Chicago office. Code Red-an agent is down.”
In the Fox River Medical Center, Craig found a bank of pay phones and tried Goldfarb’s cell phone again. He had already been scolded twice by the nurses that he wasn’t allowed to use his own cell phone inside the hospital itself, because it might interfere with pacemakers or medical diagnostics-not that he got good reception inside the heavily shielded building anyway.
Along the same lines, with Goldfarb snooping around the accelerator, the tunnels and metal reinforcements might also mess up his signal. He hung up the phone and returned to Dumenco’s room.
Light spilled through a single window, where three more baskets of flowers had joined the potted plant on the sill-one from Trish, another from Dr. Piter’s division, and the third from the Fermilab Director’s office. Dumenco’s friends were indeed limited.
Wearing a white lab coat and tennis shoes, Trish studied a history of radiation accidents she had gotten from her contacts at the PR-Cubed. The medical organization had been happy to provide all the details they could find. Some members of the Board of Directors wanted to make a news event out of Dumenco’s radiation exposure, but Trish had so far held her ground. She flipped through the faxed summary documents with her back to Craig.
Stretched out on his bed and propped up on pillows, the old scientist frowned at his sheaf of papers. Craig had looked at some of the less technical articles, but they were more indecipherable than the nuclear data sheets he had perused during his case at the Nevada Test Site. At least in Nevada, accounting procedures and engineering diagrams helped explain the technical language; here, Craig found so many references to annihilation operators, production cross sections, nuclear resonances, scattering matrices, and Feynman diagrams that he was totally lost.
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