Quantum. Tom Grace

you tell us exactly what happened?’

      Nolan launched into the chronology of events, starting when he and Kelsey had arrived in South Bend the previous evening. The agents waited until the end of his narrative before asking questions for clarification on various points of the attack and details regarding Sandstrom’s research on quantum energy cells.

      ‘Bottom line,’ Nolan said, ‘the men who did this were well trained, possibly former Russian Special Forces.’

      ‘Do you have any idea who might be responsible for this attack?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Sandstrom and Paramo’s research was very cutting-edge stuff,’ Kelsey offered, ‘and in recent years they didn’t publish much of what they were working on.’

      ‘And the device, this quantum energy cell, how many people knew about that?’

      Nolan thought for a moment. ‘Outside of the boards of MARC and ND-ARC and the regents of their respective universities, I can’t think of anyone who knew about the cell or our plans to develop it commercially.’

      ‘Can you provide a list of those who did know about it?’

      ‘Certainly, as soon as we get back to Ann Arbor, I can fax you the contact information. I’d be very surprised if any of those people are involved with this attack.’

      ‘Why do you say that?’ Agent Young asked.

      ‘Economics. The people I’m going to name will all be shareholders of the company we’re setting up to license quantum energy cell technology. Should things go the way we believe, the shares they purchase as insiders will be worth a fortune. What happened here today is simply not in their best interests.’

      ‘But someone did think this attack was worth doing,’ Young said.

      ‘Yes,’ Nolan agreed, ‘but keep in mind that this is more than a violent case of industrial espionage. The person or persons ultimately responsible for this have stolen a technology that could disrupt the industrialized world’s economy in a way that hasn’t been seen since the Great Depression.’

      ‘Thank you, Mr Kilkenny,’ Agent Harris said after a pause. ‘If we have any further questions, or information regarding this matter, we’ll be in touch.’

      ‘I’d appreciate being kept in the loop. How about security for Sandstrom?’

      ‘The local police have posted officers at the hospital ’round the clock, assuming he survives.’

      Young’s cell phone chirped in his pocket, and he answered it. After a few single-syllable responses, he scrawled down some hasty notes and finished the call.

      ‘They found three bodies stuffed in some barrels just outside of town, all dressed in the moving company’s uniforms. Looks like our gunmen hit ’em on the way in.’

      ‘We have to go,’ Harris announced. ‘Again, thank you both for your help.’

      As the FBI agents left, Nolan and Kelsey began walking over to his SUV.

      ‘Three more innocent people murdered,’ Kelsey said slowly, trying to comprehend it all.

      Nolan placed his arm around Kelsey’s shoulder and pulled her close. He was a former SEAL; violence and death had been a part of his life – a part he’d hoped was behind him.

      ‘Nolan?’

      ‘Yeah, hon?’

      ‘Do you think we’re in any danger from these men?’

      ‘No. They got what they came for. We don’t know enough about Ted’s work to cause them any real concern. The only person who might still be in any danger is Ted. He and Paramo were the ones they were out to kill.’

      ‘This whole situation makes me feel so vulnerable, so helpless. I just wish there were something we could do.’

      ‘Well, there is one more thing I’m going to do.’

      Nolan pressed the button of the SUV’s key fob and popped the locks. He opened the rear driver-side door and fished out his PalmPilot and a digital phone from his soft-sided briefcase. From the Pilot, he looked up a number and keyed it into the phone.

      ‘Mosley here,’ a voice answered.

      ‘Cal, this is Nolan Kilkenny.’

      ‘Kilkenny?’ Mosley paused for a moment, recalling the Spyder incident that they had both been involved in a year earlier. ‘How’ve you been, young man? Stayin’ out of trouble?’

      ‘Cal, I’d love to say this is just a social call, but it ain’t. I’ve got a problem – something along the lines of the last one we worked on together. I think the CIA might be interested.’

      Nolan heard a click on the line.

      ‘I hope you don’t mind if I tape this.’

      ‘Not at all.’

      ‘Good, then tell me your story.’

       11

       JUNE 24

       Chicago, Illinois

      Dmitri Leskov gazed down at his brother Pavel’s body one last time. The open wound, the result of two tightly placed 9-mm rounds, disfigured both the young man’s handsome face and Leskov’s memory.

      ‘I’m ready,’ Leskov announced.

      Out of the corner of the room, Oleg Artuzov appeared, gliding silently across the polished terrazzo floor. The forty-four-year-old mortician plied the same trade in Chicago’s ethnic Russian community as he had in Smolensk, before emigrating to the United States. Though profitable in its own right, the Artuzov Funeral Home augmented its bottom line by laundering money and providing discreet ‘private services’ for the growing community of Russian Mafiya in Chicago.

      Artuzov closed the simple casket that bore the body of Pavel Leskov. This was the third and last coffin that he would wheel into the adjacent room for cremation.

      Leskov watched through the glass wall that separated the viewing room from the crematory as Artuzov rolled the stainless-steel charge trolley up to the door of the furnace. After docking the trolley, Artuzov moved to a control panel in the far corner of the room. At the press of a button, the automated process began. The furnace door slid upward, revealing a chamber heated to nearly one thousand degrees Celsius. Slowly, Pavel Leskov’s coffin moved into the fiery maw. When the coffin’s journey was finally complete, the furnace door dropped down and sealed the chamber.

      Over the next two hours Pavel Leskov’s body would be reduced to a fine gray ash. In that form, the remains would then be mixed in with those of a legitimate client and dispersed over Lake Michigan. Smuggling three dead men out of the United States and back to Russia, in any form, was far too great a risk.

      Leskov stepped outside of the air-conditioned funeral home and walked into a thick wall of humid air. Within seconds, the pressed white collar of his shirt was damp. The day was overcast, which matched his mood.

      In front of the funeral home, a corpulent man who was packed like a sausage in an ill-fitting suit leaned against a dark blue Lincoln Town Car. Pyotr Voronin’s thinning black hair was slicked back like stringy lines of paint on his fleshy head.

      ‘Did Oleg take care of everything?’ Voronin asked.

      ‘Da, Pavel and the others will be scattered into your Great Lake Michigan later this week. Thank you for making the arrangements on such short notice.’

      ‘When Victor Orlov asks for a favor, well—’ The man shrugged his shoulders. No further explanation was required.