Lethal Exposure (24 page)

Craig targeted both men, put his hand on his Sig-Sauer. He had to move, head off the Indian and keep him under control before anything could happen to the briefcase. The man in the blue turban slipped away from the traveler’s club, heading off down the promenade at a rapid pace. Craig had to stop this man first. They could arrest Bretti later.

Craig took a deep breath, ready to emerge from his hiding place.

Then Agent Jackson came charging down the concourse. With uncanny reactions, he spotted Bretti immediately and shouted. “Bretti! Nicholas Bretti, this is the FBI—stop and don’t move!”

Craig stepped out, “No, Jackson! Wait—”

But the man in the blue turban had heard the shout, the distraction, and bolted into the airport crowds.

CHAPTER 39

Friday, 3:13 P.M.

Fox River Medical Center

When Nels Piter walked hesitantly into Dumenco’s hospital room, Paige saw immediately that he carried a great burden. His hands were shaking, his skin was gray, as if all the blood had drained out of him. His eyes, usually confident, now seemed dead, averted from the world around him.

Paige froze, wondering what horrible shock he had received now, what grave news he had to bring—or perhaps he was just coming to see the dying Ukrainian for the last time. He had left with Craig hours earlier, and now the usually dapper scientist looked worn, tired, and grubby. She wondered what had happened to Craig, if he had succeeded in preventing a further disaster.

As he came into the room, the Belgian turned and closed the door behind him. He seemed desperate to avoid the ominous duty he had to perform. He avoided looking at either Paige or Dumenco, or the gathered family members.

Protective of the dying scientist, Trish LeCroix hovered near Dumenco’s wife and children. She didn’t speak to them, simply waited nearby, showing that she was on
their
team, a surrogate part of the family . . . and on the opposite side of the room from Paige and Nels Piter.

Piter took another step forward, then heaved a deep breath. Paige saw his shoulders shaking. She suddenly noticed that he clutched a scrap of yellow paper in his hand.

“Nels, what’s wrong?” she whispered. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No . . . not a ghost.” He glanced down at the paper in his hand, but he wouldn’t let her see what it said.

Dumenco’s daughters Alyx and Kathryn looked over at the other scientist, wondering who this man might be. Dumenco’s wife had eyes only for the man in the hospital bed. His son Peter continued to babble, tears on his cheeks, his words droning on, making no sense.

Dumenco himself, though, seemed aware of the newcomer. He shifted awkwardly, turning his blood-filled eyes to see the dapper European. “Dr. Piter,” he said, the name rasping through his lips.

“Dr. Dumenco,” Piter said, his voice leaden, “I just received this message . . . and I wanted to bring you the news before—” He cleared his throat. “It’s a telegram from Stockholm.” Piter had trouble making his words coherent.

“The Nobel Prize Committee?” Paige asked. Her heart began to pound.

The tendons in Piter’s neck stood out as he swallowed hard. “I . . . I am here . . . it is my duty and my honor to inform you—” He looked down at the paper in his hand, then just began to read. “His Majesty the King of Sweden and the Nobel Prize Committee are proud to announce your selection, Dr. Georg Dumenco, as the recipient of this year’s Nobel Prize in Physics. This singularly distinctive honor is to recognize your outstanding achievements in furthering the knowledge of mankind and the universe.” Piter looked up. His voice was barely audible. “My . . . congratulations, sir.”

With a valiant effort, Dumenco sat upright in his bed, astonished at the news. Paige could see it in his face. The dying, near-delirious man had understood. His face lit up with a surge of new strength.

Dumenco’s family looked down at him, then over at Piter in awe and amazement that somehow knifed through their fog of grief.

The Ukrainian reached out with the last of his strength to grasp Piter’s wrist. The dapper scientist stiffened, looking awkwardly down at the man in the bed and then helplessly over at Paige.

“There’s something else, Dr. Dumenco—”

Trish rushed over to the diagnostic apparatus, alarmed and concerned. “You must leave. He’s having a reaction.”

“No!” Piter stood his ground. Tears welled at his eyes. “Dr. Dumenco—it was an accident. I didn’t know you were in the beam-dump area. Your work was right all along, and I was simply trying to delay your experiment. Since we were both under consideration for the Nobel, a spectacular announcement like your p-bar success would surely have tipped the scales in your favor. This was my only chance—my last chance, because we both know I’m never going to do breakthrough work again.”

