“Well, my caseload has been very full,” Craig said with forced enthusiasm. “You know me, devoted to the FBI.”
Trish took a bite of her salad. “And I’ve been intently involved with my own research. Johns Hopkins isn’t any more relaxing than your Bureau.”
“I don’t suppose it is,” Craig said.
“Because of my specialty I’m in intermittent demand, whenever a radiation accident happens. But my work with the PR-Cubed keeps me on the go constantly. We’re still doing follow-up and tracking of all the studies we did in the aftermath of Chernobyl. Remember when I went over there as a pre-med?”
“How could I forget?” Craig said. For months she had been wrapped up in her own thoughts, or bombarding him with stories of what she had experienced there. She had merely been a junior member of the team, a relief worker interviewing residents who had lived in the densest fallout plume from the nuclear reactor disaster. It had been her job to keep massive statistics, chronicling the overwhelming tide of medical problems from the Chernobyl survivors.
“The Ukraine is a beautiful country, like our Midwest. It’s the breadbasket of what used to be the Soviet Union… but that power plant accident was the greatest man-made disaster in history. The fallout spread from the Ukraine into Belarus, even around the world in the jet stream.” She shook her head, blinking her dark eyes as if to wipe away haunting memories.
Then she leaned forward, fixing him with her gaze. Craig felt a sense of dread as he wondered what she was about to confess.
“I met Georg Dumenco there, in the Ukraine, all those years before. He and his family. He desperately wanted to leave the country, to get his family safe, but there was nothing we could do. Once he emigrated here, I kept tabs on him through the PR-Cubed.” As she took her dark gaze from him, he felt as if a targeting cross had just slipped away. “So did other people, I think.”
Craig took a deep breath, trying to assess the information. “What do you mean by that? What happened to Dumenco’s family, the ones in the snapshots I found?”
Trish shook her head. “Nobody knows. They disappeared during the upheaval, the breakup of the Soviet Union. For years now, somebody… somebody at the PR-Cubed…” She trailed off.
Reflexively she drank her milk and ate more salad while Craig waited in silence. “I’m… having a hard time with this. It’s bringing back too many memories. Dumenco is dying from a radiation exposure, just like those people at Chernobyl. Maybe his family died back in the Ukraine before he came to this country. There’s nothing I can do for him, or for them.”
“But I’m sure you managed to help,” Craig finally said, still trying to get her to open up. “That’s what you’ve always wanted to do, help people.”
“But that isn’t always the case, is it?” she said testily. “How can you stand it, Craig? This fatalistic inevitability. By the time you’re called in to a murder investigation, the crime has already happened. You’re always too late… and I’m always too late. When I get called to treat a radiation exposure, like Georg’s, there’s not much I can do. I can’t even make him more comfortable as he dies.”
She pushed her tray away. “My sole purpose is to collect data on his decline and death. No one in the world could have cured his lethal exposure, but I’m the one they called-so I’m the one who ultimately fails.”
“Oh, Trish,” Craig said trying to be soothing, but he sounded scolding instead. What other information did she have? What did the PR-Cubed have to do with this? “You help people who receive smaller exposures.”
Trish sat back and thought for a moment, then smiled. “You’re right. Sometimes I can help. In fact, that’s why I’ve been thinking of you recently.”
Craig blinked, unsure of where she was going. She couldn’t be trying to get back together, could she?
Trish leaned forward. “I treated a friend of yours. They called me in after that Russian General Ursov received his exposure out in Nevada. You were there. The man couldn’t stop talking about you.”
“You treated Ursov?” Craig said in astonishment. But of course, it made sense. Trish LeCroix was one of the few medical radiation experts, and she was well known in her field. When a senior Russian military officer had received the large radiation dose, medical experts would have called someone like Trish. “So you’re the one he meant. In a letter he added a postscript saying that our ‘mutual friend’ sends greetings. I was baffled until now. I couldn’t figure out who he was talking about.”
Trish smiled. “I guess he played a little trick on you.”
“Those Strategic Rocket Forces guys, what a bunch of jokers.” He had thought a great deal about Ursov and respected the stoic general for his unwavering devotion… and now an idea formed in his mind.
Seemingly eager to be away from the prior conversation, Trish continued offhandedly, “Your friend Paige Mitchell seems a… nice enough sort of person. In her own way.”
Craig concentrated on his spaghetti. He couldn’t tell if Trish was being catty or if she was just trying to gauge his response. “We’ve worked closely on several cases now,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
She waited, but he refused to give her more details about the cases.
“She’s very smart,” he finally continued. “Easy to get along with.” He left the thought hanging.
He didn’t particularly enjoy being caught between two such women. It might be best for him, for the case, and for his own sanity if he spent the next days working with Jackson and trying to steer clear of both Trish and Paige.
Dumenco’s accident, the substation explosion, Goldfarb’s shooting, the saboteur in Dumenco’s apartment, and the mysterious attacker in the hospital-not to mention the Ukrainian’s connection with Trish and the PR-Cubed-gave him quite enough to worry about for the time being.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Thursday, 1:17 p.m.
Evergreen Espresso, Aurora, Illinois
Nicholas Bretti sipped on his double espresso, though he was wired enough, unsettled, edgy. He sat on one of the metal-mesh chairs under a green-and-white sun umbrella, scanning down the sidewalk. Where the hell was Chandrawalia? In downtown redneck Aurora, he shouldn’t have trouble finding the whip-thin Indian representative.
At least outside he could have a smoke. The whole damned country was getting to be a nonsmoking zone. Thank goodness India hadn’t gone that direction. That was one thing he could look forward to if he went back to Bangalore… for the rest of his life.
He swallowed hard, then nervously lit another cigarette with his cheap butane lighter and stuck it back into his pocket. He took a long drag, pulling the thick smoke deep into his lungs. Yes, in India he could smoke wherever he wanted. That was an advantage. He was sure there must be other advantages, at least one or two. There must be.
The too-cute rustic coffee shop was set off the main street, shaded by trees that had just begun to shed their leaves. Inside, Formica-topped tables and red vinyl booths filled most of the floor space. A wooden stage held an old Fender amplifier, two microphones, a stool, and four guitar stands for Friday night festivities. The smell of different coffee beans wafted through the air-French vanilla, Irish creme, amaretto, mocha, all tumbled together.
Bretti sat alone outside in the clear, cool autumn air. He had never felt so isolated in his life. What was he going to do? He looked at his watch again and groaned. The Indian bastard better show up.
Bretti took another drag, then coughed. Inside the coffee shop, the only other customer-some girl who hadn’t even looked his way when he’d entered-kept her nose buried in the Chicago Sun. Good. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself.