The Einstein Papers (23 page)

“Just let us do a quick series of X-rays at the hospital,” one paramedic pleaded.

“I have to go call my partner,” Taft said as he walked unsteadily to a pay phone.

He dialed the number but got only a busy signal. He stumbled back to the ambulance.

Twenty minutes later, Martinez pulled into the station at Providence and walked through the crowd until he located Taft.

“He got away,” Taft told him.

“What happened?”

“He clubbed me when I tried to grab him in his car,” Taft said, rising.

“Then I guess we know he has something to do with this, don’t we?” Martinez said as he led Taft toward the rental car.

Once Taft was safely in the passenger seat, Martinez slid behind the wheel.

“You look like you’ve been in a bar brawl,” he said, staring at Taft.

Taft stared over at his partner through a swollen eye. “I tell you one thing.”

“What’s that?” Martinez said as he slid the car into drive.

“The next time I meet that guy he’s in trouble,” Taft said slowly. “Real big trouble.”

Like most stereotypes, the stereotype of the bespectacled physics nerd with buckteeth and a slide rule stuck to his hip was undependable. Jeff Scaramelli was a brilliant six-foot-seven-inch physicist who looked exactly like the athlete he had once been.

Scaramelli had played college basketball, earning a full-ride scholarship to the University of Colorado for his efforts. It was his grades, however, that had gotten him his masters degree and which would soon earn him his doctorate.

The former basketball star was just completing his doctoral thesis on the Unified Field Theory, and that made him uniquely qualified to work with Einstein’s much-maligned ideas. Current physics shunned the theory, considering it an antique. Most professors couldn’t understand what little was known of the theory, much less teach it. The action now was in quantum theory and radicals and photonic band-gaps, but Scaramelli liked Einstein’s theory just fine.

The call from the shadowy government organization was something new for Scaramelli. Usually he worked at his own pace, in his own direction, trying to pry open the covering hiding the clues to the forces in the universe. Now he was being asked to take a specific direction and get results by a certain deadline.

Scaramelli didn’t know if he should be flattered or angry.

He stretched his long legs out on the carpeted floor to the side of his computer terminal at the Advanced Physics Laboratory in Boulder, Colorado. Swishing rootbeer around in his mouth, he looked out the window to the Flatirons, the string of uniquely shaped foothills that extended up from the city of Boulder.

Bouncing a racquetball repeatedly against the window, he began to think back to what his father had told him about Einstein.

He was deep in thought when the NIA agents brought in his new colleague.

“I’m Li Choi,” the diminutive physicist said, smiling.

“I was told we’d be working together,” Scaramelli said, rising and extending his hand to Choi. “I read one of the papers you published while you were at Berkeley.”

“I’m honored,” Choi said as he glanced around the laboratory.

Scaramelli motioned to a computer at a desk nearby. “You can set up at that workstation over there.”

Choi looked over at the computer then back to Scaramelli. “Where do we start? I haven’t been told much.”

“Me either,” Scaramelli said easily. “Let’s first record your formulas and any observations you have about the Unified Field Theory.”

“After that?” asked Choi.

“After that we need to design a method to test the theory. The word I got was that the government is trying to recover a copy of the theory as we speak.”

Choi smiled, walked over to the computer, and turned it on. “Come on over, Jeff, and I’ll show you what I know. If we are going to work together there can be no secrets.”

Eleven hours later, just before midnight Colorado time, Choi had completed his labors. “That’s the extent of the work I have completed,” he said to Scaramelli.

“Interesting,” Scaramelli noted. “Are you hungry?”

“Extremely,” said Choi.

“Do you like Mexican food?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll ask one of the agents to pick us up some grub,” Scaramelli said, reaching for the phone. “While we’re waiting for the food I can explain my idea for a test device. I think we can build something ourselves with most of the parts available at a hardware store.”

“Sounds good,” Choi said cheerfully.

Four hours later, when the pair finished, the laboratory was cluttered with containers of half-eaten takeout Mexican food, wadded up sheets of paper, and a partially finished gallon of chocolate milk.

“That should do it,” Scaramelli said at last.

Choi glanced again at the shopping list. “Looks good. When a hardware store opens in the morning we can start building the device.”

Scaramelli reached for the telephone and buzzed the outer office. An agent entered the laboratory almost immediately. “You men need something?”

“We have a list of items we’ll need someone to pick up for us tomorrow.”

The agent glanced at the list briefly. “Is there anything else you can think of that you might need?” he said, scratching his chin.

“Not really. The big hardware store in town is called McGukin’s,” Scaramelli said. “They open at nine in the morning.”

“We’ll wake up the owner and have him meet us there. You’ll have these items in two hours,” the agent said as he walked toward the door.

“Unbelievable,” Scaramelli said after the agent had left. “Are you getting the idea what we’re working on is more than a little important?”

“Yes I am, Jeff,” Choi said as he yawned. “What do you want to do while we wait?”

Scaramelli pointed to a pair of foam pads stacked in a corner of the laboratory.

“I’m going to sleep a couple hours until the agents get back.”

Choi nodded. “That’s the best idea you’ve had all evening.”

Five minutes later the pair was fast asleep.

Martinez parked the rental car hastily in front of the Amtrak station and ran toward Taft. “How’s the neck?” he asked.

“I’m still seeing double, but it’s starting to clear,” Taft said as he tossed the cold pack to the ambulance attendant.

“I called the Providence police. They’re sending down some officers to help us question the passengers.”

“I saw a couple of unmarked cars arrive already,” Taft noted. “Sorry I lost the guy, Larry.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, we’ll find him,” Martinez said.

Taft and Martinez walked toward the detective from the Providence police who was climbing out of an unmarked car and gave him the description of the man they sought. As the police fanned out to question the station employees and what few passengers still remained at the station, Taft used the secure phone to call General

Benson. After explaining what had occurred, he waited as Benson mulled it over.

“It’s nearly impossible to find a lone man who wants to stay hidden,” Benson said at last.

“Why don’t you order a computer search of all plane and train reservations along with all rental car agencies, limousine companies, and cab outfits,” Taft asked. “We might get lucky.”

“Hold on,” Benson said. In the background Taft could hear as Benson shouted those orders to his assistant.

“I just thought of something else,” Taft said when Benson came back on the line. “Have some agents begin to phone automobile dealers in Providence and check for any recent cash purchases. If this guy is as smart as I think he is, he just might buy a car.”

“Good idea,” Benson agreed.

“I believe if our target does have something removed from Einstein’s boat he has orders to deliver it in person to someone in a position of authority. He won’t be hiding them in a locker or burying them in the ground for someone else to retrieve later.” Taft paused. “That means that he will logically try to make his way to the nearest Chinese Embassy, which is in New York City.”

“I’ll have the embassy in New York surrounded and the rest across the country placed under observation,” Benson said. “We can’t violate the sanctity of an embassy’s grounds, but we can sure as hell stop everyone that approaches on the street outside.”

“Will you arrange a chopper for us at the Providence airport? If the search turns up nothing here, we’ll need to go to New York.”

“I’ll have it done,” Benson said. “You two are the best we’ve got, John. Now go find this guy or our ass is in a sling.”

“Got it, boss,” Taft said as he shut off the phone and closed the briefcase.

Martinez stood talking to the lead detective as Taft walked over. “I was just telling your partner my men have questioned nearly everyone still here. No one seems to remember seeing the man you describe,” the detective said as he crushed a cigarette butt under the heel of his shoe.

“Does your police department have a sketch artist?” Taft asked.

“Sure,” the detective said.

“Let’s have him draw up a picture while this guy’s face is still fresh in my mind.”

“Follow me,” the detective said.

Near Warwick, Rhode Island, Mike O’Leary burped a gas bubble that smelled like fish and chips. His feet were up on his desk and he was staring through the floor-to-ceiling glass that looked out on the parking lot. He watched as a dark-haired man climbed from a cab, paid the driver, then began to inspect the inventory. Removing his feet from the desk, O’Leary reached in his desk drawer, removed a breath mint, then slipped it in his mouth. Checking his pocket to make sure he had some business cards, he walked out onto the lot and smiled at the man.

