Goldfarb tapped the car phone on his leg. “Come on,” he muttered.
“There, she’s turning off,” said Jackson.
“Keep back — I don’t see any other cars getting off. We know where she’s going.”
Jackson slowed to increase the separation distance. A car behind him honked at the sudden change in speed, then roared by on the left. The driver flipped them off. “Same to you, buddy,” muttered Jackson.
The limo drove to the top of the off ramp, then turned right, heading deeper into the hills and the farm roads.
Goldfarb punched numbers into the car phone. Seconds passed. “Craig, yeah, listen. We’ve got Unteling in sight. She by-passed Livermore and seems to be making a bee-line for Michaelson’s farm. Thought you might want to come out for a visit.”
Goldfarb listened for a moment, then said, “We’ll wait for you and hang back. Just hurry up — if she’s dumb enough to return to Michaelson’s, no telling what she has in mind.” He pushed the button to terminate the call.
CHAPTER 37
As Paige parked her MG on the road outside Michaelson’s farmhouse, Craig checked the bullets in his revolver. He placed the weapon beneath his dark suitjacket in its shoulder holster before looking up to see astonishment cross her face.
“Don’t leave the car. Jackson will be here with you. He’s our backup in case anything goes wrong.”
“Is there going to be shooting?” asked Paige.
A sudden memory flashed through Craig’s mind — Miles Skraling, the NanoWare exec, locked behind a door and the sound of a single pop! gunshot. “There’s no telling what Unteling is going to do. No telling what she’s already done, but we’re going to find out.” He forced a smile. “Don’t worry, it’s standard procedure. Just like your radiation dosimeters.”
He turned to Goldfarb as he climbed out of the cramped MG. “Ready?”
Goldfarb holstered his own weapon and pocketed a flip phone to keep in communication with Jackson. “Let’s go, boss.”
They set off on foot down the dirt drive toward Michaelson’s farmhouse. As they rounded the corner, the farmhouse and barn came into sight, sitting in a wide open area. The tall dry grass rustled with the sound of witches’ brooms.
The long black limousine sat outside Michaelson’s house. The driver sucked on a cigarette as he lounged against the car, flipping through the glossy pages of a magazine. He looked bored, expecting no one to come up the long driveway.
Craig waved Goldfarb back to put some distance between them, spreading out to make themselves a harder target to hit. Deep down he didn’t really think it would come to shooting, but he knew the instant he let down his guard, things would go to hell.
The limo driver flicked his cigarette away, then hurried to stomp it out before the dry grass could catch fire. He still hadn’t noticed the two FBI agents. The driver bent to rummage inside the limo. Craig felt his pulse quicken. Was he reaching for a weapon?
Craig touched his fingertips to the outside of his shoulder holster, tensing as the driver straightened. Craig suddenly heard the booming bass of a car stereo. He relaxed.
The limo driver spotted them, jerked backward with surprise, then grinned in embarrassment. He strode around the front of the limo and called out. “You guys lost?”
They were still a good twenty yards away. Craig flipped out his badge. “FBI.”
The driver’s eyes widened. “Hey, man, is this a bust or what? I thought that lady was too uptight!”
Craig nodded to the peeling white farmhouse. “What’s going on in there?”
The driver backed up. He looked nervously at Goldfarb still circling around and wet his lips. “Hey, I just gave her a ride from the airport — she paid half in advance, cash. I’m getting a bonus just for waiting here while she’s inside.”
Craig tucked his ID back into his pocket, keeping his hands free, his arms loose. “Did she say what she needed to do?”
The driver fidgeted in uneasiness. “She’s collecting some stuff to bring back with her. Said she had to get some old records.”
“I’ll cover the back,” Goldfarb said in a low voice, rustling through the grass alongside the house.
Craig turned back to the driver. “Isn’t it unusual to drive fifty miles from the airport to a farmhouse, then wait around to take them back?”
The driver looked incredulous. “Unusual? Man, what planet are you from? This is the San Francisco area!”
Craig shook his head with a weak smile. “Never mind,” he muttered. “Just pull the limo to the end of the driveway. The farther the better.”
Craig turned for the front door of the house, leaving the bewildered driver behind. As he approached the old home, he drew his weapon from his shoulder holders. Better safe than sorry. The last thing he wanted to do was to spook Diana Unteling, but he didn’t know how she would react if she had killed Michaelson, and was now destroying evidence…
Holding his revolver upright, Craig stepped on the creaking porch. Unteling had left the door ajar, and he expected it to squeak as he pushed, but the hinges remained mercifully silent.
Inside the front hall, he paused a moment before continuing. Nothing. He moved inside, past Michaelson’s brag wall of framed photographs with famous people and into the kitchen. As far as he could tell, nothing had changed from when he and Paige had been there — the dishes were still dirty, trash cans still full, scattered crumbs still on the cutting board.
Craig felt his heart rate increase. There were too many similarities between this and the NanoWare case. But this time, would the bullet have my name on it?
The ceiling above him groaned. He stopped. The master bedroom?
Entering from the back door, Goldfarb silently joined him at the base of the stairs. Craig nodded for Goldfarb to lag behind, then started up.
He took the stairs slowly, one step at a time.
The sound of a book hitting the floor made him freeze. He heard muttering coming from the bedroom. Rounding the corner in the hall, he saw Diana Unteling kneeling at an oak nightstand beside Michaelson’s bed, where she had popped the bottom out of the lower drawer. The bed and floor around her were strewn with stacks of papers, each bearing a thick red border and the letters SRD, Secret Restricted Data, stamped at the bottom and the top.
He saw no sign of a gun. Craig lowered his weapon and stepped into the room. “Hello again, Mrs. Unteling.”
Unteling spun around on the floor, scrambling to her knees. Her short blond hair flopped back, and her ice-blue eyes glinted in the dim light filtering through the drawn shades. Her face filled with fright, then darkened with anger as she recognized Craig. “You — what are you doing here!”
Craig looked at the papers she had assembled. “I’d ask you the same thing, Mrs. Unteling.”
“That’s none of your damned business.”
“Dr. Michaelson’s house is under Federal jurisdiction until the investigation is complete. My search warrant is still valid.” Craig heard Goldfarb step up the stairs, but the other FBI agent stayed out of sight, behind him.
“Damn your investigation! I have a perfect right to get my possessions back from here.” She bent and hurriedly started brushing the stacks of classified material into piles. She looked up as he watched. “What are you going to do, shoot me? These are mine, you know.”
“Last time I looked,” said Craig softly, “classified documents belong to the government, not to individuals.”