Lethal Exposure by Kevin J. Anderson, Doug Beason Page A

only hope.
    A bearded face thrust into the car window. “Mr. Bretti? You are quite correct. Mr. Chandrawalia is indeed anxious to see you. A driver will be out shortly to bring your car to the front. Please walk into the complex to meet him” The guard opened the car door and waited for Bretti to get out.
    Cursing under his breath, Bretti scooted out from the seat and left the keys dangling in the ignition. He nervously ran a hand through his black hair, then popped the trunk. The guard towered over him, emotionless as he carefully closed Bretti’s car door. Turning a key in a control box, the guard swung open the gate. “We will take good care of your car, sir.”
    Bretti walked around to the trunk and lifted the unwieldy suitcase out of car. No fuckin’ way he was going to let these towelheads get hold of his Penning trap. It was only Phase One of the down payment he owed the Indians, but he wasn’t going to let this get out of his sight. Swinging the bulky case by his side, he made for the embassy house.
    Inside the fence a short man in a white tunic ran from the main building, taking no notice of him. Bretti passed bumblebees drifting lazily around the garden. The flowers made the air thick, sweet, and nauseating. He entered the embassy, glad to be behind the protective walls. . . .
    Bretti had never been able to figure out Chandrawalia’s exact title and position in the Embassy. But it had to be high up in the food chain, judging from everything he had promised Bretti. The man smiled graciously as he sat behind a polished wooden desk, gesturing him into the private office.
    Paintings of Hindi women dressed in colorful garb were positioned across the wall next to photographs of elaborate Mughal-era temples, photos of vast cities taken from the air, and the standard picture of the Taj Mahal. Green marble elephants stood two feet tall on either side of the desk.
    “Welcome, Dr. Bretti. I am honored to listen, though my time is somewhat at a premium this afternoon.” Chandrawalia’s dark face contrasted with his impossibly white teeth. He had deep wrinkles, and a white beard shot with strands of iron gray.
    “This is important enough to be worth your time.”
    “Very well, Dr. Bretti. Would you care for some tea?”
    Tea? How could Bretti think of tea at a time like this? His whole life, his future had just disintegrated around him—like an antimatter explosion. He wondered if he should confess to Chandrawalia, explain about the FBI agent, his flight, all because the Indian government wanted a secret stash of p-bars. Would Chandrawalia help him out of this mess?
    Bretti knew it would be a mistake to think of this man as his friend.
    “No. No tea.” Bretti shifted in his chair, setting the heavy suitcase of p-bars on the floor beside him. He plugged an extension cord from the wall to the suitcase, recharging the lithium batteries. “Things have changed at the Lab. I need to get out of here today like we planned, but I won’t have as much of the . . . uh, product as I had promised. I have a more efficient trap collecting particles of antimatter right now. In less than a week—after the excitement cools down—it’ll have a full supply. When I return, I can make good on the final delivery.”
    Chandrawalia’s facial expression remained frozen in a perpetual smile. “I am sorry to hear that. Will this affect our agreement, Dr. Bretti?”
    “ Mr . Bretti. Call me mister.” Bretti screwed up his face. The man knew damned well he was still a grad student. “I’ve got some antimatter, enough for your people to start their medical isotope project. And that’s the important thing. Now get me out of here.”
    “We’ve inspected your holding apparatus,” said Chandrawalia smoothly. “Your device is making our security people nervous. They think it could be some sort of sophisticated bomb.”
    “Just don’t x-ray the container. That would increase the antiproton diffusion rate out of the magnetic bottle.”