The single bed was unmade; stacks of computer paper, journal articles, and textbooks were pushed up against the wall. A large cardboard box in one corner held copies of Physics Today and Physical Review Letters. Three empty cans of Pringle potato chips and a six-pack of Diet Pepsi sat by the nightstand. Dirty underwear was piled in a corner, but too many empty hangers dangled in the closet, some scattered on the floor. Bretti had just cleaned out his clothes.

Craig straightened. “I bet he’s not coming back.”

Inside the tiny kitchen, Jackson stood over a folding card table, scanning a sheaf of papers. Craig checked the date on the milk in the refrigerator; its freshness had expired a week earlier.

Under the table was what looked like a case of booze. Craig knelt to take a closer look. “Grand Marnier-a couple hundred dollars worth there. He’s got an expensive taste for a grad student.”

“Or was it a splurge?” Jackson asked. “Maybe he just got a nice payoff.”

“Look at this.” Jackson handed Craig a preprinted in-flight menu. On the front was printed welcome to the concord. “What the heck is a grad student doing with a menu from the Concord? Doesn’t that thing fly into New York?”

Craig stared at the list of Indian food, written in fancy script: Chicken vindaloo, curry vegetables, Kingfisher beer. “Goldfarb wanted me to go see it in O’Hare when I landed early Tuesday. British Airways was having a special this month, direct from Chicago to New Delhi, India.”

“A guy who lives in a dump like this on a grad student’s salary doesn’t have any business riding on the Concord,” Jackson said. “Or drinking a case of Grand Marnier. But what’s the connection with India?”

Craig said slowly, tentatively, “Well… India ’s a threshold high-tech country. Maybe Bretti got involved with somebody there.”

Jackson scrounged through the papers on the table, looking for a bank statement. “I’ll bet if we pull Bretti’s finances, we’ll find he’s made several large deposits. He doesn’t seem the type to know how to cover his tracks too well. He’s an amateur at this stuff.”

“All the more dangerous,” Craig cautioned, thinking of Ben Goldfarb. “Dr. Piter said this was only one of two places in the world that could produce p-bars- CERN and Fermilab. And with Dumenco’s new method to increase the production of antimatter, Fermilab is the only place that could make enough antimatter for profit.”

“Are you saying there’s a black market for antimatter?” Jackson was incredulous.

“Yes, and Bretti has a large batch to sell.” His mind’s eye saw a flash of Dumenco, lying on his deathbed, confessing to being involved in a Soviet black program to power exotic weaponry. “Think about it. He just left Fermilab and he’s on the run. Right now he’s got nothing to lose. He’ll want to get out of the country.”

Craig stuffed the Concord menu in his jacket pocket and turned for the door. “Let’s get to O’Hare. Whatever Bretti is doing doesn’t matter as much as what could happen if that satchel of antimatter goes unstable. He could take out the entire airport in an instant.”

Jackson raced behind him, leaving the door swinging on its hinges.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Friday, 12:17 p.m.

Fermilab

Back to normal, thought Nels Piter. Would things ever get back to normal? It had to be over soon. If Dumenco would just hurry up and die, the whole mess could be forgotten, cleanly and efficiently. And with the FBI agents rushing off after Nicholas Bretti, they would be satisfied with the conclusion of their case and just let the Fermilab researchers return to their experiments.

With the imminent publication of Piter’s major new paper in Phys. Rev. Letters, and the nail-biting wait for the Nobel announcement, and Dumenco’s lethal exposure-or even worse, his insistence that Piter’s own crystal-lattice trap was flawed, fundamentally flawed- Piter felt tense to the point of nausea.

But the Ukrainian had always caused problems for Piter-even on his deathbed.

Waiting for the elevator door to open in the cathedral-like Wilson Hall, Piter straightened his impeccable suit jacket, adjusted his tie. He ran a hand across his hair to smooth down the locks that had been blown out of place.

He felt dirty, sooty from the fire-he should have spent a moment in the rest room making himself presentable. He had an image to maintain in his office. He couldn’t stand having things out of place, especially his appearance-because he was very much aware that appearance was reality. He tended to avoid public rest rooms, germ-infested places all of them. He would just have to keep his dignity. That would be enough.

The elevator door slid open, and he stepped out onto the third floor, holding his head high as he made for his office, ignoring his administrative assistant Priscilla.

In the front-office hush, it seemed as if the woman’s eyes clicked when he walked past, no doubt astonished at her straight-laced boss’s unkempt appearance. He heard a chair pushed back as Priscilla stammered, “Dr. Piter. Thank goodness you’re back! You’ve received several calls today from-”

“Please hold all my calls, Priscilla,” he said. The last thing he needed was to have reporters pestering him when he really needed to conduct some damage control. A Nobel-nominated scientist dying of radiation exposure; two major substation explosions; FBI agents assaulted, shot, gassed; and a renegade grad student intent on selling antimatter on the black market-and all in less than a week. Piter’s mouth twisted.

Striding into his office, he immediately shrugged off his jacket and hung it on a hook behind the door. He tried to brush off some of the grime, but stopped, disgusted that he only rubbed it deeper into the material. He longed for this terrible day to end.

Within a minute, Priscilla knocked at the door. “Dr. Piter, you’ve received another-”

“I said I would accept no calls.”

“But, sir-”

“Priscilla, I ask you to honor my request. I simply have too much work to do, and time is extremely short. Our latest press announcement about the Physical Review paper takes precedence over everything at this moment.”

Her reply was curt and sullen. “Very well, Dr. Piter.” But she didn’t turn to leave. “Sir, there is a telegram for you. I’ve left it on your desk. I think you should take a look at it.”

Piter closed his eyes. If his administration staff wouldn’t leave him a minute of peace, how could he ever prepare for the madness bound to erupt when Bretti’s situation hit the press? It would make the news, and soon-it was just a matter of time. Worse yet, if the antimatter exploded and annihilated a third of Chicago, then the whole world would see mat his precious crystal-lattice trap was fundamentally flawed.

And that turned his stomach and left him sick with fear.

Sighing, Piter turned to his private washroom to clean up before he moved on to decide what he would do about that imbecile Bretti.

How would he explain the discrepancy between his pioneering work at CERN and Dumenco’s findings that his crystal-lattice trap was flawed? What had Dumenco said-that his solid-state diode lasers needed to be phase locked? And what would happen when his colleagues discovered that when the p-bar density reached a threshold, the container might become unstable? If it wasn’t for that damned Dumenco, the world would never have seen so many p-bars, and the threshold limit would never have been reached, at least not in his lifetime.

He noticed the pale-yellow Western Union envelope sitting square on his desk, as if Priscilla had lovingly placed it there.

He picked it up and tore it open-

Then froze, stunned.

A whirlwind of emotions ran through him. Conflicting, competing for his logical mind to untangle. He felt as if he had been taken to the highest pinnacle on earth, and flung down into the deepest depths.