Lethal Exposure

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Yes, but your tongue is a very clean shade of white,” she said.

  He looked in the mirror, sticking his tongue out.

  “So, are you really all right?” Paige said with genuine concern.

  Craig ran water in the sink and splashed his face. “My eyes burn, my nose burns, my throat burns, my lungs burn-but all in all, it’s been a pretty good day. No question in my mind that we’ve got a real case here… as if I had any doubts in the first place.”

  “Who could it have been?” she asked. “Did you see the person who attacked you? What was he looking for in Dumenco’s apartment?”

  Craig shook his head. “We interrupted him, but he managed to destroy Dumenco’s home computer. All of his disks, maybe just as a precaution. But Dumenco wasn’t dumb enough to do any important research on his home computer, with no security.”

  “His work wasn’t classified, so he could have worked at home whenever he wanted.”

  “Sure, but Dumenco’s real ‘home’ was in his lab anyway. He wouldn’t have stayed in his apartment when he could have been at Fermilab. That apartment was just a place where he went to sleep once in a while.”

  Paige laid a hand on his shoulder. “How’s Jackson?”

  “Seems to be all right,” Craig said. “Trish hasn’t come in to check on us yet-apparently she’s away from the hospital. But the attending physician says we’ll both recover. That chlorine gas knocked us flat, but we got to the window soon enough, managed to crack the door open a bit. No permanent damage.” He took another slow, gradual breath, musing. “I wonder what Jackson would look like as a blond?”

  “Probably not any better than you,!‘ she chuckled.

  Craig broke out coughing instead. “I’ll be all right. Just need a little rest.”

  “What you need is a good dinner, the best Chicago cuisine has to offer.”

  “As long as it’s not more bratwursts and sauerkraut.” Craig looked over at her. “Are you asking me out on a date, Ms. Mitchell?”

  “It is the nineties,” she said, feeling warm inside. Yes, she thought, it would be good to start seeing him again. She hadn’t realized until just that moment that she really did miss his smile. Not that she didn’t enjoy formal dinners with Nels Piter, but Craig had a certain naive honesty she had come to miss, and that was something Piter certainly didn’t have.

  She grew serious. “I think we should spend some time discussing the case. You know, like old times back in Livermore or out in Las Vegas.”

  “It’s a deal,” Craig said, “but I need to change clothes first.”

  She wrinkled her nose at the lingering chlorine smell. “Yes, Craig, I think that would be a good idea.”

  When Paige stepped out of the examining room, she saw Trish LeCroix waiting by the door. As Paige exited, Trish looked down at a sheaf of papers, as if pretending she hadn’t been eavesdropping or wanting to see Craig herself. “Why, it’s Dr. LeCroix,” Paige said. “Craig was just looking for you.”

  “Call me Patrice,” she said stiffly. Her words bore little friendliness.

  “How is Craig’s condition?” Paige asked.

  Trish flipped her papers over. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been busy. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She turned to walk down the hall, and Paige had to hurry to keep up with her. Craig had described Trish as being somewhat cold and self-centered, and Paige could see how the woman gave that impression.

  “Wait,” said Paige. “Have you talked with his doctor?”

  “I’m sure he’ll be all right,” Trish said offhandedly. “The fumes only caused a bit of superficial damage. He’ll have chest pains for a while, maybe an occasional bloody nose from the damaged soft tissue, but nothing too serious. Agent Jackson ’s worse off, but he’s tough. They’ll be back on the case without even taking time for a coffee break. FBI agents, you know-they think they’ve got to be more macho than anybody else.”

  Paige wondered why Trish was so cold and impatient. Out of curiosity, she had tracked down some of “P. LeCroix’s” impassioned editorials written for the Bulletin of the Physicians for Responsible Radiation Research. Her writings were anything but lukewarm.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Trish said, “we all have very little time. Craig had a trivial exposure to a mundane hazard that anybody could concoct with a few household chemicals. It’s nothing compared to what Georg Dumenco is going through.” She pressed her lips together in a frown. “There’s only so much sympathy in the world, and every patient can’t have all of it.”

