Craig Kreident #1: Virtual Destruction (26 page)

Aragon glanced at the official FBI card and looked worried.
 
“This seems to be a rather in-depth investigation for a heart attack victim.”

“Where did you hear he died from a heart attack?” Craig asked.

Aragon blinked his dark, doelike eyes.
 
“From the news.
 
Was it something else?”

“We’d rather not say at the moment,” Craig said.
 
“I’ll be back in touch if I need anything else.”

Paige stood by his side, brushing down her bright red skirt.
 
“Thank you for your time—we can find our own way out.”

Craig shut the door behind them and motioned for Paige not to speak until they were inside her MG.
 
Once they hummed along with the sound of a lawnmower engine, Paige blurted, “
He's
got HF burns, too?
 
Is that some coincidence or what?”

Craig tapped a finger on the dashboard, thinking out loud as the wind whipped past his ears, stirring the gray-streaked hair at his temples.
 
“Yeah, it’s some coincidence.
 
As he said, some places in his directorate stockpile the stuff.”

Craig glanced at Paige, and she gave him a worried look.
 
Strands of blond hair escaped from her French braid and flew wildly in the wind.
 
“I can track down the doctor Aragon saw through our Benefits office.
 
Would that help?”

Craig nodded.
 
“We’ll have to subpoena the medical records.
 
Even the FBI can’t just walk in and get whatever files we want.
 
First, though, when can we get that CAIN access list?”

Paige turned toward the Lab site and accelerated down East Avenue.
 
“I’ll check on it again—this is the government, so you can count on efficiency!”
 
She laughed.
 
“Safeguards and Security promised to have it for me by this afternoon.”

#

Inside the T Program trailer complex again, Craig learned that the FBI forensics team had returned to the VR chamber, led by his backup agents Goldfarb and Jackson.

Since he and Paige had left an hour before, the T Program offices had become a lunatic asylum of activity.
 
Most of the young workers wore t-shirts and bluejeans, clustered in groups of two or three at computer workstations.
 
Inside the white-walled VR chamber he spotted two people in suits—FBI agents, of course—but they worked while sidestepping Coke-drinking, Dorito-munching techs hammering away at terminals, enhancing diagnostics in the chamber walls.

“What the hell is going on here?” Craig demanded.
 
He spotted a flash of red hair and a freckled face among the people tearing apart the VR chamber.
 
“Hey, Lesserec!”

The flushed computer scientist jittered out of the chamber slurping a can of soda.
 
He scowled when he saw Craig.
 
“I know what you’re going to say, Mr. FBI, but we’ve been granted leave to get back to work.
 
So don’t go jumping down my throat.
 
We’ve got serious time constraints here.”

Before Craig could express his disbelief, Lesserec pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jeans pocket and shoved it under Craig’s nose.
 
“Here, call this number and argue with her.
 
Don’t bug me about it.”

Craig snatched the paper from Lesserec.
 
The number was a direct line to his FBI supervisor, June Atwood.
 
He turned without saying a word and marched to the phone in Lesserec’s cubicle.
 
Punching in the digits he listened to two rings before June Atwood answered.

“This is Craig.
 
What in the living hell is going on down here?
 
Am I on an investigation, or did I just get invited to somebody’s Christmas party?”
 
He didn’t wait for her to reply.
 
“I’ve got a room full of computer nerds walking all over a crime scene.
 
No telling what they’re screwing up.”

June sounded nonplussed.
 
Her voice remained smooth and cool.
 
“Craig, calm down.”

“First I’m put on admin leave for the NanoWare case, and now this investigation is being royally botched.
 
Is somebody trying to make me look bad?”

“Craig, listen a minute.
 
Ben Goldfarb tried to get hold of you.
 
The forsenics team found no trace of HF in the chamber, or in the entire building for that matter.
 
Right after that I received a very belligerent call from the Director, insisting that we open up the VR lab or we would hear from the President himself.”

“What’s the Livermore Lab Director doing calling you?
 
Doesn’t anybody care about this investigation—”

“Not the Livermore director—
our
FBI Director back in Washington.
 
The White House, the Department of Energy, and the State Department are screaming at the Justice Department because we’re holding up the most important new project the President has in his Administration.
 
Our national prestige is on the line.”

Craig opened his mouth, but decided not to say anything.
 
He glanced around and saw Paige standing next to Lesserec; her arms were folded and she looked grim, but Lesserec grinned a goofy smile at him.
 
Craig growled and turned away.

“This is not kid’s stuff, Craig,” June continued.
 
“The President sees his International Verification Initiative as
the
defining program of the decade, the transition from the Cold War into a nuclear safe world—and, no doubt, his ticket to next year’s election.
 
It’s on par with the Manhattan Project, the Apollo program—”

“A man was murdered, June.”

“Your investigation can continue.”

“But they’ve already screwed up so much evidence—”

“The President does not want this demonstration delayed.
 
Is that clear?
 
The Nevada Test Site is already prepping a nuke from the stockpile for the actual demonstration, as well as mounting a high-explosives test for a trial run.
 
Meanwhile, you find out what you can.
 
Deal with it.
 
DOE and Livermore have given me their word they’ll cooperate as long as their scientists can have access to the VR chamber.”

Craig snorted.
 
“Just like they gave their word in the ‘50s that radiation from atomic blasts were harmless.”

June spoke slowly.
 
“Craig, you
do not
have a choice in this matter.
 
Do you understand?
 
Would you rather I turned the whole matter over to Goldfarb?
 
Think about what your answer is going to be, because if it’s anything other than yes, I will order your immediate dismissal.”

Craig listened to himself breathing.
 
“I understand,” he said, and hung up the phone.

Turning, he headed straight for the VR chamber to collar Goldfarb and Jackson.
 
Lesserec snagged his arm.
 
“Get the story straight, Mr. FBI?”

Craig squashed the urge to deck the freckle-faced hacker.
 
Instead he kept his voice level.
 
“Feel free to go about your business, Mr. Lesserec.”

Craig stepped into the VR chamber, fuming, and Paige followed him.
 
“Nice control, Craig.
 
Remind me to invite you next time I break up with a boyfriend.”

Goldfarb and Jackson stood as he entered the white room, wiping their hands.
 
“Hey, boss.
 
Results are in—no trace of HF anywhere in this building.
 
Clean as a whistle.”

Craig sighed.
 
“So where could the HF have come from?”

Paige answered before the other two agents could say anything.
 
“I checked that, remember?
 
Unfortunately, hydrofluoric acid is used in small quantities in plenty of our analytical labs.
 
Our Plutonium Facility, the glass-etching labs, and some of the fabrication facilities keep particularly large amounts.
 
Even on the outside, though, you can buy HF from a chemical supply company for about fifty dollars a liter—so anybody could have gotten some.”

Craig thought for a moment.
 
“Plutonium building—why does that sound familiar?”

“That Lesserec kid said they were installing sensors for this VR test there,” offered Goldfarb.

Craig nodded.
 
“And José Aragon took Michaelson to the plutonium building the day he died.
 
I wonder, did Aragon accidentally spill some acid on himself while dosing Michaelson?”

Paige brushed wisps of stray hair with her hands.
 
“But why would Aragon have done that?
 
Don’t you need a motive?”

Craig looked into her blue, blue eyes.
 
“That’s the next step.”

CHAPTER 26

Friday

Laser Implosion Fusion Facility

Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory

While Paige continued making phone calls to track down the computer records of CAIN booth use, Craig unfolded a Livermore site map tucked into the back of a battered LLNL telephone book.
 
He had to get away from this madhouse of T Program scientists to think.
 
With his fingernail, he traced his way over to the mothballed Laser Implosion Fusion Facility, which Hal Michaelson had spent so many years developing.

Outside, Craig shoved his sunglasses firmly against his nose.
 
He dropped his heavy leather briefcase into the battered basket of a clunky Lab bicycle and swung onto the worn black seat.
 
The rusty springs squeaked, and the kickstand drooped back toward the pavement as he began pedaling.
 
He hadn’t ridden a bicycle since his teenage years—luckily for him, rumor claimed it was impossible to forget how to ride a bike.

Craig had his doubts, though, as he wobbled along, steering the fat tires onto the bicycle path and picking up speed.
 
In his dark suit and flapping tie he must have presented a bizarre picture as he pedaled over to the towering research center, but none of the Lab employees paid attention.
 
It wasn’t so much his riding the bicycle that made him stand out—it was the formal attire.
 
He hadn’t seen more than one other suit during his entire time inside the chain-link fence.

The abandoned Laser Implosion Fusion Facility stood four stories tall, unmistakable in the middle of its own cleared parking area.
 
In its heyday it had been a bustling complex, but now it was an eyesore: a concrete cube 100 feet wide, braced by support pillars and blue-painted steel girders. According to the reports Craig had read, the structural supports extended another four stories beneath the ground to provide stability in the event of an earthquake.

The LIFF’s huge bay door looked like a football field of segmented metal strips rolled partway up.
 
He supposed that was the simplest way to allow air circulation inside the airplane-hangar-sized building.
 
Inside, orangish lights had little success against the shadows in contrast to the brilliant California sunshine.

Craig parked his bike against one of the carefully tended sumac trees that gave the Livermore Lab a campus-like appearance.
 
He stood with hands on his hips, catching his breath on the asphalt apron in front of the partially open hangar door.
 
Trailers and permanent office buildings were distributed around the LIFF building, leftovers from the height of the fusion power project, no longer necessary and now serving as temporary quarters for other programs.

He craned his neck and looked up at the mammoth-sized, useless building, and a phrase tickled through his mind.
 
Your tax dollars at work
.
 
The Laser Implosion Fusion Facility had been one of the largest boondoggles in the history of the Lawrence Livermore Lab.
 
Teams of top researchers had spent ten years of their lives developing the project, bringing it to the final phase—only to have it cancelled at the last possible moment.
 
LIFF was an embarrassment on the political level, a tragedy on the scientific level.

Craig pondered the correspondence files of Michaelson’s old memos relating to José Aragon, describing the long-standing feud between the two men.
 
The memos gave just an inkling of the force of Michaelson’s personality.
 
His words slashed like razor blades across the page, eviscerating Aragon, questioning his competence, his scientific understanding—even his parentage.
 
Even recent memos from Michaelson, such as the one curtly posting Gary Lesserec’s position, held the same biting edge.