TOM GRACE

Quantum

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by Pocket Books in 2000.

Copyright © 2000 The Kilkenny Group, LLC

Tom Grace asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847561237

Ebook Edition © 2000 ISBN: 9780007358250

Version: 2018-07-05

Dedication

For John Steven Rosowki A friend, classmate, and a true renaissance man One of the brightest minds I have had the privilege to know. 1962–1984

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: December 10, 1948

Chapter 1 - June 5, Present Day

Chapter 2 - June 7

Chapter 3 - June 23

Chapter 4 - June 23

Chapter 5 - June 23

Chapter 6 - June 23

Chapter 7 - June 23

Chapter 8 - June 23

Chapter 9 - June 23

Chapter 10 - June 23

Chapter 11 - June 24

Chapter 12 - June 26

Chapter 13 - June 27

Chapter 14 - June 28

Chapter 15 - June 28

Chapter 16 - June 28

Chapter 17 - June 29

Chapter 18 - June 30

Chapter 19 - July 10

Chapter 20 - July 11

Chapter 21 - July 17

Chapter 22 - July 18

Chapter 23 - July 18

Chapter 24 - July 19

Chapter 25 - July 19

Chapter 26 - July 20

Chapter 27 - July 21

Chapter 28 - July 21

Chapter 29 - July 25

Chapter 30 - July 26

Chapter 31 - July 26

Chapter 32 - July 26

Chapter 33 - July 26

Chapter 34 - July 26

Chapter 35 - July 26

Chapter 36 - July 26

Chapter 37 - July 27

Chapter 38 - July 28

Chapter 39 - July 28

Chapter 40 - July 28

Chapter 41 - July 28

Chapter 42 - July 29

Chapter 43 - July 29

Chapter 44 - July 29

Chapter 45 - July 29

Chapter 46 - July 29

Chapter 47 - July 29

Chapter 48 - July 29

Chapter 49 - July 29

Chapter 50 - July 29

Chapter 51 - July 30

Chapter 52 - July 30

Chapter 53 - July 30

Chapter 54 - July 30

Chapter 55 - July 31

Chapter 56 - July 31

Chapter 57 - July 31

Chapter 58 - July 31

Chapter 59 - July 31

Chapter 60 - July 31

Chapter 61 - July 31

Chapter 62 - July 31

Chapter 63 - July 31

Chapter 64 - July 31

Chapter 65 - July 31

Chapter 66 - July 31

Chapter 67 - August 1

Chapter 68 - August 2

Chapter 69 - August 3

Chapter 70 - Dexter, Michigan

A Note to the Reader

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Prologue
DECEMBER 10, 1948

Ann Arbor, Michigan

In the shadows of a small white building near the center of the University of Michigan campus, a young man stood motionless as he watched and waited. He was tall and wiry with harshly chiseled features, as if he’d been carved rather than born.

From his concealed vantage point near the eastern end of the L-shaped Economics Building, the man-made canyon formed by the four-story masonry bulk of the Randall Physics Laboratory and the equally massive West Engineering building lay open before him. The two buildings defined one corner of a large campus quadrangle. A pair of diagonal walkways crisscrossed the formal lawn from opposite corners of the square, intersecting at a large concrete plaza in front of the Graduate Library. The plaza and campus green surrounding it were known as the Diag.

A wide flat hole surrounded by mounds of earth and debris lay to his right, just beyond the concrete walkway that extended out from an alley toward the center of the campus. A few days earlier a demolition crew had brought the aging boiler house and its attendant smokestack to the ground. The scene around him vaguely resembled many towns and villages of Europe he’d prowled as the Allied forces fought their way into Germany.

He put aside those thoughts and, instead, focused on the two men who stood in the illumination of a street-lamp not one hundred feet away. From this distance, he struggled to hear the men speak as a steady wind out of the north swallowed the sound of their conversation. Snow swirled into vortices around them as they shuffled and stamped their feet, trying to stay warm.

A few minutes later the older of the pair, a woodworker who built large model ships in a shop in West Engineering, shook his friend’s hand and walked off at a brisk pace. The snow barked under his boots, echoing off the surrounding buildings. The woodworker quickly rounded the far side of the Economics Building and disappeared from view as the other man then climbed up the stone steps that led to the rear entrance of the Physics Lab.

A light flickered and then illuminated a small third-floor office, and from the shadows the hunter watched as Johann Wolff hung up his hat and coat and sat down at his desk.

Might as well settle in, the hunter thought as he crouched down atop his duffel, behind the thick evergreen shrub.

He shrugged off the cold and discomfort – conditions he’d been hardened against long ago – and instead focused on his mission. If Wolff followed his usual routine, like a typical German, then he could expect the young physicist to work late into the night before returning to his rented room a few blocks away.

Johann Wolff pulled six notebooks out of his battered leather briefcase and set them carefully on the desk. He’d started the oldest of the slim volumes in Germany after the war, and each marked his painstaking progress in the pursuit of a scientific vision.

He opened the newest of the notebooks and carefully ran through the calculations again, following the flow of numbers through his complex mathematics. This was new territory. The methods he’d developed to describe what he saw as the next logical step after Einstein and Heisenberg were as radical as the calculus created by Isaac Newton to describe gravity.

Wolff’s formulas allowed him to move fluidly back and forth in time. The nearly musical cadence of the variables described an evolving universe of heretofore unimagined elegance and sophistication. The notion that the universe was static and unchanging had died nineteen years earlier when Edwin Hubble discovered that the cosmos was indeed expanding, as was predicted by Einstein’s theories.

‘Mein Gott!’ Wolff cried out as an image of the delicate, multidimensional structures that define both matter and energy clearly formed in his mind.

Wolff flipped to a blank page in his notebook and quickly began to sketch the mental picture before it faded. His skilled hand produced the image of a coiled loop that twisted and wound into itself like a knotted ball — an image that attempted to represent a subatomic-sized chunk of the universe possessing seven additional dimensions beyond the readily apparent three dimensions of space and one of time.

Smiling with childlike wonder, Wolff stared at the drawing and realized that, at twenty-nine years of age, he now stood ready to overthrow everything in the realm of theoretical physics that had preceded him.

‘I’ve got to let Raphaele know about this,’ he said excitedly as he rummaged through his briefcase.

Wolff extracted the pages of a letter he’d started earlier that day while riding the train back from Chicago. The words and formulas flowed rapidly from his pen as he briefly laid out the framework of a theory that would describe the structure of everything from the tiniest bits of matter to the entirety of the universe. The letter quickly grew from a few pages of personal news to a thick sheaf filled with concise fragments of his blossoming theory. The six notebooks on his desk were the seeds of a larger work he knew lay ahead of him, one whose publication would shake the world.

Shortly before midnight Wolff shut off the light in his office. Bundled against the evening chill, he exited through the building’s side door and began walking toward the center of campus.

‘Excuse me,’ a voice called out.

‘Ja?’ Wolff answered cautiously, still unable to see whom the voice belonged to.

‘I’m down here.’ A hand waved furiously at him from the excavation behind West Engineering.

Wolff stepped over the barricade and peered into the void left by the demolition of the boiler house. He saw a dark-haired young man in a soiled gray coat standing in the pit below.

‘Be careful near the edge, it might give out on you. That’s how I ended up down here. Think you could give me a hand getting out?’

‘Sure,’ Wolff replied. Judging by the smears of dirt on the man, it looked as though he had already made a few unsuccessful attempts to climb out on his own.

Wolff set his briefcase on the ground and knelt in the snow close to the edge of the pit. The young man moved toward him, and Wolff reached down to grasp his hand.

‘I’ll start climbing on three. Ready?’

Wolff nodded.

‘One, two …’

Before the count of three came, the young man yanked hard and pulled Wolff headfirst into the pit. Wolff felt his shoulder burn, his arm rotating behind him as he fell. Deftly, the man bent Wolff’s forearm upward, pressing the physicist’s hand between his shoulder blades as he drove his face into the ground. Wolff’s forehead plowed through two inches of freezing mud before slamming into the hardened earth. A crack of bone resonated inside his head, followed by a sudden rush of warm fluid into his sinus cavity – the bridge of Wolff’s nose crumbled as it impacted a large stone.

The man crouched over Wolff, pinning him to the ground. The weight of the attacker’s body bore down on the point where the man’s knee met Wolff’s spine.

‘Why? Why are you doing this?’ Wolff shouted with globs of dirty snow and mud spraying from his lips. ‘Let me go!’

Wolff struggled to pull free, but the young man had the advantage of strength and leverage.