  Paige blinked and stopped in her tracks, letting Trish continue toward the Intensive Care ward. She found the other woman’s behavior to be very odd-very odd indeed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Wednesday, 7:48 p.m.

  Batavia, IL

  Holding a hand to his mouth as he coughed, Craig paced the lobby of Little Naples, waiting for Paige. The small restaurant had dark wood paneling that had been popular several decades ago. It was adorned with scenes from the Italian Alps, photographs of immigrants, and an old coat of arms. A local hole in the wall, Paige had said, with extremely good Italian food.

  Craig wore a maroon tie, white shirt, and a dark blue suit while his other clothes were cleaned to remove the chlorine smell, though he doubted they could be salvaged. At least now that he was on “official travel,” the Bureau paid per diem for sundries such as dry cleaning-and for a new suit, since the old one had been damaged in the line of duty.

  Paige walked in wearing the same light blouse and blue skirt she had worn at the hospital, but she had added a smart-fitting jacket and a string of pearls. Craig held out both hands to greet her. “You look great.”

  “Thanks.” Paige squeezed his hands, then flipped her blond hair behind her shoulders. “How are you feeling?”

  Craig gave a wan smile, then coughed again. “Hanging in there. Trish seems to think I’ll recover quickly.”

  Paige became serious. “Yes. Patrice takes your accident pretty lightly, from what I could see. You’ve got to take care of yourself-otherwise, you’ll be sharing a room with Goldfarb.”

  Craig blinked. Did she just not get along with Trish, or was there a hint of jealousy? He never had a problem reading body language of suspects-he wished he could do the same with Paige… and Trish. He forced a smile. “At least I’m glad we got a chance to be alone. I’d like to go over some details of the case-after all, we’ve got a good track record of working together so far.”

  Paige cleared her throat as she stepped up to the hostess. “Mitchell, party of three. Reservations at eight.”

  As the young lady ran her finger down a list of names, Craig lifted his eyebrows. “Three?”

  Paige stepped quickly after the hostess, as if she didn’t want to talk about it. “Nels is joining us, if that’s all right. I thought it would be good to include him in the discussions.”

  Craig’s face grew warm. He followed Paige as they wound around tables to a private area by the window. Three place settings adorned a red tablecloth, rotated 90 degrees on top of a white tablecloth. Large red wine glasses and smaller white wine glasses sparkled in the flicker of a single candle. A long-stemmed red rose perched in a clear vase. The hostess moved to pull out a chair for Paige, but Craig stepped forward and beat her to it.

  After taking his seat, Craig scanned Paige’s face. “So far, you’re the only person I’ve discounted from Dumenco’s case. I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk about the case in front of Dr. Piter. He could be the man responsible.”

  “Nels a suspect? Oh, Craig, he’s a perfect gentleman and well respected in his field. It would be like Albert Einstein killing someone out of professional jealousy. He may have a big ego-”

  “I’ll say,” muttered Craig, unfolding his napkin.

  “But he means well,” continued Paige.

  Craig stopped his retort as a busboy silently poured water for them. After he left, Craig leaned forward and spoke with carefully measured words. “Someone did try to kill Dumenco. Someo
ne did destroy his home computer and his personal files. That substation exploded, Goldfarb was shot, and Jackson and I were attacked with chlorine gas. All this might have something to do with Dumenco’s work, or the Nobel Prize, or Dumenco’s past.”

  Paige frowned. “Just another one of your complicated cases, Craig.”

  “Dumenco himself is keeping information from me. I’m not sure what it is, but he’s hiding something. And on top of that, he’s more concerned with his experimental results than in helping me out. Until I learn otherwise, Nels Piter is going to have to remain a suspect.”

  He paused for a moment, trying not to change the subject too obviously. “So, just how well have you known Dr. Piter the past year?” He studied her face, looking for any clues as to exactly what type of relationship Paige had with the research director.

  Paige smiled coyly as she reached for her glass of water. “Craig, now what do you mean by that?”

