Unless Bretti had some sort of diplomatic privilege, and bypassed the various customs and inspection stations…
Then Craig spotted a tall, dark-skinned man with white hair poking out from underneath a light blue turban, a gray beard and a neatly trimmed mustache. He walked briskly out of the customs area, nodding to the customs officials as he passed, carrying himself like a diplomat.
The turbaned man walked purposely, looking from side to side. Glancing at Craig, he quickly looked away-then his eyes darted back before he abruptly angled away from the customs area while increasing his pace.
The Indian official spoke with someone in the crowd. Craig’s heart pounded as things clicked in place. Bretti would need an insider-so no wonder the Indian consulate was dragging their feet getting back to them regarding Bretti’s visa. If the grad student was sponsored by someone in the Consulate, someone who desperately wanted to obtain the black-market antimatter, U.S. customs would never question an official request from the Indian government. Bretti could have walked right through any normal diplomatic stumbling blocks.
Craig pulled out his FBI wallet as he approached the customs officials. The people parted like water receding from a rising mountain as he pushed his way to the counter. A customs officer glanced up, and he spotted her nametag. Belinda. Dressed in a white, short-sleeved uniform, the woman brushed back strands of long brunette hair.
“Special Agent Kreident, FBI,” said Craig quietly. He turned to the mall area of the terminal and nodded toward the man with the turban. “The man with the turban and the gray beard-he just walked past your area. Do you know who he is?”
Belinda stood on her tiptoes and squinted at the man. “He’s from the Indian Consulate’s office. He escorted someone through here earlier on official Indian business.”
Craig’s pulse quickened. “Can you tell me what he looked like? Even a general description?
Belinda shrugged. “A ratty-looking guy-dark hair, goatee.”
So Bretti was heading out to India. That just about nailed it. Craig felt the pressure of time ticking away. He scanned the international waiting lounge beyond the customs table. People milled around the gates, some sipping coffee, others lounging in padded chairs. Farther down the concourse, a string of bars, newsstands, and duty-free shops provided numerous places for Bretti to hide.
The man with the blue turban had melted into the crowd. Craig looked from side to side, but saw only a blur of unfamiliar faces.
Craig tried to act nonchalant, as if he were one of the hundreds of passengers waiting for flights. One of hundreds who would die if Bretti did something rash and caused the antimatter to explode. He used his peripheral vision as he strolled down the causeway. Stopping, he put his hands in his pocket and pretended to look up at the CNN monitor, while he urgently scanned the crowd for a glimpse of someone who might be Bretti himself.
Craig ducked into the men’s room and waited until the stalls emptied, one by one; still no sign of the elusive graduate student. He decided to walk down the rest of the causeway, to the gates serving other international flights.
A dark-haired man suddenly appeared from a door on the right. The door opened up to a plush, richly decorated interior-high-backed red chairs, a mirror running behind a fully stocked bar, small tables set off to the side where people might have a quiet tête-a-tête: a VIP Traveler’s Club.
The man had thick black hair, and his scruffy Van Dyke beard hid his chin; his glasses were old, a style popular ten years ago. He carried a briefcase high on his arm and a small, frayed satchel by his side. The man looked completely out of place in the first-class lounge.
The man was Nicholas Bretti.
Craig focused on the brown briefcase. Smudged with dirt and looking as if it had carried Bretti’s work for years, the briefcase had artificial gold locks with a simple single cylinder combination. It looked deceptively plain, but Craig knew that case held the equivalent explosive power of three kilotons of TNT-six million pounds of deadly high explosive.
And if what Dr. Dumenco had said was true about the device being unstable, the antimatter trap might break down and release its deadly energy at any time.
Did Bretti even know it was unstable?
Craig froze, then backed to the side, wondering how best to handle the situation. Bretti hadn’t seen him yet. He had to call for backup, had to get Jackson here.
Before he could move, though, the bearded man in the blue turban reappeared from another entrance and walked briskly toward the grad student. Looking from side to side he strode up to Bretti.
The two men spoke in hushed tones, but Bretti held his briefcase close. The Indian seemed insistent. Bretti shook his head again, the turbaned official spoke sharply, and Bretti finally surrendered the briefcase, but kept his beat-up satchel.
Craig targeted both men, put his hand on his Sig-Sauer. He had to move, head off the Indian and keep him under control before anything could happen to the briefcase. The man in the blue turban slipped away from the traveler’s club, heading off down the promenade at a rapid pace. Craig had to stop this man first. They could arrest Bretti later.
Craig took a deep breath, ready to emerge from his hiding place.
Then Agent Jackson came charging down the concourse. With uncanny reactions, he spotted Bretti immediately and shouted. “Bretti! Nicholas Bretti, this is the FBI-stop and don’t move!”
Craig stepped out, “No, Jackson! Wait-”
But the man in the blue turban had heard the shout, the distraction, and bolted into the airport crowds.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Friday, 1:13 p.m.
Fox RiverMedicalCenter
When Nels Piter walked hesitantly into Dumenco’s hospital room, Paige saw immediately that he carried a great burden. His hands were shaking, his skin was gray, as if all the blood had drained out of him. His eyes, usually confident, now seemed dead, averted from the world around him.
Paige froze, wondering what horrible shock he had received now, what grave news he had to bring-or perhaps he was just coming to see the dying Ukrainian for the last time. He had left with Craig hours earlier, and now the usually dapper scientist looked worn, tired, and grubby. She wondered what had happened to Craig, if he had succeeded in preventing a further disaster.
As he came into the room, the Belgian turned and closed the door behind him. He seemed desperate to avoid the ominous duty he had to perform. He avoided looking at either Paige or Dumenco, or the gathered family members.
Protective of the dying scientist, Trish LeCroix hovered near Dumenco’s wife and children. She didn’t speak to them, simply waited nearby, showing that she was on their team, a surrogate part of the family… and on the opposite side of the room from Paige and Nels Piter.
Piter took another step forward, then heaved a deep breath. Paige saw his shoulders shaking. She suddenly noticed that he clutched a scrap of yellow paper in his hand.
“Nels, what’s wrong?” she whispered. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No… not a ghost.” He glanced down at the paper in his hand, but he wouldn’t let her see what it said.
Dumenco’s daughters Alyx and Kathryn looked over at the other scientist, wondering who this man might be. Dumenco’s wife had eyes only for the man in the hospital bed. His son Peter continued to babble, tears on his cheeks, his words droning on, making no sense.
Dumenco himself, though, seemed aware of the newcomer. He shifted awkwardly, turning his blood-filled eyes to see the dapper European. “Dr. Piter,” he said, the name rasping through his lips.