The Einstein Papers (28 page)

“So we want to amplify the background magnetism and introduce electrical discharges. How do we simulate gravity?”

“That’s the problem,” Choi agreed.

Scaramelli walked over to a workbench in the laboratory and picked up one of the items from the hardware store. He felt the heft in his hand, then tossed it into the air and caught it. Polishing the orb on his pants leg, he stared at Choi.

“Why don’t we drill a hole through the center of this,” Scaramelli said.

“For what purpose?”

“We thread the center with a copper wire and introduce electricity.”

Choi nodded slowly. “It’s worth a try.”

“We have a fabrication shop here at the center,” Scaramelli noted. “Follow me.”

Pausing to lock the laboratory, the two men walked down the hallway to a set of stairs. They took the stairway to the second floor and walked down to the fabrication shop. A man dressed in machinist’s clothing switched off a milling machine as they entered and sauntered over.

“Afternoon, Jeff,” he said easily.

“Bobby Escerson, Li Choi,” Scaramelli said, making the introduction.

Escerson was tall, a shade over six feet three inches in height. Though his face was slightly weathered, with a world weariness that said he had seen it all, his smile lit up the room. His hair was blond but flecked with gray at the temples. His hands were large slabs of meat with the proud callouses of a man who knew what work was. Escerson was fifty-two years old but looked barely forty.

Choi recovered his hand from Escerson’s paw and pointed to his ballcap. “I’m a Broncos fan too.”

“Then we’ll get along just fine,” Escerson said, smiling. “What can I do for you men?”

Scaramelli lifted the orb in his hand and passed it to Escerson. “I need a hole drilled in the center of this.”

“What are you planning to do with it?”

“Run copper wire through the hole and electrically charge the wire,” Scaramelli said.

Escerson nodded and walked over to a series of drawers above his workbench. Removing a spool of copper wire, he motioned Scaramelli and Choi over.

“You want this thickness?”

“Thicker,” Scaramelli said.

Escerson replaced the wire and opened another drawer. “How about this?”

“Do you have one size thicker?” Choi asked.

Escerson nodded and opened a third drawer. He looked at Scaramelli and Choi and raised an eyebrow.

“That should do it,” Scaramelli said.

Escerson closed the drawer and placed the spool of wire on his workbench. “Is this going to hang from the wire,” he asked, “like a pendant?”

“Not really,” Scaramelli said. “It needs to be suspended in place.”

Escerson nodded. “So you’ll need a stand.”

“Something that holds the copper wire taut,” Choi said.

“Magnetic or nonmagnetic?” Escerson asked.

“We’re going to charge the copper wire with electricity,” Scaramelli said.

Escerson nodded then stared into the distance for a second. “I’ll weld you a small stand out of iron with two flanges that come from the sides. That will allow you to hook the positive and negative leads to the stand. The copper wire will come over the sides and attach to the flanges. I’ll tighten the wire as I attach it, suspending this ball exactly in the center.”

Scaramelli looked befuddled.

Escerson reached for a yellow pad on his bench, then grabbed a carpenter’s pencil from a slot on his machinist’s coat. He quickly sketched out a diagram.

“Like this,” he said when he was almost finished.

Choi and Scaramelli stared at the diagram and nodded.

“One more question,” Escerson asked. “Do you want the ball to be able to spin freely?”

Scaramelli looked at Choi, who nodded. “Would that be hard to do?”

“Not if you tell me now,” Escerson said.

“Yeah, have it spin freely,” said Scaramelli.

“No problem,” Escerson said. “How soon do you need it?”

“As soon as possible,” Choi said.

Escerson glanced at the part he was machining when the pair entered. “Okay, I can put off what I’m working on now and start on this. If I work late I should have it built by six or seven tonight.”

Escerson turned and began to remove an iron plate from below his workbench.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Scaramelli said as the pair turned to leave. “We’ll buy dinner tonight. What are you hungry for?”

Escerson never glanced up from the iron plate he was turning over in his hands. “I like Thai food, Jeff,” he said quietly.

As Choi and Scaramelli left the fabrication shop, Escerson was already marking the iron plate to saw.

At 6:47 that evening Escerson buzzed Scaramelli in his laboratory. “You can come and pick it up,” he said.

Scaramelli was carrying a Styrofoam container of Thai food as the two men entered the fabrication shop, where most of the lights had already been extinguished. A small pile of iron shavings had been carefully broomed into a pile. Escerson was washing his hands at a stainless-steel sink.

“It’s there on the bench,” he said.

Illuminated in the glow from a fluorescent light above the bench sat a two-foot-tall iron apparatus. Twin wings rose from the base plate, suspending the ball on the copper wire. The piece had been painstakingly machined and welded with precision. The flanges that attached to the sides were devoid of paint and highly polished. The ball itself was exactly level.

Choi walked over to the bench, and touched his finger to the ball. Moving his finger slightly the ball began spinning freely. Escerson walked over and took the Styrofoam contained from Scaramelli’s hand.

“If you men don’t need anything else, I’m going to take this home and eat it,” he said with a satisfied grin.

This is amazing,” Scaramelli said.

Escerson reached behind his bench, removed a cardboard box, and placed the apparatus inside. Handing it to Scaramelli, he flicked off the light over the bench. He motioned for the door and followed the men to the stairs, clutching his bicycle helmet.

“Be careful not to drop that, Jeff,” he said easily. “Everything should be aligned just right now.”

The men reached the bottom of the stairs and Escerson began to buckle his helmet.

“Buzz me tomorrow and let me know how it worked,” he said as he walked through the door to the parking lot.

Scaramelli smiled, and Choi said, “Let’s go experiment.”

Sandra Miles had the healthy good looks of a Minnesota farm girl. She was beautiful without being cute, witty without being coy. One of thirty female agents employed by the Special Security Service, she had long ago learned that a sense of humor went a long way in dealing with men. It was early morning as she walked from the commercial jet at the Harlingen airport. Spotting the Texas Ranger immediately, she walked over with her carry-on bag draped from her shoulder. “One crisis, one ranger,” she said, smiling.

The joke was one that had followed the Texas Rangers for years. It heralded back to a time in history when the Rangers had been called to southern Texas to quell a riot. When a lone ranger arrived and checked in with the local sheriff, the sheriff said, “They only sent one of you?” “One riot, one ranger,” the ranger had replied. It turned out that a lone ranger was all that was needed.

“It seems you know our history,” the ranger said. “Mark Carlton.”

Carlton thrust out his hand and received a firm shake from Miles.

“I like history,” Miles said as the pair walked through the airport toward Carlton s Bronco.

“Do you want me to help you with that bag?”

“I’m a big girl,” Miles said. “My only question is just who do I have to sleep with to get some information?”

Carlton laughed as Miles tossed her bag in the back of the Bronco. “You’re the first fed I think I’m going to enjoy working with,” he said as he unlocked the truck and climbed into the driver’s seat.

Steering through the Harlingen traffic Carlton got onto Interstate 77 for the short trip to Brownsville. “I originally was called down from Austin about the theft of a vat of microbes from a laboratory in McAllen,” Carlton said as he engaged the cruise control and settled in for the drive.

“What about the murders?” Miles said.

The druggie copping the deal and telling us about the murders was just frosting on the cake. I’m assuming you’re more interested in the loss of the microbes.”

“That’s correct. Our office was concerned what might happen if terrorists got hold of the bugs.” Miles glanced at a thermos wedged between the seats. “Mind if I have a cup of that coffee?”

“Help yourself.”

“Thanks. Anyway, our thinking was that in the hands of terrorists the microbes could be introduced into things like the lubricating oil in power transformers, commercial jet engines, that sort of thing. Terrorists could definitely raise some havoc if they put those bugs in the right places.”

Miles twisted the cap back on the thermos and sipped the steaming coffee.

Carlton stared out the windshield and thought for a few moments. “That’s a distinct possibility, Agent Miles.”

“Call me Sandra.”

“All right, Sandra. like I said, that’s a possibility, but terrorists could do the same thing with metal shavings, or even sand. The particular batch of microbes that was stolen was somewhat unique,” Carlton said as they passed over Highway 100 leading east to Port Isabel and Padre Island.

“Your report didn’t go into much detail about that. What makes them unique?” Miles asked.

