This early on Tuesday afternoon, Bretti didn’t have to worry about rush hour traffic heading into downtown Chicago. Still, with his battered nerves, he didn’t want to push his luck finding a parking spot for his small red Saturn-leased, but still a good bargain on his grad-student salary. He couldn’t walk for blocks lugging the bulky Penning trap. Every bag lady and cab driver would spot him and wonder. He tossed a cigarette out the window and started for the embassy.
But first he pulled off to the side, stopping by a jetty on the shore of huge, gray Lake Michigan. The old concrete jetty was just remote enough that no one questioned people who stopped to gawk. Gold and red leaves from a cluster of trees hid him from others along the shoreline. A place for early-morning joggers; not many in the midafternoon.
The traffic was sparse, and he waited scant seconds before he fumbled in his pocket for the stolen FBI handgun. The gun was slick and still seemed hot-hot from firing the bullets that had torn into the agent’s flesh. Bretti thought he could still feel the heat on the barrel, the unexpected kick from the recoil as he reacted without thinking.
Standing on the jetty, he tossed the handgun underhand into the chilly depths where waves churned with the brisk October breeze. The heavy gun made a soft splash like a gulp, and was swallowed up by the gray surface.
Much farther down the shore, a kid threw stones into the water, then ducked back as a wave splashed against the rocks. He waved at Bretti, who was too terrified not to wave back. Bretti was back in his car and jockeying into the fast lane in less than a minute.
“Not enough time as it is,” he muttered while clutching the steering wheel. And I’ve just shot a man over a difference of ten minutes. The embassy can damned well treat me like a VIP for once. And the man was FBI yet! They’ll be crawling all over my ass.
Racing down embassy row near Lakeshore Drive, Bretti passed stately buildings hidden behind ten-foot wrought-iron and brick fences. Immaculate guard shacks nestled beside every gate, partially obscured by thick shrubbery. Some embassies were protected with bulletproof glass windows; others were more inviting, giving an impression of openness-friendly nations, proud and colorful flags. The whole area oozed high society-the kind of life Bretti deserved, not some apartment hole in the burbs.
Bretti pulled up to the guard gate of the Indian embassy. Inside the shack, a guard took notice and motioned for him to stop. He hadn’t thought what he would say, but he rolled down his window anyway.
The faint smell of flowers and spice drifted into the car. A curving cobblestoned driveway wound around immaculately kept gardens. Not much like the boring homes around Batavia and Aurora -he would sure as hell be glad to get away from that. But first he had to get through the gate.
The embassy itself stood behind a fortress of aesthetically pleasing protective buffers-beige flower planters each the size of a small car, thick stone columns, ornate wrought-iron fencing. Unseen among the splendor, Bretti knew sophisticated microwave sensors stood watch over the compound.
A dark man wearing a white coat and turban, maroon pants, and a long ceremonial sword emerged from the guard shack. The man smiled through a black beard and mustache, but his eyes never lingered on Bretti. Instead, they swept back and forth along the red car for unforeseen threats.
Bretti recognized him. This was the same guard who had been present the two previous times he had visited the Indian Embassy.
Placing his hand on the silver hilt of his curved sword, the guard smiled tightly. “Welcome to the Indian Embassy, sir. What may I do for you here today?”
“I’m Nicholas Bretti,” he snapped, irritated that the man didn’t recognize him. “I have an appointment with Mr. Chandrawalia.”
“Very good, sir.” The guard reached into the shack, pulling out a clipboard. He ran his white-gloved fingers down a list. “Ah, yes, Mr. Bretti. You are somewhat late. Would you please park your car outside and enter through this gate?”
“I have an important… delivery for Mr. Chandrawalia. It’s in the trunk.”
The guard lifted an eyebrow. “You may unload the item here if you please while you park your car outside.”
“It’s quite bulky and-look,” said Bretti in exasperation, “this is extremely important, and Mr. Chandrawalia is expecting this right away. I’m late as it is, and I’m sure you don’t want to upset anyone else.” Especially me. He felt sweat prickling along his clothes.
He wondered if the FBI agent’s body had been found yet. His stomach lurched with nausea. My God, he had killed a man, shot him-how many times? Bretti didn’t even know.
“Why don’t you pick up the phone and call Mr. Chandrawalia. I’m sure he’ll authorize you to let me in with my car.”
“I will do what I can, but we usually do not go to such lengths to accommodate a guest.” Turning briskly, the guard’s white coat flapped in the air. His eyes continued to scan the street as he spoke to Bretti, as if a horde of terrorists might suddenly appear to storm the embassy. And in Chicago, for God’s sake, Bretti thought. Can you believe the security?
Rapidly tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, Bretti felt confined. What if someone had seen him leaving Fermilab? He had to get to cover somehow, and the Indians were his only hope.
A bearded face thrust into the car window. “Mr. Bretti? You are quite correct. Mr. Chandrawalia is indeed anxious to see you. A driver will be out shortly to bring your car to the front. Please walk into the complex to meet him.” The guard opened the car door and waited for Bretti to get out.
Cursing under his breath, Bretti scooted out from the seat and left the keys dangling in the ignition. He nervously ran a hand through his black hair, then popped the trunk. The guard towered over him, emotionless as he carefully closed Bretti’s car door. Turning a key in a control box, the guard swung open the gate. “We will take good care of your car, sir.”
Bretti walked around to the trunk and lifted the unwieldy suitcase out of the car. No fuckin‘ way he was going to let these towelheads get hold of his Penning trap. It was only Phase One of the down payment he owed the Indians, but he wasn’t going to let this get out of his sight. Swinging the bulky case by his side, he made for the embassy house.
Inside the fence a short man in a white tunic ran from the main building, taking no notice of him. Bretti passed bumblebees drifting lazily around the garden. The flowers made the air thick, sweet, and nauseating. He entered the embassy, glad to be behind the protective walls.
Bretti had never been able to figure out Chandrawalia’s exact title and position in the Embassy. But it had to be high up in the food chain, judging from everything he had promised Bretti. The man smiled graciously as he sat behind a polished wooden desk, gesturing him into the private office.
Paintings of Hindi women dressed in colorful garb were positioned across the wall next to photographs of elaborate Mughal-era temples, photos of vast cities taken from the air, and the standard picture of the Taj Mahal. Green marble elephants stood two feet tall on either side of the desk.
“Welcome, Dr. Bretti. I am honored to listen, though my time is somewhat at a premium this afternoon.” Chandrawalia’s dark face contrasted with his impossibly white teeth. He had deep wrinkles, and a white beard shot with strands of iron gray.
“This is important enough to be worth your time.”
“Very well, Dr. Bretti. Would you care for some tea?”
Tea? How could Bretti think of tea at a time like this? His whole life, his future had just disintegrated around him-like an antimatter explosion. He wondered if he should confess to Chandrawalia, explain about the FBI agent, his flight, all because the Indian government wanted a secret stash of p-bars. Would Chandrawalia help him out of this mess?