“Dr. Dumenco,” Piter said, his voice leaden, “I just received this message… and I wanted to bring you the news before-” He cleared his throat. “It’s a telegram from Stockholm.” Piter had trouble making his words coherent.
“The Nobel Prize Committee?” Paige asked. Her heart began to pound.
The tendons in Piter’s neck stood out as he swallowed hard. “I… I am here… it is my duty and my honor to inform you-” He looked down at the paper in his hand, then just began to read. “His Majesty the King of Sweden and the Nobel Prize Committee are proud to announce your selection, Dr. Georg Dumenco, as the recipient of this year’s Nobel Prize in Physics. This singularly distinctive honor is to recognize your outstanding achievements in furthering the knowledge of mankind and the universe.” Piter looked up. His voice was barely audible. “My… congratulations, sir.”
With a valiant effort, Dumenco sat upright in his bed, astonished at the news. Paige could see it in his face. The dying, near-delirious man had understood. His face lit up with a surge of new strength.
Dumenco’s family looked down at him, then over at Piter in awe and amazement that somehow knifed through their fog of grief.
The Ukrainian reached out with the last of his strength to grasp Piter’s wrist. The dapper scientist stiffened, looking awkwardly down at the man in the bed and then helplessly over at Paige.
“There’s something else, Dr. Dumenco-”
Trish rushed over to the diagnostic apparatus, alarmed and concerned. “You must leave. He’s having a reaction.”
“No!” Piter stood his ground. Tears welled at his eyes. “Dr. Dumenco-it was an accident. I didn’t know you were in the beam-dump area. Your work was right all along, and I was simply trying to delay your experiment. Since we were both under consideration for the Nobel, a spectacular announcement like your p-bar success would surely have tipped the scales in your favor. This was my only chance-my last chance, because we both know I’m never going to do breakthrough work again.”
Paige blinked, feeling like a detached observer. She watched as Trish took a step backwards and shook her head slowly back and forth.
Nels Piter sighed, slumping his shoulders. “I was in the control room on Sunday night. It was unattended, everything running smoothly, automatic. I didn’t plan to do anything, but when I saw the opportunity, I changed a few minor parameters, caused the beam to fluctuate, which shut down the Tevatron. I just wanted to delay your experiment. That’s all. You know the beam crashes all the time-but I didn’t know you were in the dump area. I just… I just wanted to delay your experiment so the Nobel Prize committee would pick me this year.” Piter held up the yellow telegram and whispered, “I didn’t know that you were there. I didn’t know.”
Dumenco tried to sit up. He reached out a shaking arm and spoke with slurred words. “I… I knew it couldn’t have been Bretti. And I knew it wasn’t the other Soviet killer. I was… waiting for you to come and… tell me yourself. The results… the data… didn’t have any other explanation.”
Dumenco suddenly drew a deep, heaving gasp-and his body spasmed as if the effort and the unexpected news had caused further hemorrhaging inside him. The heart rate and other readouts went wild and he began to tremble. “We do… what we must-for science.”
Piter staggered away, clearly ashamed of what he had done. Trish elbowed her way forward to the bed. Her hands fluttering like small birds, she checked his breathing and adjusted the wires clipped to electrode patches on his skin. Then she shook her head. “He’s in the final stages now. There’s nothing we can do.”
Paige drew in a breath, stunned at what she thought she had heard. She looked at the Belgian scientist, astonished, dazed, angered. Dumenco’s family looked at Piter, uncomprehending, but angry. One of the daughters, the scarecrowish Kathryn, turned and mouthed the words, “Thank you for telling him… about the Nobel. It was his life’s work.”
Dumenco’s final decline lasted another seven minutes. Trish officially pronounced him dead at 1:36 p.m.
CHAPTER FORTY
Friday, 1:10 p.m.
O’Hare International Terminal
Taking out his weapon, Jackson advanced toward the grad student, keeping his eye on Bretti’s hands and the frayed satchel he carried. “Don’t move, Bretti. FBI!”
Bretti’s eyes widened as he recognized Jackson, realized what was happening. “Hey!” Drawing himself up, he sputtered, but no further words came out.
Craig Kreident came from out of nowhere, shouting. “ Jackson, take him! I’m after the accomplice!” Then Craig dashed down the concourse.
As his partner ran off in pursuit, Jackson recovered quickly from his surprise and leveled his weapon. He kept a good ten feet away from Bretti. “I said don’t move! Put down your satchel-slowly. And turn around, hands behind your back, now!”
Bretti knelt and let the satchel slip from his grip. He slowly turned.
“Hands behind your back, thumbs out. You heard me!”
When Bretti sullenly obeyed, Jackson snapped out a pair of handcuffs that was tucked into his pants. “Put the backs of your hands together!” He quickly holstered his weapon and strode forward to grab Bretti’s hands-
Someone in the crowd finally saw what was happening and screamed.
At the noise, Bretti stiffened, then twisted away. He looked wild-eyed at Jackson, now holding a pair of handcuffs and standing without a weapon.
Jackson didn’t flinch as he grabbed for the satchel. At the same time he jerked out his weapon. He had the case-the antimatter container?-but he needed to cuff Bretti before the little twerp could create a scene, or worse, before he would do something rash with the unstable container.
Bretti struggled backward and looked around in a frenzy. He started yelling hoarsely, “Hey, he took my suitcase!”
Not looking behind him, Jackson pulled the satchel tightly against his side.
Bretti’s hoarse voice sounded as if it would break with tears, “You slimeball, give me back my case!” He looked from side to side, pleading his case, trying to gain attention. He took a step backwards.
A massive hand at his right elbow suddenly swung Jackson around. The hand dug into his arm. “Where the hell do you think you’re going with that man’s bag, mister?”
Jackson saw a red, fleshy face, a man as huge as an offensive lineman.
“Give the man his bag!” demanded the bystander.
Jackson quickly assessed the situation. He fanned around. “Back off, sir. FBI.”
The man seemed to see Jackson ’s weapon for the first time. His eyes grew wide and he took a step backwards. “Hey, man, I didn’t realize-”
Bretti took another step back, trying to get away. “Look, he stole my bag!”
A murmur ran through the crowd. “Call security!”
“I’m a federal agent.” Jackson pulled the satchel close to his left side. “FBI. This container holds hazardous-”
As Bretti tried to turn and run away, Jackson shifted the bag, but it opened up, only to spill hastily packed shirts, underwear, a swimsuit.
No antimatter at all.
Leaving Jackson to apprehend Bretti, Craig set out after the diplomat in the blue turban-the grad student’s Indian contact, the man who now held the entire container of antiprotons. Craig thought the man must be oblivious of the sheer danger he held.
He didn’t know that one slip, one jostle, one impact might disalign the containment lasers and allow the antimatter to come in contact with the sodium chloride crystals, setting up a chain reaction of annihilation, releasing three kilotons of energy. The explosion would be enough to vaporize the O’Hare International Airport.
The man continued to run briskly down the wide hall, elbowing people aside, pushing his way through the crowd until he could get to safety-a diplomatic receiving area? A consulate limousine outside? Craig didn’t know; he only cared about stopping the man, confiscating the briefcase, getting it safely back to Fermilab where the physicists could figure out how to get the p-bars back out of the crystal-lattice trap.