“Nicholas Bretti! FBI-I know you! Stop right now!” Jackson sprinted into the uneven light. He still couldn’t see Bretti. He almost ran past a dark shadow at the side of the tunnel until he recognized an opening.
Breathing hard, Jackson cautiously placed a hand on the metal door to a diagnostics alcove and tried to peer through the darkness into the side chamber. Nothing. No sound, no light. Where’s the light switch?
He tightened his fingers and wondered if he should draw his weapon-but other than the sound of someone running away, there had been no indication that this situation threatened his life.
Ever since Ruby Ridge, FBI guidelines had been crystal clear about the use of deadly force, and this instance certainly didn’t qualify. Especially after shooting Dumenco’s would-be assassin yesterday, Jackson couldn’t take any chances.
But then somebody-maybe even more than one person-had tried to kill Georg Dumenco. And someone had shot Goldfarb, someone had attacked him and Craig with poison gas. Perhaps it had been Bretti.
Jackson took a cautious step into the darkened room. “This is the FBI. Special Agent Jackson-come out and identify yourself.” He heard breathing, skittered footsteps-and his own heart pounding.
Jackson felt cold sweat form at his brow. Man, I wish I had a backup right now. In his mind’s eye he saw Goldfarb being shot all over again… except this time it was him.
He cautiously reached out with his right hand to pat the alcove wall for a light switch. Again, nothing. He swept his arm in a half circle against the wall and finally found a control box. Fumbling, he switched it on, at the same time drawing his weapon and crouching, ready for the worst.
A row of overhead fluorescent lights flicked on, dim at first, but throwing enough light to show equipment jumbled across the floor. A dozen gray metal carts held oscilloscopes, computers, users’ manuals, and instruments. A large-diameter pipe ran through the room about ten feet off the floor, one of the conduits for the high-energy beam from the giant accelerator. He heard a low-frequency throbbing, seemingly from the large conduit. The beam channel? Was the accelerator running again?
“Identify yourself.” Remaining in a low crouch, Jackson swept his outstretched gun hand around in a semicircle. Inside the room he heard no sound of movement. He had been tricked, somehow. Bretti wasn’t there.
Jackson purposely tried to slow his breathing-but his body was kicking into high gear, dumping adrenaline into his system. His heart pounded as he inched into the alcove. The place looked like a high-tech junkyard, a cross between a futuristic lab and a storage facility for computer nerds. Red and green lights glowed from every panel-taking data?
Jackson spotted an emergency phone on the wall to his right. He edged over, keeping his eyes on the equipment in the alcove, wondering where Bretti could have gone. He wouldn’t allow himself to get in the same situation as Goldfarb without a backup.
He glanced at the digits while punching in the numbers for Craig’s cellular phone. He looked up but could see no movement. Three cheerful tones played, then a metallic voice: “I’m sorry, the number you have dialed is not valid. Please dial eight to access numbers outside the laboratory.”
Jackson swung his attention back to the phone-
The lights clicked off, plunging the alcove into darkness. He heard someone moving, gasping deep breaths, then the heavy metal door slammed, sealing Jackson inside.
Stumbling forward, holding his handgun in front of him, Jackson made his way toward the door. He tried to keep low, not sure if anyone remained in the room. He couldn’t be more than ten feet from the door, but it seemed a mile away.
His knee struck something hard-one of the metal carts. A sharp edge cut his leg. Finally, he crashed into the door, found the handle. Pushed-
Nothing. Some kind of locking mechanism had fallen into place, and he was trapped.
Then he heard the low frequency thrumming grow louder in the conduit running across the room. Had the accelerator powered up again? Icy sweat bristled on his brow as he pounded on the sealed door.
His situation must be just like Dumenco’s, just before he had received his lethal exposure.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Friday, 8:43 a.m.
Fox RiverMedicalCenter,
Intensive Care Unit
Despite intensive searching, the FBI computer files had no match for the fingerprints found on the bleached-blond assassin Jackson had shot in the hospital. Craig looked down at the faxed notice he had just received from FBI Headquarters in Washington, DC, and frowned.
He hoped June Atwood wasn’t holding out on him again this time.
He crumpled the fax and turned to Trish who stood next to him in Dumenco’s room. From her mannerisms, her extreme attentiveness, she seemed more like a grieving friend than a concerned doctor. Even after all of her ministrations, the dying man had entered his final stages and she could do little to help him.
Less than a week ago he had been a driven, intelligent physicist on the verge of winning a Nobel Prize. Day by day, he had disintegrated.
Trish looked at Craig for support, but he found it hard to credit her grief for what it was. Once, she’d been the most intimate friend Craig had ever had. Even before their breakup, though, Trish had spent so much time with her impassioned causes, her intense medical studies, her outspoken work with the victims of Chernobyl… he wasn’t even sure he knew who she was anymore.
Dumenco tried to sit up, coughing. Fluids had leaked into his lungs, and each breath was labored. Trish had muttered something about him developing ARDS- adult respiratory distress syndrome-secondary to his sepsis. His words were now heavily accented and difficult to understand.
“I feel… detached, Dr. LeCroix,” he said. “My body is fighting off a thousand infections, as if I’m rejecting my own internal organs.”
Trish bent closer to him. “That’s a good way of describing it.”
“Having trouble thinking, too. Connections aren’t fitting together right in my thoughts, leading to nonsense.” He coughed out a small laugh. “Maybe now I’ll be able to understand quantization…”
It seemed important for Dumenco to give Trish all the data he could, describing his symptoms in excruciating detail day by day as he degenerated. He meant to leave one last legacy to science. Looking pained, Trish wrote down the notes he dictated.
Craig could hardly bear to watch. Awkwardly, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out the gift he had bought at a strip mall. He stepped forward, placing the flat, squarish box on the table beside the hospital bed, weighing down the sheafs of experimental papers.
“I brought you something, Dr. Dumenco,” he said. As the scientist turned his attention, Craig opened the ends of the deceptively heavy cardboard box. Moving gingerly, he slid out a small but beautifully polished chessboard made of alternating squares of onyx and jade; two smaller boxes in his jacket pockets held the tissue-wrapped chessmen.
“I remember our first conversation, Doctor. You’re right, you should have a chance to play one last game on a fine chess set. My gift to you.”
The Ukrainian’s eyes, hideously damaged and barely able to see, filled again with tears. He reached a swollen hand toward the polished chess king. His fingers looked like pieces of meat that had begun to rot.
Dumenco spoke, having trouble forming each word, as if the thoughts kept eluding him before he could manage to get them out. “I’m afraid… I would not be a worthy opponent for you, Agent Kreident. A good investigator like you, sharp-witted… more than a match for me.”