Lethal Exposure (12 page)

Bretti quickly stifled his uneasiness. He had brought only a simple Penning trap, a normal, low-density magnetic bottle. Why did they keep harping on the crystal-lattice trap? It was a fairly standard design, one pioneered by stuffy old Nels Piter—but, boy, did Piter crow about his accomplishment again and again, until the Nobel committee had noticed him this year. But then, Bretti knew people like Piter rarely produced more than one important thing in their lives . . . if that.

Of course, if Bretti himself had to stay on the run all his life, lying low, he wouldn’t have an opportunity to do much better.

He quickly ran a hand through his dark goatee. “First off, I’ll need a 110-volt line to take over from the batteries.” Bretti opened the lid of the shipping container and rummaged through the packing material to expose the cylindrical device. A blue-turbaned man brought over an extension cord, and Bretti connected the trap. Dr. Punjab’s staff stood in a semicircle around him, some quietly scribbling in black lab notebooks.

Bretti stepped back. Dr. Punjab leaned forward to inspect the device and frowned. “This is not a crystal-lattice trap!” He looked up, scowling. “Do you take me for a fool? This magnetic bottle cannot hold nearly enough antimatter for what we need!”

Baffled, Bretti shrugged. “What difference does it make? I’ve got some p-bars, and that’s what you want. Enough for you to get started. This trap holds about ten to the fifth particles—”

Dr. Punjab bellowed, “We need
trillions
of times more than that! This is a joke! You bring us a
picogram
when we need milligrams. What are you trying to do, Dr. Bretti? Where is the rest of the antimatter you promised?” He breathed heavily through his flared nostrils. Punjab’s staff murmured angrily behind him.

“Calm down, would you?” Bretti glanced around, and the men seemed to stepped closer to him, closing in, threatening. The armed guards on the catwalk above paused and stared down at him. “Look, we had an explosion. An accident happened at the Tevatron. The beam fluctuated and my full crystal-lattice trap dumped its entire load of p-bars. This magnetic bottle holds the most antimatter I could divert from an unenhanced beam in a single day. I had to get out of there, fast!”

“We paid you in advance, Dr. Bretti. We expect you to meet your obligations.”

Bretti nervously wet his lips. “You gave me a downpayment, and I’m giving you a downpayment. I have until next month to deliver the p-bars, per our agreement. I had to come to India . . . early. Things happened back at Chicago, and since I had these particles in storage, I thought I could get a jump on things and deliver some of them now, allow you to start your experiments with a little amount, just as you wanted.”

“We have no time for this nonsense.” Punjab angrily dismissed him with a wave. “Go home, Dr. Bretti. I will ask Mr. Chandrawalia to use another source to get our antimatter, and you can forfeit the rest of your payment.”

Bretti’s heart pounded with panic. So much for remaining here, for requesting asylum, for going to ground in Bangalore. If he even mentioned his crime, about being on the run, Punjab would probably truss him up and deliver him directly to the authorities.

“No, wait! I can do it. Really, I can. I already have another working crystal-lattice trap installed in one of the substations. The Tevatron is running almost non-stop now, and with Dumenco’s beam enhancements I can get you a milligram of p-bars in a few days.” He looked wildly from side to side, seeking support from anyone on Dr. Punjab’s staff. They all looked at him skeptically.

He continued to jabber. “Look, I’ve gone through a dry-run this time. The production cross-section has increased and I’ve diverted antimatter from the enhanced beam. I proved I can safely transport p-bars in a diplomatic pouch. It’ll be easy to bring you the rest of them. I can be back next week. Two at the most.”

Dr. Punjab stared at him, tight-lipped, considering. Bretti knew he was over a barrel. A squat technician stepped over to Punjab and whispered rapidly in a foreign language. Surprised, Punjab asked a question in the same language. The squat man strode to a telephone by the wall, dialed a number, and waited for a moment before speaking.

