Craig Kreident #1: Virtual Destruction (32 page)

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?”

“Ms. Unteling—”

“
Mrs.
Unteling, please.
 
I’m a happily married woman.”

 
Craig cleared his throat and smiled at her.
 
I'm sure your husband would like to know that—especially after hearing the messages you left on Michaelson's answering machine
.
 
“I went through Dr. Michaelson’s office with a classification specialist.
 
They were able to open his safe and inventory his classified documents, but several were missing.”

She stiffened.
 
“Why are you telling me this, Mr. Kreident?
 
Do you have any idea how many classified papers are created every year at Livermore?”

“This is a special case, I think.
 
You see—”
 
He steepled his fingers and leaned closer to her.
 
She backed away.
 
“
—
every one of the missing documents originated from your office, Mrs. Unteling.
 
There were sixty memos, all transmitted over the past year and a half.”
 
He watched her closely.

“Once the documents are out of our hands, they are no longer our responsibility.”

“Then what about the subject matter?
 
If I provide you with a numerical list of specific classified memos, could you tell me what they contained?”

She shook her head.
 
“Impossible.
 
I’m afraid, Mr. Kreident, you don’t have the proper need-to-know.
 
You would have to get a specific search warrant for those specific memos, and in order to do that I think you would have to make an extremely compelling argument to prove they are in some way connected with Hal’s death.
 
And that’s not just a DOE regulation—that’s the law.”

He tried a throwaway comment, anything to make her yield.
 
He shut his notebook and stashed it in his briefcase again.
 
“Dr. Michaelson personally signed for those documents; they all came from your office.
 
Now he’s dead, and those memos were. . .misplaced for a while.
 
I thought you might want to talk about it.”
 
He had a sudden flash of insight. “In light of your recent nomination for Assistant Secretary, I mean.”

Diana Unteling’s face hardened even further, like a glacier calving icebergs.
 
“Mr. Kreident, my office had the responsibility for coordinating those classified memos with Lawrence Livermore.
 
Every document was logged out of this office and transmitted over secure communication channels in strict accordance with DOE security regulations.

“It is not your place or duty to question that procedure.
 
If you have any question about the disposition of classified material at Livermore, then I strongly suggest
 
that you restrict your queries
there
, and not here, since that appears to be where the breach of security occurred—if in fact there was any breach.”

Craig studied the unflinching woman.
 
Nothing seemed to crack her exterior.
 
He smiled instead.
 
“Oh, you misunderstand me, Ma’am.
 
I said the memos were missing from Michaelson’s document repository.
 
I didn’t say we haven’t found them.”
 
He breathed slowly as he kept his voice calm, taking a big gamble.
 
“I just wanted to look you in the eye and ask
you
what was in them.
 
But you’re quite right.
 
You don’t have to tell me.”

Craig clicked his briefcase shut and placed it on his lap.
 
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Unteling.”
 
He stood and held out a hand; she ignored it.

From the door Craig said, “I’ll leave my card in case you decide to get hold of me.”
 
He placed one of his FBI cards on the wooden desk and patted it with a smile.
 
“Don’t hesitate to call.”

Pressing her lips together, Unteling didn’t say a word.
 
Craig could almost feel her gaze boring into his back as he departed.
 
He still couldn’t tie down all the details, but he felt as if he had jabbed a hornet’s nest with a stick.

CHAPTER 34

Wednesday

Building 433—T-Program

Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory

Paige spotted it first, noticing the obvious and making Craig want to kick himself for not seeing it.

When he came into the T Program trailer complex late Wednesday morning, Craig still felt bleary-eyed from his late flight back from Washington DC.
 
But he had taken the time to shave and change into a clean suit, white shirt, and dark red tie.
 
But he felt run-down and fuzzy.

Paige met him in the T Program trailer, wearing a large but conspiratorial grin on her face.
 
She had clipped back her honey-colored hair with a pair of black barrettes, and she wore a loose peach-colored silk blouse over trim black slacks.
 
She looked comfortable, easing up on her rigid dress as she spent more time working with Craig as a friend rather than as an official protocol escort.
 
Her smile at him was brighter than the sheen of her silk blouse.

