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 guard 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 guard 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.
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.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Friday, 5:32 p.m.
Fox RiverMedicalCenter
In Dumenco’s room, the silence of death felt like a heavy shroud. His family members stood around the bed, stunned and quietly grieving.
Paige felt out of place as she looked at the destroyed man. Yet, she realized that death had come as a relief to him. Through a sheen of tears, she saw the polished stone chess set Craig had given him, the icons and crosses and framed Ukrainian cathedrals Trish had retrieved from his apartment.
She had not felt so confused, or devastated, since her father had died, nearly four years ago. The anger and frustration from feeling helpless-and, now, knowing what Nels Piter had done to Dumenco-nearly overwhelmed her. She’d thought she would have been able to handle Dumenco’s death better with his family here- but she was wrong.
Kathryn and Alyx stood close with their mother, holding each other, relieved to have visited their lost father one last time. Young Peter, barely a teenager, looked the most stricken of all those by the bedside. “But I haven’t finished telling you, Father,” he said. “I had so much more to say. We didn’t even thank you for bringing us here to
