The person on the line said something and ran off. Craig wasn’t sure if the person had hung up. The Russian Strategic Rocket Forces probably didn’t get many calls from non-Russians.
Finally another voice came on the line, heavily accented. “I speak English. Who is this?”
“I must talk to General Ursov,” he said slowly and clearly.
The voice sounded surprised. “Ursov?” He spoke a burst in Russian, yelling at someone behind him, then came back. “No General Ursov here. No Ursov.”
Craig knew he had dialed the right number, knew this was a dodging tactic. “Tell General Ursov this is his friend from the United States. This is Special Agent Kreident.”
“No Ursov here,” the voice said again.
“Tell him it’s Craig Kreident,” he insisted. “I have an important matter to discuss with him. He owes me his life-he can at least talk to me on the phone.”
Another mutter, then the line went silent again except for occasional clicks like gnawing rodents on the wires. He was confident the conversation would be recorded, especially now. He hoped the eavesdroppers enjoyed the change in the pattern of their day.
In the service station next to the pay phone, mechanics used a power wrench to lock on hubcap bolts with such force that no stranded motorist would ever be able to get them free. A dropped wrench clanged on the cement garage floor, while another mechanic drove a blatting car without a muffler around back.
Craig looked at his stack of phone cards, ready to use another one as soon as his time ran out. After all this, he couldn’t risk being cut off by a telephone operator.
Finally the Russian general’s gruff voice came on the line, blustering loudly. “Agent Kreident! This is most unexpected.”
“Hello, General. Thank you for the official citation your government sent me. That was most kind of you, sir. And our mutual friend again says hello. It turns out we’re working on another case together, one similar to yours… only much worse. A lethal radiation exposure this time.”
Ursov suddenly sounded cagey. “I am sorry to hear that, my friend. An accident? And… where did this radiation come from?”
“It happened at a high-energy accelerator. Perhaps an accident, or perhaps not,” Craig said. “I need some information from you, General.”
“Me?” Ursov said, genuinely surprised. “How can I assist you? I am on the other side of the world.”
“The victim is an emigre Ukrainian scientist. He defected during the breakup of the USSR -”
“A defector?”
“Encouraged by us. He came to work at Fermilab, our largest particle accelerator, near Chicago.”
“I am familiar with CERN in Geneva. It is similar, yes?”
“Yes. From what I can tell, the victim worked for the Soviet Union on some projects-but he has kept extremely quiet about it. However, I believe some of his previous work may have endangered him here. And others. My own partner Ben Goldfarb has been shot. You might remember him.”
“I see why you have such incentive to solve this case. But a defector-”
“The victim has only about two days to live, General. A distinct part of the trail leads back to the physics he performed in the former Soviet Union. I want to know what it was, and why it might have marked him for death.”
Ursov was silent for a moment. “Agent Kreident, I have no knowledge of such matters. You must realize this.”
“But certainly, General Ursov, a man in your position has ways of finding out?” He pursed his lips, but Ursov didn’t rise to the bait. “The scientist’s name is Georg Dumenco. He was a highly esteemed physicist. I believe his work must have been ground-breaking, judging from the terms my country offered him when he defected. He’s under consideration for this year’s Nobel Prize in physics.”
Ursov interrupted him sourly. “Yes, we remember Dr. Dumenco. It is too bad he fled to your country. We would have been proud to have him accept his prize in Stockholm in the name of my country instead of yours.”
“Well he’s not going to be accepting it for either country,” Craig said. “Dumenco is in a hospital bed dying from radiation exposure. I need to know about him, General. Tell me what you can about his work.”
Ursov paused again, as if pondering the implications of answering. “If he conducted his research for Soviet military, those records are classified and sealed. I now merely work for Russian Strategic Rocket Forces.”
“Yes, General,” Craig said with total skepticism, “and I’m merely an accountant for the FBI.”
Ursov chuckled. More static came on the line.
Craig glanced at his watch. He didn’t have a clue how much money was left on his card, but he made ready to slip in another one before the line went dead. “Look, General, I don’t need to know the exact nature of what he was doing-I probably wouldn’t understand it anyway. But give me a lead, something that’ll help me solve this murder.”
Ursov sighed. “It will take some time, my friend, and do not expect too many details. I know I owe you my life, but sometimes a life is not worth all that much. At least not to people over here.”
“Do what you can, General, and don’t take too long.”
“Very well-and say hello to the lovely Dr. LeCroix for me. From the way she talks, I believe you still hold a special place in her heart.”
“Thanks, General,” Craig said, embarrassed, “that’s not the information I wanted to hear.”
“And say hello to the equally lovely Ms. Mitchell.” Ursov sighed. “Ah, to be twenty years younger. You must still work with both of them.”
“Yes, sir, I am-but it’s much too complicated to go into now.” And boy is that an understatement, he thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Thursday, 3:31 p.m.
Fox RiverMedicalCenter,
Intensive Care Unit
As they left Ben Goldfarb in his hospital room, Craig and Jackson strode down the hall in their dark suits, making their way past ICU rooms with dying or recovering patients. Their partner’s condition was unchanged, still weak and precarious; but the doctors had kept him on a ventilator, sedated and stabilized, with the endotracheal tube in his throat, which prevented him from speaking even if he had awakened. Goldfarb’s wife and daughters hovered beside him, giving their silent support.
Trish had gone to her temporary office to study lab results and chemical analyses of Dumenco’s condition, leaving the orderlies to do their rounds. Until he heard back from General Ursov, if he heard back, Craig saw no point in returning to Fermilab.
Seeing the curly-haired agent lying so severely injured, Craig felt his anger rising. Beside him, Jackson was silent and rigid, held erect by his internal fury and his need to find a target against which to release it.
Craig vowed to talk with the Ukrainian scientist one more time. Craig knew that Dumenco held a key piece of information, but refused to reveal it. Craig had no further patience, no more desire to play games. Ben Goldfarb had put his life on the line for that man. Dumenco could be a bit more cooperative…
According to Jackson ’s research, the Ukrainian’s grad student was nowhere to be found, not at home, not on vacation. Maybe he had just changed his plans, not in itself unusual, especially not for someone without a wife or children. Perhaps Bretti had even come back to work-but finding any particular individual at Fermilab was a daunting task, since the scientists and technicians didn’t usually bother to make their whereabouts known. Of course, if Bretti had returned, he would certainly have found out about Dumenco.
As he and Jackson strode down the hall toward the dying scientist’s room, they saw a blond-haired orderly flash his ID and hospital badge to the guards stationed outside. The two hospital security men glanced at the orderly’s ID and let him pass. The white-uniformed orderly slipped inside with his cart of medications and his clipboard.