Kevin Anderson - Lethal Exposure

Bretti sighed, suddenly relieved. “Is that what this is about? I’m not interested in politics, I’m a scientist. I don’t give a rat’s ass about what your country does, or who influences whom. All I’m doing is, uh, giving a talk and delivering scientific equipment. Nothing more, nothing less. Okay?”

The bearded man scribbled some notes, then glanced over to his bald companion. The small man nodded curtly. “You are not staying in India very long, Mr. Bretti?”

Bretti didn’t know how to answer that. What if they offered him political asylum? He couldn’t go back to the United States until the dust settled. “I’m heading back home as soon as I can.”

“Enjoy your stay,” the bearded man said. “But please watch your company.” As he turned, the guard strode over and opened the second red door for him. The bearded man and his bald partner gathered their material and exited, with no words spoken between them.

The military officer once again showed yellow teeth as he motioned for Bretti to leave. Shrugging, but feeling safe for the first time since he had landed, Bretti followed his guide out of the room into a long hallway that led into the main terminal complex.

Bretti turned to Ambalal. “What the hell was that all about?”

“Mr. Chandrawalia is not only a well-respected diplomat, but he is strongly allied with our People’s Liberty for All party.”

“So?” said Bretti.

“ India ’s political system is an alliance of many parties, none with a clear majority. Any time a minority party such as ours attempts something out of the ordinary, suspicions are raised.” They stopped just outside the main terminal area where a mass of people congregated. “Information is power, and if you as a foreigner can supply information to another party, such as People’s Liberty for All, then you are a valuable asset.”

Bretti’s head pounded. It was a crazy country where even medical research was a political item. Maybe they were only going to cure cancer for the people in their own party.

Ambalal hustled him along. “They will leave you alone so long as they remain satisfied that you pose no threat to the balance of power.” Glancing at his watch, he fumbled inside his soft-sided briefcase and pulled out a ticket. “You have less than an hour before your plane leaves for Bangalore. Please proceed to the gate while I check on the diplomatic pouch. I must make sure your scientific equipment is transferred to the plane.”

Wednesday, 6:15 a.m.

Fox RiverMedicalCenter,

Intensive Care Ward

Craig slouched in an orange plastic chair, half asleep outside Goldfarb’s hospital room.

While the inhabitants of Aurora, Illinois, began to stir for the workday, he sat weary and lost in his thoughts, going over the events that had brought him to this point, sleepless outside Intensive Care where his partner might live or die.

The doctor had finally taken the time to explain Goldfarb’s condition and his prognosis. The other agent lay in a coma, shot twice with his own handgun. The first bullet had entered the upper right chest at an oblique angle, fracturing a rib and damaging the right lung. The second shot, more serious, had struck the left chest, contusing and lacerating the lung, causing what the doctor called a “hemopneumothorax.” A tube had been inserted into the chest to drain blood and release trapped air. The delay in rushing Goldfarb to the hospital had nearly cost him his life.

The good-natured agent remained sedated to keep him from tearing at the respiratory tubes, and he had grown no stronger through the night. The surgeons refused to bring him around so he could identify his assailant.

Earlier, Craig had driven to the Fermilab blockhouse where Goldfarb had been shot. Agent Schultz took him through the scene, but Craig had been unable to come up with any clues, any insights. Schultz and his own team were stumped as well, and he seemed more than willing to let Craig have his hand on this case. The Chicago agent had plenty of other pending cases back in his main office.

In another part of the medical center, Trish hovered around Georg Dumenco hour after hour, witnessing each step of his degeneration. It would be an ironic twist of fate, Craig thought grimly, if Goldfarb slipped away before the Ukrainian did.

Before the rest of the hospital began its bustle, Trish LeCroix stopped in front of him, crossing her arms over her chest. He looked up, seeing that she had pinned her dark hair back with a pair of coral barrettes. In the open front of her white lab coat she wore a thin gold chain around her neck. Craig dimly recalled that he had given her that chain for their… was it their six-month anniversary? He couldn’t remember.

Now Trish feigned a smile, her lips were a deep red, a color of lipstick that set off her pale skin and dark hair to good effect. Even during the long night’s vigil, she had found time to touch up her appearance. “Let’s try not to fill up any more rooms in the ICU, understand?” she said. “Take care of yourself.”

“Don’t you chew me out, too,” he said with a hint of harshness brought on by fatigue. “My boss already did that last night.”

She reached forward to squeeze his shoulder, then meticulously brushed wrinkles from his rumpled suit jacket. “I didn’t mean it as criticism, Craig, but as concern. I don’t want you to end up in one of these hospital beds because of this case.”

Without another word, she hurried back toward Dumenco’s room. Once again Trish had left before Craig could think of the right thing to say. His mind was too befuddled with weariness and worry. He glanced at his watch. This time yesterday, Goldfarb had been handing him a cup of Starbucks coffee as he got off the red-eye flight from San Francisco.

Down the hall, with a quiet chime of a bell, the elevator opened. Craig lifted his head sluggishly, ashamed at himself for wallowing in guilt. Disbelieving, he saw the tall, dark form of Randall Jackson emerge wearing his dark FBI suit and tie, his expression grave.

Beside him came a much shorter woman with two small girls in tow, each holding one of their mother’s hands. Craig recognized Julene Goldfarb, as well as the curly-haired agent’s two daughters, Megan and Gwendolyn, ages six and four.

He stood out of respect, once again finding his vocal chords empty of comforting words or phrases. “Julene,” he finally whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

She hurried forward and let him fold her awkwardly in his arms. Julene had used rubber bands to pull her pale brown hair into long pigtails; she wore no makeup, scrubbing her face clean because she had been crying. He had never seen her look so disheveled. A well-mannered daughter from a large Southern family, Julene maintained her personal appearance as if it were a uniform-now, though, she must have thrown a simple bag together, grabbed the kids, and rushed to the airport.

The two little girls stood concerned by their mother’s side. Megan, the older, went to the door of the Intensive Care hallway and peeked through the narrow wire-mesh window. “Is Daddy in there?” Her voice trembled.

“He’s hurt, Megan. The doctors are trying to make him better,” Jackson answered. His face grew stormy.

Julene drew a gulp of air. Her words were muffled in the breast of Craig’s jacket. “I always knew he was going to get shot. I knew it! I warned him about every assignment he went on.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t with him at the time, Julene,” Craig said.

She pulled away and looked up at him, angry. “Why? So you could have been shot too?” Her Southern drawl extended with her stress, blurring her words. She shook her head, flopping the pigtails from side to side.