“But I’m sure you managed to help,” Craig finally said, still trying to get her to open up. “That’s what you’ve always wanted to do, help people.”
“But that isn’t always the case, is it?” she said testily. “How can you stand it, Craig? This fatalistic inevitability. By the time you’re called in to a murder investigation, the crime has already happened. You’re always too late… and I’m always too late. When I get called to treat a radiation exposure, like Georg’s, there’s not much I can do. I can’t even make him more comfortable as he dies.”
She pushed her tray away. “My sole purpose is to collect data on his decline and death. No one in the world could have cured his lethal exposure, but I’m the one they called-so I’m the one who ultimately fails.”
“Oh, Trish,” Craig said trying to be soothing, but he sounded scolding instead. What other information did she have? What did the PR-Cubed have to do with this? “You help people who receive smaller exposures.”
Trish sat back and thought for a moment, then smiled. “You’re right. Sometimes I can help. In fact, that’s why I’ve been thinking of you recently.”
Craig blinked, unsure of where she was going. She couldn’t be trying to get back together, could she?
Trish leaned forward. “I treated a friend of yours. They called me in after that Russian General Ursov received his exposure out in Nevada. You were there. The man couldn’t stop talking about you.”
“You treated Ursov?” Craig said in astonishment. But of course, it made sense. Trish LeCroix was one of the few medical radiation experts, and she was well known in her field. When a senior Russian military officer had received the large radiation dose, medical experts would have called someone like Trish. “So you’re the one he meant. In a letter he added a postscript saying that our ‘mutual friend’ sends greetings. I was baffled until now. I couldn’t figure out who he was talking about.”
Trish smiled. “I guess he played a little trick on you.”
“Those Strategic Rocket Forces guys, what a bunch of jokers.” He had thought a great deal about Ursov and respected the stoic general for his unwavering devotion… and now an idea formed in his mind.
Seemingly eager to be away from the prior conversation, Trish continued offhandedly, “Your friend Paige Mitchell seems a… nice enough sort of person. In her own way.”
Craig concentrated on his spaghetti. He couldn’t tell if Trish was being catty or if she was just trying to gauge his response. “We’ve worked closely on several cases now,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
She waited, but he refused to give her more details about the cases.
“She’s very smart,” he finally continued. “Easy to get along with.” He left the thought hanging.
He didn’t particularly enjoy being caught between two such women. It might be best for him, for the case, and for his own sanity if he spent the next days working with Jackson and trying to steer clear of both Trish and Paige.
Dumenco’s accident, the substation explosion, Goldfarb’s shooting, the saboteur in Dumenco’s apartment, and the mysterious attacker in the hospital-not to mention the Ukrainian’s connection with Trish and the PR-Cubed-gave him quite enough to worry about for the time being.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Thursday, 1:17 p.m.
Evergreen Espresso, Aurora, Illinois
Nicholas Bretti sipped on his double espresso, though he was wired enough, unsettled, edgy. He sat on one of the metal-mesh chairs under a green-and-white sun umbrella, scanning down the sidewalk. Where the hell was Chandrawalia? In downtown redneck Aurora, he shouldn’t have trouble finding the whip-thin Indian representative.
At least outside he could have a smoke. The whole damned country was getting to be a nonsmoking zone. Thank goodness India hadn’t gone that direction. That was one thing he could look forward to if he went back to Bangalore… for the rest of his life.
He swallowed hard, then nervously lit another cigarette with his cheap butane lighter and stuck it back into his pocket. He took a long drag, pulling the thick smoke deep into his lungs. Yes, in India he could smoke wherever he wanted. That was an advantage. He was sure there must be other advantages, at least one or two. There must be.
The too-cute rustic coffee shop was set off the main street, shaded by trees that had just begun to shed their leaves. Inside, Formica-topped tables and red vinyl booths filled most of the floor space. A wooden stage held an old Fender amplifier, two microphones, a stool, and four guitar stands for Friday night festivities. The smell of different coffee beans wafted through the air-French vanilla, Irish creme, amaretto, mocha, all tumbled together.
Bretti sat alone outside in the clear, cool autumn air. He had never felt so isolated in his life. What was he going to do? He looked at his watch again and groaned. The Indian bastard better show up.
Bretti took another drag, then coughed. Inside the coffee shop, the only other customer-some girl who hadn’t even looked his way when he’d entered-kept her nose buried in the Chicago Sun. Good. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself.
Chandrawalia had told Bretti to meet him there, in no uncertain terms. Bretti hadn’t dared slip into Fermilab yet. He had even cruised past his apartment three times before he finally decided no one was watching the place-but still, he refused to flick on his lights. He had stumbled in the dark to his bed, crashed, and spent most of the night trying to sleep.
Back at the accelerator, his crystal-lattice trap should still be installed down in the beam-shunt tunnel, unnoticed. It had been two days since he had left, two days since he had shot the FBI agent. No doubt teams were crawling over the site, but they would be concentrating on the substations, where the first explosion had occurred and where the shooting had happened. He doubted they would have any reason to scour the experimental target areas.
He had no idea if the FBI was watching for him, if they even suspected. Would they come and arrest him in the middle of the night, have a stakeout inside Fermilab-or would he get away with everything, no one the wiser?
Bretti took another sip of espresso, tasting the burned bitter smell on his tongue as it mixed with tobacco smoke. Then he saw Chandrawalia coming down the street, wearing a blue turban. The tall Indian stood out, even when he was dressed in a short sleeve, open-collar shirt. Chandrawalia gave a perfunctory bow, scraping a heavy chair across the patio concrete to take a seat next to Bretti. He didn’t seem to have any intention of ordering coffee for himself.
“You’re late,” Bretti said.
“Traffic,” Chandrawalia said. His dark eyes searched the near-deserted coffee shop. “Your car is still parked at the Consulate garage. When are you going to pick it up?”
Bretti shook his head. “It’s too risky. I may just have to ditch it.”
Chandrawalia was unimpressed. “I am told that your trip to Bangalore was disappointing to Dr. Punjab. That is very disturbing news to me. I thought we had an agreement.”
Bretti tried to look Chandrawalia in the eye, but the man’s gaze kept jumping from one spot to another on the street, in the coffee shop. He leaned forward. “I told you that I had to get out of the country. And fast. Don’t you watch the news? They still might be looking for me after the explosion and after the shooting.”
“And why should we help you when you have proven yourself unreliable? And a danger to us as well.” Chandrawalia’s eyes seemed to click as he swung his entire focus to Bretti. He scowled, showing perfect white teeth against his dark skin. “You did not deliver the quantity of antimatter we had agreed upon. Our work depends on those p-bars. You have caused many difficulties for us.”