Authors: Tom Grace
Quantum (6 page)
South Bend, Indiana
‘Nolan,’ Kelsey moaned weakly, her mind still getting reacquainted with her body as she carefully pulled herself into a sitting position.
‘I’m here, honey.’
Carefully looking around the corner at the double doors of the loading dock, Nolan saw the semi pulling away. Relieved, he holstered the Glock and sat beside Kelsey.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Numb. Kind of tingly, like my whole body went to sleep. They shot us with something.’
‘Probably some kind of stun gun.’ He picked up her hand, and her trembling stopped – just nerves.
Inside Sandstrom’s lab, the second bag ruptured in the sink. Its milky white contents oozed out, then slowly drifted down toward the bottom of the sink. When the contents of the second bag reached the layer formed along the basin by the first, the chemicals ignited in a hypergolic reaction. The initial flash was enough to evaporate the water in the sink. In less than a second from the initial contact, a whitehot fireball erupted inside the lab. The sink, and the bench it was set in, vaporized instantaneously.
A low rumble resonated through the building; lights flickered and dust fell from the ceiling as a shock wave telegraphed the concussive energy of an explosion through the structure around them. A moment later the highdecibel wail of the fire alarm punished their ears.
‘Where are Ted and Raphaele?’ Kelsey shouted over the din, her recovery almost complete.
‘I think they’re still upstairs. Come on, we gotta get out of here.’
He carefully helped Kelsey up; then, with one arm around her for support, he quickly walked her toward a side entry. She gained confidence with each step, easily keeping up with his increased pace by the time they reached the lawn in front of Nieuwland Hall.
A pall of smoke billowed out of a series of windows on the second floor where Sandstrom’s lab had been.
‘Oh my God,’ Kelsey cried, sickened by the thought of the two men trapped in the blaze.
A parade of flashing red and blue lights raced down Cavanaugh Road as a convoy of emergency vehicles from the Notre Dame campus police and the South Bend Fire Department converged on the burning science building.
By the time Nolan and Kelsey ran around the building to the loading dock, police officers were starting to secure the area and firefighters were pouring out of their yellow rigs.
‘Hey, stay back!’ a cop shouted as they approached.
‘We were inside when it happened, Officer,’ Nolan announced, ignoring the request. ‘The fire’s in a lab on the second floor. Two people may still be up there; they were unconscious before the blast.’
‘Keep your hands where I can see them,’ the cop demanded sternly when he spotted the combat knife strapped to Nolan’s leg and the shoulder holster tucked under his armpit.
Nolan understood immediately and slowly placed his hands behind his head.
The cop, a fifteen-year veteran of the force, eyed the pair warily. Both were disheveled, and the bloodstained man looked as though he had been to hell and back. The cop reached out and plucked the Glock from Nolan’s holster.
‘There’s another one in my waistband,’ Nolan offered, twisting his torso to offer a partial view of his back.
The cop’s demeanor eased slightly at this show of good faith. He quickly confiscated the second pistol as well as Nolan’s knife.
‘Military issue,’ the cop commented as he eyed the black-handled blade. ‘Looks a little bloody. Anything else?’
‘Nothing other than a spare clip in my pocket.’
‘You can put ’em down.’ The cop checked the safeties on the pistols and signaled for the fire chief.
A stocky man encased in the bulky protective fire gear jogged over from the pumper truck.
‘Yeah, whatcha want?’ the firefighter asked.
‘Tell him what you told me,’ the cop ordered. ‘Then you and I are going to have a chat.’
‘The lab’s up on the second floor, far end of the corridor. There are two people still inside. They didn’t get out before the blast. We haven’t seen anyone else in the building all day.’
The chief nodded, then jogged away, calling several members of his crew over to map out a plan of attack.
‘Interesting artillery you got here. Now, take a walk with me,’ the cop commanded.
They headed over to a police cruiser parked on the grass. The cop tossed the confiscated weapons in his trunk and closed the lid. He then led them over to the paramedic truck.
‘What’s up?’ the paramedic asked.
‘Leg wound,’ the cop replied. ‘Take a look while I have a talk with these nice people.’
The paramedic carefully peeled off Nolan’s field dressing. ‘Jesus, we got us a gunshot wound. Clean through, all meat. I can clean ya up, but you’ll want this looked at in the ER.’
‘I just know there’s an interesting story about how you acquired that,’ the cop said, eyeing the hole in Nolan’s thigh. ‘Let’s start with your names.’
Nolan and Kelsey identified themselves and explained the reason for their presence on campus. The cop jotted down shorthand notes in a pocket pad as the story unfolded. An incredulous look swept over the cop’s face when Nolan calmly described killing three men. For Nolan, this was no different from the postmission debriefs from his SEAL days.
