certainly not a race.” He hesitated, then stared coolly at Craig. “Surely you’re not implying that I would somehow engineer Dr. Dumenco’s accident for a physics award? I’ve won enough prizes to be beyond that.”
“Just asking, Dr. Piter. I have to probe all possibilities.” Craig was uncomfortable, though, at how the Belgian scientist’s gaze had lighted on Paige when he mentioned his prizes . “I think we’ve seen enough here. Ben, if you’re willing to check out one of the intact beam-sampling substations, I’d like to stop by Dr. Dumenco’s office now.”
CHAPTER 6
Tuesday, 1:47 P.M.
Fermilab
Beam-Sampling Substation
Working alone now, fully charged with a fresh Styrofoam cup of coffee from the Fermilab cafeteria, Ben Goldfarb went searching for scraps of evidence. He preferred being a field agent, investigating the scene of the crime, trying to uncover something the evidence technicians had missed. Maybe even something Craig Kreident hadn’t noticed.
Since Fermilab was a non-secured facility, unlike Lawrence Livermore or the Nevada Test Site, Goldfarb could walk around by himself. Having another person looking over his shoulder as he snooped put a crimp in his style. He went around the service road by the huge Tevatron, glancing at the other small concrete substations identical to the one that had been vaporized.
Special Agent Schultz, in charge of investigating the crater, told Goldfarb he was welcome to take a second look, but Schultz assured him that they had already been through each one of the substations with bomb-sniffing dogs and nitrogen detectors. They had found no evidence of explosives, no sabotage—only incomprehensible diagnostics and technical equipment. The blockhouses didn’t look as if they were used too often, and they had little strategic importance, as far as Schultz could see.
All that was well and good, Goldfarb thought, but he wanted to make up his own mind. The glassy crater itself offered no evidence for him, no leads, but he made his way to one of the other beam-sampling substations to see if there might be an overlooked connection with Dr. Dumenco’s accident. Schultz wasn’t even thinking about the deadly radiation exposure.
The unobtrusive concrete structures stood at regular intervals around the raised dirt berm above the main particle accelerator ring. Tall brown grass filled the middle of the giant circle, dotted by occasional ponds and the dark forms of distant buffalo grazing within the high-tech enclosure.
Goldfarb trudged along the service road, pushing his hands into his jacket pocket; despite the watery sun poking through the clouds, the air retained the chill of late fall. He supposed the substations would be locked, since they contained delicate diagnostics and complex sampling systems. Later, he could always arrange to get a key from Paige Mitchell. For now, he just wanted the look and feel of one of the places, to get into the mindset of someone working inside . . . or hiding inside, plotting some sort of sabotage.
Since Fermilab paid little attention to security or accountability, they had no records of employee whereabouts during the times of interest. No one had been scheduled in that substation at the time of the blast, but since the energy burst had vaporized everything, they wouldn’t find even a bone fragment if a saboteur had been inside. But no personnel had been reported missing, either.
Too bad the explosion of an empty blockhouse gained all the attention instead of a man dying at the hospital. Perhaps that was for the best, though—the media would go all weak-kneed at the story of Dumenco’s lethal radiation overdose. Even Trish LeCroix’s hardliner group, Physicians Against Radiation, or whatever it was called, would make a circus out of the tragedy. But at least Craig’s former girlfriend was keeping the situation quiet, and he respected her for that.
As he approached the nearest substation, Goldfarb made a mental note to
“Just asking, Dr. Piter. I have to probe all possibilities.” Craig was uncomfortable, though, at how the Belgian scientist’s gaze had lighted on Paige when he mentioned his prizes . “I think we’ve seen enough here. Ben, if you’re willing to check out one of the intact beam-sampling substations, I’d like to stop by Dr. Dumenco’s office now.”
CHAPTER 6
Tuesday, 1:47 P.M.
Fermilab
Beam-Sampling Substation
Working alone now, fully charged with a fresh Styrofoam cup of coffee from the Fermilab cafeteria, Ben Goldfarb went searching for scraps of evidence. He preferred being a field agent, investigating the scene of the crime, trying to uncover something the evidence technicians had missed. Maybe even something Craig Kreident hadn’t noticed.
Since Fermilab was a non-secured facility, unlike Lawrence Livermore or the Nevada Test Site, Goldfarb could walk around by himself. Having another person looking over his shoulder as he snooped put a crimp in his style. He went around the service road by the huge Tevatron, glancing at the other small concrete substations identical to the one that had been vaporized.
Special Agent Schultz, in charge of investigating the crater, told Goldfarb he was welcome to take a second look, but Schultz assured him that they had already been through each one of the substations with bomb-sniffing dogs and nitrogen detectors. They had found no evidence of explosives, no sabotage—only incomprehensible diagnostics and technical equipment. The blockhouses didn’t look as if they were used too often, and they had little strategic importance, as far as Schultz could see.
All that was well and good, Goldfarb thought, but he wanted to make up his own mind. The glassy crater itself offered no evidence for him, no leads, but he made his way to one of the other beam-sampling substations to see if there might be an overlooked connection with Dr. Dumenco’s accident. Schultz wasn’t even thinking about the deadly radiation exposure.
The unobtrusive concrete structures stood at regular intervals around the raised dirt berm above the main particle accelerator ring. Tall brown grass filled the middle of the giant circle, dotted by occasional ponds and the dark forms of distant buffalo grazing within the high-tech enclosure.
Goldfarb trudged along the service road, pushing his hands into his jacket pocket; despite the watery sun poking through the clouds, the air retained the chill of late fall. He supposed the substations would be locked, since they contained delicate diagnostics and complex sampling systems. Later, he could always arrange to get a key from Paige Mitchell. For now, he just wanted the look and feel of one of the places, to get into the mindset of someone working inside . . . or hiding inside, plotting some sort of sabotage.
Since Fermilab paid little attention to security or accountability, they had no records of employee whereabouts during the times of interest. No one had been scheduled in that substation at the time of the blast, but since the energy burst had vaporized everything, they wouldn’t find even a bone fragment if a saboteur had been inside. But no personnel had been reported missing, either.
Too bad the explosion of an empty blockhouse gained all the attention instead of a man dying at the hospital. Perhaps that was for the best, though—the media would go all weak-kneed at the story of Dumenco’s lethal radiation overdose. Even Trish LeCroix’s hardliner group, Physicians Against Radiation, or whatever it was called, would make a circus out of the tragedy. But at least Craig’s former girlfriend was keeping the situation quiet, and he respected her for that.
As he approached the nearest substation, Goldfarb made a mental note to
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