Paige blinked, feeling like a detached observer. She watched as Trish took a step backwards and shook her head slowly back and forth.

Nels Piter sighed, slumping his shoulders. “I was in the control room on Sunday night. It was unattended, everything running smoothly, automatic. I didn’t
plan
to do anything, but when I saw the opportunity, I changed a few minor parameters, caused the beam to fluctuate, which shut down the Tevatron. I just wanted to delay your experiment. That’s all. You know the beam crashes all the time—but I didn’t know you were in the dump area. I just . . . I just wanted to delay your experiment so the Nobel Prize committee would pick me this year.” Piter held up the yellow telegram and whispered, “I didn’t know that you were there. I didn’t know.”

Dumenco tried to sit up. He reached out a shaking arm and spoke with slurred words. “I . . . I knew it couldn’t have been Bretti. And I knew it wasn’t the other Soviet killer. I was . . . waiting for you to come and . . . tell me yourself. The results . . . the data . . . didn’t have any other explanation.”

Dumenco suddenly drew a deep, heaving gasp—and his body spasmed as if the effort and the unexpected news had caused further hemorrhaging inside him. The heart rate and other readouts went wild and he began to tremble. “We do . . . what we must—for science.”

Piter staggered away, clearly ashamed of what he had done. Trish elbowed her way forward to the bed. Her hands fluttering like small birds, she checked his breathing and adjusted the wires clipped to electrode patches on his skin. Then she shook her head. “He’s in the final stages now. There’s nothing we can do.”

Paige drew in a breath, stunned at what she thought she had heard. She looked at the Belgian scientist, astonished, dazed, angered. Dumenco’s family looked at Piter, uncomprehending, but angry. One of the daughters, the scarecrowish Kathryn, turned mouthed the words “Thank you for telling him . . . about the Nobel. It was his life’s work.”

Dumenco’s final decline lasted another seven minutes. Trish officially pronounced him dead at 2:16 P.M.

CHAPTER 40

Friday, 1:10 P.M.

O’Hare International Terminal

Taking out his weapon, Jackson advanced toward the grad student, keeping his eye on Bretti’s hands and the frayed satchel he carried. “Don’t move, Bretti. FBI!”

Bretti’s eyes widened as he recognized Jackson, realized what was happening. “Hey!” Drawing himself up, he sputtered, but no further words came out.

Craig Kreident came from out of nowhere, shouting. “Jackson, take him! I’m after the accomplice!” Then Craig dashed down the concourse.

As his partner ran off in pursuit, Jackson recovered quickly from his surprise and leveled his weapon. He kept a good ten feet away from Bretti. “I said don’t move! Put down your satchel—slowly. And turn around, hands behind your back, now!”

Bretti knelt and let the satchel slip from his grip. He slowly turned.

“Hands behind your back, thumbs out. You heard me!”

When Bretti sullenly obeyed, Jackson snapped out a pair of handcuffs that was tucked into his pants. “Put the back of your hands together!” He quickly holstered his weapon and strode forward to grab Bretti’s hands and cuff him—

Someone in the crowd finally saw what was happening and screamed.

At the noise, Bretti stiffened, then twisted away. He looked wild-eyed at Jackson, now holding a pair of handcuffs and standing without a weapon.

Jackson didn’t flinch as he grabbed for the satchel. At the same time he jerked out his weapon. He had the case—the antimatter container?—but he needed to cuff Bretti before the little twerp could create a scene, or worse, before he would do something rash with the unstable container.

Bretti struggled backward and looked around in a frenzy. He started yelling hoarsely, “Hey, he took my suitcase!”

Not looking behind him, Jackson pulled the satchel tightly against his side.

Bretti’s hoarse voice sounded as if it would break with tears, “You slimeball, give me back my case!” He looked from side to side, pleading his case, trying to gain attention. He took a step backwards.

A massive hand at his right elbow suddenly swung Jackson around. The hand dug into his arm. “Where the hell do you think you’re going with that man’s bag, mister?”

Jackson saw a red, fleshy face, a man as huge as an offensive lineman.

“Give the man his bag!” demanded the bystander.

Jackson quickly assessed the situation. He fanned around. “Back off, sir. FBI.”

