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“Go on.”

“Werner Heisenberg and Andrei Sakharov.”

“Good, and do you know your history?”

“Werner Heisenberg won a Nobel prize for his theory of quantum mechanics, which later proved to be the ground work to the development of nuclear fission and the atomic bomb. During the second World War, Heisenberg became the principal scientist for Uranprojekt — the German Nuclear Weapons Project.”

“And Andrei Sakharov?”

“He was the leading Soviet physicist and designer of the Soviet Union’s RDS-37, a codename for their thermonuclear weapons development program. Interestingly enough, he was also an activist for disarmament, peace, and human rights. His efforts toward civil rights reform led him to state persecution and later earned him a Nobel Peace Prize in 1975.”

“Excellent work. They said you were meant to be bright. Maybe they weren’t so wrong after all.”

“Now what?” Sam asked.

“Work out what the two men really have in common and what you know about history might start to unravel.”

Sam said, “They both worked on their respective country’s first development of a nuclear weapon.”

“Sure. Everyone knows that. The history books even agree with you. Find out what isn’t published — what has been intentionally concealed for many years — and we just get ahead in this game. Until then, you’re no better to me than anyone else.”

Sam felt his heart race. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’ll work it out.”

“Good. To show that I’m taking note of your effort with the first task, I’ve left you a reward.”

“A reward?”

“There’s a car parked in front of 1530 Bleaker Street, a 1979 Buick LeSabre, dark green. I haven’t left you the keys — you’re not going to want to drive it yourself. The material in the trunk should be shielded well enough, but you never know.”

“Understood.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The director and Ms. Toben were starting to exchange startled looks. Sam followed their gaze over to one of the printed signs.

Sam looked away. Now was not the time to be distracted. “And then what?” he asked his mystery caller.

“Haven’t you found the next clue yet?”

Sam didn’t answer.

“Be there in twenty minutes. Or it’s game over, man. Game over.” The terrorist gave an evil chuckle. When heard through the radio garbling device being used, it came out like a malevolent cartoon character.

Click.

Sam lowered the cell phone from his ear. If this guy expected him to be in place in twenty minutes or less, then it was close, wherever it was. Somewhere on or near the Mall.

He quickly took the Director aside and told him about the car parked on Bleaker Street, admitting his own guess about what it contained.

“Mr. Reilly!”

Sam turned toward the other two. Ms. Toben was pointing excitedly at writing on another panel.

“What is it?” he asked.

Ms. Toben began reading the text out loud. “The first nuclear device was detonated on July 16, 1945, in the Jornada del Muerto desert of New Mexico. It was code named JX234.A23 81st, 1st 1949 L,” she said triumphantly.

“I’m sorry, is that supposed to mean something to me?” Sam asked.

She smiled. “Of course! Its code name was, Trinity!”

“Another clue?” the director asked.

“It must be!”

“But to where, my dear, to where?”

Ms. Toben’s finger stopped pointing at the text and began tapping her chin.

“Excuse me,” Sam said. “You’ve both been helpful, but I’m going to have to run. I have new orders.”

“Run? Where?” Ms. Toben asked, her eyes wide in alarm.

“That’s some kind of document call number,” Sam said. “And I seem to remember that there’s a huge library near here. If one of you could point me toward the Library of Congress…”

Ms. Toben gasped.

Director Nelson grabbed Sam’s shoulder, shoved him out the emergency exit, and pointed him down the sidewalk.

“Past the Capitol. Corner of First and Independence.”

Sam took a deep breath.

“Wait!”

Ms. Toben shoved a slip of paper with the code into his hand.

And he was off.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sam shoved his way through the bystanders on the sidewalk. There were more of them than had been here half an hour ago. The tour buses and cars parked on the road had been turned off and everyone was standing around.

A man in a white shirt grabbed Sam’s arm as he ran by. Sam jerked out of his grasp.

“Stop him! He’s one of the terrorists!”

Sam cursed the man’s stupidity and kept running. A pair of big men in front of him on the sidewalk crossed their arms and strode toward him. Sam dodged between a pair of tour buses, hopped on top of a red car, banged his way rapidly across the roof, then leaped onto a black SUV.

At the end of the parked cars, he jumped down and onto the grass of the Mall.

Sam’s heart raced with anxiety. He heard a squirrel chittering angrily as rows of trees flashed by.

“Stop him!” The shout was further back now.

A group of people in front of Sam gaped at him, mouths open.

“What’s wrong?”

“The terrorist’s back there!” he yelled, pointing toward the men on his trail.

A couple of screams came from behind him as he kept running.

He crossed a street. The American Indian Museum was on his right, a rippling building that looked like it was being viewed from under a stream.

He was far enough away from his pursuers now, that their shouting had faded into the general noise of the busy public areas.

Looking both ways, and behind him, he crossed another street. Suddenly the Mall opened up onto the reflecting pool in front of the Capitol building. All it was reflecting at the moment was blue sky.

The street alongside the pool was more heavily packed with loose pedestrians, some of them sitting on their hoods. The sidewalks were jammed with strollers, bikes, little kids crying.

The Botanic Garden to his right looked relatively clear.

The wrought-iron fence wasn’t hard to climb. He was over in about five seconds, ducking through a pair of trees, over a rock, and pounding down the trail.

Gravel crunched under his feet.

He jumped a hedge, danced over a brick half-wall, splashed through a shallow fountain, ignored a group of old ladies with red hats and jumped over another hedge.

Then he bolted past a big marble building surrounded by a formal English garden, and out the other side.

The Capitol building was off to his left, now.

His skin crawled. He felt himself being watched.

The terrorist? Or just over-eager security forces working their shift at one of the most important buildings in the country?

Had to be both.

Even the trapped tourists weren’t brave enough to get too close. Sam tore down the grass, hell bent for leather.

His feet thudded on the street as he crossed. The Capitol was now behind him.

In front of him was the big white marble building of the Library of Congress. Holy smokes! There were more stairs here than Rocky Balboa would want to see on a daily basis. Tarnished bronze statues. Long columns reminiscent of ancient Greece.

He headed for the main doors.

A piercing whistle echoed from the building.

“Sam Reilly!”

A figure stood at a side door near the street, waving what appeared to be a white flag.

Correction, waving a white cardigan.

Sam changed direction, dodged a wild-eyed man driving a golf cart filled with plants, and arrived at the side of a slender woman putting her sweater back on. Half-rimmed glasses hung around her neck on a chain, but she couldn’t have been older than thirty. Her hair was pulled back with a pencil in the bun.