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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 fol-lowed 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 dip-lomat, 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 par-ties, none with a clear majority. Any time a minority
party such as ours attempts something out of the ordi-nary, suspicions are raised. They stopped just
outside the main terminal area where a mass of people congre-gated. 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 evenmedical 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.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Wednesday, 6:15 a.m.
Fox River Medical Center,
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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 Gold-farb 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, con-tusing and lacerating the lung, causing what the doctor called a hemopneumothorax. A
tube had been in-serted 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 Chi-cago 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 be-fore 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 anni-versary? 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 me-ticulously 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 Du-menco 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
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he got off the red-eye flight from San Francisco.
Down the hall, with a quiet chime of a bell, the ele-vator 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
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