Lethal Exposure (23 page)

CHAPTER 38

Friday, 12:38

O’Hare International Airport

Craig gripped the armrest of the rental car as Jackson took the exit to the airport at high speed. A white-haired man in a Jaguar honked and extended his middle finger as Jackson whipped into the far right lane, cutting him off.

Craig pulled his cell phone away from his ear as he struggled to maintain his balance in the car. “Hey, Randall, we need to get there alive if we’re going to stop Bretti.”

Jackson unblinkingly kept his hands on the steering wheel, precisely at the 10:00 and 2:00 position as proscribed in the Bureau’s evasive driving course. “You’re starting to sound like Goldfarb, man.” Instead, he accelerated.

Craig didn’t argue with the lean agent. This was personal for him, deeply personal—and he only hoped Jackson could maintain his professionalism.

Agent Schultz at the Chicago Bureau office spoke over the cell phone, and Craig pictured the man still bandaged up, stuck at his desk and wishing he could be in the middle of the action. “We’ve diverted the team of agents from Bretti’s house, and our SWAT teams have scrambled. We’ve informed airport security. Did you want any uniformed police officers as backup?”

Craig lurched into the side of the door as Jackson weaved around traffic. “No, keep them away. The last thing we want to do is to spook Bretti. He’s got enough explosive power in his briefcase to turn O’Hare into a smoking crater—and I don’t think he even knows it. Keep this a federal operation, and let me run it from inside. Special Agent backups only.”

“What about equipment?” Schultz pressed. “Do you need any NEST or FEMA support?” The FBI worked closely with both the Department of Defense’s Nuclear Emergency Search Team as well as the Federal Emergency Management Agency; but this was totally out of the box. The destructive potential Bretti carried in his briefcase was as great as a small fission bomb, but unlike radioactive material, the antimatter was undetectable.

“There’s no nuclear signature to help find his antimatter trap. And if it goes unstable, you’ll need the Red Cross more than anyone else. Just have additional agents stake out the International terminal, especially the Concord gate. We’ll be running surveillance around it. Remember, we don’t know Bretti’s plans, and were not even sure he’s here.” He swallowed hard, not wanting to consider the possibility that they might be so far off base. “Were you able to find out if Bretti had applied for a visa to India?”

“We’ve queried the Consulate office in Chicago, and they’re taking their sweet time getting back to us. I think they’re giving us the runaround.”

“Use what pressure you can. If Bretti is going to India, it’s got to be in their records . . . unless the Indians are using some diplomatic Vaseline to slip him through under our noses. Call the State Department if you need help prying that information loose.”

“I’ll do what I can on this end. Good luck, Kreident.”

“Thanks. We’re almost there.” Craig flipped the phone shut and held on. He spotted the airport Hilton and the arching terminal building ahead.

Craig had worked around scientists during his student days at Stanford, before going into patent law and then law enforcement. Researchers were just like any other focused group of people, but usually more intelligent, more introspective, more introverted—classic Meyers-Briggs “INTP” personality types—motivated by personal competence and attention to detail.

But they were also motivated as much by greed, professional jealousy, profit, fame . . . all the usual temptations other people experienced. Craig had to understand the grad student’s motivations to be able to negotiate with him. And he certainly hoped this situation could be resolved through negotiation, rather than firepower.

As a frustrated grad student, who had worked for seven years with a Ukrainian èmigrè, Bretti would have wanted to do something big, something to get attention, money, women. He had worked under the shadow of a world-class high-energy physicist who kept his major black-program work completely secret; and while Dumenco published paper after paper, made “new” breakthrough after breakthrough, poor unremarkable Bretti had not even completed his doctorate. He would have blamed everybody for his own lack of initiative, his own lackluster success.

And when the opportunity came to make a big splash, to do something exciting, something highly profitable, Bretti had jumped at it . . . and then had fallen down the slippery slope. He was an utter amateur, confused, panicked, and desperate. Goldfarb must have stumbled upon him in the substation, startled him—and Bretti had reacted like a cornered rat. Craig wondered if Dumenco had suspected Bretti’s experimental sabotage, so that Bretti rigged an accident to kill his mentor. That would explain most of the loose ends.