‘You are Johann Wolff. From 1939 until 1945 you were a research scientist with the Reichsforschungsrat. Your job was to devise more efficient ways of killing people.’ The man spoke deliberately, each word carrying the weight of a pronouncement. ‘Under your supervision, over two thousand men, women, and children lost their lives as test subjects and slave laborers. The Nokmim, the avengers of your victims, have found you guilty of crimes against humanity and have sentenced you to death.’

‘Lies! I did not help the Nazis! I am a scientist. I killed no one!’ Wolff countered, vainly trying to face his accuser.

The man shifted his weight and drove Wolff deeper into the mire. With his free hand, the man pulled a long serrated knife from the sheath strapped to his thigh and plunged it into the side of Wolff’s neck. The stainless-steel blade sliced Wolff’s carotid artery, several muscles, and the jugular vein. Wolff blacked out as the blood pressure in his brain, temporarily heightened by adrenaline, abruptly dropped. The sharpened edge passed effortlessly through Wolff’s throat, nearly decapitating the physicist. The breath in Wolff’s lungs escaped with a gurgling hiss, the warm moist air mixing with the steam already rising from the expanding pool of blood. The tension in Wolff’s body waned as he slowly descended from unconsciousness into death.

The assassin quickly dragged Wolff’s body to the far end of the excavation and placed it in a partially buried maintenance tunnel at the base of the demolished smoke-stack. He then retrieved the physicist’s briefcase and placed it with the body.

As the winter storm increased, he opened his duffel bag and took out a folding shovel. Without a glance, he expertly flipped the folding shovel head open and tightened the neck to lock it in place. Quickly and quietly, as the cold wind howled above him, the assassin entombed Wolff in the tunnel and removed any evidence of the murder. Within a week, according to what the workmen had told him, the entire site would be filled and leveled with the surrounding lawn.

‘Vengeance has been served,’ the young man said softly as snow began to blanket the final resting place of the war criminal Johann Wolff. ‘May God have mercy on your soul – and mine.’

1
JUNE 5, PRESENT DAY

Ann Arbor, Michigan

Nolan Kilkenny punched the accelerator of the Mercedes ML 320 and piloted the black SUV into a sharp right turn onto the Huron Parkway. The yellow signal switched to red as he passed beneath.

In the passenger seat, Kelsey Newton stripped the towel from her head and began brushing out her shoulder-length mane of blond hair. The still-damp strands clumped together, and beads of water sprang off Kelsey’s brush with each flick of her wrist.

‘Hey, watch it,’ Nolan said as a few errant drops struck his face.

‘You want me beautiful, don’t you?’ Kelsey replied, her face hidden behind a veil of hair.

‘You always are.’

‘Well, thank you, but it doesn’t just happen, you know.’

Kelsey set the brush down on her lap and quickly wove her hair into a French braid. She then put the brush back in her purse and pulled out her mobile phone and began dialing.

The SUV’s speedometer edged over fifty as they passed the large blue-and-white sign that announced their entry onto the grounds of the University of Michigan’s North Campus. A smaller road sign set the speed limit at twenty-five miles per hour.

‘We’ll be there in a few minutes,’ Kelsey said reassuringly as Nolan sped down the winding road that led to the Michigan Applied Research Consortium.

Kelsey set her phone back in her purse. Ahead, nestled deep within a wooded site, stood a glistening ribbon of glass and stainless steel that defined the curvilinear form of the MARC building. The ultramodern structure was the physical embodiment of a vision that Nolan’s father had nurtured throughout his career in international finance: the idea that a bridge needed to be built between cutting-edge academic research and the businesses that fueled the nation’s economy. In operation for less than three years, Sean Kilkenny’s bridge carried a steadily growing flow of valuable technology from the university’s research labs into the world, and an equally impressive flow of money back into the university’s coffers.

Nolan parked in the first spot he found. Kelsey was already out her door and moving at a near run toward the building’s main entry by the time he pulled his briefcase out of the backseat and locked the SUV. After a short sprint, he caught up with her just as she passed through the door. In the lobby, Sean Kilkenny stood waiting for them.

‘Glad you two could make it.’

‘Sorry we cut it so close, Dad. Traffic on US Twenty-three was a bear.’

Kelsey gave Sean a peck on the cheek. ‘Thanks again for letting me borrow Nolan. I really doubt I could have replaced the entire tube array in only two days.’

‘You’re welcome, Kelsey. Anything to advance the cause of science.’

‘Dad, you should see this proton detector experiment. Imagine a sixty-foot cube of water hidden in a salt mine under Lake Erie. It’s pitch black down there, and the walls are lined with a couple of thousand jumbo-sized flood lamps.’

‘Photomultiplier tubes,’ Kelsey corrected.

‘Whatever. Strangest underwater job I’ve ever been on.’

‘I’m just glad I had an experienced diver down there with me,’ Kelsey said as she squeezed Nolan’s hand. ‘The PDE tank can be a little disorienting.’

‘I wouldn’t let anyone dive alone in that thing, especially you,’ Nolan said lovingly.

‘I assume that this project has been put to bed?’ Sean questioned.

Kelsey shot a furtive glance at Nolan, who reddened slightly. ‘We finished our part. The physics department can now handle the rest of the upgrade.’

‘Good, because after Sandstrom makes his pitch to the board, I have a feeling that MARC’s newest project director is going to have his hands full.’

Kelsey brushed a fleck off Nolan’s tweed jacket, causing Sean’s mood to relax slightly as he watched her evaluate his son’s appearance. It reminded him of how his late wife used to fuss over him before an important meeting, and it pleased him to know that his son had someone who cared for him in that same way.

Kelsey and Nolan had known each other since the earliest days of their childhood, when her family moved in to a home just a few doors up the street. They had attended school together, and both had distinguished themselves academically and athletically. They’d been best friends for years, sharing the strong bond of kindred spirits.

At eighteen, their ambitions took them on separate journeys. Kelsey attended the University of Michigan, where she pursued her passion for physics through to a doctorate and a faculty position. Nolan embraced the challenges of the United States Naval Academy, deferred his entry into the navy two years for a graduate degree from MIT, and then surprised his family and friends by joining the Navy SEALs.

Their friendship survived the twelve years of separation through a steady stream of phone calls, letters, and holiday visits. Eighteen months ago, when Nolan left the navy and returned to Ann Arbor, they resumed the comfortable pattern of their platonic relationship.

Both were ready for something more, but neither was willing to risk the security of what they had for the unknown – until they were nearly killed by a group of industrial spies. In the year following that brutal attempt on their lives, the two began enjoying an increasingly amorous relationship.

‘Okay?’ Nolan asked as she straightened his tie.

‘Handsome as ever, dear.’

‘You both look fine,’ Sean said impatiently, checking his watch. ‘The break’s about over. Let’s get inside. Nolan, Sandstrom and Paramo are waiting for you.’

Nolan followed his father and Kelsey into the conference room.

‘Excuse me while I go make sure everything’s ready for Sandstrom’s dog and pony show,’ Sean said before making a beeline for the podium.

From the doorway Nolan and Kelsey surveyed the crowd. The attendees had broken into several small groups, enjoying both the refreshments and the conversation.

‘I see them, Kelsey. Look by the windows. The blond guy with the red beard is Sandstrom. Next to him – the older man, about a foot shorter with white hair and tortoiseshell glasses – that’s Paramo.’

Beside the curved wall of glass that bowed outward into the woods, Kelsey spotted Ted Sandstrom and his mentor, Raphaele Paramo.’

‘Nolan,’ Sandstrom called out as they approached, relief visible on his face. ‘I was afraid you weren’t going to show.’

‘Wouldn’t miss it, Ted,’ he replied, then introduced Kelsey to the two physicists.

‘Professor Newton,’ Paramo said, shaking her hand enthusiastically, ‘this is indeed a pleasure. I’ve read your paper on optical electronics. Very interesting work.’

‘Thank you,’ Kelsey replied, enjoying the admiration of a respected peer.

Sandstrom then clasped her hand warmly. ‘I understand we have you to thank for our being here today.’

‘That may be overstating things a bit,’ she demurred. ‘All I did was look over the report that Notre Dame sent to MARC regarding your research. After I read it a few times – I admit it took more than one pass to really comprehend what you and Professor Paramo have accomplished – I told Nolan’s father that he’d be a fool not to take a closer look.’

‘Well, thank you for your vote of confidence.’

Across the room, Sean Kilkenny began to address those assembled. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ his amplified voice resonated above the murmuring conversations, ‘if you’ll kindly take your seats, we can move on to the next item on our agenda.’

The MARC board of directors, a mix of business executives and university regents, took their places at the conference table. Around the periphery of the room, members of the still-forming Notre Dame Applied Research Consortium (ND-ARC) and important guests of both universities returned to their seats. Sean Kilkenny waited until everyone was ready before proceeding.

