Craig Kreident #1: Virtual Destruction (19 page)

She reassembled the paper and folded it, automatically tucking it under her arm.
 
Diana smoothed her skirt, bumping the chair backward.
 
Her deep blue suit with white hose would stand out as too formal at the Livermore Lab, but here at breakfast among the high-tech entrepreneurs on the outskirts of Silicon Valley, she was just another hard-charging visitor to the Bay Area.
 
She gulped her coffee, ignored most of her danish, and left a tip that was more than twice the cost of her breakfast.
 
She clicked out of the hotel restaurant.

Classical music played in the background of the hotel lobby, competing with the low tone of TV news from the lounge.
 
A uniformed doorman stood in a scarlet jacket just outside the wide glass entry, waiting to open the door for guests.
 
Diana fished in her purse for the rental car keys, but froze when she heard a reference to the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory on CNN.

She was unable to make out what the talking head on the news program was saying.
 
She left the doorman holding the door as she turned back to approach the television set.
 
When Lawrence Livermore got mentioned on the news it was usually some kind of scandal, which made her work at DOE even more difficult.
 
Better to find out as soon as possible.

As she drew near, hearing more words than she wanted to, all the little details seemed to stand out in bright spotlights for her.
 
Her steps came slower and slower.
 
She gripped the newspaper under her arm, making the paper crackle.
 
Her right hand clutched her purse, the rental car keys pressing a sharp red line into her palm.

“. . . to repeat, unconfirmed reports that controversial scientist Hal Michaelson, recently appointed director of the President’s new International Verification Initiative, was found dead early this morning from unknown causes.
 
Officials at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, the nuclear design facility located forty miles east of San Francisco, have refused to make a statement, prompting rumors of politics and foul play.
 
Also in the news this half hour—”

 
Diana stopped in the lobby, unable to move, afraid she might lose her balance.
 
She stared at the TV screen, unable to fully comprehend what the news anchor had said.
 
Pure exhaustion flowed through her, starting at the top of her head and pooling at her feet.

She wavered and held out a hand to support herself against a planter filled with plastic flowers.
 
The car keys slipped from her hand and jangled to the carpet.
 
A moment later the newspaper fell as well, fluttering into strewn sections.

Diana didn’t know how long she stood in the lobby, her eyes and mind focused on events not in the present.
 
Highlights from the past three years played over and over in her head, with Hal Michaelson cast in the starring role.

Diana felt pressure on her elbow, and she turned to see a young red-haired woman standing beside her, dressed in the ubiquitous uniform of the Sheraton staff.
 
“Ma’am, can I help you?
 
Are you all right?”

It took Diana a moment to recall where she was.
 
“No, thank you.
 
I’m fine.”

The woman bent and picked up Diana’s newspaper and held out the car keys.
 
“Are you sure?
 
Is anything the matter?”

“No.”
 
Diana shook her head and bit her lip, trying but unable to clamp down her customary ice mask.
 
She couldn’t stop the tears.
 
“Everything is fine.
 
Fine.”

CHAPTER 20

Thursday

Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory

Livermore, California

Off Vasco Road the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory spread out before him, a square mile of office buildings, laboratories, trailer complexes, and gigantic experimental facilities, enclosed within a chain-link fence topped by barbed wire.

Although he had been an FBI agent for the past six years, Craig Kreident still felt a tension at the bottom of his stomach.

He switched off the cassette player in his car as he drove up to the triangular white building that housed the Lab’s badge office, just outside the guard kiosk and the fence.
 
He felt as if he stood on the fringe of a different world.
 
Here, people would look at Craig’s FBI badge with respect, seeing a colleague doing his job.

The FBI had always been aware of COMSEC, communications security, and the all-too-real possibility of espionage.
 
But these “Livermorons” routinely dealt with classified material.
 
Even after the Cold War, Third World countries still drooled over U.S. national security information, since they had none of the large budgets, computer capabilities, or sophisticated manufacturing techniques to create the latest weapons of war.

Inside the badge office, Craig waited at the long white counter behind two suited consultants and a woman in a Navy uniform.
 
Up front a man and a twentysomething businesswoman argued loudly with a stoic white-haired woman behind the counter; three others, obviously part of the same group, stood like guard dogs beside an assortment of gleaming cameras, folded silver tripods,
 
leather cases bearing the call letters of a local TV station, and videotapes in black plastic boxes.

Sliding into an air of practiced patience, Craig took his place in line.
 
Out of habit he straightened his tie and brushed the front of his dark suit, then folded his hands behind his back.
 
He kept his smile well hidden behind a blank FBI expression as he caught snippets of the heated battle between the reporters and the woman at the counter.

Before Craig could hear details about the squabble, he felt a touch at his elbow.
 
“Excuse me, are you Mr. Kreident?” a woman’s voice asked.

FBI training kicked in as he turned and saw the deepest blue eyes he’d ever seen.
 
The young lady was tall, at least five ten, with hair the color of a sun-washed beach.
 
She had a cheery but no-nonsense smile, someone who considered herself a colleague and equal until proven otherwise.
 
He tried to guess her age—twenty-five?
 
He made the assessment in an instant, before she held out a hand.

