“I met Georg Dumenco there, in the Ukraine, all those years before. He and his family. He desperately wanted to leave the country, to get his family safe, but there was nothing we could do. Once he emigrated here, I kept tabs on him through the PR-Cubed.” As she took her dark gaze from him, he felt as if a targeting cross had just slipped away. “So did other people, I think.”
Craig took a deep breath, trying to assess the information. “What do you mean by that? What happened to Dumenco’s family, the ones in the snapshots I found?”
Trish shook her head. “Nobody knows. They disappeared during the upheaval, the breakup of the Soviet Union. For years now, somebody… somebody at the PR-Cubed…” She trailed off.
Reflexively she drank her milk and ate more salad while Craig waited in silence. “I’m… having a hard time with this. It’s bringing back too many memories. Dumenco is dying from a radiation exposure, just like those people at Chernobyl. Maybe his family died back in the Ukraine before he came to this country. There’s nothing I can do for him, or for them.”
“But I’m sure you managed to help,” Craig finally said, still trying to get her to open up. “That’s what you’ve always wanted to do, help people.”
“But that isn’t always the case, is it?” she said testily. “How can you stand it, Craig? This fatalistic inevitability. By the time you’re called in to a murder investigation, the crime has already happened. You’re always too late… and I’m always too late. When I get called to treat a radiation exposure, like Georg’s, there’s not much I can do. I can’t even make him more comfortable as he dies.”
She pushed her tray away. “My sole purpose is to collect data on his decline and death. No one in the world could have cured his lethal exposure, but I’m the one they called-so I’m the one who ultimately fails.”
“Oh, Trish,” Craig said trying to be soothing, but he sounded scolding instead. What other information did she have? What did the PR-Cubed have to do with this? “You help people who receive smaller exposures.”
Trish sat back and thought for a moment, then smiled. “You’re right. Sometimes I can help. In fact, that’s why I’ve been thinking of you recently.”
Craig blinked, unsure of where she was going. She couldn’t be trying to get back together, could she?
Trish leaned forward. “I treated a friend of yours. They called me in after that Russian General Ursov received his exposure out in Nevada. You were there. The man couldn’t stop talking about you.”
“You treated Ursov?” Craig said in astonishment. But of course, it made sense. Trish LeCroix was one of the few medical radiation experts, and she was well known in her field. When a senior Russian military officer had received the large radiation dose, medical experts would have called someone like Trish. “So you’re the one he meant. In a letter he added a postscript saying that our ‘mutual friend’ sends greetings. I was baffled until now. I couldn’t figure out who he was talking about.”
Trish smiled. “I guess he played a little trick on you.”
“Those Strategic Rocket Forces guys, what a bunch of jokers.” He had thought a great deal about Ursov and respected the stoic general for his unwavering devotion… and now an idea formed in his mind.
Seemingly eager to be away from the prior conversation, Trish continued offhandedly, “Your friend Paige Mitchell seems a… nice enough sort of person. In her own way.”
Craig concentrated on his spaghetti. He couldn’t tell if Trish was being catty or if she was just trying to gauge his response. “We’ve worked closely on several cases now,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
She waited, but he refused to give her more details about the cases.
“She’s very smart,” he finally continued. “Easy to get along with.” He left the thought hanging.
He didn’t particularly enjoy being caught between two such women. It might be best for him, for the case, and for his own sanity if he spent the next days working with Jackson and trying to steer clear of both Trish and Paige.
Dumenco’s accident, the substation explosion, Goldfarb’s shooting, the saboteur in Dumenco’s apartment, and the mysterious attacker in the hospital-not to mention the Ukrainian’s connection with Trish and the PR-Cubed-gave him quite enough to worry about for the time being.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Thursday, 1:17 p.m.