‘Last fall I had the pleasure of meeting our guest presenter while in South Bend for the Michigan-Notre Dame football game. While I am sure that some of us were pleased with the outcome of that game’ – MARC’s founder paused as a ripple of laughter followed his remark – ‘I am doubly sure that others here are looking forward to the rematch this fall.’ Another pause for partisan laughter. ‘Be that as it may, my encounter with Ted Sandstrom, a professor of physics at Notre Dame, left a far greater impression on me than the game. Fellow board members and honored guests, I would like to introduce Professor Ted Sandstrom.’

The MARC director stood aside as Sandstrom approached the podium carrying a large Halliburton case.

‘They’re all yours, Ted,’ Sean said quietly as he clipped a wireless microphone to Sandstrom’s lapel.

Sandstrom looked over his audience. He recognized among the guests several wealthy Notre Dame alumni and a few of the regents. The presidents of both universities were seated together along the left wall. A sudden wave of nausea hit him, but it quickly subsided as he realized that this was no different from any classroom he’d ever been in. He was there to teach these people something about physics, and that was something he did very well.

‘Good afternoon. As Mr Kilkenny said, I am a physicist. More precisely, I am an experimental physicist, which means I like to test ideas to see whether or not they work.’

Sandstrom pressed a button on the podium; the lights dimmed and the Asian symbol for yin and yang appeared on the large, flat wall display.

‘In declaring that E equals mc squared, Einstein linked energy and matter together in such a way that the two are inseparable and, in some ways, indistinguishable. Matter is a manifestation of energy. If you label the left side of this symbol as matter’ – Sandstrom pointed to the black yang – ‘and the right as energy, then the region that I’m interested in is here.’

Sandstrom traced the S line that defined the border between yin and yang.

‘Here, in the boundary between matter and energy, resides the realm of quantum physics. This is where the classical physics of Newton and Galileo fall apart. The mathematical precision that we use to describe the motion of the planets is dethroned by an uncertainty principle that replaces absolutes with probabilities. In this thin edge, the distinction between matter and energy blurs.’

Sandstrom touched the podium keyboard again, and the image transformed into a horizontal grid, tilted slightly upward to show perspective. At random intervals two sections of the plane would distort, one spike warping upward while another went in the opposite direction. The warped areas would break free like water droplets and form gridded spheres that moved about briefly before being reabsorbed by the plane.

‘The plane you see in this illustration represents a negative-energy state. This condition exists only in a vacuum in which all matter has been removed. In this state, quantum theory predicts that fluctuations in this energy allow for the spontaneous creation of both matter and antimatter.’ Sandstrom pointed at the gridded spheres. ‘Theory also states that these particles disappear rather quickly, and being a balanced system, the net energy is essentially zero. This just shows, even at a quantum level, that you can’t get something for nothing.’

The gridded plane expanded and curled around on itself, forming a sphere.

‘One theory about the origin of our universe puts it in a negative-energy state at the start of the Big Bang.’

Sandstrom zoomed in on the gridded sphere just as thousands of tiny blue and red particles appeared inside it.

‘Now if matter and antimatter are created in equal amounts, then all these new particles should have collided with their opposites and annihilated each other in a burst of energy – leaving the universe a net zero.’

The red and blue particles quickly disappeared, and the gridded sphere collapsed into nothingness.

‘This outcome is true only for a perfectly symmetrical universe. Suppose that our universe was asymmetrical, and at the moment of the Big Bang, there was more matter than antimatter.’

The new animation showed thousands of red and blue particles racing around, each collision giving off a brief white flash. After a few seconds the gridded sphere held only blue particles. The view panned out as the sphere expanded until it evolved into a spiraling galaxy and then gradually changed back into the yin-yang symbol.

‘If this theory is valid, the question becomes: What caused the universe to be asymmetrical, allowing unequal amounts of matter and antimatter particles to be produced?’ Sandstrom paused briefly and looked over his audience. ‘At this point, I suspect that more than a few of you are wondering where I’m going with this presentation. So let me backtrack a bit for you. Eleven years ago Professor Raphaele Paramo and I began to investigate the effect of strong electrical fields on totally evacuated spaces. Our experiments had some very interesting results.’

Sandstrom tapped the keyboard, and a photograph of a laboratory, scorched and in shambles, filled the screen.

‘This one got away from us.’ A brief laugh rose from the audience. ‘Based on the theoretical calculations, the energies involved in this experiment should have been very low. As you can see, theory and reality were not in agreement. When we activated our test apparatus, an energy surge built up inside the evacuated chamber. The chamber quickly ruptured and a ball of lightning emerged. This coherent sphere of electricity floated around the lab for a few seconds before landing on an electrical panel. The explosion and resulting fire did significant damage to our lab. Fortunately, no one was hurt.’

The President of Notre Dame nodded, recalling the incident clearly.

‘We rebuilt our laboratory and began to probe further into the discrepancy between theory and experiment. Here is the result of that work.’

Sandstrom switched off the projector, and the lights came back up. He then picked up the Halliburton case, set it on the conference table, and extracted what looked like a twelve-inch hexagonal nut made of matte black metal. Centered in the top face, in place of a threaded bolt, sat a six-inch-diameter hemisphere of clear Lexan. Sandstrom set the device down on one side so those in the room could see into the transparent dome. Clearly visible beneath the Lexan cover were three nested rings of a gold-tinted metal. A bluish, semitransparent sphere sat in the center of the rings like a gemstone in a jeweler’s setting.

‘The blue sphere, the heart of this device, contains nothing – it has been evacuated as completely as current technology allows. Surrounding it are three rings of a room-temperature superconducting material recently developed at Stanford University. The rings provide the strong electrical field I mentioned a moment ago.’

Sandstrom then pulled two small, freestanding digital devices from the case and plugged them together in series.

‘These are standard watt meters that we use to measure the electric power on the input and output sides of the device. The calibration on both meters’ – Sandstrom paused as he plugged a cord from the first meter into a wall receptacle – ‘should be identical – which I am pleased to see is the case.’

Both meters registered identical 2200 watts. Satisfied the audience understood that both meters were operating properly, Sandstrom unplugged the cord, disconnected the meters, and reconnected them to jacks on opposite sides of the device. He then stood beside the table, holding the cord to the first meter in one hand.

‘According to the first law of thermodynamics, the total amount of energy coming out of a system must be equal to the total amount of energy going in. This phenomenon is known as conservation of energy, or the “no free lunch” law. It’s a good law that has proved itself time and again – until now.’

Sandstrom plugged the cord into the wall socket. The first meter jumped to life, registering the voltage that coursed through it like before; the second meter registered zero. Inside the device, the centermost golden ring began to spin. As it accelerated, the next ring began rotating, and finally the outermost ring joined in the orbital dance. The spinning rings created the illusion that the bluish globe was floating in a golden haze; then sparks appeared within the orb. The sparks increased in number and intensity until the vacuum within the sphere held a ball of brightly glowing energy. The audience shielded their eyes from the intense glare emanating from the device until Sandstrom took an opaque black cover from the Halliburton case and placed it over the Lexan dome.

‘It does get a bit bright,’ Sandstrom said sympathetically as several members of the audience blinked their eyes. ‘If you’ll please take a look at the meter measuring the energy output.’

Several members of the MARC board stood and moved closer to get a better look at the meter.

‘Is that thing registering correctly?’ asked an electrical engineer who’d made his fortune in the computer industry.

‘This isn’t possible,’ said another, straining to believe what her eyes were showing her.

‘That’s exactly what I said when I first saw the numbers. The energy output from this device is approximately two thousand times what we’re putting in. Now, since I firmly believe that energy can be neither created nor destroyed, the only conclusion I can draw is that this device is a faucet and the energy I’m using to create a strong asymmetrical energy field has opened the faucet, and that energy from some other source is pouring through it.’

The room buzzed with dozens of conversations as several people tried to shout questions at Sandstrom. A tidal wave of sound erupted from the normally diplomatic attendees as each tried to comprehend the impact of this discovery. Overwhelmed by the chaos that was overtaking the room, Sandstrom looked to Sean Kilkenny for help in subduing the crowd. Kilkenny, a boardroom veteran, quickly grabbed a microphone.

‘And when Professor Sandstrom finally does determine exactly how his invention works,’ the MARC founder said loudly, demanding the attention of the audience, ‘he will likely win the Nobel Prize. In the meantime, this discovery quite literally changes everything. Quantum technology will irrevocably alter the global economic landscape. The small size and weight of quantum power cells – relative to the energy they deliver – finally give electric motors a huge power-to-weight advantage over internal-combustion motors. This advantage will cause a stampede in the transportation industry as manufacturers rush to exploit it, and a panic in the fossil-fuel industry as they look for ways to cope with this advancement. The last time a technological shift of this magnitude occurred was almost a hundred years ago when small, efficient, fuel-burning engines supplanted the horse and carriage.’