“These microbes need no oxygen. They can be injected deep into the ground, not just used on surface spills.”

“Into wells?” Miles asked.

“You got it,” Carlton said slowly.

“How much oil could the single vat that was stolen dissolve?”

“All the oil in Texas,” Carlton said as they approached Brownsville.

“This is becoming more interesting all the time,” Miles said, then finished her coffee and screwed the cap back on the thermos.

“They’ll roll the robbery and drug charge into one and I plead guilty to a misdemeanor charge of possession of drug paraphernalia?” Butler asked.

“That’s the deal, George,” the public defender said.

“And a deferred sentence on the misdemeanor?”

“Stay clean two years and cooperate fully with the authorities and the charge is wiped off your record.”

Butler sat back and took a drag on his cigarette. “I’ll take it,” he said. “Now, when do I get out of here?”

“You can go in front of the judge this afternoon,” the public defender said. “Right after you talk to the feds.”

“I’ll need a ride back home once I’m released.”

“You get your own ride home, Georgie boy,” the public defender said, rising. I may be a lot of things, but I ain’t a taxi.”

Sandra Miles tossed a fresh pack of cigarettes on the table. “Where did the first meeting take place?” she asked Butler.

“I knew Billy Tolbert from Huntsville. We met the buyer at the Texas Topps-that’s a strip joint outside McAllen.”

“Did the buyer say what he needed the microbes for?”

“I didn’t ask,” Butler said.

“Did you notice anything unusual about the buyer?”

“He was a slope,” Butler noted.

“Excuse me-a what?” Miles asked.

“You know, a slope,” Butler said as he took a drag from his cigarette. “An Asian.”

“Do you know what country in Asia he was from?”

“I’m not sure. I was in Korea in the army and this guy didn’t look Korean. I also worked for some Vietnamese shrimpers for a while. He wasn’t cheap enough to be Vietnamese. He paid for a couple of table dances for Billy and me. The one thing I do remember is that the cigarettes I bummed from him tasted like shit.” Butler paused and thought back. “And the pack had a weird design on the front.”

Miles rose. “You wait here. I’m going to call my office.”

“Is it going to take long?”

“Would you rather we return you to your cell,” Carlton asked menacingly, “and send for you when we’re ready?”

“No, sir,” Butler said. “I’ll just sit right here. You know, if that’s okay.”

Miles walked to an office in the Brownsville jail and dialed her partner at the NIA in Maryland.

“Hey, Smoot. I need you to do me a favor,” she said when her partner answered. “Log onto the database and pull up a file that contains information about tobacco companies.”

“You thinking of joining a class-action suit?” Smoot said, laughing.

“Hardly.”

“Hold on a second,” Smoot said. Two minutes passed. “Okay, I’m there. What do you need?”

“Can you find a listing of the graphics on cigarette packs?”

“I’m sure we have something,” Smoot said. “It’s a good way to identify suspects we’re trailing.”

Minutes passed as Smoot scrolled through the file listings.

“Hold on, I might have something here.” The phone was silent as Smoot retrieved the file. “I got it, Sandra, but there’s a couple of hundred listings.”

“Pull out all the brands from Asia.” Miles could hear Smoot at work on the keyboard.

“There’s seventy-seven known brands, including those sold in the Philippines.”

“They sure like to smoke over there,” Miles noted. “Can you fax me pictures of the graphics on the packs?”

“If I reduce them to the size of a regular pack of cigarettes, I can fit six to a page. What’s that make it?” Smoot quickly did the math in his head. “Should be thirteen pages, five on the last page. Give me the number you’re at and stand by.”

Miles read off the number of the jail’s fax machine. She waited as the fax phone rang, then began printing. Scanning the first page she returned to the phone. “Looks good, Smooty.”

“What else can I do for you?”

“Nothing right now, but I’ll call you later,” Miles said.

Miles walked back to the fax machine and removed the pages of cigarette-pack graphics.

“You feds are quite high-tech,” Carlton noted.

“You should see our budget. It’s amazing,” Miles said, smiling. “I want to begin showing these to Butler. Will you bring the rest of the pages after they print out?”

“I’d be glad to,” Carlton said as Miles walked back to the holding cell.

Butler looked through the first pile without success.