Bretti’s mouth felt dry and cottony as his guide started for the red door. People’s Liberty for All party? he thought. What the hell is this? Did it have something to do with his contact, Mr. Chandrawalia?
Perspiration soaked his shirt, as much from anxiety as from the oppressive humidity. The military guard made him very uneasy. Bretti swallowed, but his throat was dry. He tried to think, but could dredge only a little of the background that Chandrawalia had told him some months before. India ’s leadership tottered back and forth among the dozens of political parties; no ideology held a convincing grip on the nation’s government. He hoped he wasn’t going to be caught up in some sort of power struggle.
The military guard crushed out his cigarette and stared at Bretti. The bespectacled guide stopped and turned to Bretti. “Dr. Bretti, we must hurry. Your flight to Bangalore leaves soon, and you must clear customs before you board the plane. I will try to expedite matters, but there are people who must ask you some questions.”
He had no suitcase, no extra clothes-nothing but what he wore. With a wallet stuffed full of rupees from the embassy, he’d planned to buy clothes in India. With nothing to declare, he should sail through customs.
Except for the Penning trap, still in the diplomatic pouch.
What if one political faction didn’t know what the other was doing? Would he wind up in some flea-bitten jail, like that guy in Midnight Express? This army guard gave him the creeps. After growing up in the Washington, DC, area, he’d lived around military people all his life-he shouldn’t feel threatened. But Bretti had never tried commercial espionage before, never shot a man, never fled the scene of a crime.
What would these people do to him? He certainly couldn’t count on his own government to help.
“Dr. Bretti?” Ambalal folded his hands across the soft-sided briefcase, genuinely upset at Bretti’s reluctance to follow. “We must process your paperwork, and I must see to the diplomatic pouch. Quickly now.”
Behind Bretti, the doors to the Concord sealed shut; in front of him spread the long customs line and the mass of shoving people. He had to trust someone, and he couldn’t think straight, thanks to the Grand Marnier and his panic. Chandrawalia had too much at stake not to ensure his safety. He had to count on that.
Bretti forced himself to move toward where the guard held the red door open. Inside the claustrophobic room, two men sat at a long brown table. A large mirror-oneway, no doubt-took up a good part of the wall on his left, next to another red door that led to the open terminal.
Both men at the table wore open-collar short-sleeved shirts and no-nonsense expressions. One man was small, old, and bald; the younger man wore a dark beard. The bearded man nodded for Bretti to take a seat as he spoke in a high, piping voice. “Dr. Bretti, welcome to India. It is a rare occasion that we are blessed with a distinguished visiting scientist. And one sponsored by a consulate, no less.”
“It’s mister,” said Bretti, looking down at his hands. “I’m not a Ph.D. yet.” Someday soon he’d have that union card so he wouldn’t be sniffed at by so-called experts in the scientific fields. He’d worked his butt off for seven years as a grad student, living on slave wages, while Dumenco followed his esoteric goals and treated him like a barely competent manservant.
He suspected that sponsoring professors kept people like him sweating out their servitude to boost their own egos, delaying the awarding of doctorates. Too many people would give anything to get through a program at Fermilab.
But as much as he wanted that title, Bretti also knew it was meaningless unless it was earned. Truly earned. He recalled the time he had come home from school in third grade, crying because he had lost a spelling bee. Trying to comfort him, his mother had cut a ribbon from blue construction paper and pinned it on him-declaring him a winner.
Getting the crap beat out of him the next day in school for bragging about the fake award had brought the point home too well.
Maybe after all he had done for them, the Indians would take him on. Bretti could help Chandrawalia’s group with their so-called medical applications for the p-bars. After the appalling events of the past couple of days, he needed a fresh start, a fresh home, and a fresh identity… somewhere far from FBI investigators and extradition treaties.
The guard took his position by the door, while Ambalal stood like a mother hen at Bretti’s side. All the while the bald man sat observing. No one made any introductions.
