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.
Craig ran to the slidewalk people-mover down the center of the long concourse, grabbed the black plastic rail, and vaulted over onto the sliding metal walkway. He was going the wrong way, but he fought his way past, finally drawing his handgun-but he knew he couldn’t possibly fire with so many bystanders around. People screamed.
Craig ran against the direction of movement. If the man was an official from the Indian consulate, he would flaunt his diplomatic immunity-in fact, Craig was surprised the man didn’t just stop running and smugly shrug off the FBI’s attempt at arrest. But with the antimatter parcel, he endangered the lives of every person at the entire airport.
Stop the threat. Craig would have been justified in using force to stop him, even deadly force-but if he fired, he would risk not only hitting other bystanders, but also a stray bullet might strike the case…
A young couple with a wide baby stroller covered most of the width of the walkway, and Craig sidled past, paying more attention to the man with the blue turban than the people around him. He smacked his foot against the stroller wheel, nearly tripped, grabbed onto the moving railing. The baby began to cry.
“Excuse me,” he said breathlessly. “Excuse me. FBI.”
The Indian diplomat turned down a side concourse, in front of a gate where a large international 777 disgorged a milling mass of hundreds of passengers, also Indians for the most part-a large group of Hindus, some wearing blue turbans. Craig craned his neck, trying to keep track of the man. “Stop him!” he shouted. “Somebody call airport security!”
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.