Paige frowned. “Just another one of your complicated cases, Craig.”

“Dumenco himself is keeping information from me. I’m not sure what it is, but he’s hiding something. And on top of that, he’s more concerned with his experimental results than in helping me out. Until I learn otherwise, Nels Piter is going to have to remain a suspect.”

He paused for a moment, trying not to change the subject too obviously. “So, just how well have you known Dr. Piter the past year?” He studied her face, looking for any clues as to exactly what type of relationship Paige had with the research director.

Paige smiled coyly as she reached for her glass of water. “Craig, now what do you mean by that?”

He fumbled with his napkin. “What’s your professional relationship with Dr. Piter?”

“Oh, I thought you were concerned about something else.”

He raced through several comebacks, and almost told her the truth-that yes, dammit, he did have feelings for her-but then a thin, nasal voice interrupted them. “Paige, sorry I’m late. I was on the phone with a colleague in Stockholm -he had gotten up early to call me, so I had to hear him out.” Nels Piter walked briskly up, bent down and kissed Paige on the cheek.

Paige smiled. “Craig and I just got here, Nels.”

Piter took notice of Craig for the first time and curtly extended his hand. “Agent Kreident, good evening. Nice of you to invite me along tonight.”

“Yes,” answered Craig in a monotone. “Glad you could make it.”

The cocktail waitress stepped to the side of the table. “Excuse me, would you care for a drink?”

Piter spoke before either of them could respond. “We’ll have a bottle of your best Chianti, please.” He shooed her away as Craig scowled, since he didn’t particularly like wine. Paige didn’t complain, though he had expected her to order an imported Italian beer or something.

The Belgian scientist had high color in his cheeks as he told Paige about the phone call. He made no attempt to hold the details quiet, speaking just loudly enough that the nearest tables could hear. “So I have it on authority that the committee has down-selected to a short list of three candidates.”

“And you’re one of the finalists?” Paige asked.

Piter toyed with his empty wine glass. “Marvelous, isn’t it? They’re going to announce the winner Friday. And the latest copy of Phys Rev Letters hits the stands tomorrow with the latest Fermilab results of my antimatter trap design.” He threw a glance at Craig. “The device I invented while at CERN. The timing of the article couldn’t be better.”

“What about the other two finalists?” Craig asked. “Do you know who they are?‘’ He coughed.

“No,” said Piter curtly, “just that I’m on the short list. But now that the chances are down to one in three, I can win against anyone.”

“Even Georg Dumenco?”

Piter looked as if he had swallowed something very sour. “He’s probably on the short list as well. Georg is one of those rare individuals who could have won the Nobel at any time-if not this year, then the next, or the one after. He is extremely well known and liked. And as a Ukrainian, he is a favorite of the judges. So he is sure to win one of these years.”

“He’s not going to have another chance,” Craig said, coughing to the side. “He’ll be dead in a few days.”

“Pity they can’t award it posthumously.” Piter hesitated. He looked down at his empty wine glass and spoke with a hint of bitterness, and with a suddenly quiet voice. “But for me… this may be my final chance. My work is several years old, and that’s why I’m hoping this new paper will generate some excitement.” He looked at Paige. “I cannot afford to let chance play a part in the selection.”

Craig folded his hands on the tablecloth, speaking calmly as he watched Piter. “So what does the Nobel process involve? I’m not familiar with the details.”

Piter raised his chin, taking on the air of a lecturer as the cocktail waitress returned with a bottle of wine. He dismissed her with a wave after she opened the bottle and poured glasses for each of them.

“Each year the physics committee invites thousands of scientists, members of scientific academies, and university professors throughout the world to nominate candidates for the Nobel Prize. As you can imagine, the competition is intense, and I’ve been subtly campaigning for years. The nominations are then investigated by dozens of experts appointed by the Nobel foundation. The committee then makes a selection among the candidates and submits a short list of three finalists.”

Paige looked at him with a bit too much admiration, as far as Craig was concerned. “So that’s where you are now,” she said.

Craig pushed his wine glass aside without taking a drink. “I always thought the Nobel Prize was awarded years after a big discovery, so the long-term ramifications could be assessed.”

Piter took another sip of the deep red wine and forced a smile. “Yes, indeed. Science is about peer review and reproducible results. The work must be held up and inspected for flaws, and it takes years to assess its impact on the body of science. Einstein himself won the prize not for his theory of relativity, but for his much earlier work on the photoelectric effect, which eventually led to the founding of the quantum theory.

“I’ll be blunt. My original work at CERN was responsible for my appointment as Director of High-Energy Physics at Fermilab. My novel method of storing antimatter is once again summarized in this new paper, which cements all of those assessments with hard data from the Tevatron.”

A waiter appeared at their table in a long-sleeved white shirt and charcoal gray tie. He carried three black folders. “May I interest you in a menu?”

Craig wondered if Piter was going to unilaterally order for them as well. The Belgian research director still had a motive to kill Dumenco, but it didn’t seem prudent for Piter to talk so much about the competition. Then again, after working on high-tech crimes for several years now, nothing would surprise Craig.

He spoke aloud as he accepted his menu. “Well, I wish you the best of luck, sir. But it’s too bad Dr. Dumenco won’t have another chance to compete for the prize. He may not even have this one.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Thursday, 4:39 a.m.

O’Hare InternationalAirport

The Concord eased down from Mach 2, approaching the continental U.S. from the north at seven hundred miles an hour, faster than any other airliner in the world. Half asleep, groggy and stiff from time changes, jet lag, and cramped quarters, Nicholas Bretti could have calculated the needle-nosed plane’s altitude and temperature from the Mach number displayed on the front bulkhead; but his mind was focused elsewhere, seething.

Even when they had sent him packing, the damned Indians couldn’t resist pushing him around. Where did they get off? He was the one risking his neck, he had gotten the opportunity for them. So what if he had managed to bring only a portion of the antimatter he had promised? He was still early, and he had the means to get the rest.

However, upon returning to the U.S., he just might find himself the target of an FBI manhunt. Bretti would have to be very careful. He needed to slip in, grab the hidden crystal-lattice trap from the substation, and arrange to drop it off-but not before Chandrawalia made some further guarantees. Bretti couldn’t wait to have words with the smug, whip-thin man from the Embassy. After all, if Bretti got caught, he was damned well going to bring the rest of them down with him and expose all their embarrassing commercial plans.

Too bad he wouldn’t have time to pay his respects to old Dumenco. He wondered if the Ukrainian slave master had kicked off yet. In his imagination, Bretti pictured the physicist writhing in a hospital bed with his skin sloughing off, his hair falling out, his gums bleeding. Dangerous stuff, that radiation. The most amazing part, though, was that Dumenco had been exposed while doing his own work for a change, rather than bossing around his pet grad student.