The bearded man frowned and put down the papers he had been studying. “Ah, Mister Bretti, then. It is my understanding you will be conferring with a high-energy research group in Bangalore. This is quite an honor, especially if you are not a real scientist.” He knitted his thick eyebrows together. “Tell me, please, why our consulate would sponsor someone such as yourself to speak with this esteemed group?”
Bretti glanced up sharply. “Wait a minute. I didn’t say I wasn’t a scientist. I’m just not finished with my degree, and I don’t believe in calling myself something I haven’t earned. It’s not right.”
The mustachioed party man spoke up behind him. “Dr. Bretti is here on invitation from the Chicago consulate office. He is a personal guest of Mr. Chandrawalia, the deputy head of mission. This gentleman is from America ’s Fermilab and he has valuable skills to assist India ’s national researchers.” He placed a sinewy brown hand on Bretti’s shoulder. “That should be enough for you.”
Taking strength from the man’s statement, Bretti faced the two men at the table. “That’s right. I’ve coauthored numerous publications in highly respected journals-check them out yourself if you don’t believe me.”
“Your position in science is not in question, Mister Bretti,” said the beard, “but rather why such a distinguished diplomat as Mr. Chandrawalia would take such a personal interest in your visit. What precisely do you intend to discuss when you are in Bangalore?”
Bretti shifted his weight in the unsteady chair, listening to the faint groan of metal and plastic. The cold sweat crawled down his back, making his shirt even more clammy. “Why are you interrogating me? I was invited here, by Chandrawalia at your embassy, just as the gentleman said. Isn’t that a good enough reason?”
The quiet bald man finally spoke up in a voice too deep for his small size. “We must be sure that the purpose of your visit is purely scientific and not political. You are not here for political purposes, are you?”
Bretti sighed, suddenly relieved. “Is that what this is about? I’m not interested in politics, I’m a scientist. I don’t give a rat’s ass about what your country does, or who influences whom. All I’m doing is, uh, giving a talk and delivering scientific equipment. Nothing more, nothing less. Okay?”
The bearded man scribbled some notes, then glanced over to his bald companion. The small man nodded curtly. “You are not staying in India very long, Mr. Bretti?”
Bretti didn’t know how to answer that. What if they offered him political asylum? He couldn’t go back to the United States until the dust settled. “I’m heading back home as soon as I can.”
“Enjoy your stay,” the bearded man said. “But please watch your company.” As he turned, the guard strode over and opened the second red door for him. The bearded man and his bald partner gathered their material and exited, with no words spoken between them.
The military officer once again showed yellow teeth as he motioned for Bretti to leave. Shrugging, but feeling safe for the first time since he had landed, Bretti followed his guide out of the room into a long hallway that led into the main terminal complex.
Bretti turned to Ambalal. “What the hell was that all about?”
“Mr. Chandrawalia is not only a well-respected diplomat, but he is strongly allied with our People’s Liberty for All party.”
“So?” said Bretti.
“ India ’s political system is an alliance of many parties, none with a clear majority. Any time a minority party such as ours attempts something out of the ordinary, suspicions are raised.” They stoppe
d just outside the main terminal area where a mass of people congregated. “Information is power, and if you as a foreigner can supply information to another party, such as People’s Liberty for All, then you are a valuable asset.”
Bretti’s head pounded. It was a crazy country where even medical research was a political item. Maybe they were only going to cure cancer for the people in their own party.
Ambalal hustled him along. “They will leave you alone so long as they remain satisfied that you pose no threat to the balance of power.” Glancing at his watch, he fumbled inside his soft-sided briefcase and pulled out a ticket. “You have less than an hour before your plane leaves for Bangalore. Please proceed to the gate while I check on the diplomatic pouch. I must make sure your scientific equipment is transferred to the plane.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Wednesday, 6:15 a.m.
Fox RiverMedicalCenter,
Intensive Care Ward
Craig slouched in an orange plastic chair, half asleep outside Goldfarb’s hospital room.
