“Dr. Bretti? My name is Rohit Ambalal, from the People’s Liberty for All party.” He carried a blue soft-sided briefcase. “I am here to expedite you through customs. Come this way. Quickly please.”
Ambalal motioned Bretti toward a red door to the right of a long line by the customs table. A military guard in a khaki uniform with red-and-black rank insignia stood by the door, eyeing them.
Bretti’s mouth felt dry and cottony as his guide started for the red door. People’s Liberty for All party? he thought. What the hell is this? Did it have something to do with his contact, Mr. Chandrawalia?
Perspiration soaked his shirt, as much from anxiety as from the oppressive humidity. The military guard made him very uneasy. Bretti swallowed, but his throat was dry. He tried to think, but could dredge only a little of the background that Chandrawalia had told him some months before. India ’s leadership tottered back and forth among the dozens of political parties; no ideology held a convincing grip on the nation’s government. He hoped he wasn’t going to be caught up in some sort of power struggle.
The military guard crushed out his cigarette and stared at Bretti. The bespectacled guide stopped and turned to Bretti. “Dr. Bretti, we must hurry. Your flight to Bangalore leaves soon, and you must clear customs before you board the plane. I will try to expedite matters, but there are people who must ask you some questions.”
He had no suitcase, no extra clothes-nothing but what he wore. With a wallet stuffed full of rupees from the embassy, he’d planned to buy clothes in India. With nothing to declare, he should sail through customs.
Except for the Penning trap, still in the diplomatic pouch.
What if one political faction didn’t know what the other was doing? Would he wind up in some flea-bitten jail, like that guy in Midnight Express? This army guard gave him the creeps. After growing up in the Washington, DC, area, he’d lived around military people all his life-he shouldn’t feel threatened. But Bretti had never tried commercial espionage before, never shot a man, never fled the scene of a crime.
What would these people do to him? He certainly couldn’t count on his own government to help.
“Dr. Bretti?” Ambalal folded his hands across the soft-sided briefcase, genuinely upset at Bretti’s reluctance to follow. “We must process your paperwork, and I must see to the diplomatic pouch. Quickly now.”
Behind Bretti, the doors to the Concord sealed shut; in front of him spread the long customs line and the mass of shoving people. He had to trust someone, and he couldn’t think straight, thanks to the Grand Marnier and his panic. Chandrawalia had too much at stake not to ensure his safety. He had to count on that.
Bretti forced himself to move toward where the guard held the red door open. Inside the claustrophobic room, two men sat at a long brown table. A large mirror-oneway, no doubt-took up a good part of the wall on his left, next to another red door that led to the open terminal.
Both men at the table wore open-collar short-sleeved shirts and no-nonsense expressions. One man was small, old, and bald; the younger man wore a dark beard. The bearded man nodded for Bretti to take a seat as he spoke in a high, piping voice. “Dr. Bretti, welcome to India. It is a rare occasion that we are blessed with a distinguished visiting scientist. And one sponsored by a consulate, no less.”
“It’s mister,” said Bretti, looking down at his hands. “I’m not a Ph.D. yet.” Someday soon he’d have that union card so he wouldn’t be sniffed at by so-called experts in the scientific fields. He’d worked his butt off for seven years as a grad student, living on slave wages, while Dumenco followed his esoteric goals and treated him like a barely competent manservant.
He suspected that sponsoring professors kept people like him sweating out their servitude to boost their own egos, delaying the awarding of doctorates. Too many people would give anything to get through a program at Fermilab.
But as much as he wanted that title, Bretti also knew it was meaningless unless it was earned. Truly earned. He recalled the time he had come home from school in third grade, crying because he had lost a spelling bee. Trying to comfort him, his mother had cut a ribbon from blue construction paper and pinned it on him-declaring him a winner.
Getting the crap beat out of him the next day in school for bragging about the fake award had brought the point home too well.
Maybe after all he had done for them, the Indians would take him on. Bretti could help Chandrawalia’s group with their so-called medical applications for the p-bars. After the appalling events of the past couple of days, he needed a fresh start, a fresh home, and a fresh identity… somewhere far from FBI investigators and extradition treaties.
The guard took his position by the door, while Ambalal stood like a mother hen at Bretti’s side. All the while the bald man sat observing. No one made any introductions.
The bearded man frowned and put down the papers he had been studying. “Ah, Mister Bretti, then. It is my understanding you will be conferring with a high-energy research group in Bangalore. This is quite an honor, especially if you are not a real scientist.” He knitted his thick eyebrows together. “Tell me, please, why our consulate would sponsor someone such as yourself to speak with this esteemed group?”
Bretti glanced up sharply. “Wait a minute. I didn’t say I wasn’t a scientist. I’m just not finished with my degree, and I don’t believe in calling myself something I haven’t earned. It’s not right.”
The mustachioed party man spoke up behind him. “Dr. Bretti is here on invitation from the Chicago consulate office. He is a personal guest of Mr. Chandrawalia, the deputy head of mission. This gentleman is from America ’s Fermilab and he has valuable skills to assist India ’s national researchers.” He placed a sinewy brown hand on Bretti’s shoulder. “That should be enough for you.”
Taking strength from the man’s statement, Bretti faced the two men at the table. “That’s right. I’ve coauthored numerous publications in highly respected journals-check them out yourself if you don’t believe me.”
“Your position in science is not in question, Mister Bretti,” said the beard, “but rather why such a distinguished diplomat as Mr. Chandrawalia would take such a personal interest in your visit. What precisely do you intend to discuss when you are in Bangalore?”
Bretti shifted his weight in the unsteady chair, listening to the faint groan of metal and plastic. The cold sweat crawled down his back, making his shirt even more clammy. “Why are you interrogating me? I was invited here, by Chandrawalia at your embassy, just as the gentleman said. Isn’t that a good enough reason?”
The quiet bald man finally spoke up in a voice too deep for his small size. “We must be sure that the purpose of your visit is purely scientific and not political. You are not here for political purposes, are you?”
Bretti sighed, suddenly relieved. “Is that what this is about? I’m not interested in politics, I’m a scientist. I don’t give a rat’s ass about what your country does, or who influences whom. All I’m doing is, uh, giving a talk and delivering scientific equipment. Nothing more, nothing less. Okay?”
The bearded man scribbled some notes, then glanced over to his bald companion. The small man nodded curtly. “You are not staying in India very long, Mr. Bretti?”
Bretti didn’t know how to answer that. What if they offered him political asylum? He couldn’t go back to the United States until the dust settled. “I’m heading back home as soon as I can.”