Audience members with ties to the Big Three automakers and the petroleum industry nervously nodded agreement.

‘These industries are mature and established, and possess very deep pockets. While it might be possible for a maverick inventor with a better mousetrap to play David and Goliath with the likes of General Motors, the battle would be bloody and fierce. As much as I enjoy rooting for the underdog in an impossible fight, I also recognize that a young firm, one in control of a technology that promises to change how so many things in our world are done, could instigate a global economic war. The failures of the Asian and Russian financial markets in the late 1990s would pale in comparison to the sudden collapse of the industrial pillars that support our modern world.’

Sean Kilkenny let that thought hang over the now silent audience for a moment as he scanned the faces of so many people that he knew and respected.

‘To his credit, Professor Sandstrom is not an ivory-tower scientist. He cares about the effect his work will have on the livelihood of millions of people, and his concern is legitimate. The manner in which this quantum technology is unleashed on the world poses a very real dilemma.’ Sean Kilkenny then paused dramatically, and smiled. ‘It has also presented us with a unique opportunity. Those of you who know me well know that I believe in the concept of MARC, of the absolute necessity in building bridges between the worlds of academic research and industrial production. This is what I have chosen to do in my retirement, and I promote this cause with the fervor of an evangelical preacher on a crusade.’

‘Amen, Brother Kilkenny,’ one of the board members shouted out.

‘Amen, indeed. My introduction to Professor Sandstrom was no accident.’ Sean motioned to the Catholic priest seated beside the University of Michigan’s President, ‘Father Joseph Blake, the President of Notre Dame, is familiar with what we’ve accomplished with MARC and is very interested in transplanting the concept. I, of course, agreed to help in any way I could. The fruit of that initial discussion is twofold. First, the Notre Dame Applied Research Consortium officially opened for business this morning.’

Polite applause from the MARC board to their colleagues on the ND-ARC board filled the room.

‘Second, as chairman of the MARC board, I have received a formal offer from Suzanne Tynan, my distinguished counterpart at ND-ARC, to enter into a joint venture, the purpose of which is to patent any technological application for Sandstrom’s quantum power cell that we can think of, and to license these applications to any and all parties who believe that they can make use of them. In short, we have been asked by our colleagues from South Bend to work with them in managing an intellectual property that may well be to this new century what the electric light, the internal-combustion engine, and the microchip were to the last.’

The momentary silence that followed the announcement evaporated, along with any semblance of parliamentary procedure, as the MARC board erupted with questions.

‘How’s this thing going to work?’

‘Sean, what kind of commitment are we looking at?’

‘Do we have any projections?’

Sean turned to where Sandstrom stood with Paramo, Kelsey, and Nolan and smiled. He lived for moments such as this.

‘Mrs Quinn,’ he said loud enough to be heard over the din of questions being called out at him, ‘would you please distribute the prospectus for this venture.’

Loretta Quinn, Kilkenny’s trusted assistant for more than thirty years, nodded and made a quick circuit around the conference table, handing each of the board members a sealed and numbered packet of documents.

‘Due to the nature of the information contained in these packets, I feel it is my duty to remind you that this is a confidential matter, and the premature disclosure of any of this material would invite legal action equivalent in severity to the wrath of God. To answer a few of your questions, I have signed a letter of intent with ND-ARC. We have thirty days to review our proposed arrangement and iron out any wrinkles. While we debate percentages and punctuation, I have authorized the use of some of our resources by ND-ARC. If, at the end of thirty days, we decide not to pursue this venture, all materials will be returned and we will be compensated by ND-ARC for any resources used during this period. Most of your remaining questions should be answered in the prospectus, which I request you read thoroughly. In short, this discovery’ – he motioned with his hand toward Sandstrom’s quietly running device – ‘is the future. At this time I move that we adjourn and further discussion of this matter be added to the agenda for the closed board meeting next week.’

‘I second the motion,’ called out board member Diana LaPointe, a respected attorney specializing in patent law and intellectual property.

‘All those in favor?’ Sean asked.

‘Aye,’ the board unanimously responded.

‘The motion is carried, and this meeting is adjourned. Thank you all for coming.’

As the meeting broke up, board members carefully placed the sealed packages they had been given into briefcases, treating the documents with the same reverence one would give an original draft of the Constitution. Nolan, Kelsey, and Paramo moved to the front of the room, where Sandstrom was carefully placing his equipment back in the Halliburton case under Sean’s watchful eye.

‘So, Sean,’ Sandstrom asked as he flipped the latches on the case closed, ‘what happens now?’

‘You go back to work. Over the next week the board will digest what we’ve just given them. I suspect the meeting next week will be a doozy. In the end, I doubt we’ll take the entire thirty days to decide. This deal is just too interesting to pass up. By the way, Nolan,’ Sean said, turning to his son, ‘now it’s official: You’re our coordinator for the quantum project. Your first assignment will be to relocate Ted’s lab off campus.’

‘Something a little bigger, I hope,’ Sandstrom said.

‘A bit,’ Nolan replied. ‘But some of the space we need is for business activities related to your work. Now that you’ve discovered a new way to print money, you’ll need some room to stack, count, and store it.’

‘How’s lunch next Tuesday look?’ LaPointe asked as she eyed her planner.

‘I’m open,’ Conrad Evans replied. ‘Noon at the Gandy Dancer?’

‘Works for me.’

Evans and LaPointe penciled the lunch meeting into their calendars.

‘See you on Tuesday, Conrad,’ LaPointe said with a smile as she zipped her leatherbound planner closed and walked away.

Evans slipped a thin booklet into the interior pocket of his double-breasted blazer and picked up his briefcase. He then scanned the room for a moment, and located the attractive brunette in the tailored linen suit. For Evans – a long-divorced, slightly overweight middle-aged work-aholic – Dr Oksanna Zoshchenko was a breath of fresh air.

A chemist by training, Zoshchenko discovered early in her career that her true gifts lay in administration. Her native intelligence coupled with a skillful sense of diplomacy was cited as the primary reason for her rapid ascent to the highest levels of the Russian Academy of Sciences. Among those whose position in the academy she eclipsed, rumors imputed Zoshchenko’s meteoric rise to her considerable physical assets and her willingness to use them to further her career.

‘So, Oksanna, what did you think?’ Evans asked as he approached the sultry brunette.

‘It was quite illuminating.’ Zoshchenko’s Ukrainian accent was soft, a hint of something both foreign and exotic.

‘Very diplomatic of you. Normally, these board meetings are fairly dull. At least that surprise show-and-tell we had at the end livened things up a bit. Oh, and regarding that, I’m afraid I must ask you not to mention the Sandstrom presentation to anyone, at least until after they’ve published their research. It’s all covered in the nondisclosure agreement you signed.’

‘I was a scientist long before I became a bureaucrat, so I understand discretion with regard to research. I promise I won’t discuss what I’ve seen here.’

‘Thank you, and again, I apologize. This was one meeting I couldn’t bow out of, and I didn’t want to abandon you in the lobby for two hours. Thank you for your patience.’

‘Your apology is unnecessary, Conrad. I truly found this meeting quite educational. Our economy, our way of thinking is so different from yours. We have many brilliant scientists, like this Sandstrom, but no mechanism to transfer technology to our industries. No way to capitalize on innovation. This consortium is a very good idea, one of many that I will take back to Moscow with me.’

‘Well, then, as a regent of this university, I am pleased that your visit here has been a productive one.’ Evans glanced at his watch. ‘If you like, we still have time for a decent meal before you leave.’

‘I’d like that,’ Zoshchenko replied appreciatively. ‘It’s a long flight back to Moscow, and the food served on airplanes is not so good.’

2
JUNE 7

Moscow, Russia

Marathon flights, even in the comfort of first class, always left Oksanna Zoshchenko feeling sore and exhausted. Upon her arrival the previous evening at Sheremetyevo-2, she returned to her apartment and immediately collapsed into bed. She slept late, then went to an exclusive spa for a massage and to have her hair and nails done, wanting to look her best for her afternoon appointment.

Revitalized, Zoshchenko guided her white BMW sedan up Kosygina Prospekt, into the wooded area of southwest Moscow known as Vorobyovie Gory – Sparrow Hills. Turning off the main road, Zoshchenko drove down an avenue lined with trees and ten-foot walls. The walls were punctuated at regular intervals by gates and guardhouses, where permission to enter the manicured grounds and approach the mansion was either granted or denied.