Evergreen Espresso, Aurora, Illinois
Nicholas Bretti sipped on his double espresso, though he was wired enough, unsettled, edgy. He sat on one of the metal-mesh chairs under a green-and-white sun umbrella, scanning down the sidewalk. Where the hell was Chandrawalia? In downtown redneck Aurora, he shouldn’t have trouble finding the whip-thin Indian representative.
At least outside he could have a smoke. The whole damned country was getting to be a nonsmoking zone. Thank goodness India hadn’t gone that direction. That was one thing he could look forward to if he went back to Bangalore… for the rest of his life.
He swallowed hard, then nervously lit another cigarette with his cheap butane lighter and stuck it back into his pocket. He took a long drag, pulling the thick smoke deep into his lungs. Yes, in India he could smoke wherever he wanted. That was an advantage. He was sure there must be other advantages, at least one or two. There must be.
The too-cute rustic coffee shop was set off the main street, shaded by trees that had just begun to shed their leaves. Inside, Formica-topped tables and red vinyl booths filled most of the floor space. A wooden stage held an old Fender amplifier, two microphones, a stool, and four guitar stands for Friday night festivities. The smell of different coffee beans wafted through the air-French vanilla, Irish creme, amaretto, mocha, all tumbled together.
Bretti sat alone outside in the clear, cool autumn air. He had never felt so isolated in his life. What was he going to do? He looked at his watch again and groaned. The Indian bastard better show up.
Bretti took another drag, then coughed. Inside the coffee shop, the only other customer-some girl who hadn’t even looked his way when he’d entered-kept her nose buried in the Chicago Sun. Good. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself.
Chandrawalia had told Bretti to meet him there, in no uncertain terms. Bretti hadn’t dared slip into Fermilab yet. He had even cruised past his apartment three times before he finally decided no one was watching the place-but still, he refused to flick on his lights. He had stumbled in the dark to his bed, crashed, and spent most of the night trying to sleep.
Back at the accelerator, his crystal-lattice trap should still be installed down in the beam-shunt tunnel, unnoticed. It had been two days since he had left, two days since he had shot the FBI agent. No doubt teams were crawling over the site, but they would be concentrating on the substations, where the first explosion had occurred and where the shooting had happened. He doubted they would have any reason to scour the experimental target areas.
He had no idea if the FBI was watching for him, if they even suspected. Would they come and arrest him in the middle of the night, have a stakeout inside Fermilab-or would he get away with everything, no one the wiser?
Bretti took another sip of espresso, tasting the burned bitter smell on his tongue as it mixed with tobacco smoke. Then he saw Chandrawalia coming down the street, wearing a blue turban. The tall Indian stood out, even when he was dressed in a short sleeve, open-collar shirt. Chandrawalia gave a perfunctory bow, scraping a heavy chair across the patio concrete to take a seat next to Bretti. He didn’t seem to have any intention of ordering coffee for himself.
“You’re late,” Bretti said.
“Traffic,” Chandrawalia said. His dark eyes searched the near-deserted coffee shop. “Your car is still parked at the Consulate garage. When are you going to pick it up?”
Bretti shook his head. “It’s too risky. I may just have to ditch it.”
Chandrawalia was unimpressed. “I am told that your trip to Bangalore was disappointing to Dr. Punjab. That is very disturbing news to me. I thought w
e had an agreement.”
Bretti tried to look Chandrawalia in the eye, but the man’s gaze kept jumping from one spot to another on the street, in the coffee shop. He leaned forward. “I told you that I had to get out of the country. And fast. Don’t you watch the news? They still might be looking for me after the explosion and after the shooting.”
“And why should we help you when you have proven yourself unreliable? And a danger to us as well.” Chandrawalia’s eyes seemed to click as he swung his entire focus to Bretti. He scowled, showing perfect white teeth against his dark skin. “You did not deliver the quantity of antimatter we had agreed upon. Our work depends on those p-bars. You have caused many difficulties for us.”