‘—and when we heard the sirens, we came over to tell you about Sandstrom and Paramo,’ Nolan concluded.
‘Officer,’ Kelsey added, ‘these men, whoever they were, have stolen valuable laboratory equipment and over a decade’s worth of irreplaceable research.’
‘Professor Newton, I’ll put the word out on the truck and the Blazer. Maybe we’ll get lucky.’
The cop turned and made a beeline for the elevated dock, all the while issuing a barrage of requests into the radio mike clipped to his left shoulder. At the dock, he found the bloodstains and put the call in for Homicide and Forensics.
As the paramedic finished treating Nolan’s leg, two teams of firefighters covered with soot rushed out of the building. Each team carried the supine form of one of the injured physicists strapped to a bright red backboard.
The paramedics and newly arrived EMTs met the firefighters halfway and started work on their patients as the backboards hit the gurneys.
‘I got a pulse,’ one shouted. ‘Weak, but there.’
From where they stood, Nolan and Kelsey saw that the burns were serious. Charred flesh, a blend of oozing red and black, covered the entire right side of Ted Sandstrom’s body.
‘This one’s dead,’ an EMT working on Paramo announced clinically.
‘Oh God,’ Kelsey sobbed as she turned and pressed herself into Nolan’s chest, his arms holding her. ‘That dear, sweet’ – her voice cracked with emotion – ‘old man.’
South Bend, Indiana
After Nolan and Kelsey received treatment for their injuries, the Notre Dame campus police transported them back to Nieuwland Hall. The blaze that had engulfed Sandstrom’s lab was now extinguished, and the exhausted fire crews were slowly stowing their gear. A ribbon of yellow tape surrounded the damaged building, declaring it off-limits while the authorities investigated the incident. Nolan saw a team of forensic technicians photographing the crime scene and gathering evidence around the loading dock.
When the police car reached the cordoned-off area, a man and a woman walked over to meet the vehicle. Over their suits, both wore dark blue windbreakers stenciled with the letters FBI.
‘Mr Kilkenny, I’m Special Agent Harris,’ the woman announced. ‘This is my partner, Special Agent Young. We’d like to have a word with you and Ms Newton.’
‘Of course,’ Nolan replied.
‘Can you tell us exactly what happened?’
Nolan launched into the chronology of events, starting when he and Kelsey had arrived in South Bend the previous evening. The agents waited until the end of his narrative before asking questions for clarification on various points of the attack and details regarding Sandstrom’s research on quantum energy cells.
‘Bottom line,’ Nolan said, ‘the men who did this were well trained, possibly former Russian Special Forces.’
‘Do you have any idea who might be responsible for this attack?’
‘No.’
‘Sandstrom and Paramo’s research was very cutting-edge stuff,’ Kelsey offered, ‘and in recent years they didn’t publish much of what they were working on.’
‘And the device, this quantum energy cell, how many people knew about that?’
Nolan thought for a moment. ‘Outside of the boards of MARC and ND-ARC and the regents of their respective universities, I can’t think of anyone who knew about the cell or our plans to develop it commercially.’
‘Can you provide a list of those who did know about it?’
‘Certainly, as soon as we get back to Ann Arbor, I can fax you the contact information. I’d be very surprised if any of those people are involved with this attack.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Agent Young asked.
‘Economics. The people I’m going to name will all be shareholders of the company we’re setting up to license quantum energy cell technology. Should things go the way we believe, the shares they purchase as insiders will be worth a fortune. What happened here today is simply not in their best interests.’
‘But someone did think this attack
was
worth doing,’ Young said.
‘Yes,’ Nolan agreed, ‘but keep in mind that this is more than a violent case of industrial espionage. The person or persons ultimately responsible for this have stolen a technology that could disrupt the industrialized world’s economy in a way that hasn’t been seen since the Great Depression.’
‘Thank you, Mr Kilkenny,’ Agent Harris said after a pause. ‘If we have any further questions, or information regarding this matter, we’ll be in touch.’
‘I’d appreciate being kept in the loop. How about security for Sandstrom?’
‘The local police have posted officers at the hospital ’round the clock, assuming he survives.’
Young’s cell phone chirped in his pocket, and he answered it. After a few single-syllable responses, he scrawled down some hasty notes and finished the call.
‘They found three bodies stuffed in some barrels just outside of town, all dressed in the moving company’s uniforms. Looks like our gunmen hit ’em on the way in.’
‘We have to go,’ Harris announced. ‘Again, thank you both for your help.’
As the FBI agents left, Nolan and Kelsey began walking over to his SUV.