Though prerevolutionary in appearance, most of the magnificent rezidences in Sparrow Hills were actually built during the reign of Stalin for privileged members of the ruling class. During the Revolution of 1917, Communist guns bore down on the forces of the provisional government from these same hills.

The road wound through the hilly terrain, until Zoshchenko finally reached her destination: a large two-story mansion that once housed the Politburo’s longest-serving member. In keeping with the new winds blowing across Russia, the imposing composition of carved stone and brick now sheltered Victor Ivanovich Orlov, founder of VIO FinProm and the nation’s wealthiest biznesmeny.

Zoshchenko stopped at the gatehouse, where a neatly dressed and well-armed guard checked her name against a list of those permitted entry. After a quick but thorough sweep of her BMW – car bombings by business rivals were not unheard of in Moscow – the guard waved her through.

She followed the cobblestone drive until she reached the ornate, pillared entryway. A pair of well-dressed guards appeared as she parked her car. Like the man at the gate, both were armed, and a flesh-toned coil of wire sprang from ear to collar on each. One of the guards opened the door for her courteously.

‘Thank you,’ Zoshchenko said as she exited her BMW.

She walked a few feet away, then stopped as she had done many times before. She knew the procedure and, because it was necessary, felt neither fear nor irritation. The second guard smiled politely and quickly waved the metal-detecting wand around her body.

‘Welcome back, Dr Zoshchenko,’ the guard said as he switched the wand off, relieved that he’d found nothing.

Personal security was truly a matter of life and death among the men who had clawed their way out of the rubble of Soviet Russia’s collapse and built business empires from the ruins. Chief among these men, the oligarchs of the new Russia, was Victor Ivanovich Orlov.

As Zoshchenko mounted the granite steps to the entryway, discreetly placed security cameras monitored her approach, and a butler opened the massive wooden door.

‘Thank you, Anatoli,’ she said as she entered the ornate foyer.

‘He’s in his office,’ the butler replied. ‘Shall I escort you up?’

Zoshchenko waved her hand dismissively and continued walking. ‘I know the way.’

She climbed the curved staircase to the second floor; sun streamed through the beveled glass of the Palladian window at the upper landing. Turning left, she followed the wide hallway past an impressive display of original masterpieces – any of which would fetch millions at auction – toward a pair of French doors. As she reached the doors, she heard a faint electronic buzz and the click of a mechanical assembly as the door locks released. She grasped the silver lever handles and pushed; the precisely balanced nine-foot-tall doors swung open effortlessly.

‘Dr Zoshchenko, welcome back. You had a pleasant trip, I hope?’ Irena Cherny asked politely as Zoshchenko entered the anteroom.

Cherny was a petite woman in her early thirties and attractive in a refined, classical sense. Orlov had an eye for beauty, both in art and women, and surrounded himself with the best of both. Zoshchenko had no way of knowing whether Cherny provided any intimate personal services to her employer, but she hoped that a man of Orlov’s intelligence knew enough not to cross that line with a woman positioned at the heart of his business empire.

‘My trip went well, Irena,’ Zoshchenko replied without elaboration. ‘Thank you for asking. Can he see me now?’

‘Victor knows you’re here, but he’s on the line with Zurich. It should only be a moment.’

Cherny glanced at the multiline phone on her desk as one of the illuminated buttons blinked off. ‘I’ll take you in now.’

Zoshchenko passed the hand-carved desk where Cherny sat, and followed the young woman to the pair of leaded-glass doors that led to Orlov’s office. Cherny twisted the silver handles and stood aside to allow Zoshchenko to enter, then drew the doors closed.

The office occupied more than fifty square meters of the second floor. Through a bank of windows that had been reglazed with Armorlite three centimeters thick, Orlov enjoyed a commanding view of the Moskva River and Luzhniky Park on the opposite bank. In the distance, off to the right, Zoshchenko saw the towers and gilded onion domes of the Kremlin.

Near the far wall, at the focus of the opulent room, sat a massive inlaid wooden desk that supported a slab of polished white marble. Behind this island of wood and stone, Orlov stood looking down at the financial information displayed on a thin flat computer screen. He wore a custom-made charcoal suit that complemented his trim physique. Orlov kept his graying, sandy brown hair close cropped and neat, more a matter of function than any overt sense of style, which further enhanced his aura of precision and discipline.

‘Oksanna, my love, you have returned to me.’

Orlov walked around the marbletop desk and greeted her with a warm embrace and a kiss on the cheek.

Zoshchenko returned the embrace, and then allowed her hands to slide down Orlov’s back until they reached his buttocks. She pulled his body close and kissed him with deliberate intensity. Several minutes seemed to pass before either surfaced for air.

‘I missed you, Victor,’ Zoshchenko declared softly.

‘I noticed,’ Orlov replied, a flush on his face.

At fifty-three, Victor Ivanovich Orlov was arguably one of the most powerful men in Russia. In the years since the collapse of communism, the former government trade analyst had amassed a fortune conservatively estimated at nearly fifteen billion dollars. He leveraged several of his highly placed connections in the international finance community and established the first privately held bank in Russia. With the backing of his own bank, he then stormed the Russian industrial landscape, acquiring controlling interests in more than twenty formerly state-owned enterprises. His businesses now included banking, mining, oil and gas, aircraft, shipping, telecommunications, real estate, and mass media. The ongoing crises in the Russian economy had only served to bolster his position by weeding out the lesser oligarchs.

‘I still fantasize about that desk of yours, Victor.’

Orlov eyed the pristine marble surface, indulging himself in a little mental imagery. ‘Ah, but sadly not today. Let’s sit and have some tea while you tell me what has brought you here so urgently. Irena said you mentioned a business matter that we needed to discuss.’

They sat down on a couch near the windows overlooking Leninskiy Prospekt and the park beyond. A silver tea service rested on a low table in front of them. Orlov poured two cups while Zoshchenko composed her thoughts.

‘Victor, over the past ten years I have provided you with valuable information regarding state industries and natural resources. For my part, I have been paid very well and I have no complaints about our business arrangement.’

Orlov sipped his tea, quietly studying Zoshchenko as she spoke. From her position within the Academy of Sciences, Zoshchenko had identified a number of opportunities that Orlov had exploited in building his vast business empire. He had made Zoshchenko a millionaire several times over in compensation for her efforts.

‘During my visit to the United States, I uncovered something, an opportunity unlike anything I have ever brought you before. I learned of a physicist who is about to change the world. His name is Ted Sandstrom.’

Orlov said nothing as Zoshchenko described Sandstrom’s work and the quantum energy device. The gift of an eidetic memory allowed her to accurately describe even the most minute details of what she had seen at the MARC board meeting. The pace of her narrative quickened with her excitement, and after twenty almost breathless minutes, she reached the end of her story.

‘So, at some point during the next month, the consortia from Michigan and Notre Dame will join forces to manage this technology?’ Orlov asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And, as yet, no scientific papers have been published and no patents have been applied for?’

‘Again, yes. Lawyers are to begin work on the patent applications later this summer. The patent filing for the original device will occur this fall, well within the timeframe in which Sandstrom will put his idea into use. Sandstrom and the consortia are maintaining a very low profile regarding this project. And with good reason.’

‘So, very few people know about Sandstrom’s work?’

‘I would say no more than thirty, but only Sandstrom and his associate Paramo actually know how to construct one of these quantum energy devices.’

‘What value would you place on Sandstrom’s work? What is it worth?’

‘This isn’t an oil field or a diamond mine, Victor. What we’re looking at is an entirely new industry in the moments just before its birth, an industry with a multibillion-dollar potential. These consortia are planning to serve as midwife and guardian of this nascent technology, but as the Americans are so fond of saying: Possession is nine-tenths of the law. If a scientist working for one of your companies announced this discovery first, then you would own this technology. I believe there is an opportunity here, if you act quickly.’

Orlov sat silent for several minutes, digesting everything Zoshchenko had said and extrapolating possible scenarios.

‘This could work,’ Orlov said objectively, ‘but I’ll need a good physicist, someone capable of understanding this quantum technology. I have a building on the outskirts of Moscow that should suit our needs for this endeavor.’

Reaching over the arm of the couch, Orlov pressed the intercom button on the phone that sat on the end table.

‘Irena, I need you to cancel the rest of my appointments for the week.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Cherny replied.

‘I also need you to contact Dmitri Leskov. Tell him to come here immediately. Have my cook prepare dinner for three and have it brought to my office; I’ll be working late tonight.’

3
JUNE 23

South Bend, Indiana

‘What the fuck?’ the driver of the semi growled when he noticed the flashing blue lights in the mirror cluster on his door.

‘Problem, Jimbo?’ the skinny young man seated next to him asked.

‘Yeah, a cop.’

‘Shit, were ya speeding?’ the third man on the bench seat asked.

‘I don’t think so. Potholes are so bad ’round here, I’d jar my teeth loose if I went more than five over the limit. Must be down on his ticket quota and I’m the only thing on the road right now.’

The driver carefully took the semi off to the side of the two-lane county road, put the rig in neutral, and switched on the hazard lights. A white, unmarked Chevy Blazer pulled up behind the truck. A moment later a uniformed Indiana state trooper stepped out from behind the wheel. In the mirror, the driver watched as the trooper slowly approached.

‘Looks like a real hard-ass, Jimbo,’ the skinny man said, craning his neck to get a view in the mirror.

‘Yeah, a real tough guy,’ the driver replied anxiously, his heart racing.

‘His partner’s coming up on my side,’ the third man announced. ‘Looks just like the other one. I guess they’re cloning cops now.’

‘License and registration, please,’ the trooper said in a tone of bored superiority as he reached the driver’s door.

‘What’s the problem, Officer?’ the driver asked as he handed over the requested paperwork.

‘Just a routine check. Would the three of you mind stepping out of the cab?’

The troopers stood back from the doors, carefully keeping one hand on their holstered pistols. As the driver shut the engine off and slid out from behind the wheel, the two other men stepped down on the passenger side.

‘Let’s go around to the other side,’ the trooper said, indicating that the driver should lead the way.

‘Open up the trailer, please,’ the trooper demanded as they reached where the second officer stood with the other men.

‘Sure,’ the driver replied as he unlocked the trailer’s side door. ‘There’s nothing inside ’cept our dollies and some padding. We were just on our way to a pickup.’

The driver swung the door wide open.

‘See, just like I told ya.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ the trooper said sternly. ‘Step inside, please. All of you.’

The three men complied and stepped up into the trailer. They began to sweat, as much from nervousness as the rising temperature inside.

The three men watched as the two troopers climbed up into the trailer.

‘Take a look around,’ the senior officer said to his partner.

The younger man moved to the front of the trailer and began searching through the pile of padded blankets.

‘What’re you lookin’ for?’ the driver asked.

‘Drugs,’ the trooper answered. ‘We got a tip that a local dealer is using moving trucks to bring his drugs in. Where’s your pickup?’

‘Notre Dame. We’re moving some guy’s lab to a research park off campus.’

‘How’s it look?’ the trooper asked his partner.

‘Clean.’

The trooper nodded.

‘Is that it?’ the driver asked expectantly.

‘Just one more thing.’

In a blur of motion, the trooper drew his weapon.

‘Jesus, no!’ shouted the driver.

The trooper placed two 9-mm rounds from his suppressed Glock into the skinny man’s forehead; the back of the man’s skull exploded onto the metal wall of the trailer in a Rorschach of blood, bone, and gray matter. He then adjusted his aim to the right, sweeping to his next target, and fired another double tap between the driver’s eyebrows. The younger trooper shot the third mover with equal efficiency.

Both men closed the distance between themselves and the movers. The three young men lay absolutely still as the last seconds of their lives ticked away.

‘Clear,’ Dmitri Leskov announced. ‘Pavel, go get the others.’

‘Da,’ Pavel acknowledged as he jumped down from the trailer.

Pavel was halfway to the unmarked Blazer – blue strobes still flashing – when three men, all dressed in the same tan uniforms that the movers wore, emerged from the rear of the vehicle. The men quickly moved to the back of the Blazer and unloaded a nested set of three orange plastic barrels, three battery-operated caution flashers, a bundle of large gray mats, and a ten-foot-long sausage shaped object emblazoned with the PLG corporate logo at regular intervals along its gray fabric exterior. Pavel grabbed the sausage, retrieved a large canvas gym bag from the Blazer, and then followed the others back to the trailer.

‘Hand me the bag,’ Dmitri called out from the open door. ‘Then feed the Pig to Vanya.’

Pavel tossed the gym bag up to his older brother, then lifted up the end of the sausage. The coarse fabric of the Pig chaffed against his neck and shoulders as Vanya pulled it into the trailer.

‘Quickly, Yuri,’ Vanya said as he pulled the full length of the Pig into the trailer, ‘contain the blood before it covers the whole floor.’

Yuri nodded and laid the Pig on the floor to act as a dam around the perimeter of the slowly expanding pool of blood. Vanya then ripped open the package of mats and spread a blanket of thin gray quilted rectangles atop the red-black liquid. Like the Pig, the mats immediately began absorbing the blood.

The fifth man, Josef, had the three orange barrels set with their open bottoms facing up.

‘Keys?’ Dmitri asked.

‘I have them,’ Josef replied, patting the key ring in his pocket.

Dmitri and Pavel picked up the skinny mover’s body by the arms and legs and carried it over to the first container.

‘Steady the barrel, Josef,’ Dmitri barked as he and Pavel lifted the body over the open end.

Carefully, they lifted the mover’s arms and legs, folding his body at the waist as they lowered it into the barrel. When the body reached the bottom, they folded his arms and legs until the man disappeared into the drum.

They repeated this maneuver twice more as Yuri and Vanya wiped down the trailer walls and floor with the absorbent mats. Drawn by the blood, flies began to swarm annoyingly around them.

Dmitri checked his watch. ‘Let’s wrap this up,’ he announced.

The other men nodded and went about finishing their assigned tasks. Dmitri and Pavel stripped off the police uniforms and stuffed them into one of the barrels.

‘Here,’ Dmitri said as he tossed his brother new clothes from the gym bag.

Pavel pulled the snug-fitting work shirt over his broad shoulders and looked down at the embroidered company logo over the left breast.

‘I feel like I’ve been demoted,’ Pavel said with a laugh.

Once the trailer was wiped clean of blood and gore, the soiled mats and the sausage were stuffed into the barrels, and Josef snapped the thick plastic lids closed. The men then carefully turned the barrels right side up. The movers’ bodies slumped to the bottom, but the lids easily held the weight.

Yuri and Vanya jumped down from the trailer and took the barrels, one by one, from Pavel and Josef.

After Pavel and Josef exited the trailer, Dmitri handed them the three flashing caution lights and the gym bag that contained the two suppressed Glocks. He then leapt down and closed the trailer’s side door.

Between the trailer and the Blazer, Dmitri’s men arranged the barrels around a wide, deep pothole near the pavement’s edge. Snapped in place, the orange caution lights began blinking.

‘Let’s go,’ Dmitri announced, smiling to himself that the barrels might actually do some good.

4
JUNE 23

South Bend, Indiana

Nolan Kilkenny and Ted Sandstrom stood leaning against the wall beside a large window as the movers wheeled another cart of boxes from the nearly empty lab. They heard Kelsey and Paramo engaging in a rapid exchange of words out in the corridor, their voices growing louder as the pair neared the lab’s door.

‘Problem, Kelsey?’ Nolan asked.

‘Just a friendly debate,’ she replied.

Paramo smiled. ‘Kelsey and I were mulling over some of Guth’s work on false vacuum theory.’

‘False vacuum theory?’ Nolan repeated. ‘I’m almost afraid to ask.’

‘It’s one of the more recent theories kicking around about how a universe forms,’ Kelsey offered.

Nolan held his hands up as if to push any further explanation away before it could reach him. ‘Stop right there! My head still hurts from last night’s little after-dinner discussion about M-branes and eleven-dimensional multiverses.’

‘Wimp,’ Sandstrom said with a laugh. ‘Hey, Raphaele, did the movers get those boxes out of our office?’

‘Everything went down with the last load,’ Paramo replied.

Kelsey eyed the blue plastic cooler near Nolan’s feet. ‘Anything left to drink?’

‘There’s one can of Diet Coke with your name on it.’

Kelsey fished the last can from the slush of melted ice and sat down on a lab bench. ‘How long before we’re done here?’

‘Not long. All that’s left are those two boxes. It’s a short drive to the research park,’ Nolan said, running through a mental checklist. ‘I figure a couple of hours to unload at the new lab.’ Nolan picked up the cooler and dumped the icy dregs into the lab sink, shaking the last few drops out before closing the lid. ‘I’m going to take this down to my truck so we can reload it at the gas station. I’ll be back in a minute.’

The hallway echoed with his footsteps, the building nearly empty on this early-summer Friday afternoon. Kilkenny took the stairs and exited Nieuwland Science Hall around the corner from the loading dock. A semi filled the single bay, its trailer flush with the elevated concrete dock. The four-wheeled carts were nearly empty; the five-man crew had made quick work of this job.

Kilkenny’s truck was parked at the far end of the loading area facing the dock. He fished the key fob out of his khaki shorts and pressed the button that unlocked the lift gate.