  He fumbled with his napkin. “What’s your professional relationship with Dr. Piter?”

  “Oh, I thought you were concerned about something else.”

  He raced through several comebacks, and almost told her the truth-that yes, dammit, he did have feelings for her-but then a thin, nasal voice interrupted them. “Paige, sorry I’m late. I was on the phone with a colleague in Stockholm -he had gotten up early to call me, so I had to hear him out.” Nels Piter walked briskly up, bent down and kissed Paige on the cheek.

  Paige smiled. “Craig and I just got here, Nels.”

  Piter took notice of Craig for the first time and curtly extended his hand. “Agent Kreident, good evening. Nice of you to invite me along tonight.”

  “Yes,” answered Craig in a monotone. “Glad you could make it.”

  The cocktail waitress stepped to the side of the table. “Excuse me, would you care for a drink?”

  Piter spoke before either of them could respond. “We’ll have a bottle of your best Chianti, please.” He shooed her away as Craig scowled, since he didn’t particularly like wine. Paige didn’t complain, though he had expected her to order an imported Italian beer or something.

  The Belgian scientist had high color in his cheeks as he told Paige about the phone call. He made no attempt to hold the details quiet, speaking just loudly enough that the nearest tables could hear. “So I have it on authority that the committee has down-selected to a short list of three candidates.”

  “And you’re one of the finalists?” Paige asked.

  Piter toyed with his empty wine glass. “Marvelous, isn’t it? They’re going to announce the winner Friday. And the latest copy of Phys Rev Letters hits the stands tomorrow with the latest Fermilab results of my antimatter trap design.” He threw a glance at Craig. “The device I invented while at CERN. The timing of the article couldn’t be better.”

  “What about the other two finalists?” Craig asked. “Do you know who they are?‘’ He coughed.

  “No,” said Piter curtly, “just that I’m on the short list. But now that the chances are down to one in three, I can win against anyone.”

  “Even Georg Dumenco?”

  Piter looked as if he had swallowed something very sour. “He’s probably on the short list as well. Georg is one of those rare individuals who could have won the Nobel at any time-if not this year, then the next, or the one after. He is extremely well known and liked. And as a Ukrainian, he is a favorite of the judges. So he is sure to win one of these years.”

  “He’s not going to have another chance,” Craig said, coughing to the side. “He’ll be dead in a few days.”

  “Pity they can’t award it posthumously.” Piter hesitated. He looked down at his empty wine glass and spoke with a hint of bitterness, and with a suddenly quiet voice. “But for me… this may be my final chance. My work is several years old, and that’s why I’m hoping this new paper will generate some excitement.” He looked at Paige. “I cannot afford to let chance play a part in the selection.”

  Craig folded his hands on the tablecloth, speaking calmly as he watched Piter. “So what does the Nobel process involve? I’m not familiar with the details.”

  Piter raised his chin, taking on the air of a lecturer as the cocktail waitress returned with a bottle of wine. He dismissed her with a wave after she opened the bottle and poured glasses for each of them.

  “Each year the physics committee invites thousands of scientists, members of scientific academies, and university professors throughout the world to nominate candidates for the Nobel Prize. As you can imagine, the competition is intense, and I’ve been subtly campaigning for years. The nominations are then investigated by dozens of experts appointed by the Nobel foundation. The committee then makes a selection among the candidates and submits a short list of three finalists.”

  Paige looked at him with a bit too much admiration, as far as Craig was concerned. “So that’s where you are now,” she said.

  Craig pushed his wine glass aside without taking a drink. “I always thought the Nobel Prize was awarded years after a big discovery, so the long-term ramifications could be assessed.”

  Piter took another sip of the deep red wine and forced a smile. “Yes, indeed. Science is about peer review and reproducible results. The work must be held up and inspected for flaws, and it takes years to assess its impact on the body of science. Einstein himself won the prize not for his theory of relativity, but for his much earlier work on the photoelectric effect, which eventually led to the founding of the quantum theory.

