Kevin Anderson - Lethal Exposure

Ursov paused again, as if pondering the implications of answering. “If he conducted his research for Soviet military, those records are classified and sealed. I now merely work for Russian Strategic Rocket Forces.”

“Yes, General,” Craig said with total skepticism, “and I’m merely an accountant for the FBI.”

Ursov chuckled. More static came on the line.

Craig glanced at his watch. He didn’t have a clue how much money was left on his card, but he made ready to slip in another one before the line went dead. “Look, General, I don’t need to know the exact nature of what he was doing-I probably wouldn’t understand it anyway. But give me a lead, something that’ll help me solve this murder.”

Ursov sighed. “It will take some time, my friend, and do not expect too many details. I know I owe you my life, but sometimes a life is not worth all that much. At least not to people over here.”

“Do what you can, General, and don’t take too long.”

“Very well-and say hello to the lovely Dr. LeCroix for me. From the way she talks, I believe you still hold a special place in her heart.”

“Thanks, General,” Craig said, embarrassed, “that’s not the information I wanted to hear.”

“And say hello to the equally lovely Ms. Mitchell.” Ursov sighed. “Ah, to be twenty years younger. You must still work with both of them.”

“Yes, sir, I am-but it’s much too complicated to go into now.” And boy is that an understatement , he thought.

Thursday, 3:31 p.m.

Fox RiverMedicalCenter,

Intensive Care Unit

As they left Ben Goldfarb in his hospital room, Craig and Jackson strode down the hall in their dark suits, making their way past ICU rooms with dying or recovering patients. Their partner’s condition was unchanged, still weak and precarious; but the doctors had kept him on a ventilator, sedated and stabilized, with the endotracheal tube in his throat, which prevented him from speaking even if he had awakened. Goldfarb’s wife and daughters hovered beside him, giving their silent support.

Trish had gone to her temporary office to study lab results and chemical analyses of Dumenco’s condition, leaving the orderlies to do their rounds. Until he heard back from General Ursov, if he heard back, Craig saw no point in returning to Fermilab.

Seeing the curly-haired agent lying so severely injured, Craig felt his anger rising. Beside him, Jackson was silent and rigid, held erect by his internal fury and his need to find a target against which to release it.

Craig vowed to talk with the Ukrainian scientist one more time. Craig knew that Dumenco held a key piece of information, but refused to reveal it. Craig had no further patience, no more desire to play games. Ben Goldfarb had put his life on the line for that man. Dumenco could be a bit more cooperative…

According to Jackson ’s research, the Ukrainian’s grad student was nowhere to be found, not at home, not on vacation. Maybe he had just changed his plans, not in itself unusual, especially not for someone without a wife or children. Perhaps Bretti had even come back to work-but finding any particular individual at Fermilab was a daunting task, since the scientists and technicians didn’t usually bother to make their whereabouts known. Of course, if Bretti had returned, he would certainly have found out about Dumenco.

As he and Jackson strode down the hall toward the dying scientist’s room, they saw a blond-haired orderly flash his ID and hospital badge to the guards stationed outside. The two hospital security men glanced at the orderly’s ID and let him pass. The white-uniformed orderly slipped inside with his cart of medications and his clipboard.

Agent Schultz from the Chicago Bureau office saw them coming and stepped around from a bank of pay phones he had been using. He greeted Craig and Jackson. “Nothing much happening,” Schultz said. “That old guy is going to be dead tomorrow or the day after. What’s the use anybody trying to kill him now?”

Craig checked his watch, trying to remember the shift changes. “Makes no sense to me either,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not worried.” The guards saw them approaching and nodded, alert for any terrorists coming down the hospital corridor.

An intercom called for assistance on the third floor. Pediatrics paged a doctor. Another orderly emerged from a room down the hall carrying a bedpan.

With Schultz tagging along, Craig and Jackson approached Dumenco’s room. Creasing his brow, Craig stepped closer, wondering what the orderly was doing inside. Jackson reached for the door, and the nearest security guard moved aside to let the three agents pass.

“Hey!” Jackson snapped, turning on them. “Are you going to just let us barge in there?” The first guard looked flustered, glancing over at his counterpart.

Craig glanced through the wire-reinforced window in Dumenco’s door. Oxygen from a wall-mounted valve system ran through hoses to the bed. A thick plastic privacy curtain surrounded the dying scientist, blurring details. Through a crack in the curtain, Craig saw the orderly hunched over the bed, blocking the view. He seemed to be adjusting Dumenco’s pillow, his head rest. In front of the curtain, a teenage candystriper unloaded towels from a cart.

“You should at least check our badges.” Jackson continued his reprimand, his voice harsh. “I don’t care if you recognize us or not. Don’t you guys understand what high security means? Ever vigilant.”

“Sorry, sir,” both guards said in unison. Agent Schultz stifled a smile.

Then Craig noticed Dumenco’s hand reach up, thrashing in the air, weakly struggling. Battering against the curtain, he struck the back of the orderly’s white coat, leaving a reddish stain from his damaged skin. The orderly didn’t flinch, but continued to hunch over Dumenco.

Craig shoved the door open and dashed inside. “FBI! Stop right there! What are you doing?” The candystriper looked up, eyes wide. She stood between Craig and the orderly.

The orderly lurched upward, spinning around. His face was stony but flushed, his hair so pale that it looked recently bleached. The orderly’s eyebrows had been shaved off as well, leaving only smooth skin on his face. A simple but very effective disguise. He would look entirely different from the dark-haired man Trish had seen during the previous attack.

Dumenco’s free hand reached over to claw at the small, wet pillow that had been shoved against his face so hard his skin had bruised. He gasped in a lungful of air. Blood trickled from his crushed nose.

The orderly moved like a cobra. With his left hand he whipped out a long razor-edged surgical knife.

“Don’t move!” Craig shouted, whipping his hand back to his pancake holster and pulling out his handgun. “FBI!”

More intent on killing his victim than in escaping, the blond-haired man slashed downward toward the body on the bed. But Dumenco somehow had enough presence of mind to yank the wet pillow across his chest. The blade plunged into the pillow.

The assassin twisted the knife free. Craig leveled his gun, as did Jackson and Schultz, who also charged into the room. The candystriper screamed and backed into the curtain, uncertain where to move in the confusion.

Jackson ’s eyes narrowed, and he held up his pistol. The assassin slashed sideways with the knife, this time severing some of the tubes and cables connecting Dumenco to the oxygen, IV fluids and life-monitoring apparatus.

Alarms squealed from the disconnected apparatus. A louder, more insistent alarm sounded at the ICU’s central monitoring station.

Jackson yelled, “Put down your weapon, sir! Now!” and tightened his finger on the trigger.