As he placed the empty cooler into the back of the SUV, he observed one of the movers pull two canvas bags from the white Blazer parked near the semi. The man then carried the bags back to where the rest of the moving crew waited. Another of the movers crouched down, unzipped one of the bags, and extracted a pistol holster.

‘What the hell?’ Kilkenny cursed quietly as he watched the distribution of weapons and other equipment among the men.

Using hand signals, the leader of the crew ordered the others into position. One remained on the loading dock while the others went back into Nieuwland Hall.

With his SUV screening him from view, Kilkenny searched the cargo area for a weapon. In the row of bins where he kept his tools, he found a combat knife – a memento from his navy days. He strapped the sheathed blade to his right thigh and carefully closed the lift gate.

As the mover paced along the elevated platform, Kilkenny surveyed the area between the loading dock and the rear of the semi trailer, timing the man’s movements. The short span of the platform meant that the trailer blocked the man’s view of the parking area for only a few seconds in each circuit.

Realizing that he would have to move quickly, Kilkenny crouched behind his truck, tensed and ready. When the man turned at the far end of the platform and began walking back toward the semi, Kilkenny sprinted across the entire lot using the trailer as a shield. His heart pounded as he slipped under the truck, adrenaline coursing through his body and his senses charged. Loose gravel and chips of broken glass dug at his forearms and shins as he stealthily snaked his way beneath the trailer to the platform.

When Kilkenny reached the space between the double axle at the rear of the trailer, he pulled himself back on his feet and again began timing the man’s movements. As the man turned away, Kilkenny shifted closer to the platform, hiding in the space between the right-side tires and the steel-frame bumper.

Soon the man turned facing the driver’s side of the semi, walking back toward the open trailer doors.

Kilkenny slipped out from beneath the vehicle and stood next to the rear tires. Carefully, he unfastened the door catch. As the sound of the man’s footsteps grew closer, Kilkenny timed it perfectly and thrust the heavy metal door forward. The sudden rush of the door caught the man broadside, striking hard against his shoulder.

‘Blat!’ Vanya cursed as he rolled from the force of the blow.

Kilkenny followed the rotation of the door forward and leapt up on the platform behind it, releasing his grip on the handle and unsheathing his knife to press on with the attack.

Despite the burning pain, Vanya reached for the Glock 9-mm pistol strapped to the left side of his chest. He snapped a glance over his battered shoulder in time to see Kilkenny emerge from behind the steel door.

‘Krasny adín!’ Vanya shouted as he twisted the holstered weapon up and fired from beneath his armpit.

The first round drilled through the muscle of Kilkenny’s left thigh, a point-blank shot that struck at almost the same instant it left the Glock. After boring a bloody tunnel, the bullet erupted from Kilkenny’s leg and ricocheted off the concrete dock. A second shot flew just inches wide because of the recoil of the first.

Momentum still carrying him forward, Kilkenny grabbed the holster strap and held tight as he drove his combat knife into the man’s back. The knife shuddered as its serrated back edge sawed through the cartilage that connected a rib and vertebrae.

Vanya’s grasp on his pistol weakened as his heart spasmed, the blade puncturing the muscular walls of the organ. Kilkenny pushed the knife sideways as he extracted it, widening the gash in the man’s blood-soaked back. Vanya’s legs gave out, and Kilkenny let him fall to the dock.

Kilkenny then rolled the body over onto its back; a blank, open-mouthed stare gaped back at him. Using his knife, he cut two strips of cloth from the man’s shirt and hastily wrapped a pressure bandage around his thigh.

Kilkenny found a German-made military-grade radio transmitter clipped to the man’s hip, the kind of communications equipment favored by special forces. He flipped the SEND switch into the off position, then removed the earpiece/lip mike component from the man’s ear and slipped the gear on himself. His right ear filled with a faint hiss of static, then two sharp clicks crackled harshly in the ear-piece. The clicks repeated a few seconds later.

These guys are operators, Kilkenny thought as he ignored the clicks – a request for the dead man to report in to his commanding officer.

A quick pat search of the man revealed little. The mover carried a silenced 9-mm Glock and two spare clips of ammunition. Kilkenny found no identification of any kind. He pocketed the two ammo clips, chambered a round in the Glock, and carefully moved back into Nieuwland Hall.

One shitbag down, he thought, four more to go.

5
JUNE 23

South Bend, Indiana

Krasny adín? Dmitri puzzled over Vanya’s urgent warning in his mind.

Yuri, the radioman, sent two more rapid clicks and waited.

No reply.

Yuri looked over at Dmitri, the team leader, and shook his head.

Dmitri knew that things went wrong on missions – it was a fact of life. The Americans had a name for this phenomenon: Murphy’s Law. He’d lost radio contact with men before; nine times out of ten it was an equipment failure. But Vanya had broken radio silence and called out Krasny adín – Red One – alerting them that his position was under attack. Now Vanya was off the air, and his brief warning had stopped Dmitri and the rest of the team just as they got off the freight elevator.

Dmitri carefully moved to a window that overlooked the rear of Nieuwland Hall. Below, he saw the trailer extending from the loading dock and, in the far corner of the paved lot, a black Mercedes truck. The scene appeared just as they had left it moments ago. Other than a few people walking on the campus pathways, he saw nothing to indicate that their mission had been discovered, nothing that would cause Vanya to report that he was under attack.

‘I don’t see anything,’ Dmitri said quietly, wishing he could, ‘but Vanya’s position is almost beneath us.’

His men were all professionals; each had served under him in the Spetsnaz, the Red Army’s elite special warfare unit. He’d handpicked them for this private operations force when paychecks in the Russian military became scarce. Today, they were well-paid and well-equipped mercenaries in the employ of Victor Orlov.

Dmitri scratched at the stubble on his chin. A gritty film of dried sweat covered his muscled frame, the result of moving dozens of heavy boxes containing the equipment, books, and experimental documentation that he had been sent to retrieve.

‘You want me to go check on Vanya?’ Josef asked.

Dmitri pondered the question, then shook his head at the swarthy, black-haired Georgian. ‘Nyet. We proceed as planned, but stay alert. It may be nothing more than garbled communications and equipment failure.’

‘If not?’

‘If not, Josef, then I want you here with the rest of the unit.’ Leskov turned toward the two movers watching the hallway. ‘How’s it look, Pavel?’

‘Clear,’ Pavel replied confidently. Not so much as a shadow had moved in the empty hallway.

Dmitri smiled, proud of the professionalism his younger brother displayed. Pavel was on point, checking the path ahead as the unit moved forward.

‘Move out,’ Dmitri ordered.

Pavel strode into the hallway, followed by Yuri and Dmitri, who guided a flat four-wheeled cart. Josef took up position a few steps behind the others, covering the unit’s rear. Sandstrom’s lab was down at the far end of the corridor.

‘This looks like the last of it,’ Dmitri announced as they entered the lab, his English flawlessly Middle American.

Dmitri’s men spread out, moving toward the last remaining boxes. Paramo was seated in a chair near where Kelsey stood by the windows; Sandstrom sat up on a lab bench, reclining back on his elbows.

As he closed within ten feet of Sandstrom, Dmitri’s right hand deftly slipped to the holster nestled in the small of his back and drew his weapon. The muscles in his body coiled tightly as he gripped the Air Taser with both hands and fired.

Propelled by a charge of compressed nitrogen, two needlelike metal probes silently flew toward Sandstrom. In less than a tenth of a second, the twin probes tore through the physicist’s cotton shirt and struck his chest. A pulsating electrical current raced from Dmitri’s weapon, through the probes, into Sandstrom’s body.

Sandstrom shuddered involuntarily and fell back onto the lab bench. His head struck the thick black countertop with a muffled thud.

Across the room Yuri and Pavel’s attack mirrored that of their leader. Only the briefest change in expression on the faces of Kelsey and Paramo preceded their sudden incapacitation.

‘Josef,’ Dmitri called out.

‘Corridor is clear,’ the Georgian replied.

‘The man with the red hair, Kilkenny, he is missing. His truck is still parked by the loading dock. He must be somewhere in the building. Keep an eye out for him.’

As the Taser’s pulsating charge attacked Paramo’s nervous system, the aging physicist’s heartbeat became erratic. The muscle fluttered, struggling to find a steady rhythm until the already weakened organ stopped beating altogether.

‘I think I killed the old one,’ Pavel announced unemotionally. ‘He’s not shaking like the others.’

‘So much the better for him,’ Yuri replied. ‘Put those boxes on the cart while I set the explosives.’

Yuri pulled the quilted blanket off the cart, uncovering four pistols in shoulder holsters and a pair of sealed translucent bags, each containing about a quart of fluid. As Pavel loaded the last two boxes, Yuri picked up the two plastic bags and carefully placed them on the lab bench near the sink. He then closed the drain and turned on the water until the sink was about a third full.