The man seemed to see Jackson’s weapon for the first time. His eyes grew wide and he took a step backwards. “Hey, man, I didn’t realize—”

Bretti took another step back, trying to get away. “Look, he stole my bag!”

A murmur ran through the crowd. “Call security!”

“I’m a Federal agent.” Jackson pulled the satchel close to his left side. “FBI. This container holds hazardous—”

As Bretti tried to turn and run away, Jackson shifted the bag, but it opened up, only to spill hastily packed shirts, underwear, a swimsuit.

No antimatter at all.

Leaving Jackson to apprehend Bretti, Craig set out after the diplomat in the blue turban—the grad student’s Indian contact, the man who now held the entire container of antiprotons. Craig thought the man must be oblivious of the sheer danger he held.

He didn’t know that one slip, one jostle, one impact might disalign the containment lasers and allow the antimatter come in contact with the sodium chloride crystals, setting up a chain reaction of annihilation, releasing six kilotons of energy. The explosion would be enough to vaporize the O’Hare International airport.

The man continued to run briskly down the wide hall, elbowing people aside, pushing his way through the crowd until he could get to safety—a diplomatic receiving area? A consulate limousine outside? Craig didn’t know; he only cared about stopping the man, confiscating the briefcase, getting it safely back to Fermilab where the physicists could figure out how to get the p-bars back out of the crystal-lattice trap.

Craig ran to the slidewalk people-mover down the center of the long concourse, grabbed the black plastic rail, and vaulted over onto the sliding metal walkway. He was going the wrong way, but he fought his way past, finally drawing his handgun—but he knew he couldn’t possibly fire with so many bystanders around. People screamed.

Craig ran against the direction of movement. If the man was an official from the Indian consulate, he would flaunt his diplomatic immunity—in fact, Craig was surprised the man didn’t just stop running and smugly shrug off the FBI’s attempt at arrest. But with the antimatter parcel, he endangered the lives of every person at the entire airport.

Stop the threat. Craig would have been justified in using force to stop him, even deadly force—but if he fired, he would risk not only hitting other bystanders, but also a stray bullet might strike the case. . . .

A young couple with a wide baby stroller covered most of the width of the walkway, and Craig sidled past, paying more attention to the man with the blue turban than the people around him. He smacked his foot against the stroller wheel, nearly tripped, grabbed onto the moving railing. The baby began to cry.

“Excuse me,” he said breathlessly, “excuse me. FBI.”

The Indian diplomat turned down a side concourse, in front of a gate where a large international 777 disgorged a milling mass of hundreds of passengers, also Indians for the most part—a large group of Hindus, some wearing blue turbans. Craig craned his neck, trying to keep track of the man. “Stop him!” he shouted. “Somebody call airport security!”

The diplomat bumped against a man in a business suit, then barely missed caroming the antimatter case into a rolling luggage cart. Craig felt his chest turn to ice. The man pushed his way farther along, ducking and weaving, trying to disappear into the mass of similarly dressed people.

Finally getting to a clear spot on the sliding walkway, Craig jammed his handgun back into its holster and vaulted into the narrow median between the two oppositely moving slidewalks. “Excuse me! Out of the way please!” He tried to keep calm, but he couldn’t let the man get away.

He finally got moving in the right direction, then began to run faster.

The man in the blue turban flashed a glance over his shoulder, and Craig spotted him again by the flushed look on his face. The man also spotted Craig, and realizing he couldn’t just disappear into the crowd, broke into an outright run.

“Stop that man!” Craig shouted. “FBI!”

With a burst of speed, the man dashed past a Starbucks stand, and customers backed away, desperately trying to keep their cups from dumping hot coffee. He ducked to one side, hit an Emergency Exit door, which unleashed a piercing sonic blast.

Everyone looked at him. Craig kept running. Another airport security man rushed in, looking around for the source of the alarm. Far back at the Customs table, other men raced forward. Finally, the backup agents. But they wouldn’t arrive in time.

Craig followed the man into a maintenance hall, through the squealing Emergency Exit door. The airport security man followed, bellowing at him. Craig whirled and grabbed at his ID wallet without slowing. He flashed the wallet open, shoving it toward the security officer.

“Sir, I’m a federal agent, and I require your assistance.” He panted, pushing through the door and looking down a narrow, concrete-block corridor. “That man is carrying a highly explosive device.”