“I’m Paige Mitchell from the Protocol Office.
 
I’ll be your security escort and run interference if you hit any bureaucratic snafu.”

Craig blinked and held out his hand to shake hers briskly.
 
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Mitchell.”
 
Then he pulled a dark brown wallet from his coat pocket, flipped it open, and handed it to her.
 

She held the wallet between her fingers and took the time to inspect the ID.
 
Unlike most people Craig had met, Paige seemed serious about studying the laminated card.
 
“Good enough,” she said, handing it back to him.

He recalled June Atwood promising to find him a cute liaison.
 
His boss had certainly outdone herself this time!
 
He let loose only a fraction of the smile his lips wanted to make.
 
“I hope I don’t cause you too many problems.”

She turned, distracted as the man at the counter thrust his hands up in the air and stomped over to the video equipment.
 
The twentysomething woman next to him continued to argue in a frostbitten voice as the badge office employee listened patiently but without any real interest.

Paige nodded to a room off to the side.
 
“It’s been a zoo here ever since news of Dr. Michaelson’s death was leaked.
 
Every TV crew wants to crawl inside to get shots of the virtual reality chamber, but we don’t allow news cameras on site.
 
It’s going to get worse over the next few hours.”

She sighed, tossed her hair back, and then smiled at him.
 
“But at least we’ve got
your
paperwork all set.
 
Follow me, Mr. Kreident.
 
Once you get badged, I’ll take you out to T Program, show you around, answer whatever questions I can.”

Paige nodded to a small reception room off to the side.
 
“Step over here.
 
We need to set you up with a temporary photo badge and a dosimeter.”

“A dosimeter?
 
Do I need to worry about radiation?” Craig said, trying not to sound alarmed.

“We all wear one.”
 
Paige tapped her own green photo badge to indicate a small plastic case behind it.
 
I doubt you’ll be going into any laboratory areas where radioactive materials are actually present.”

“I was just curious, ma’am,” Craig said briskly.

Paige looked at him for nearly a full second.
 
“Mr. Kreident, we’re pretty informal around here.
 
We’ll get along a lot better right from the start if you don’t call me ma’am and if you don’t call me Miz.
 
How about calling me Paige?”

Craig swallowed an uncomfortable expression and, though it went against his personality to do so, he felt obligated to make the same offer.
 
“Then I suppose you’d better call me Craig.
 
Just to keep things even.”

“Kay-O.”
 
Paige shuffled through green and yellow forms in a folder tucked against her right elbow.
 
She pulled out several for him to sign before handing him a green laminated badge that bore his full name, the block letters FBI, and a date exactly 30 days in the future displayed prominently on the front.

Then she steered him to one of three bulky devices that looked like government-designed bathroom scales with a digital console and black foam-wrapped handles that extended to the floor.

“Go ahead and get on,” said Paige.
 
“When it asks, punch in a four-digit personal identification number.
 
Whatever you want.
 
That’ll be your secret code.”
 
She smiled in a way that made him wonder how serious she was.
 
He had the faint impression she was pulling his leg, but he maintained his professional cool.”

Craig slid the laminated badge into the reader; the words WELCOME TO LAWRENCE LIVERMORE winked across the tiny screen in sharp LCD letters.

After he had entered his PIN, Paige said, “You’ll need to remember that number to get inside our Restricted Areas and Exclusion Areas.
 
You’ll enter through a CAIN booth that has a scale embedded in the floor.
 
If your weight is five percent different from what you’ve just been weighed at, the computer will deny your access.
 
So don’t go on a binge with all the fine Livermore cuisine during your assignment here.”
 
She laughed at his mystified expression.
 
“Just a joke—we’re not known for our overabundance of good restaurants in this town.”

“Ah.”
 
He forced a smile.
 
“Does CAIN stand for something?”

“Controlled Access by Individual Numbers.
 
It’s like a TV/badge-reading booth.”

“Sounds like GET SMART,” Craig said.

“That’s the impression the general public has of ‘top secret government research labs.’
 
I think you’ll find we’re a lot like any other business park or campus.”
 
She handed him a copy of his forms, which he filed in his briefcase.

Craig kept focused on the matter at hand.
 
“Won’t there be any guards at these booths?” he asked.

“Normally they’re just at the main gate and patrolling the site.
 
Budget cutbacks.
 
It’s cheaper to have an automatic system than it is to keep guards in every building.
 
Oh, and you should know that we don’t call them guards—they’re Protective Service Officers.
 
PSOs.”

Craig looked into her blue, blue eyes.
 
“PSOs.
 
I’ll remember that . . . Paige.”

“Very good!”
 
She smiled.
 
“And we don’t have secretaries, either.
 
They’re all Administrative Assistants.”

He rolled his eyes, just barely.
 
“I see.
 
I suppose you don’t have janitors either?”

“Custodians.”

“Gardeners?”

“Botanical resource specialists.”

His eyes widened, but she laughed.
 
“Just kidding.
 
Come on, now that you’re badged I can take you over to T Program.”

Craig slid a small notebook out of his suit pocket and clicked a pen.
 
“Could you tell me what the ‘T’ stands for?”