Bretti shifted his weight from foot to foot during the exchange, antsy, but he forced himself to keep quiet. Inside, he felt furious with Dumenco. The old scientist was responsible for getting Bretti into this whole mess by botching his work, somehow causing the beam-dump accident that resulted in the power shutdown, and causing the failure of the antimatter-loaded crystal-lattice trap.

Finally, the technician got off the telephone and reported back. Dr. Punjab nodded stiffly, then turned to Bretti. He seemed to force the words, as if having great difficulty keeping his temper in check.

“It is . . . unfortunate that you did not tell us from the beginning that you did not bring all the antimatter. But you are right: you have shown that it is possible to divert the p-bars and transport them here. Now, you will return to Chicago immediately and bring us back what you have promised.”

He motioned with his head and two younger staff members stepped forward. “My colleagues will escort you back to the airport. The Concord leaves New Delhi in six hours.” He pressed his lips together and stared at Bretti for a moment. “Do not fail us again. Mr. Chandrawalia will go to great lengths to ensure that the money he has already paid you is not wasted. He will meet with you again to make sure you understand.”

Bretti swallowed, knowing that he had just been, reluctantly, given a second chance. He tried to look grateful. “I’ll be back in a week. I promise.”

But as he turned to go, he didn’t know what he dreaded more—returning to Chicago and the manhunt arrayed for him . . . or coming back here and being stuck for the rest of his life.

CHAPTER 16

Wednesday, 12:07 P.M.

Fox River Medical Center

After driving at breakneck speed from the Fermilab Public Affairs Office, Paige hurried down the corridor in the medical center. Her dress shoes clicked along the much-scuffed linoleum floor. She dodged nurses and orderlies with carts, family members taking older relatives out in their wheel chairs for a stroll. No one seemed particularly concerned to see a young woman dashing down the hall, scanning the room numbers. In the hospital it happened all the time.

“I’m spending altogether too much time in this place,” she muttered.

Finally, she found the examining room where Craig Kreident sat looking gray and shaken. Even from here she could smell the reek of chlorine beach.

Without noticing her, he tried to regain his self-composure by retying his tie. Craig coughed again, wiped his reddened eyes, then looked down at his uncooperative fingers. He flexed them and tried once more to knot the necktie.

“I can help with that,” Paige said. She was glad to see how his face lit up when he saw her. She stepped behind him, put both hands over his shoulders and pressed close as she untied his abortive attempt at a knot.

Adjusting the ends, she flipped the necktie around until she had knotted it professionally. It had been a long time since she’d fixed a man’s necktie. It wasn’t normally a skill young women needed to learn, especially in these days of increasingly casual attire. But Paige had learned in order to help her father when he had grown weak from the cancer that sapped his strength.

Working in California and Nevada for the nuclear weapons industry, Gordon Mitchell had preferred to wear a bolo tie, if any at all, but occasional design reviews or government inspections required extra formality. Paige had assisted him on those mornings when he fretted over his wardrobe so much he didn’t even take time to gulp his usual coffee and orange juice.

Craig looked as though he still felt the terrible effects of his bout with home-made chlorine gas. She felt a pang of sympathy as she finished straightening his tie. Craig sat up and gave her a grateful look as he brushed down his white shirt front. He coughed, still reluctant to draw a deep breath in damaged lungs. He reached for his suit jacket like a knight replacing a battered set of armor after losing a jousting tournament.

“I can’t imagine you went through all this just to become a blonde,” Paige said with an impish grin as she ruffled her fingers through his chestnut hair. “There are easier ways to bleach your hair.”

He looked up at her, as if trying to regain his sense of humor. “And what would
you
know about bleaching, ma’am?”

Paige laughed and stepped back, crossing her arms over her denim blouse. Craig attempted to laugh along with her, but broke into another coughing fit. Sitting down hard, he picked up a blue plastic pitcher on the table and poured himself a cup of water. He swallowed two long gulps and then spat into the sink. “My mouth tastes awful.”

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

He looked in the mirror, sticking it 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 17

Wednesday, 7:48 PM

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, 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, 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 nice.”

“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 on 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-stem 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. Someone
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.”

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.”