The chaos of the Departing Flights area was maddening, an obstacle course of cars parked in all lanes, cabs honked their horns and dropped off passengers wherever they chose, men in business suits ran with briefcases, families hauled enough luggage to set up a new home, traffic directors blew whistles and attempted to keep order while being summarily ignored.

Jackson squealed up to the curb marked International. A red-jacketed steward shuffled toward them with a metal baggage cart. Before the man could touch the bill of his hat, Craig was already out of the car, flashing his FBI wallet. “Federal agents, sir. I’ll need your cooperation to watch our vehicle.” Jackson joined him, leaving the car running.

The baggage steward gulped and looked around, as if trying to find airport security. Craig and Jackson paid no attention to him as they ran inside the main terminal.

A fifty foot high ceiling extended to the left and right. Ticket counters for United, American, Delta, British Airways, and other carriers lined up one next to another, as far as he could see. People milled around in disordered clumps and ordered lines, dressed in jeans, shorts, long flower-print dresses, business suits, jogging outfits, sarongs, casual slacks, military uniforms, robes. Friday afternoon, and it seemed as if the entire city had come down either to fly out or see someone off.

Craig removed his sunglasses, stood on his tiptoes, and saw an advertisement for the Concord. “I’ll go straight for the gate. You go cover the British Airways check-in counter. You remember what Bretti looks like?”

Jackson strode into the thick of the crowd. He stood a good half foot higher than most of the others and was able to orient himself. “Unless he had time for major cosmetic surgery since he shut me in that beam alcove this morning, I’m not going to forget a line on that little twerp’s face.”

As Jackson fought through the line toward the counter like a fish swimming upstream, Craig took out his badge and raced to the security checkpoint. He stepped to the left of the metal detectors and the lines, showing his ID. “FBI. It’s an emergency.”

The security gate supervisor glanced at his ID and motioned for a police officer. The officer leaned over, unimpressed. “Let me see your tin. I don’t want to see no paper.”

Craig flashed his gold badge and the policeman immediately straightened, then waved him through. “Need any help, sir?”

“They’ll be some backup here from the Chicago Bureau office,” said Craig. “Give them a call to confirm it.” It seemed everyone turned to look at him, and Craig hoped the attention didn’t alert Bretti.

Running through the terminal and the customs barriers, he checked the TV monitors to see when the next flight to India was scheduled to depart. Ahead, the gate was just opening the line for today’s flight. He pushed his way through the crowd, heart pounding.

Set just in front of the customs area, the Concord check-in gate was situated so the passengers could walk directly from checking their luggage to meet with an army of customs officials. The setup was artificial, established solely for Concord’s month of “New Delhi Special” flights—a convenience paid by the high price of a ticket on the supersonic transport.

The line of people twisted around the corner, patiently waiting for the perky ticket agents. The passengers were serious-looking gray-haired men in business suits; older, casually-dressed couples riding the Concord for pleasure; and a few thirtysomething executives. Everyone in line looked as though they had an expensive reason for being there—a critical business meeting, a vacation splurge, and each one expected to be treated as a VIP.

Grubby Nicholas Bretti didn’t belong in company like that, and he should have stuck out, obviously out of place. Craig continued to scan the crowd, but saw no sign of the harried grad student.

Bretti
had
to fly out today. Too many people were hunting for him, and Bretti had to know it. Could he be going out on a regular jet-liner, and not the Concord? Was the India connection just a red herring? Judging from the evidence found in his duplex, Bretti had done this before, had met with Indian officials, and had already disposed of at least one shipment of stolen antimatter.

Perhaps the grad student was already in the waiting room—but how could he have gotten through the line so fast? The airline officials had just opened the ticket line when Craig arrived, and it was impossible to rush through customs—

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 bustled through 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, US 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 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 white beard—he just walked past your area. Do you know who he is?”

Belinda stood on her tiptoes and squinted at the departing 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 sight of the elusive graduate student. He decided to walk down the rest of 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-à-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 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 appeared 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.