The security man hesitated just a moment in his step, then launched after Craig, looking a bit green. Craig saw the blue turban disappear around a sharp corner. “Stop!” he yelled again, his voice and his footsteps echoing loudly in the enclosed area. The high-pitched alarm continued to squeal.

Two custodians with a cleaning cart scrambled out of the way, still confused from the flight of the strange man in the blue turban. Craig didn’t stop to ask them where the fugitive had gone, charging ahead. Behind him, the security man ran onward, his keys jingling.

Finally, Craig rounded the corner to find the diplomat struggling with a security-locked door. He pounded desperately, then spun around like a cornered rat upon hearing Craig approach. He held up the briefcase like a bullet-proof shield. His gray beard protruded, and sweat trickled down his narrow, dark face.

“Sir, I’m placing you under arrest,” Craig said, holding out his ID again. He looked beside him to see that the security man had drawn his revolver, and was holding a heavy Smith and Wesson in shaking hands.

The man with the turban scowled. “I am Mr. Chandrawalia from the Indian Consulate. You have no authority to arrest me. I have diplomatic immunity under your law.”

“You have an explosive device with enough power to wipe out this airport. You are endangering the lives of tens of thousands of people—and I don’t give a flip about your diplomatic immunity.” Craig’s voice was hard.

The security man looked as if he very much wanted to be elsewhere.

“Nonsense,” Chandrawalia said. He gripped the briefcase against his chest. “This merely contains a large salt crystal, a novelty item. A souvenir.” He directed his attention to the nervous security man, as if for support. “I am an official from the Indian government, not a common criminal. This is not a bomb. You are committing an illegal act by detaining me. Your actions will have serious international implications.”

Craig wondered if Chandrawalia even had a clue about the danger he was in.

The Indian lowered the briefcase. “This is a simple misunderstanding. Here, I’ll show you. Just a salt crystal, not a bomb.”

His fingers fumbled with the latches. Craig suddenly wondered if opening the case without the proper precautions would destabilize or even kill the power to the solid-state lasers carefully aligned on the crystal lattice. A simple power shutdown had resulted in the annihilation of an entire substation last Sunday night.

Chandrawalia’s finger touched the latch.

Craig whipped out his Sig Sauer, dropping his badge wallet on the floor and stretching the handgun forward in a perfect isosceles firing position.
Stop the threat
. “If you move another hair I am going to put a nine-millimeter bullet through the center of your forehead.”

The Indian gasped at Craig’s tone, at his expression. He froze.

Craig said to the security man, “Take the case from him please. Gently.”

“Me?”

Craig said nothing, just kept his eyes fixed on the Indian official. The security man came forward, moving with jerky motions, and took the briefcase from Chandrawalia’s hands. The man didn’t resist.

“I will lodge an official complaint,” Chandrawalia said, his voice hard. “This treatment is inexcusable. I will speak directly to your State Department.”

Only when Craig held the briefcase tightly in one hand did he lower the handgun. Back at the end of the service corridor he heard other footsteps, the backup agents running toward him.

“Complain all you want,” Craig said. “This is enough for multiple felony charges, with this evidence in hand. You can’t just buy antimatter at the airport gift shop. And I’m sure it’s enough for your government to waive your diplomatic immunity.”

Chandrawalia then faltered, looking uncertain as the other teams of FBI agents rushed in. Craig wondered just how much support this guy would receive from the Indian government, or if he was just a freelancer with big plans.

One of the backup agents stopped next to him while two others took covering positions on either side of Chandrawalia. The agent looked down at the briefcase in Craig’s hands. “Did you get it?”

“Yeah,” Craig said with a sigh, “I got it.”

Cornered, Bretti wet his lips and looked from side to side. He glanced at Jackson, as if considering making a run for it. His rapidly packed clothes and personal items lay strewn about the floor in the lounge. He flicked his gaze toward the open door.

“Don’t,” said Jackson quietly as he leveled his handgun at Bretti. He remained utterly firm in his stance.

The grad student drew himself up and jutted his chin, poking out the goatee. “You wouldn’t shoot me with all these people here.” He took a step backward.

“Try me,” said Jackson coolly. “You shot my partner, remember?”

From the look in the other agent’s eyes, Bretti decided to believe him.