Lethal Exposure (7 page)

Bretti knew it would be a mistake to think of this man as his friend.

“No. No tea.” Bretti shifted in his chair, setting the heavy suitcase of p-bars on the floor beside him. He plugged an extension cord from the wall to the suitcase, recharging the lithium batteries. “Things have changed at the Lab. I need to get out of here today like we planned, but I won’t have as much of the . . . uh, product as I had promised. I have a more efficient trap collecting particles of antimatter right now. In less than a week—after the excitement cools down—it’ll have a full supply. When I return, I can make good on the final delivery.”

Chandrawalia’s facial expression remained frozen in a perpetual smile. “I am sorry to hear that. Will this affect our agreement, Dr. Bretti?”

“
Mr
. Bretti. Call me mister.” Bretti screwed up his face. The man knew damned well he was still a grad student. “I’ve got some antimatter, enough for your people to start their medical isotope project. And that’s the important thing. Now get me out of here.”

“We’ve inspected your holding apparatus,” said Chandrawalia smoothly. “Your device is making our security people nervous. They think it could be some sort of sophisticated bomb.”

“Just don’t x-ray the container. That would increase the antiproton diffusion rate out of the magnetic bottle.” To Chandrawalia’s blank stare, Bretti growled, “You’ll make it
leak
faster. It’s tough enough keeping the p-bars contained in this type of trap without agitating them.”

Did they really think he was stupid enough to bring a bomb into this place? And what on earth for? Of course, enough antimatter particles could be as deadly as a bomb—as the vaporized substation proved—but this Penning trap didn’t hold nearly enough p-bars to cause any damage. Later in the week, when he returned for the crystal-lattice trap, then he would have enough antimatter to make someone worry.

“I see.” Chandrawalia reached into a drawer, withdrew a folder and slid it across the polished desktop. “Here are tickets for today’s flight to New Delhi. Your passport is in there as well, stamped with our visa. You leave at five P.M. We are putting your storage device in a diplomatic pouch—a container that can be hooked up to the plane’s electrical system during the trip to India. It will not be inspected by your customs officials.”

Bretti scooped up the ticket. “You’ve got me flying out on the Concord. Cool.” The Indians really wanted those p-bars. Their stake in major new medical research and opening the process to lucrative markets supposedly depended on it.

“The program in Bangalore is anxiously waiting for your material. One of my associates will meet you there.” Chandrawalia held up a finger and frowned for the first time in the conversation. The expression sent a chill through Bretti. “Please remember the need for discretion, Mr. Bretti. This, ah,
project
is hardly well publicized, or even endorsed by my government. Few people in this embassy are aware of what we are doing. If it proves to be a success,” he shrugged, “then things may change and everyone will want to take credit. But for now, the fewer people who know about this, the better.”

“That’s the tack I’ve been taking,” said Bretti sourly. The less said the better, and the less chance any sort of investigation would finger him. He wasn’t even supposed to be in Illinois this week.

“Good.” Chandrawalia stood, clearly ending the meeting. Placing his hands on the desk, he bowed slightly. “Please instruct my people as to the care and operation of your storage device. We will then escort you to O’Hare and past customs as my official guest to our country.”

“What about my car?” Things were moving too fast. He didn’t even have a suitcase with him, no clothes, not even a toothbrush. But if Chandrawalia came through with the money they had promised, Bretti could buy all he wanted when he got to India.

“It will remain in our garage until you return.”

For the first time since things had taken a nose-dive at the substation, Bretti actually felt calm and somewhat hopeful again. He allowed a small smile on his face as he shook hands with Chandrawalia. He just might pull this off after all. . . .

But the official’s grip was cold and his expression hard. “Do not forget that your device will be in the passenger hold. If anything goes wrong, both you and your plane will meet the same fate. Have a nice flight . . . and enjoy India.”

CHAPTER 9

Tuesday, 3:49 PM

Fermilab

The dogs strained on their leashes, intent on their job—professionals, just like everything else the FBI used. But Special Agent Schultz didn’t expect them to find anything. He had already been over the various substations, searching for some hint as to the cause of the massive explosion that had vaporized one of the blockhouses.