“So did you learn anything in Washington DC?” she asked, obviously hiding something.

“Unteling denies everything, of course, but I think I rattled her.
 
Something’s not right, and we just need to pinpoint what it is.
 
She’s sweating.”

Paige leaned closer to him.
 
“I’ve found something else that’s not quite right,” she said, lowering her voice.
 
She sat down on one of the chairs in Gary Lesserec’s cubicle.

Outside in the computer area Lesserec leaned over two other programmers who hammered busily at keyboards.
 
Lesserec looked like a junior Napoleon trying to rein in his troops.
 
He flashed a glance at Craig, frowned with distaste, then bent back to the workstations.
 
He ignored Craig entirely, which was just fine with him.

“What is it?” Craig asked, also keeping his voice low.

Paige indicated the paraphernalia in Lesserec’s cubicle.
 
“Take a look.
 
It’s right in front of your eyes.”

Craig had seen it all a dozen times before, but he glanced again, trying to determine what Paige had noticed.
 
The big-screen workstation, the bumper sticker about Porches, the plastic snoopy doll, the empty Diet Coke cans scattered everywhere, the photograph of Lesserec and his “too sexy for a nerd” girlfriend standing at Lake Tahoe, the debris of diskettes, software manuals, and old sticky-notes.
 
He stared and stared, unwilling to admit he couldn’t see anything new.

Paige didn’t wait for him to ask.
 
“Come on, let’s go for a bike ride.”
 
She whispered.
 
“Someplace we can talk.”

Craig nodded.
 
They passed back through the CAIN booth to the outside of the trailer complex and found two Lab bicycles perched against a bike rack.
 
He blinked in the sun, settling his sunglasses in place.
 
Craig adjusted the black bike seat as Paige swung herself into place.
 
She started pedaling, making him work to catch up with her.

She found a bike path lined with eucalyptus trees, and they rode past the Restricted Area fence.
 
Without talking, they kept going around the perimeter of the site where the research buildings were scattered farther apart, leaving only pumping stations and generator buildings run by Plant Engineering.

“All right, Ms. Detective, open up.
 
What is it?” Craig said, looking across at her.
 
His sunglasses kept slipping down his nose, and he lifted one hand from the handlebars to straighten them.

“You know that bumper sticker about Porches?” Paige said. “Well, I checked—Lesserec really owns one.
 
Brand new.
 
Sixty-five thousand dollars.”
 
She waited for that to sink in, then continued.
 
“You know the photo Lesserec keeps on his desk, him and his girlfriend by their condo at Lake Tahoe?”

“Yes.”
 
Craig nodded again, beginning to see.

“Lesserec bought the condo in the last nine months.
 
He really owns it.
 
He’s also got a very nice house up in Blackhawk, one of the exclusive, upscale subdivisions in Danville, just about the most expensive area to live in this whole valley.”
 
She paused meaningfully.
 
“Gary Lesserec should not be able to afford that sort of thing.”

“Okay,” Craig said cautiously.
 
“Why not?
 
He’s the Deputy Program Director for the entire VR Project.
 
Isn’t that a prestigious position?”

They passed under some low-hanging, pungent eucalyptus branches.
 
Paige looked back at him.
 
“Craig, I’ve got a printout of all the Lab salaries in case you need actual proof—but trust me, we’re
University of California employees
.
 
Even important people here don’t scratch the salaries they could be making as consultants on the outside.
 
The highest paid person in the Livermore Lab doesn’t pull in much more than a hundred thousand a year, and I guarantee you Lesserec doesn’t make that much.
 
At least he’s not supposed to be.”

“Well,” Craig said pondering as they pedaled past fenced-in softball fields the employees used at lunch.
 
“What about the girlfriend.
 
Could she be rich?
 
Maybe she’s the one with money?”

Paige pursed her lips.
 
“I asked about that.
 
It seems Tansy Beaumont has a great deal to say on the subject.
 
Tansy thinks Lesserec’s girlfriend has been sponging off him for about two years now.
 
In her own words, ‘you can see what he gets out of that girl.’“
 
Paige laughed.
 
“If
she
was rich, why would she be with someone like him?
 
You’ve got to admit Gary Lesserec is no prize specimen.”