Running through the terminal and the customs barriers, he checked the TV monitors to see when the next flight to India was scheduled to depart. Ahead, the gate was just opening the line for today’s flight. He pushed his way through the crowd, heart pounding.

Set just in front of the customs area, the Concord check-in gate was situated so the passengers could walk directly from checking their luggage to meet with an army of customs officials. The setup was artificial, established solely for Concord ’s month of “New Delhi Special” flights-a convenience paid by the high price of a ticket on the supersonic transport.

The line of people twisted around the corner, patiently waiting for the perky ticket agents. The passengers were serious-looking gray-haired men in business suits; older, casually-dressed couples riding the Concord for pleasure; and a few thirtysomething executives. Everyone in line looked as though they had an expensive reason for being there-a critical business meeting, a vacation splurge, and each one expected to be treated as a VIP.

Grubby Nicholas Bretti didn’t belong in company like that, and he should have stuck out, obviously out of place. Craig continued to scan the crowd, but saw no sign of the harried grad student.

Bretti had to fly out today. Too many people were hunting for him, and Bretti had to know it. Could he be going out on a regular jet-liner, and not the Concord? Was the India connection just a red herring? Judging from the evidence found in his duplex, Bretti had done this before, had met with Indian officials, and had already disposed of at least one shipment of stolen antimatter.

Perhaps the grad student was already in the waiting room-but how could he have gotten through the line so fast? The airline officials had just opened the ticket line when Craig arrived, and it was impossible to rush through customs-

Unless Bretti had some sort of diplomatic privilege, and bypassed the various customs and inspection stations…

Then Craig spotted a tall, dark-skinned man with white hair poking out from underneath a light blue turban, a gray beard and a neatly trimmed mustache. He walked briskly out of the customs area, nodding to the customs officials as he passed, carrying himself like a diplomat.

The turbaned man walked purposely, looking from side to side. Glancing at Craig, he quickly looked away-then his eyes darted back before he abruptly angled away from the customs area while increasing his pace.

The Indian official spoke with someone in the crowd. Craig’s heart pounded as things clicked in place. Bretti would need an insider-so no wonder the Indian consulate was dragging their feet getting back to them regarding Bretti’s visa. If the grad student was sponsored by someone in the Consulate, someone who desperately wanted to obtain the black-market antimatter, U.S. customs would never question an official request from the Indian government. Bretti could have walked right through any normal diplomatic stumbling blocks.

Craig pulled out his FBI wallet as he approached the customs officials. The people parted like water receding from a rising mountain as he pushed his way to the counter. A customs officer glanced up, and he spotted her nametag. Belinda. Dressed in a white, short-sleeved uniform, the woman brushed back strands of long brunette hair.

“Special Agent Kreident, FBI,” said Craig quietly. He turned to the mall area of the terminal and nodded toward the man with the turban. “The man with the turban and the gray beard-he just walked past your area. Do you know who he is?”

Belinda stood on her tiptoes and squinted at the man. “He’s from the Indian Consulate’s office. He escorted someone through here earlier on official Indian business.”

Craig’s pulse quickened. “Can you tell me what he looked like? Even a general description?

Belinda shrugged. “A ratty-looking guy-dark hair, goatee.”

So Bretti was heading out to India. That just about nailed it. Craig felt the pressure of time ticking away. He scanned the international waiting lounge beyond the customs table. People milled around the gates, some sipping coffee, others lounging in padded chairs. Farther down the concourse, a string of bars, newsstands, and duty-free shops provided numerous places for Bretti to hide.

The man with the blue turban had melted into the crowd. Craig looked from side to side, but saw only a blur of unfamiliar faces.

Craig tried to act nonchalant, as if he were one of the hundreds of passengers waiting for flights. One of hundreds who would die if Bretti did something rash and caused the antimatter to explode. He used his peripheral vision as he strolled down the causeway. Stopping, he put his hands in his pocket and pretended to look up at the CNN monitor, while he urgently scanned the crowd for a glimpse of someone who might be Bretti himself.

Craig ducked into the men’s room and waited until the stalls emptied, one by one; still no sign of the elusive graduate student. He decided to walk down the rest of the causeway, to the gates serving other international flights.

A dark-haired man suddenly appeared from a door on the right. The door opened up to a plush, richly decorated interior-high-backed red chairs, a mirror running behind a fully stocked bar, small tables set off to the side where people might have a quiet tête-a-tête: a VIP Traveler’s Club.

The man had thick black hair, and his scruffy Van Dyke beard hid his chin; his glasses were old, a style popular ten years ago. He carried a briefcase high on his arm and a small, frayed satchel by his side. The man looked completely out of place in the first-class lounge.

The man was Nicholas Bretti.

Craig focused on the brown briefcase. Smudged with dirt and looking as if it had carried Bretti’s work for years, the briefcase had artificial gold locks with a simple single cylinder combination. It looked deceptively plain, but Craig knew that case held the equivalent explosive power of three kilotons of TNT-six million pounds of deadly high explosive.

And if what Dr. Dumenco had said was true about the device being unstable, the antimatter trap might break down and release its deadly energy at any time.

Did Bretti even know it was unstable?

Craig froze, then backed to the side, wondering how best to handle the situation. Bretti hadn’t seen him yet. He had to call for backup, had to get Jackson here.

Before he could move, though, the bearded man in the blue turban reappeared from another entrance and walked briskly toward the grad student. Looking from side to side he strode up to Bretti.

The two men spoke in hushed tones, but Bretti held his briefcase close. The Indian seemed insistent. Bretti shook his head again, the turbaned official spoke sharply, and Bretti finally surrendered the briefcase, but kept his beat-up satchel.

Craig targeted both men, put his hand on his Sig-Sauer. He had to move, head off the Indian and keep him under control before anything could happen to the briefcase. The man in the blue turban slipped away from the traveler’s club, heading off down the promenade at a rapid pace. Craig had to stop this man first. They could arrest Bretti later.

Craig took a deep breath, ready to emerge from his hiding place.

Then Agent Jackson came charging down the concourse. With uncanny reactions, he spotted Bretti immediately and shouted. “Bretti! Nicholas Bretti, this is the FBI-stop and don’t move!”

Craig stepped out, “No, Jackson! Wait-”

But the man in the blue turban had heard the shout, the distraction, and bolted into the airport crowds.