Craig Kreident #1: Virtual Destruction (31 page)

Craig looked it over, spotted the times of entry and exit—and immediately fixed upon one that didn’t belong.
 
Diana Unteling
at eleven forty-five PM.
 
He recognized the name, but couldn’t place it.
 
“Who’s this?” he said.
 
“Another one of the PSOs?”

“No,” Paige said, drawing out the answer and trying to cover her smile.
 
“It’s very interesting in fact.”

Then suddenly Craig remembered where he had seen her name.
 
Diana Unteling had been Michaelson’s deputy on the on-site inspection team in the former Soviet Union years before.
 
Michaelson had left her in charge when he had flown back to rescue the Laser Implosion Fusion Facility.

“I thought she was at DOE headquarters in Washington,” Craig said.
 
“Was she back at Livermore on business?”

“According to Tansy’s schedules, Unteling and Michaelson had no meetings set up—and why was she out here so late at night?
 
After you had ordered it sealed?
 
The place was empty, but she stayed about an hour.
 
What was she doing all that time?”

Craig made his mouth into a straight firm line, staring down at the fax paper.
 
He suddenly sat bolt upright.

“Diana,” he said then he changed the tone of his voice.
 
“‘Hal this is Diana, where the hell are you?’“

“Now you’re getting it!” Paige said.
 
“You think Diana Unteling from DOE headquarters is the voice on the tape?
 
This is bad news, or good news because it’s another whole line of reasoning we haven’t looked into yet.”

He stood up from the chair, leaving his clutter on Gary Lesserec’s desktop.
 
“Let’s find out if Ms. Unteling is back in her DOE Headquarters or still out here.
 
If I have to, I’ll travel to Washington DC tomorrow so I can talk to her face to face.
 
I want to watch her expression before she has time to make up an excuse.”

“Do you think the FIB will fly you there?” Paige asked.
 
“Won’t they just bring in one of their own agents in DC?”

Craig took a deep breath, remembering June Atwood threatening to pull him off the investigation.
 
“It usually works that way—but right now my boss owes me a few big favors.”

CHAPTER 32

Monday

Building 332

Plutonium Facility

Carefully, very carefully, Duane Hopkins measured out a sample of hydrofluoric acid inside his glove box container.

Ronald or some of his buddies were full of bluster and bravado, not caring about the dangers to which they exposed themselves in their work.
 
But Duane had a healthy respect for the terrible things he worked with.
 
He knew the bad things radiation and poisonous chemicals could do to people.
 
Stevie was living proof.

On his clipboard he made a careful note of the amount of acid he kept in his glove box, then added a little bit just to make sure no one thought he had lost any.
 
Duane didn’t want to get into trouble.

Ronald had said an FBI man had been in that morning asking questions, and immediately the Plutonium Facility manager had ordered a full and complete inventory of all the controlled chemicals in all the glove boxes in Building 332.

Duane didn’t know what had prompted this extreme investigation, but he secretly hoped that something bad had happened, something bad enough to cause a full-scale crackdown.
 
Maybe that would force the Lab to get rid of the dangerous substances like the ones that had made Stevie so sick.
 
Duane didn’t know if it was radiation or poisonous chemicals that had given Stevie his cerebral palsy—maybe poisonous radioactive chemicals?—but people needed to be aware of the hazards.
 
An FBI investigation might bring about a complete shakeup.

He had tried to telephone Mr. Lesserec over at the Virtual Reality program, but the man had not returned his calls.
 
He wondered what this was all about.

Duane didn’t want to see his job disturbed, but maybe this would be worth it.

#

In the change room during the early afternoon break, Duane meticulously unbuttoned the front of his smock and changed into his street clothes, tucking in his green flannel shirt and sliding the jingling car keys in his pants.

With his voice raised against the loud background noise, Ronald barged into the change room with his cronies laughing about some crude joke; but Ronald stopped upon seeing Duane in his street clothes.

“Hey, Beavis!
 
Where you think you’re going?”

Duane turned away and continued to get dressed, closing his locker door.
 
“I have to go home.
 
I’m taking the rest of the day off.”

Ronald scowled and took two steps toward him.
 
“You didn’t ask me, Beavis.
 
I didn’t say you could go home.
 
You’ve got work to do, and some of my stuff too.”

“I can’t Ronald,” Duane said.
 
“Stevie’s got a doctor’s appointment.
 
He’s really sick.
 
I have to take him in.”

One member of Ronald’s gang snorted.
 
“The retard’s probably getting a brain transplant.”
 
The others laughed.

“Yeah, Beavis here is donating his own brain.
 
They need a microscope to find it, though.”
 
Ronald guffawed.

Duane didn’t answer, but hurried out of the locker room.
 
He didn’t know what else he could do to get even with Ronald, to get the bully off his back.
 
It seemed everything he thought of went without notice, or he chickened out before carrying out his plans, knowing Ronald would catch him and beat him into a mashed pulp.

Maybe Duane could report him to that FBI man.
 
Ronald had done so many things blatantly wrong that he must have been part of whatever the agent was investigating.
 
Or maybe that nice man Gary Lesserec would help; Lesserec had said that he’d owe Duane one for that material he had provided.

But as Duane hurried out of the secure facility, past the checkpoints and the fence to his battered old Ford station wagon in the parking lot, he knew that all such thoughts were just fantasies.

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

Tuesday

Forrestal Building

Department of Energy Headquarters

Washington, D.C.

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.