  “I’ll be blunt. My original work at CERN was responsible for my appointment as Director of High-Energy Physics at Fermilab. My novel method of storing antimatter is once again summarized in this new paper, which cements all of those assessments with hard data from the Tevatron.”

  A waiter appeared at their table in a long-sleeved white shirt and charcoal gray tie. He carried three black folders. “May I interest you in a menu?”

  Craig wondered if Piter was going to unilaterally order for them as well. The Belgian research director still had a motive to kill Dumenco, but it didn’t seem prudent for Piter to talk so much about the competition. Then again, after working on high-tech crimes for several years now, nothing would surprise Craig.

  He spoke aloud as he accepted his menu. “Well, I wish you the best of luck, sir. But it’s too bad Dr. Dumenco won’t have another chance to compete for the prize. He may not even have this one.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Thursday, 4:39 a.m.

  O’Hare InternationalAirport

  The Concord eased down from Mach 2, approaching the continental U.S. from the north at seven hundred miles an hour, faster than any other airliner in the world. Half asleep, groggy and stiff from time changes, jet lag, and cramped quarters, Nicholas Bretti could have calculated the needle-nosed plane’s altitude and temperature from the Mach number displayed on the front bulkhead; but his mind was focused elsewhere, seething.

  Even when they had sent him packing, the damned Indians couldn’t resist pushing him around. Where did they get off? He was the one risking his neck, he had gotten the opportunity for them. So what if he had managed to bring only a portion of the antimatter he had promised? He was still early, and he had the means to get the rest.

  However, upon returning to the U.S., he just might find himself the target of an FBI manhunt. Bretti would have to be very careful. He needed to slip in, grab the hidden crystal-lattice trap from the substation, and arrange to drop it off-but not before Chandrawalia made some further guarantees. Bretti couldn’t wait to have words with the smug, whip-thin man from the Embassy. After all, if Bretti got caught, he was damned well going to bring the rest of them down with him and expose all their embarrassing commercial plans.

  Too bad he wouldn’t have time to pay his respects to old Dumenco. He wondered if the Ukrainian slave master had kicked off yet. In his imagination, Bretti pictured the physicist writhing in a hospital bed with his skin sloughing off, his hair falling out, his gums bleeding. Dangerous stuff, that ra
diation. The most amazing part, though, was that Dumenco had been exposed while doing his own work for a change, rather than bossing around his pet grad student.

  Still a graduate student. After seven years of research, chasing down elusive leads to prove a new theory, spending all-nighters analyzing someone else’s data and trying to contribute to the next experiment on the massive accelerator, he was ABD-All But Dissertation.

  Anyone else would have received a doctorate by now, donning the long, black robe, the maroon-and-blue head ornament of the Ph.D. Each year Bretti watched the graduation ceremonies at the University of Chicago, but never as a participant; instead, he stood back and let the others have their fifteen minutes in the spotlight. He watched as new lawyers were awarded their JDs after only three years of law school; watching new doctors awarded MDs after only four years of med school.

  And these people called themselves professionals! All they had to do was memorize esoteric law cases or obtuse medical language and they “earned” their degrees. These people didn’t know about spending years in research with a perfectionist, domineering advisor who was never satisfied with what had been done before.

  Bretti wanted his name first on a research paper, not just as one of the coauthors. Everyone in the technical community knew that the real work was done by the first author. After seven years of kissing up to Dumenco, jumping every time the old scientist snapped his fingers, Bretti deserved a little credit of his own.

  And some extra cash. He was tired of living in poverty, eking by on a graduate assistantship’s salary. Chandrawalia had given him an opportunity to rise above all that-but now it looked as if he would fall on his face.

  At the University of Chicago, Bretti had sought out Georg Dumenco, a respected researcher from the Ukraine, fresh off the boat with mind-boggling ideas of using gamma-ray lasers to induce cascades of antimatter in normal particle reactions. Dumenco had obtained an appointment at Fermilab and needed a grad student… just as Bretti was finishing his Ph.D. coursework.