The handler from the county sheriff followed the two dogs to the next substation. They barked and sniffed, making a bee-line toward the heavy metal door. Schultz had a key to each of the padlocks, and this one looked just as secure as the others had. It would probably be a dud, too.

He and his team had been on the scene for two days already, but still had found no clues. His evidence technicians and crime-scene chemists had narrowed the list of possibilities until nothing remained.

Normal bombs left telltale trace compounds, chemical residue, nitrates, byproducts—but the fused crater showed nothing at all. The explosion had been clean, with intense heat, and of extremely short duration; electrical power from miles around had been disrupted. At first, the investigators had detected a small increase in the background radiation, but the crater was much too small and shallow for even a miniature atomic weapon. Schultz could not begin to imagine what could cause such destruction.

The dogs scratched against the metal door of the blockhouse, anxious and whimpering. “Something’s got them excited,” the handler said.

Schultz came forward, sorting through a string of keys the Fermilab Director’s Office had provided him. “One of the techs probably left a box of takeout chicken inside.”

He didn’t like being in charge of such a high-profile investigation with nothing to show for it. FBI headquarters didn’t look at that too kindly. The other two California agents were working on their own, looking into the radiation exposure case, but they didn’t have any assistance, no backup, no facilities at their disposal. Given those stumbling blocks, he certainly didn’t expect them to uncover anything he and his people had missed.

He twisted a key in the padlock, then pulled the heavy door open. The two dogs impatiently pushed their way into the small substation. One even let out a yip, and Schultz frowned at their poor training. The sheriff’s dogs should behave better than that.

But then he noticed that the lights were on. The last person in here must have left everything on, everything running. The walls were covered with diagnostics racks, oscilloscopes, computers, TV monitors, like props from an old TV show. One of the chairs had tipped over, and notepads and debris had fallen from the shelves.

Sprawled on the floor lay a man in a pool of blood.

Schultz froze, falling into his role as crime scene investigator. He recognized the dark suit, curly hair, pudgy physique. “It’s that other FBI agent,” he said, “Goldfarb.” He hurried forward, dropping to his knee as the handler tried to keep his dogs under control.

“Get out your phone,” Schultz snapped. “Call for emergency medical assistance. And get me the Chicago office. Code Red—an agent is down.”

In the Fox River Medical Center, Craig found a bank of pay phones and tried Goldfarb’s cell phone again. He had already been scolded twice by the nurses that he wasn’t allowed to use his own cell phone inside the hospital itself, because it might interfere with pacemakers or medical diagnostics, not that he got good reception inside the heavily shielded building anyway.

Along the same lines, with Goldfarb snooping around the accelerator, the tunnels and metal reinforcements might also mess up his signal. He hung up the phone and returned to Dumenco’s room.

Light spilled through a single window, where three more baskets of flowers had joined the potted plant on the sill—one from Trish, another from Dr. Piter’s division, and the third from the Fermilab Director’s office. Dumenco’s friends were indeed limited.

Wearing a white lab coat and tennis shoes, Trish studied a history of radiation accidents she had gotten from her contacts at the PR-Cubed. The medical organization had been happy to provide all the details they could find. Some members of the board of directors wanted to make a news event out of Dumenco’s radiation exposure, but Trish had so far held her ground. She flipped through the faxed summary documents with her back to Craig.

Stretched out on his bed and propped up on pillows, the old scientist frowned at his sheaf of papers. Craig had looked at some of the less technical articles, but they were more indecipherable than the nuclear data sheets he had perused during his case at the Nevada Test Site. At least in Nevada, accounting procedures and engineering diagrams helped explain the technical language; here, Craig found so many references to
annihilation operators, production cross sections, nuclear resonances, scattering matrices
, and
Feynman diagrams
that he was totally lost.

He prided himself on being one of the more technical special agents, but when thrown in the middle of cutting-edge high-energy physics, he was at a loss. He’d have to rely on Dumenco to help him out on this one.

But the Ukrainian was torn between his goals of solving his murder and unraveling his last great physics problem.

When his cell phone in his jacket pocket rang, Craig flipped it open. “Hello—Ben, is that you?”

“Craig, this is Paige.” She hesitated. “Where are you?”

