Worse, the library was currently packed with worried tourists and commuters begging to know if they should stay in this building or demanding the location of the nearest bomb shelters. On top of that, a large number of Congressmen and women were making heavy research demands. It was all over the place. Everyone wanted to know everything about the nuclear program during and after World War II. Where was the proof of German bomb-making capability? Had anyone known that they had a bomb available to use against the United States?
In short, they were panicking.
She shook her head. Her phone buzzed, but she ignored it. She was on her break. Back in college while studying her Master of Library and Information Science, she had broken herself of the habit of smoking. Librarians who smoked were, in her opinion, an abomination. A librarian had no business bringing smells in among their precious documents. Ms. Zyla Needham had given up perfumes, scented lotion, and care products as well, but it was the lack of being able to step out for a smoke that got on her nerves.
Consequently, she treated herself with a walk through her favorite shelves.
When she turned the corner toward the Heisenberg Legacy, a man was already there. A dark suit and black sunglasses, his head turned slowly toward her.
She had a sudden urge to scream and run but suppressed it.
“Hello? Who are you? You don’t have authorization to be here.”
The man said, “My name’s Smith. George Smith. I appear to be lost.”
“Then allow me to escort you back to the public areas.”
Afterward, she walked back to the shelves and checked the titles where he’d been standing. They were all smoothly set into place, nothing out of order, nothing different.
Still.
She pulled the binder case for the Heisenberg Legacy off the shelf. The other documents were valuable, too, but this one was personal for her, the great ethical question of her professional career.
She removed the case and opened the binder.
The document was still there. She started to close the binder, then stopped to look again.
And to read it.
Her eyes widened with horror.
She had read that letter literally hundreds of times during her years as a public servant. At the moment, whether that was wise or not wasn’t the issue. The fact that she knew every word by heart was.
And the words written in print on the page had been changed.
She swallowed hard and burst back into the lobby where she had left Mr. George Smith, only moments ago.
He was, of course, gone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sam’s new phone rang. “Hello?”
The disguised voice said, “The CIA just tried to smuggle three senators out of D.C. If they can’t learn to follow directions, I’ll hit the big red button and level D.C. Then it’s game over.”
“I’ll let them know,” Sam said drily.
“Good luck with getting the CIA to behave.”
Ms. Toben screamed.
Sam turned to her, saw that she was watching a live news feed on the TV. The video was replaying a terrorist attack on a Congresswoman who had been shot dead while attempting to escape.
“What is it?” Sam asked.
“Congresswoman Bledes was shot and killed.” Ms. Toben’s face was ashen and her lower lip trembled. “We studied at college together. I’ve been friends with her for nearly forty years. She dedicated her whole life to making the lives of U.S. citizens better. This is terrible.”
Into his cell phone, Sam said, “Are you happy?”
“She wasn’t supposed to die,” the garbled voice replied.
“But your men shot her!”
“That was someone else, not my men.”
“Really?” Sam asked. “Are you saying your men didn’t fire at anyone?”
“They fired paintballs and most of the shots were intentionally aimed high.”
“How do you know a stray bullet didn’t ricochet and kill someone?”
“Because they were shooting blanks. That was the whole point. It was a warning. I hope they’ve learned from their mistakes. I told you that I would kill the next senator who attempted to leave the Capital. Next one who tries to escape won’t be hit by a rogue sniper, they’ll be struck by an intentional kill shot.”
So, the guy didn’t want to be a killer…
“How do we even know you have the bomb?” Sam snapped, letting anger come through his voice. “How do we even know it would’ve even worked? Our own military couldn’t keep a World War II experimental German bomb up and running. What are your qualifications?”
He hoped that the man would snap back, giving away something.
Anything.
“You think I’m bluffing?” The words came out through a garbled robotic voice, but Sam was sure he still heard the amusement behind it.
“I think you’re standing on top of a building with a paintball gun and a cell phone. And that’s it. If you don’t actually want to hurt anyone, what do you want to…”
“I didn’t want to have to do this,” the voice interrupted. “But you leave me no choice.”
“Wait —”
Too late. The call cut off.
“What happened?” Ms. Toben asked.
“I don’t know. The terrorist says he didn’t shoot your friend.”
“If he didn’t, who did?”
“He doesn’t know. Says there must be a rogue sniper out there acting alone.” Sam swore under his breath. “There’s something else, too.”
“What?”
“He says, we have to pay the price.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The explosion rocked the Smithsonian Institute.
Dust and small flakes of paint from the bomb casings displayed on the ceiling overhead fell. Sam took cover beneath a pile of sandbags used to depict a soldier’s bomb shelter. Above, one of the large bombs swung dangerously in its wire harness.
Sam looked at the Director. “What happens if any of those bomb casings overhead fall?”
“Obviously, no explosive material is within those bombs,” the Director said. “Although I wouldn’t stand directly underneath any of them.”
Meanwhile, Ms. Toben’s phone was ringing again. “Yes? No, we’re safe. What?”
She put her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Director Nelson. “A number of explosions have occurred across D.C., Director.”
“Oh, my God. Is anyone hurt?”
“They don’t know yet.”
Sam was shaken. He’d underestimated the terrorist.
The phone rang again.
“Yes?”
“Do I have your attention now?”
“You do.”
“Good. Now, as I previously stated, I don’t want to have to hurt anyone, but I will if I have to.”
“Understood.”
“Now, tell me. What have you found?”
Sam stood up and climbed out of the mock-bunker. His eyes swept the ceiling where everything appeared to have settled into place. He looked around, back toward the display where they found the figurine of Werner Heisenberg and Andrei Sakharov.
“I don’t know yet,” Sam admitted. “I’m still trying to make sense of it.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve lost the game already?” the garbled voice replied. “I thought you’d be better than this. Should I just press the little red button now and be done with it?”
“No, no! Wait!” Sam shouted. “We’ve found two figurines that don’t belong in the Atomic Age exhibition.”