“You have good taste, my friend,” he said. “That’s a finely crafted machine.”

“This one,” the man said with a slight accent, pointing, “with the storage compartments. How much for this one?’

“You’re in luck,” O’Leary said. “That went on sale just this morning, only seventy-nine ninety-five.”

The man reached into his pocket and withdrew a wad of hundred-dollar bills. “Seventy-five hundred, cash. And I want it ready in half an hour.”

“Congratulations,” O’Leary said. “It’s already been prepped. Let me just write it up.”

Within fifteen minutes Tsing was moving again.

After the sketch artist completed the drawing, Martinez faxed a copy to the Special Security Service office. Clutching the master copy, he turned to the detective. “Can you have someone give us a ride to the airport?”

“I’ll have a patrolman take you in a black and white.”

“Thanks for your help,” Taft said.

“It made my morning,” the detective said sarcastically.

Twenty minutes later Taft and Martinez arrived at the airport and choked down a sandwich from the lunch counter as the pilot refueled the helicopter.

In the offices of the Special Security Service a dozen agents sat phoning automobile dealers in Providence.

“I’m finished with my list,” one of the agents said, anticipating lunch.

“Start on the used-car dealers,” the lead agent replied.

Benson entered the room. “Any luck?” he asked the lead agent.

“Nothing so far, sir.”

“This may be a dead end, but let’s keep trying,” Benson said quietly as he walked from the room.

Twenty-seven minutes later the agent wanting lunch hit pay dirt.

“Mercury Yamaha.”

“I was trying to reach Mercury Motors Used Cars,” the agent said.

“We are one and the same,” Mike O’Leary noted cheerfully. He was still on a high from the easy sale he’d concluded within the hour.

The agent explained who he was and what he needed.

“The only cash sale in the last few days was an hour ago,” O’Leary said, his fine mood now dissolving. “A new motorcycle.”

“Was the man who bought the motorcycle Chinese, standing around six foot tall?’ the agent asked.

“Am I in some kind of trouble here?” O’Leary asked.

“No.”

O’Leary paused. “Then, yes, he was.”

“Do you have a fax machine?” the agent asked.

“Yes,” O’Leary said.

“Give me the number, I’m going to fax you a sketch. Keep this line open and get on as soon as you have the picture.”

The agent could hear O’Leary slide his chair back, then the sound of footsteps as he walked across the tiled showroom. Three minutes later the agent heard him return and pick up the phone.

“The fax came through clear,” O’Leary said.

“Well?”

“That looks like the same guy,” O’Leary said glumly.

Taft and Martinez sat in the rear seats of a U.S. Navy Sikorsky H-76N Eagle helicopter. They were near Norwich, Connecticut, and yelling to each other over the noise of the engines. “This is getting old,” Taft said. “We need to grab this guy as soon as he nears the embassy and end this little caper. You and I are starting to look like fools.”

“Let’s hope we’re right about New York or we’ll soon be unemployed,” Martinez said.

Taft started to answer but was interrupted by the ringing of the cellular phone he had retrieved from Martinez’s rental car. “This is John Taft.”

“This is Mickelson. How’s it going?”

“Agent Mickelson,” Taft said, “I hope you have some good news.”

“Your target bought a new Yamaha motorcycle in Providence just over an hour ago.”

“That qualifies,” Taft said, smiling. “Have you got a road map handy, Mick?”

“Already checked it out, John. The most direct route for him to take is straight down 1-95.”

“Damn, you’re good,” Taft said.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Mickelson said as the phone went dead.

Taft turned to Martinez and shouted, “Our man bought a Yamaha. Mick thinks he will probably drive straight down 1-95.”

“There is a God,” Martinez said, then switched on the helicopter’s intercom. “Take us down 1-95,” he said to the pilot of the Sikorsky. “We’re looking for a man on a new Yamaha motorcycle.”

“Roger that,” the pilot said as he banked the helicopter south.

It would be easy for the average person to dismiss China as a nation of peasants. A huge land mass containing 1.3 billion people, or four times the population of the United States, all struggling to fill their rice bowls.