Bretti fumbled for another cigarette, indignant. “Hey, I brought you more than you ever had before-”
“And now you must do much better. I had to arrange some political favors to get you and your antimatter into India in the first place. Do you think it was easy for me to use a diplomatic pouch to transport your device?”
“I did the best I could,” said Bretti defensively.
“No doubt you discovered that other, competing political parties in my government are already highly suspicious of my activities.” Chandrawalia leaned forward to emphasize the words. “The next time you enter my country it will not be so easy to get past customs.”
Bretti took another sip of the now-cold espresso, feeling the acid of caffeine roil in his stomach. It was now even clearer just how much the Indians needed him. He started to feel cocky. “Fine, I’ve got one crystal-lattice trap hidden in the main experimental target tunnel, and another in one of the substations, collecting stray antimatter. The large one should have collected ten times what I promised you, more antimatter than has ever been stored before. In fact, we may even be nearing the capacity of the device design.” His eyes glittered-now he finally had the man’s attention.
“I can go fetch it early tomorrow morning, after midnight, and we can be on our way-but I need something more from you.” He narrowed his eyes and nervously stroked his goatee.
Chandrawalia stiffened. “We have already paid you a great deal of money for an incomplete task-”
Bretti pounded his fist on the metal table, rattling his espresso cup. “And you need to be ready to offer me sanctuary. If things go to hell around here, I may have to run. This isn’t like shoplifting a candy bar from a grocery store. The FBI is already on site, and my advisor Dumenco just may be able to figure out what’s going on, if he lives that long. He’s probably the only one who can unravel what’s happening to his enhanced beam, where all the extra antimatter is going. I may have to lie low in your country for a while.”
Bretti swallowed hard, but tried not to let uneasiness show on his face. He wasn’t a professional criminal, didn’t have any idea how to cover up evidence, keep his alibi straight, avoid suspicion. For all he knew, he could have left telltale, incriminating signs all over the place.
“I’m afraid that is impossible, Dr. Bretti,” Chandrawalia said coolly.
Fueled by the caffeine-charged espresso, Bretti stood up. “You don’t seem to understand who’s calling the shots around here!”
Chandrawalia looked at him with a maddeningly smug expression. “Yes I do, Dr. Bretti. I understand quite well. It is you that does not understand that I do not speak for India -my position is a concession of the party now in charge, a position designed so that the People’s Liberty for All coalition will support the present government. After our work with your antimatter supply succeeds, perhaps then my political party will be in a position to offer you asylum. For now, we are at as great a risk as you are.”
Bretti’s cheeks burned. “For doing medical research! Give me a break.”
Chandrawalia lowered his voice. “Don’t be stupid, Mr. Bretti.” The Indian’s words stung. “Even I did not think you to be so dense. If we really wanted the antimatter for commercial applications, we would have gone through your Department of Commerce. These p-bars will be used for weapons applications-nuclear weapons, a bold new design.”
“That’s crazy,” said Bretti, confused. “You don’t use p-bars in a nuclear chain reaction-” But as he spoke, he realized he wasn’t sure. In fact, he had no idea, had never even considered the possibility. Holy shit, he thought. Nuclear weapons? What have I gotten into?
“Properly harnessed, antimatter injected into an imploding bomb core can dramatically increase the yield. These results have been widely reported by a research group at your own Penn State. In short, with the proper technology, your antimatter will allow us to build far more warheads with far less precious plutonium. It will give India a strategic advantage such as we have never had over Pakistan or China -and the People’s Liberation for All party will become heroes.”
Chandrawalia’s gray beard and mustache surrounded his expression of intense focus. “Tomorrow, you will be ready with your cargo. I will expect you at the airport for the early afternoon flight. You will board the Concord again and return to New Delhi. If you are true to your word, and if you deliver ten times as many p-bars, perhaps we will discuss the matter further.”
He brushed down his jacket, stood, and carefully pushed the metal chair back into place at the table. “Good day.”
