The man rammed into Goldfarb like a linebacker smashing into an opposing quarterback. Goldfarb slammed backward into the computers and oscilloscopes, fighting for balance. Papers and desk paraphernalia scattered on the floor. The wind whooshed out of him.
He managed to wrench his pistol around, pointing it at his opponent. But the man did not hesitate to grab Goldfarb’s wrist and jerk the pistol away from the aim point. The first, instinctive gunshot went wild, ricocheting off the concrete wall and embedding itself in the ceiling of the substation.
“You asshole,” the man said, yanking Goldfarb’s arm. The pain in his broken collar bone made him want to vomit.
Instead, using the momentum in his turning body, Goldfarb swung one of the desk chairs around. It was heavy and metal like surplus from an old army base. It struck the other man in the hip, knocking him sideways. Then Goldfarb jabbed upward with his knee, hoping to catch the outraged man in the groin-but instead he only brushed the side of his leg.
Viciously, the man swung a fist down, smashing Goldfarb’s collar bone where the wrench had hit. The pain made a black thunderstorm in his head, and Goldfarb’s knees turned to water.
Seizing his chance, the man grabbed the agent’s handgun. Goldfarb struggled to remain conscious against the waves of nausea, but the other man twisted the pistol around. Goldfarb lurched away from the computer terminals against which he had been pressed, gave one last burst of strength-but the man countered him, clawing at the pistol.
Again, the gun went off.
The shot sounded like a hand grenade exploding, and Goldfarb felt the bullet plow into his ribs with all the force of a pickup truck. The impact threw him into the wall of computers and oscilloscopes again. He heard shattering glass, sparks.
Unable to stand any longer, he slid down to the concrete floor, barely able to focus his eyesight against the competing avalanches of pain. His enemy wrenched the pistol out of his limp hand and stepped back, aiming the weapon toward Goldfarb. The FBI agent had a last, unsettlingly clear glimpse of a man with dark disheveled hair and a matted goatee, his face tightened into a knot of anger and panic.
Goldfarb hadn’t even had a chance to cry out.
Then the man stepped back, pointed the pistol again, and shot Goldfarb once more in the chest for good measure.
He fell the rest of the way to the hard, cold floor in a rapidly widening pool of his own blood.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tuesday, 2:07 p.m.
Wilson Hall
Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory
In the open-air lobby of Wilson Hall, Paige led Craig past a Foucault pendulum on display, dangling from the rafters and sweeping through its delicate arc as the Earth rotated. Late lunch dishes clattered in the cafeteria; most of the tables were empty except for a few groups of scientists engaged in low discussions, seeking an area free of secretaries and telephones. She pushed the button for the elevator, and they both waited.
The fourth floor had an open, spacious feel, with cubicle-divided work areas for grad students and temporary hires. As they walked down the carpeted hall, Craig saw homey touches on each cubicle, plastic action figures of monsters and cartoon characters, yellowed comic-strip clippings; one wall was completely covered with outrageous tabloid headlines.
Paige flicked her blue eyes from name plate to number, trying to find her way. Clearly, she hadn’t had occasion to visit Georg Dumenco before.
When they reached his office, though, the Ukrainian scientist was there in person, despite his radiation exposure. Dumenco looked up, startled, as he sifted through a whirlwind of papers and printouts on his desk. File drawers were opened and ransacked, and his bloodshot eyes looked wild.
“Dr. Dumenco, what are you doing here?” Craig asked.
“This is my office,” Dumenco answered indignantly. He swallowed hard, then held onto the edge of his desk for support.
“You’re supposed to be in the hospital,” Paige said.
“I need my work, the results from my last test run. My graduate student Bretti isn’t here. He’s supposed to be on vacation, but I can’t reach him… he’s on a fishing trip somewhere, out of touch-and I don’t know how he files his records.” With an angry gesture, Dumenco slapped a pile of old memos and unopened mail on the floor.
Craig went forward to grasp his arm. “You drove here by yourself? I need to take you back to Trish-uh, I mean, Dr. LeCroix.” Paige’s eyes widened as she made the connection, but she didn’t say anything.
Dumenco shook off Craig’s grip and unsteadily drew himself up. “I am dying from radiation exposure, sir. My body is falling apart rapidly, and very soon I won’t be able to stand. I must use every moment of clarity left to me. Once I get back into that hospital bed, I know I’ll never leave.” He drew a thick breath. “This may be the last time I’ll set foot in my office-and I need my papers so I can keep… occupied.”
Craig gripped the decidedly unsteady scientist, and Paige helped usher Dumenco out of his office. “I’ll get you everything you need,” she said. “We’ll go through your files and find the printouts from your last test run.”
“I’m driving you back to the hospital,” Craig said, tolerating no argument. Dumenco seemed ready to resist until Craig added, “I need you to stay alive long enough to help me solve this case.”
On the drive from Fermilab toward the Fox River Medical Center, Craig watched Dumenco brood in the car. The dying scientist longingly stared at the lab buildings, the low ring that marked the underground particle accelerator, the small, restless herd of buffalo behind their rickety fences.
Craig used their private time to discuss the case. The Ukrainian looked at him with watery, glassy eyes that were bleary and pinkish from thousands of tiny hemorrhages. Inside his body, the damage had already been done-cells were dying in droves, his internal organs were failing; soon his thought processes would also suffer, making him delusional or incoherent.
The worst part was that the great scientist knew it was happening.
“Now then, sir, let us discuss this case,” Dumenco said. He tried to smile through cracked lips. “You put me in a difficult position. I have very little time left to complete my work, or to help you solve my murder. Which do you believe is more important-progress or revenge?‘’
“I’d call it justice, rather than revenge.”
Dumenco was silent for a moment. “In the grand scheme I think you’ve found the difference. My life is more than just a drop in a tiny pond in a vast universe. Justice is what I really want.”
Craig followed a cement mixer and a dump truck leaving the Main Injector construction site. “And that’s what I’m here for. Let’s solve this case quickly so you can use any remaining time on your physics.”
“A good plan, kind sir.”
“All right,” Craig answered. “This morning we went to the site of your accident and also viewed the crater left by the blockhouse explosion. Dr. Piter walked us through the details. My partner, Agent Goldfarb, is right now looking at one of the intact substations to see if he can pick up any clues.”
“I know nothing of the explosion,” Dumenco said, stifling a cough. “I know only that someone intentionally caused the beam dump, and that I am paying the price for it.”
Craig wished he had been able to take out his notepad.
“So why would someone want to kill you?”
“I have done many things in my career, Agent Kreident.” Dumenco’s voice was strong but carried a hint of hoarseness from phlegm building up in his throat and lungs. “I left the Ukraine during the downfall of the Soviet Union. I abandoned my career and all my research, and I came here to work as a high-energy physicist. Your American government has been very kind, but I have paid a high price.”