‘Three more innocent people murdered,’ Kelsey said slowly, trying to comprehend it all.
Nolan placed his arm around Kelsey’s shoulder and pulled her close. He was a former SEAL; violence and death had been a part of his life – a part he’d hoped was behind him.
‘Nolan?’
‘Yeah, hon?’
‘Do you think we’re in any danger from these men?’
‘No. They got what they came for. We don’t know enough about Ted’s work to cause them any real concern. The only person who might still be in any danger is Ted. He and Paramo were the ones they were out to kill.’
‘This whole situation makes me feel so vulnerable, so helpless. I just wish there were something we could do.’
‘Well, there is one more thing I’m going to do.’
Nolan pressed the button of the SUV’s key fob and popped the locks. He opened the rear driver-side door and fished out his PalmPilot and a digital phone from his soft-sided briefcase. From the Pilot, he looked up a number and keyed it into the phone.
‘Mosley here,’ a voice answered.
‘Cal, this is Nolan Kilkenny.’
‘Kilkenny?’ Mosley paused for a moment, recalling the Spyder incident that they had both been involved in a year earlier. ‘How’ve you been, young man? Stayin’ out of trouble?’
‘Cal, I’d love to say this is just a social call, but it ain’t. I’ve got a problem – something along the lines of the last one we worked on together. I think the CIA might be interested.’
Nolan heard a click on the line.
‘I hope you don’t mind if I tape this.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Good, then tell me your story.’
Chicago, Illinois
Dmitri Leskov gazed down at his brother Pavel’s body one last time. The open wound, the result of two tightly placed 9-mm rounds, disfigured both the young man’s handsome face and Leskov’s memory.
‘I’m ready,’ Leskov announced.
Out of the corner of the room, Oleg Artuzov appeared, gliding silently across the polished terrazzo floor. The forty-four-year-old mortician plied the same trade in Chicago’s ethnic Russian community as he had in Smolensk, before emigrating to the United States. Though profitable in its own right, the Artuzov Funeral Home augmented its bottom line by laundering money and providing discreet ‘private services’ for the growing community of Russian Mafiya in Chicago.
Artuzov closed the simple casket that bore the body of Pavel Leskov. This was the third and last coffin that he would wheel into the adjacent room for cremation.
Leskov watched through the glass wall that separated the viewing room from the crematory as Artuzov rolled the stainless-steel charge trolley up to the door of the furnace. After docking the trolley, Artuzov moved to a control panel in the far corner of the room. At the press of a button, the automated process began. The furnace door slid upward, revealing a chamber heated to nearly one thousand degrees Celsius. Slowly, Pavel Leskov’s coffin moved into the fiery maw. When the coffin’s journey was finally complete, the furnace door dropped down and sealed the chamber.
Over the next two hours Pavel Leskov’s body would be reduced to a fine gray ash. In that form, the remains would then be mixed in with those of a legitimate client and dispersed over Lake Michigan. Smuggling three dead men out of the United States and back to Russia, in any form, was far too great a risk.
Leskov stepped outside of the air-conditioned funeral home and walked into a thick wall of humid air. Within seconds, the pressed white collar of his shirt was damp. The day was overcast, which matched his mood.
In front of the funeral home, a corpulent man who was packed like a sausage in an ill-fitting suit leaned against a dark blue Lincoln Town Car. Pyotr Voronin’s thinning black hair was slicked back like stringy lines of paint on his fleshy head.
‘Did Oleg take care of everything?’ Voronin asked.
‘
Da
, Pavel and the others will be scattered into your Great Lake Michigan later this week. Thank you for making the arrangements on such short notice.’
‘When Victor Orlov asks for a favor, well—’ The man shrugged his shoulders. No further explanation was required.
‘How are the other arrangements coming?’
‘Both trucks were taken to a chop shop and parted out, so neither exists anymore. Your cargo has been placed inside an air freight container with a few nondescript pieces of furniture. The furniture is camouflage; the bill of lading lists the contents as household goods and miscellaneous personal effects. Since there’s no contraband, we don’t need to lie about what we’re shipping. We’ve insured the entire lot for a few thousand dollars, low enough that no one on either end will be curious about it. It flies out Tuesday and lands in Moscow on Wednesday.’
‘Good. And the surveillance?’
‘I have a few people, former KGB, working on that. In a few days we should have Sandstrom and his associates well covered. How long do you think Orlov will want us to keep an eye on these people?’
‘I have no idea. Just don’t drop the surveillance until he tells you to.’
‘I’m not that stupid. Orlov will get regular reports until he tells me to stop.’
‘I am certain that he will be most appreciative of your efforts on his behalf.’