“At the hospital.” He could hear the stress in her voice. “What’s wrong?”

“I just got a call from the Director’s office. Ben Goldfarb’s been shot. He’s being rushed to the hospital right now—”

Craig stood, knocking his chair backward. “What happened? Is he all right?” Trish turned and looked up sharply. Dumenco put down his papers on the bed and raised an eyebrow.

“He was found by the FBI team in one of the beam-sampling substations. He’s alive—that’s all I know. Meet them at the emergency room. Sorry I can’t tell you more.”

Trish took a step toward Craig, questioning, but he flipped the phone shut and headed for the door. “Dr. Dumenco, your suspicions are exactly right—there is something going on down at the accelerator.”

For once in his career, Craig’s FBI badge did not magically open doors for him. The emergency room nurse stood her ground, refusing to give Craig access to his partner, and his friend.

“We’ll update you as soon as we can, Agent Kreident,” she said. “Right now, the doctors are more concerned with saving his life than answering your questions.”

A dozen people sat miserably in waiting-room chairs against the wall. They watched him take on the petite, redheaded nurse, but even an FBI agent could not make her budge. An old Zenith TV on a platform attached to the ceiling displayed a local talk show host interviewing a member of the PR-Cubed, who had come to Chicago for their annual conference. Anyone spouting the hazards of radiation—especially a respected doctor—made for good news coverage. Craig wondered if the PR-Cubed spokesman would be talking about Dumenco’s “tragic accident.”

Craig lowered his voice and stepped closer to the nurse. “We’re in the middle of a murder investigation, and I need to be present in case my partner says anything, especially . . . especially if he doesn’t make it. He might provide the only break we have.”

The nurse remained unmoved. “Mr. Kreident, from the looks of your partner, I wouldn’t count on him saying anything in there. It’s a miracle he’s even still alive. So please, leave him alone—the doctors need all the help they can get, but not from someone like you.”

Two orderlies pushed past Craig into the emergency room. Maybe he could get Trish to help him out. Or maybe he should just wait and trust the medical professionals. Like everyone else in the room.

Craig turned and, spotting the bank of pay phones against the wall, he dug out his contact list. He had a lot of people to contact, but first he’d make the hardest phone call of all—to Goldfarb’s wife Julene and their girls.

The voice of June Atwood, Craig’s Supervisory Special Agent, exploded over the phone as if she wanted to reach across the fifteen hundred miles and grab him by the collar.

“Craig, I can’t begin to tell you how many Bureau regulations and policies you’ve broken by starting this investigation on your own time! We can’t have our agents working freelance, putting themselves—and others, dammit—in danger, on their free time! There’s already an FBI team at Fermilab! Why couldn’t you just leave it to them?”

“Because they were investigating the wrong crime, June—”

“That’s not the impression I got from Agent Schultz. This leaks out, and the press will have a field day.”

Craig kept his mouth clamped, his emotions boiling inside. June remained quiet for a moment, as if she were going through several options in her head. Craig huddled closer to the pay phone against the activity around him—people crying while waiting for loved ones, nurses and doctors rushing to their next patient. An orderly wheeled an old man in a green surgical gown, IV lines dangling from plastic bags on a metal rack.

June’s voice came back, this time calm. “Okay, now the damage is done, but we’ve got to get on top of this, and right now. You are there to investigate the lethal radiation exposure of Mr. Dumenco, under my authorization. You will cooperate in every way possible with Agent Schultz and the Chicago team already in place. With your technical background, however, you may well be the best person to head up this investigation. I’ll have our SAC call their SAC, see what I can do.”

“Agent Schultz hasn’t been having much luck so far,” Craig said. “He may want to leave the case.”

“You let me decide that!” June replied, and Craig held the phone away from his ear. She fell silent for a moment, then became businesslike again. “Now, is there anything else you need while we’re on the phone?”

“I’ve already spoken to Goldfarb’s wife Julene,” said Craig. “She and the girls are booked on the next flight to Chicago. They’re on their way to the airport now, Code Red. But I think it would be good to have Randall Jackson accompany her out here.”

“Done,” said June, her voice still simmering with anger. “You find the sleazeball who shot Ben. You’ll pay the bar bill later, when you get back to Oakland.”