Bretti seethed as he watched the man walk back down the sidewalk. Damned… towelhead! Then he calmed himself, clenching and unclenching his fists. He would just have to avoid the cops, and the FBI until then. It was only one more day, and they couldn’t possibly have had time to check the thousands of employees who might have been working in and around the Tevatron, substations, and admin building during the days in question. Besides, the investigators probably thought he was still on vacation, so maybe they hadn’t even considered looking him up.
Nuclear weapons!
He ran a shaking hand through his hair and glanced around the deserted coffee shop, at the traffic rushing past on the street. This changed everything. With every passing moment he felt himself being dragged deeper into a bottomless pit. Deeper and deeper. Bretti tried to wet his lips, but his mouth was dry, cottony. The coffee made his mouth taste sour.
He needed another cigarette, but his hands shook so badly he could barely use his lighter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Thursday, 2:21 p.m.
Aurora, Illinois
Standing at a pay phone outside a gas station near the hospital, Craig flipped open his notebook and found a telephone number he never thought he’d have occasion to use.
His stomach knotted. He couldn’t believe he was about to make this call. He kept telling himself it was a bad idea, that he was going against numerous regulations about contacting foreign nationals without prior approval.
But it also might give him answers no one else wanted to talk about.
Thinking of how Goldfarb had been left for dead, how a would-be assassin had come right into the hospital to kill the already-dying Dumenco, and how the Ukrainian continued to avoid answering his questions, Craig decided to make the call-and damn the consequences.
He’d report the contact to the Office of Professional Responsibility and the Oakland security office as soon as he was done. But this was his case now, and he had to pursue it in the manner he deemed best. Besides, it wasn’t as if this was the first time he’d done anything June Atwood could scold him for.
He opened the dangling phone book, flipping pages until he found the International Access Code for the Russian Republic.
He had a federal credit card for official calls, but decided in this case it would be better if he paid for it out of his own pocket. Despite the inconvenience, he had bought a handful of prepaid phone cards inside the gas station. He had been on many criminal cases, but this was the deepest Counter Intelligence stuff he had ever tried.
Using the phone cards, Craig punched in the access code and dialed the international number he had written down. He didn’t bother to calculate the time difference, because he had to call now. Several lives depended on the in
formation he needed.
If General Gregori Ursov was there, he was there.
When the phone rang and was answered by someone in garrulous Russian, Craig spoke clearly and patiently. “English please.”
The person on the line said something and ran off. Craig wasn’t sure if the person had hung up. The Russian Strategic Rocket Forces probably didn’t get many calls from non-Russians.
Finally another voice came on the line, heavily accented. “I speak English. Who is this?”
“I must talk to General Ursov,” he said slowly and clearly.
The voice sounded surprised. “Ursov?” He spoke a burst in Russian, yelling at someone behind him, then came back. “No General Ursov here. No Ursov.”
Craig knew he had dialed the right number, knew this was a dodging tactic. “Tell General Ursov this is his friend from the United States. This is Special Agent Kreident.”
“No Ursov here,” the voice said again.
“Tell him it’s Craig Kreident,” he insisted. “I have an important matter to discuss with him. He owes me his life-he can at least talk to me on the phone.”
Another mutter, then the line went silent again except for occasional clicks like gnawing rodents on the wires. He was confident the conversation would be recorded, especially now. He hoped the eavesdroppers enjoyed the change in the pattern of their day.
In the service station next to the pay phone, mechanics used a power wrench to lock on hubcap bolts with such force that no stranded motorist would ever be able to get them free. A dropped wrench clanged on the cement garage floor, while another mechanic drove a blatting car without a muffler around back.
Craig looked at his stack of phone cards, ready to use another one as soon as his time ran out. After all this, he couldn’t risk being cut off by a telephone operator.
Finally the Russian general’s gruff voice came on the line, blustering loudly. “Agent Kreident! This is most unexpected.”
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