Lethal Exposure

up his cell phone, he wiped his arm across his sweaty brow. “We’re lucky this still works. Dr. Piter is getting us Bretti’s home address from the head office- our own info on Bretti is back at the temporary command post. I’d like to be the one to catch that little bastard.”

Craig took a deep breath, then straightened his sunglasses. “Get the Chicago office to set up roadblocks while we check out Bretti’s place. See if Schultz will send us some backup. And get a search warrant.”

“Got it.” A cloud of smoke from the fire swirled around them as Jackson immediately started punching in numbers. The lean FBI agent held the cell phone to his ear. With the prairie fire raging behind him, he looked like a lone survivor from a bombing raid.

Jackson pulled the rental car up to the empty curb in front of a line of duplex ranch houses. Beside him, Craig squinted through his sunglasses at the mailbox numbers out by the road. “Number one hundred twenty two should be right around the corner, on the right.”

“You don’t think he could have found an older part of town to live in, do you?” Jackson said as he punched in numbers in his cell phone, checking on their backup. “What a bunch of dumps.”

“He’s a grad student, remember?” Craig said. He remembered his own days of starvation wages, when even a professor’s salary seemed like a huge amount of money. A duplex like this was a nice place to live, compared with some of the student dives he had seen.

At Stanford, while working part time for the private investigator Elliot Lang, Craig had spent many hours studying for classes, thinking through term papers, fighting boredom outside rows of apartments in San Francisco, keeping a tail on a cheating husband or a supposedly injured worker milking an insurance claim. Back then he only had to wait and watch, maybe take a few pictures.

Now they were walking into a literally explosive situation.

Jackson put down the cell phone. “Schultz says the backup won’t be here from downtown for fifteen minutes.”

Craig thought quickly. They had already obtained a verbal okay for the search warrant from a local magistrate who had worked with Agent Schultz in the past. “I don’t think Bretti’s coming back here-not after what just happened out at Fermilab. But he may have left something inside that we need to know.” He recalled the vital information he had found in the abandoned home of the leader of the Eagle’s Claw militia near the Nevada Nuclear Test Site. “And if Bretti’s on the run with an unstable container of antimatter, he can go a long way in fifteen minutes.”

Jackson nodded. “Okay, let’s take a look.” He sounded anxious to get to the renegade grad student. Almost too anxious, to avenge Ben Goldfarb’s shooting.

Craig shrugged on his suit jacket, glancing up and down at the other low-rent houses to see if they had been spotted. He straightened his tie, trying to keep from telegraphing his nervousness.

Together, moving like two professionals, they started toward Bretti’s duplex, the left-hand side of the building. Weeds and crabgrass covered the small yard. A crumbling concrete driveway dotted with fresh oil spots ran from the street to a one-car garage. A chain-link fence split the yards in two.

They stepped back, out of sight from the front window. Craig pressed his lips together, looked around one last time, and drew in a breath. “We’ve got to move.” He rang the doorbell, ready with one hand on his Sig-Sauer, one hand near his badge and ID wallet.

Jackson ’s nostrils flared, and Craig looked at him firmly. “Remember the Rules of Engagement, Randall- this isn’t Ruby Ridge. The best way to help Goldfarb is to bring this dirtball in alive.”

Jackson gripped his pistol. “I understand.” No one answered the door, and Jackson knocked, pounding hard against the door.

Craig gestured around. “I doubt he’s here. You take the back door. Don’t wait for me to yell if anything goes down.”

“Right. By the book.” Jackson briskly jogged around the corner, put a hand on the low chain-link fence and easily vaulted into the backyard.

Craig tried the front door. Locked. He stepped back to kick it in, when he heard a sound just inside the front door. He placed a sweaty hand on his pancake holster, prepared to draw-

Jackson yanked open the door, out of breath. “Back patio door was off its track.” He held his pistol with two hands, the barrel pointing up in the air.

“Lucky for us.” Craig dropped his hand from his pancake holster.

Jackson shrugged. “I did have to help it a bit.”

Craig glanced around the threadbare room as he entered, seventies tract-home vintage. Starving student furniture, plywood-and-cinderblock bookshelves, orange crates covered with sheets for end tables. Empty.

“I didn’t go through the house,” said Jackson, “but it looks like only two rooms off the main passageway.”

They quickly secured the duplex, but Craig knew in his gut that Bretti wasn’t home. It didn’t look like he had been here for some time.

The single bed was unmade; stacks of computer paper, journal articles, and textbooks were pushed up against the wall. A large cardboard box in one corner held copies of Physics Today and Physical Review Letters. Three empty cans of Pringle potato chips and a six-pack of Diet Pepsi sat by the nightstand. Dirty underwear was piled in a corner, but too many empty hangers dangled in the closet, some scattered on the floor. Bretti had just cleaned out his clothes.

Craig straightened. “I bet he’s not coming back.”

Inside the tiny kitchen, Jackson stood over a folding card table, scanning a sheaf of papers. Craig checked the date on the milk in the refrigerator; its freshness had expired a week earlier.

Under the table was what looked like a case of booze. Craig knelt to take a closer look. “Grand Marnier-a couple hundred dollars worth there. He’s got an expensive taste for a grad student.”

“Or was it a splurge?” Jackson asked. “Maybe he just got a nice payoff.”

“Look at this.” Jackson handed Craig a preprinted in-flight menu. On the front was printed welcome to the concord. “What the heck is a grad student doing with a menu from the Concord? Doesn’t that thing fly into New York?”

Craig stared at the list of Indian food, written in fancy script: Chicken vindaloo, curry vegetables, Kingfisher beer. “Goldfarb wanted me to go see it in O’Hare when I landed early Tuesday. British Airways was having a special this month, direct from Chicago to New Delhi, India.”

“A guy who lives in a dump like this on a grad student’s salary doesn’t have any business riding on the Concord,” Jackson said. “Or drinking a case of Grand Marnier. But what’s the connection with India?”

Craig said slowly, tentatively, “Well… India ’s a threshold high-tech country. Maybe Bretti got involved with somebody there.”

Jackson scrounged through the papers on the table, looking for a bank statement. “I’ll bet if we pull Bretti’s finances, we’ll find he’s made several large deposits. He doesn’t seem the type to know how to cover his tracks too well. He’s an amateur at this stuff.”

“All the more dangerous,” Craig cautioned, thinking of Ben Goldfarb. “Dr. Piter said this was only one of two places in the world that could produce p-bars- CERN and Fermilab. And with Dumenco’s new method to increase the production of antimatter, Fermilab is the only place that could make enough antimatter for profit.”

“Are you saying there’s a black market for antimatter?” Jackson was incredulous.

“Yes, and Bretti has a large batch to sell.” His mind’s eye saw a flash of Dumenco, lying on his deathbed, confessing to being involved in a Soviet black program to power exotic weaponry. “Think about it. He just left Fermilab and he’s on the run. Right now he’s got nothing to lose. He’ll want to get out of the country.”

Craig stuffed the Concord menu in his jacket pocket and turned for the door. “Let’s get to O’Hare. Whatever Bretti is doing doesn’t matter as much as what could happen if that satchel of antimatter goes unstable. He could take out the entire airport in an instant.”

Jackson raced behind him, leaving the door swinging on its hinges.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN