“We have no time for this nonsense.” Punjab angrily dismissed him with a wave. “Go home, Dr. Bretti. I will ask Mr. Chandrawalia to use another source to get our antimatter, and you can forfeit the rest of your payment.”
Bretti’s heart pounded with panic. So much for remaining here, for requesting asylum, for going to ground in Bangalore. If he even mentioned his crime, about being on the run, Punjab would probably truss him up and deliver him directly to the authorities.
“No, wait! I can do it. Really, I can. I already have another working crystal-lattice trap installed in one of the substations. The Tevatron is running almost nonstop now, and with Dumenco’s beam enhancements I can get you a milligram of p-bars in a few days.” He looked wildly from side to side, seeking support from anyone on Dr. Punjab’s staff. They all looked at him skeptically.
He continued to jabber. “Look, I’ve gone through a dry-run this time. The production cross section has increased and I’ve diverted antimatter from the enhanced beam. I proved I can safely transport p-bars in a diplomatic pouch. It’ll be easy to bring you the rest of them. I can be back next week. Two at the most.”
Dr. Punjab stared at him, tight-lipped, considering. Bretti knew they had him over a barrel. A squat technician stepped over to Punjab and whispered rapidly in a foreign language. Surprised, Punjab asked a question in the same language. The squat man strode to a telephone by the wall, dialed a number, and waited for a moment before speaking.
Bretti shifted his weight from foot to foot during the exchange, antsy, but he forced himself to keep quiet. Inside, he felt furious with Dumenco. The old scientist was responsible for getting Bretti into this whole mess by botching his work, somehow causing the beam-dump accident that resulted in the power shutdown, and causing the failure of the antimatter-loaded crystal-lattice trap.
Finally, the technician got off the telephone and reported back. Dr. Punjab nodded stiffly, then turned to Bretti. He seemed to force the words, as if having great difficulty keeping his temper in check.
“It is… unfortunate that you did not tell us from the beginning that you did not bring all the antimatter. But you are right: You have shown that it is possible to divert the p-bars and transport them here. Now, you will return to Chicago immediately and bring us back what you have promised.”
He motioned with his head and two younger staff members stepped forward. “My colleagues will escort you back to the airport. The Concord leaves New Delhi in six hours.” He pressed his lips together and stared at Bretti for a moment. “Do not fail us again. Mr. Chandrawalia will go to great lengths to ensure that the money he has already paid you is not wasted. He will meet with you again to make sure you understand.”
Bretti swallowed, knowing that he had just been, reluctantly, given a second chance. He tried to look grateful. “I’ll be back in a week. I promise.”
But as he turned to go, he didn’t know what he dreaded more-returning to Chicago and the manhunt arrayed for him, or coming back and being stuck here for the rest of his life.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wednesday, 12:07 p.m.
Fox RiverMedicalCenter
After driving at breakneck speed from the Fermilab Public Affairs Office, Paige hurried down the corridor in the medical center. Her dress shoes clicked along the much-scuffed linoleum floor. She dodged nurses and orderlies with carts, family members taking older relatives out in their wheelchairs for a stroll. No one seemed particularly concerned to see a young woman dashing down the hall, scanning the room numbers. In the hospital it happened all the time.
“I’m spending altogether too much time in this place,” she muttered.
Finally, she found the examining room where Craig Kreident sat looking gray and shaken. Even from here she could smell the reek of chlorine bleach.
Without noticing her, he tried to regain his self-composure by retying his tie. Craig coughed again, wiped his reddened eyes, then looked down at his uncooperative fingers. He flexed them and tried once more to knot the necktie.
“I can help with that,” Paige said. She was glad to see how his face lit up when he saw her. She stepped behind him, put both hands over his shoulders and pressed close as she untied his abortive attempt at a knot.
Adjusting the ends, she flipped the necktie around until she had knotted it properly. It had been a long time since she’d fixed a man’s necktie. It wasn’t normally a skill young women needed to learn, especially in these days of increasingly casual attire. But Paige had learned in order to help her father when he had grown weak from the cancer that sapped his strength.
Working in California and Nevada for the nuclear weapons industry, Gordon Mitchell had preferred to wear a bolo tie, if any at all, but occasional design reviews or government inspections required extra formality. Paige had assisted him on those mornings when he fretted over his wardrobe so much he didn’t even take time to gulp his usual coffee and orange juice.
Craig looked as though he still felt the terrible effects of his bout with homemade chlorine gas. She felt a pang of sympathy as she finished straightening his tie. Craig stood up and gave her a grateful look as he brushed down his white shirt front. He coughed, still reluctant to draw a deep breath into damaged lungs. He reached for his suit jacket like a knight replacing a battered set of armor after losing a jousting tournament.
“I can’t imagine you went through all this just to become a blonde,” Paige said with an impish grin as she ruffled her fingers through his chestnut hair. “There are easier ways to bleach your hair.”
He looked up at her, as if trying to regain his sense of humor. “And what would you know about bleaching, ma’am?”
Paige laughed and stepped back, crossing her arms over her denim blouse. Craig attempted to laugh along with her, but broke into another coughing fit. Sitting down hard, he picked up a blue plastic pitcher on the table and poured himself a cup of water. He swallowed two long gulps and then spat into the sink. “My mouth tastes awful.”
“Yes, but your tongue is a very clean shade of white,” she said.
He looked in the mirror, sticking his tongue out.
“So, are you really all right?” Paige said with genuine concern.
Craig ran water in the sink and splashed his face. “My eyes burn, my nose burns, my throat burns, my lungs burn-but all in all, it’s been a pretty good day. No question in my mind that we’ve got a real case here… as if I had any doubts in the first place.”
“Who could it have been?” she asked. “Did you see the person who attacked you? What was he looking for in Dumenco’s apartment?”
Craig shook his head. “We interrupted him, but he managed to destroy Dumenco’s home computer. All of his disks, maybe just as a precaution. But Dumenco wasn’t dumb enough to do any important research on his home computer, with no security.”
“His work wasn’t classified, so he could have worked at home whenever he wanted.”
“Sure, but Dumenco’s real ‘home’ was in his lab anyway. He wouldn’t have stayed in his apartment when he could have been at Fermilab. That apartment was just a place where he went to sleep once in a while.”
Paige laid a hand on his shoulder. “How’s Jackson?”
“Seems to be all right,” Craig said. “Trish hasn’t come in to check on us yet-apparently she’s away from the hospital. But the attending physician says we’ll both recover. That chlorine gas knocked us flat, but we got to the window soon enough, managed to crack the door open a bit. No permanent damage.” He took another slow, gradual breath, musing. “I wonder what Jackson would look like as a blond?”
“Probably not any better than you,!‘ she chuckled.