He would never have the courage to stand up to Ronald Cobb, and nobody else would help him. He was doomed to be stepped on for the rest of his working life.
CHAPTER 33
Craig Kreident paused at the top of the Metro escalator to get his bearings. This had already been one hell of a long trip, and he’d just arrived. His suit was damp and wrinkled from his own perspiration, and the humidity in the Washington area hit him like a sledgehammer after California’s dry heat.
He had not cared for changing planes in Chicago, fidgeting for an hour in the circus of O’Hare; but this flight took him into National Airport, which allowed him to bypass the crazy D.C. traffic and ride the Metro instead. His boss, June Atwood, had highly recommended that route.
After living in the Bay Area most of his life, Craig knew what to expect from California drivers — as long as he moved with the traffic, it didn’t matter if he was going 75 or standing still. People drove competently. They followed the rules.
But Washington D.C. was home to not only the worst drivers in the nation, but also to ambassadors in big limousines whose drivers had more diplomatic immunity than they had functional traffic experience. The whole city area resembled a bumper car ride that Craig had no stomach for, rental car or not.
Adjusting his sunglasses, he tried to flow with the crowd of pedestrians as he hurried along the wide sidewalks to the Department of Energy’s Forrestal Building. Here in the capitol city, at least, his suit and tie did not stand out. It seemed even the joggers wore ties. But when he asked for directions, twice, the people looked at him as if he had offended them.
The Forrestal Building was supported by massive pillars and extended over a plaza. Bored guards — yes, he saw they were actually called “guards” here, imagine that! — sat at stations inside the lobby. Craig snapped his sunglasses shut and slid them into his pocket. He groped for his Bureau ID as he approached the desk.
A weary-looking woman didn’t say a word as she took his ID and checked a computer list. Chewing on a mentholated cough drop so that blue smoke seemed to curl out of her mouth, she pushed a form at Craig and motioned for him to sign the document. When he finished, she flipped a Visitor badge across the counter, then turned away, all without speaking. She dug in her purse for another cough drop.
Craig clipped the large DOE HQ badge onto his suit lapel, then tapped the plastic so that it dangled properly. He looked around. The civil servant attitude struck him like a blizzard, a cold brushoff. People slowly agreed to help only after being asked, and then they offered assistance only under great duress. In his mind he contrasted it with the bouncy, “please let me help you” demeanor back at Livermore. He thought of how enthusiastic Paige Mitchell had been.
He snagged a guard standing just inside the secure part of the building. He held out his badge and brought out his Bureau ID, just in case he needed heavier ammunition. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Ms. Diana Unteling, deputy assistant secretary for international affairs.”
The guard scanned a thick list protected by a plastic cover. “Yeah. Fourth floor, room 4023. Got an appointment?”
Craig decided this was no time to debate details. “Yes,” he said firmly.
The guard squinted at Craig’s badge, and as if the words FBI suddenly clicked with him, he nodded to the left. “Those elevators will take you directly there, sir.”
“Thanks.”
Craig found the suite of 70s-vintage administrative offices without any further trouble. The glass door opened to a young black woman sitting behind a metal low-bid desk, dressed to kill in more finery than California women wore when they went to a formal party. Three office doors stood closed behind the woman, bearing engraved name plaques. The only access to Diana Unteling would be through this moat dragon.
The secretary looked up. “Yes?”
Thinking to fit right in with the Washington milieu, Craig decided to dispense with the Nice Guy act. He spoke brusquely and got straight to the point as he flashed his badge and ID. “I’m Special Agent Kreident from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, here to see Ms. Unteling.”
The woman looked confused. “Mrs. Unteling has already had her security interview for her Assistant Secretary appointment.”
“This isn’t a background check.”
She made a show of looking down at the appointment calendar on her government-issue desk. “I don’t believe you have an appointment, Mr. Kreident.”
“I don’t,” Craig said. “But I need to see her anyway.”
“May I tell her what this is about?”
“No.”
Her ebony eyes widened. Her eye shadow looked as if it had been applied with a spoon. A large one.
“Just a moment, sir.” She pushed up from her chair, which rolled across a hard plastic floor mat, and walked on two-inch high heels to the door on the far right. Rapping softly, she entered. Craig mulled over what the secretary had said. A new Assistant Secretary position? That must be what Unteling had been pestering Michaelson about on his answering machine.
The secretary reappeared and held the door. “Mrs. Unteling will see you now, sir.” Craig placed a smile — not much of one, just enough — on his face and took a deep breath. He held his briefcase like a shield in front of him as he entered the room.
Unteling’s office smacked of her former California background: a nicely matted watercolor series of golden brown hills, vineyards, and sandy beaches… a stark Ansel Adams photo of El Capitan in Yosemite.
A trim, no-nonsense woman with graying blond hair rose from behind her desk — a polished wooden desk, he noticed. She extended a hand. The gold in her wedding band was thick; the diamond sparkled, too large. “Mr. Kreident, is it? Agent Kreident?”
“That’s right. I appreciate your time — sorry to barge in on you unannounced.”
Sitting back in her chair without offering Craig a seat, she dispensed with any pleasantries. “What can I do for you, Mr. Kreident? You have caught me at a particularly busy time.”
Craig pulled up a chair, easing close to her desk. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Dr. Hal Michaelson.”
Her face was stony, and it may have whitened, but it could also have been his imagination. “I heard that he died. Terrible thing to happen. He was one of our top people at Livermore. Why are you questioning me?”
“Just routine questions, Ma’am.” He remembered how much Paige had hated being called Ma’am. “Dr. Michaelson died on Federal property, and until we can get a firm cause of his death, I’m interviewing all of his past associates. His close associates.” He paused, but again saw no reaction. “Did you know Dr. Michaelson very well?”
“I worked for him when I lived in Livermore. I was also part of his on-site inspection group that went to the former Soviet Union to oversee the dismantling of their nuclear weapons complex. But that was many years ago.”
“Have you maintained your contact with him since that time?”
Her dark eyebrows arched slightly. “In what way? I’m from Livermore, as you probably know. He was a family friend, but living on different coasts makes it hard to get together too often. I’m afraid he didn’t put much stock in my husband’s work on the Coalition for Family Values.”
“When was the last time you saw Dr. Michaelson?”
“I can’t recall. Last year maybe.”
“How about the last time you spoke with him?”
She twisted in her chair and tapped a long fingernail on her wooden desktop. “What are you getting at, Mr. Kreident? How often do you recall speaking with a friend?”