While the inhabitants of Aurora, Illinois, began to stir for the workday, he sat weary and lost in his thoughts, going over the events that had brought him to this point, sleepless outside Intensive Care where his partner might live or die.
The doctor had finally taken the time to explain Goldfarb’s condition and his prognosis. The other agent lay in a coma, shot twice with his own handgun. The first bullet had entered the upper right chest at an oblique angle, fracturing a rib and damaging the right lung. The second shot, more serious, had struck the left chest, contusing and lacerating the lung, causing what the doctor called a “hemopneumothorax.” A tube had been inserted into the chest to drain blood and release trapped air. The delay in rushing Goldfarb to the hospital had nearly cost him his life.
The good-natured agent remained sedated to keep him from tearing at the respiratory tubes, and he had grown no stronger through the night. The surgeons refused to bring him around so he could identify his assailant.
Earlier, Craig had driven to the Fermilab blockhouse where Goldfarb had been shot. Agent Schultz took him through the scene, but Craig had been unable to come up with any clues, any insights. Schultz and his own team were stumped as well, and he seemed more than willing to let Craig have his hand on this case. The Chicago agent had plenty of other pending cases back in his main office.
In another part of the medical center, Trish hovered around Georg Dumenco hour after hour, witnessing each step of his degeneration. It would be an ironic twist of fate, Craig thought grimly, if Goldfarb slipped away before the Ukrainian did.
Before the rest of the hospital began its bustle, Trish LeCroix stopped in front of him, crossing her arms over her chest. He looked up, seeing that she had pinned her dark hair back with a pair of coral barrettes. In the open front of her white lab coat she wore a thin gold chain around her neck. Craig dimly recalled that he had given her that chain for their… was it their six-month anniversary? He couldn’t remember.
Now Trish feigned a smile, her lips were a deep red, a color of lipstick that set off her pale skin and dark hair to good effect. Even during the long night’s vigil, she had found time to touch up her appearance. “Let’s try not to fill up any more rooms in the ICU, understand?” she said. “Take care of yourself.”
“Don’t you chew me out, too,” he said with a hint of harshness brought on by fatigue. “My boss already did that last night.”
She reached forward to squeeze his shoulder, then meticulously brushed wrinkles from his rumpled suit jacket. “I didn’t mean it as criticism, Craig, but as concern. I don’t want you to end up in one of these hospital beds because of this case.”
Without another word, she hurried back toward Dumenco’s room. Once again Trish had left before Craig could think of the right thing to say. His mind was too befuddled with weariness and worry. He glanced at his watch. This time yesterday, Goldfarb had been handing him a cup of Starbucks coffee as he got off the red-eye flight from San Francisco.
Down the hall, with a quiet chime of a bell, the elevator opened. Craig lifted his head sluggishly, ashamed at himself for wallowing in guilt. Disbelieving, he saw the tall, dark form of Randall Jackson emerge wearing his dark FBI suit and tie, his expression grave.
Beside him came a much shorter woman with two small girls in tow, each holding one of their mother’s hands. Craig recognized Julene Goldfarb, as well as the curly-haired agent’s two daughters, Megan and Gwendolyn, ages six and four.
He stood out of respect, once again finding his vocal chords empty of comforting words or phrases. “Julene,” he finally whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
She hurried forward and let him fold her awkwardly in his arms. Julene had used rubber bands to pull her pale brown hair into long pigtails; she wore no makeup, scrubbing her face clean because she had been crying. He had never seen her look so disheveled. A well-mannered daughter from a large Southern family, Julene maintained her personal appearance as if it were a uniform-now, though, she must have thrown a simple bag together, grabbed the kids, and rushed to the airport.
The two little girls stood concerned by their mother’s side. Megan, the older, went to the door of the Intensive Care hallway and peeked through the narrow wire-mesh window. “Is Daddy in there?” Her voice trembled.
“He’s hurt, Megan. The doctors are trying to make him better,” Jackson answered. His face grew stormy.
Julene drew a gulp of air. Her words were muffled in the breast of Craig’s jacket. “I always knew he was going to get shot. I knew it! I warned him about every assignment he went on.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t with him at the time, Julene,” Craig said.
She pulled away and looked up at him, angry. “Why? So you could have been shot too?” Her Southern drawl extended with her stress, blurring her words. She shook her head, flopping the pigtails from side to side.
“Ben is passionate about his job. He loves running out on cases like a cowboy. And he loves working with you, Craig. He never shuts up about all the good times you have together, all the excitement.” She blinked furiously, refusing to let more tears spill. “If I put my foot down and forced him to a desk job, I know he’d do it for me-” She swallowed another lungful of air. “But if I forced him to make that decision, then I would lose him as sure as by a gunshot. He’d be dead to me, unhappy and bored.”
She swallowed hard, then finally forced herself to look through the window and down the hall.
“It’ll be all right, Julene,” Craig said, grasping her by the elbows and looking into her greenish-blue eyes. “Ben’s going to pull through this.” He hoped she believed his optimism better than he did.
A doctor walked down the hall and came through the swinging door. Dressed in green scrubs, he had been the ER trauma team leader when Goldfarb was admitted. Craig introduced Julene, and the doctor looked weary as he nodded. “I’ll take you on back. But please don’t disturb the nurses. Your husband’s in critical condition, and we’re doing everything we can.” Julene and the girls followed him to Goldfarb’s room, letting the door swing shut behind him.
Craig remained in the hall with Jackson. The tall agent kept his face set in a grim mask, but his eyes were bright and icy. “So what have you found out so far, Craig? Who’s the bastard that did this?”
“No clues yet,” Craig answered. “No motive, no evidence. But Ben stumbled upon something-I don’t know much else, except that Trish must have been right about foul play in Dumenco’s so-called accident. There’s too much involved here. Someone intentionally caused his lethal exposure, someone was responsible for that substation explosion, and someone shot Ben.”
Craig shook his head, running his fingers through his chestnut hair. “This was supposed to be just a quick little favor for an old girlfriend, to poke around and see if we could uncover something the accident investigators had missed. June chewed me out for it, and now Ben might die.”
Jackson crossed his arms over his chest. “But now th
at it’s an official case, we can bring the full resources of a federal investigation to bear. And even better-I’m on the case with you.” He met Craig’s eyes with a hard stare. “You and I aren’t going to let anyone get away with doing this to Ben, are we?”
Craig saw Julene and the two girls standing down the hall outside Goldfarb’s room. The doctor spoke quietly to them, but no one seemed to be listening.
Craig’s heart pounded, the anger pulsing in his own temples. “No Randall,” he said. “No, we’re not.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Wednesday, 7:21 a.m.
Fox RiverMedicalCenter
It was time to work, time to continue the investigation. Jackson ’s presence was just the incentive Craig needed to dive into the case. The other agent didn’t want to waste a moment.
After introductions, Craig and Jackson stood beside Georg Dumenco as he lay back on the bleach-scented white sheets. Jackson retained his composure with a discernible effort. The dying Ukrainian had finally settled in, as if in defeat. Craig wondered if he would ever get up again.
The old scientist’s skin had reddened with overall swelling, but also dried in patches in a strange rash, worsening to sores that stood out on his arms and his cheeks. The macerated flesh covering his knuckles and fingers was cracked, oozing blood-tinged fluid. His hands were so swollen and stiff he could barely hold a pencil-and this seemed to frustrate Dumenco more than the pain.
Craig was astonished at how quickly the physicist had begun failing, his body crashing out, everything compounded as one bodily function collapsed, then another, like an avalanche. It had been three days since his massive exposure. Trish had said in a quiet voice that Dumenco probably wouldn’t last three more.
Dumenco reluctantly pushed aside the data-output sheets and computer printouts he had been studying and focused his attention on the two FBI agents. He tried to set down his pencil, but it fell awkwardly and rolled off the bedside table to land on the floor.
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