‘Ready,’ Yuri announced.

Dmitri looked at his watch. ‘On my mark.’ The second hand swept closer to twelve. ‘Now.’

Yuri placed the light-colored bag into the water first, followed by the darker bag. Tiny bubbles immediately began to form on the surface of the bags.

‘We have five minutes,’ Yuri announced as he hastily strapped on his shoulder holster and checked the Glock.

Dmitri nodded. ‘Pavel,’ he said, handing his brother one of the silenced pistols, ‘take the point.’

6
JUNE 23

South Bend, Indiana

Kilkenny carefully worked his way back into Nieuwland Hall and up the building’s center staircase. He encountered no one during his ascent to the second floor. On the landing, he cautiously peered through the slit window of wiremesh glass in the fire door. The hallway on the other side was empty, but the window was too narrow to provide a view of Sandstrom’s lab farther down the hall.

Slowly Kilkenny pulled open the fire door until a quarter-inch gap appeared. Sandstrom’s lab was on the same side of the corridor as the stairwell, so he studied the reflection in the glass doors of a display case on the opposite wall. There he saw one of the movers standing watch beside the lab door.

He had to assume that Kelsey, Sandstrom, and Paramo were in the lab with four armed men. For the sake of the two physicists and the woman he loved, Kilkenny focused on the situation at hand rather than trying to fathom the motive behind it.

The faint hiss of static filled his right ear, as it had for the past several minutes. Unable to raise their man on the loading dock, the Russians had gone off the air completely.

The reflected image in the glass moved as the man in the doorway stepped back into the lab. Another man appeared and moved out into the corridor. He moved cautiously. Visually sweeping the entire length of the corridor, he held a suppressed semi-automatic pistol pointed low in a two-handed grip.

Kilkenny flattened himself against the painted cinder-block wall and slowly closed the fire door. It slid quietly into its frame. As he released the handle, the mortised latch bolts in the head and toe of the door slid home with a metallic click.

Pavel had just raised his hand to motion the rest of the unit forward when he heard the sound of the closing door. He signaled for Dmitri and the others to remain in place while he investigated.

‘Damn!’ Kilkenny cursed under his breath, knowing that the errant sound had exposed his position. He quickly moved against the wall, out of view through the slit window.

A shadow flickered in the thin strip of light beneath the stairwell door, catching Pavel’s trained eye. He moved along the wall, approaching the door from the side. With his back against the wall, Pavel inched forward until his shoulder reached the edge of the door.

He adjusted his grip on the Glock and folded his arms close to his chest as he filled his lungs with air. Exhaling with a low, throaty growl, he stepped forward, spun around, and struck the door with a vicious kick. The panic bar slammed into the hollow metal skin of the door, releasing the latch bolts. The door sprang open, and Pavel lunged into the stairwell.

As the Russian leveled his weapon, Kilkenny swung his left arm down in a sharp block that drove Pavel’s forearms toward the floor. He then wrapped his hand tightly around the barrel of the Glock. Pavel squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Kilkenny smothered the action of the Glock with his grip. He then brought the muzzle of his own pistol against the side of Pavel’s head and fired twice. Blood and bone exploded against the gray metal door.

Pavel shuddered and collapsed to the floor. Kilkenny quickly scanned the hallway for more threats, then retreated down the stairwell.

7
JUNE 23

South Bend, Indiana

Pavel’s offensive was over almost as soon as it started. Two muffled shots and then silence. Dmitri moved to the stairwell and found the door held ajar by the body of his dead brother. He quickly shut down the rage he felt, knowing he still had a mission to complete. There would be time to mourn, and to seek revenge.

‘Pavel’s dead,’ Dmitri said quietly as he went back into the lab. ‘Yuri, time?’

‘Three minutes, forty-five seconds,’ the explosives expert replied.

Lying atop the lab bench, Sandstrom groaned and tried to lift his head. Kelsey began to stir as well. It took several minutes to recover fully from a Taser’s shock, more time than anyone remaining in the lab possessed. Paramo lay motionless on the vinyl-tile floor, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

‘Put the woman on the cart,’ Leskov ordered, his mind sifting through his options. ‘We may need a hostage.’

Yuri and Josef grabbed Kelsey by the legs and shoulders, quickly loaded her onto the four-wheeled cart. Leskov turned the pistol in his hand and struck Sandstrom in the side of the head; the groggy physicist fell to the floor, unconscious. He would be left for dead.

‘Three minutes, Dmitri,’ Yuri called out.

Inside the lab sink, the skin of the first bag ruptured and its contents slowly leaked to form a thick layer along the basin.

‘I’ll take the point,’ Leskov announced. ‘Yuri, take the cart.’

‘And I’ll cover our backsides,’ Josef said, a mouthful of bad teeth smiling beneath his thick black mustache.

With Kelsey as hostage, the Russians carefully moved into the corridor, wary of who or what might be lying in wait. Leskov held up his hand when he reached the stair-well door, halting his men. He then pointed at Yuri and, with two fingers, motioned for his comrade to join him by the door.

‘When I open the door, pull Pavel’s body in.’

Yuri nodded. This was not a matter of sentimentality on his leader’s part; it was simply the law in the world of special warfare that, dead or alive, no man is ever left behind.

Leskov braced himself against the wall on the hinge side and pushed the door open with a backward sweep of his hand. Crouching, Yuri reached forward and grasped Pavel’s leg. He took two steps back, dragging the young soldier’s lifeless body through the doorway as a slick red stain spread from the open wound in the side of Pavel’s head.

Leskov stepped through the doorway and found the stairwell deserted. ‘It’s clear.’

‘Dmitri, do you see his pistol?’ Yuri asked, looking down at Pavel’s empty hands.

‘Nyet, his attacker must have taken it. Put Pavel on the cart. We have to get out of here.’

8
JUNE 23

South Bend, Indiana

After the shoot-out in the stairwell, Kilkenny fell back to regroup. The loading dock was empty when he reached it, save for the body of the man he’d killed earlier.

A bell sounded nearby, indicating that the service elevator had descended to the main floor. Kilkenny searched for a place to position himself.

High ground, he thought when he looked up at the roof of the semi’s trailer.

Kilkenny latched one of the rear doors closed, clambered up the thick steel hinges, and pulled himself onto the corrugated roof. Peering just over the edge, he saw the lead man emerge from the doorway. The man swept left to right, weapon held before him, seeking targets. He then checked behind the truck. Satisfied the dock was clear, he motioned for the others to move forward.

A cart rolled through the doorway, guided from behind by one of the Russians. The last man emerged a moment later. Glancing down at the cart, Kilkenny saw the body of the man he had shot in the stairwell and, beneath the body, Kelsey. His heart sank, then Kelsey’s arm twitched and her fist clenched.

‘Josef, get the truck started,’ Leskov commanded, anxious for this mission’s end. ‘Yuri and I will finish loading.’

Leskov and Yuri holstered their weapons and carried the two remaining boxes into the truck. The starter ground for a moment, then the diesel engine roared to life, belching gritty exhaust into the air. With the greatest respect, Leskov wrapped his brother’s body in one of the quilted moving blankets and gently laid it inside the trailer. Yuri repeated the gesture with Vanya, the other casualty of the day.

‘Dmitri, what do we do with the woman?’ Yuri asked.

‘Kill her. Put her body in the back with Pavel and Vanya. We’ll get rid of it later.’

Kilkenny listened as the lead man issued orders in Russian. Then the diesel engine growled, and a thick black cloud of exhaust wafted over him. As the truck idled, the trailer’s roof vibrated beneath him.

Below, he saw Yuri reaching for his holstered pistol. Kilkenny swung his arms over the edge of the trailer and grasped his weapon with both hands. Aiming down at Yuri, Kilkenny fired two rounds from the elongated Glock that instantaneously penetrated the man’s skull. Yuri’s head snapped sideways and he collapsed where he stood, his pistol clattering on the concrete dock.

Instinctively, Leskov leapt off the dock, seeking cover. Two more rounds chased after him, chiseling holes in the concrete where he had stood. He had gotten only a brief look at the shooter, but he recognized him immediately. With three of his men dead, Leskov knew that Nolan Kilkenny was more than had been reported to him.

Leskov grabbed the short ladder on the passenger side of the semi and pulled himself up to the window.

‘Josef, Kilkenny is on top of the trailer. He’s killed Yuri. Cover your side of the truck and meet me at the dock.’

Josef nodded, pulled out his pistol, and checked the mirrors – his side of the truck was clear.

Kilkenny slid over the edge and dropped down, almost landing atop the man he’d just shot. Crouching with the Glock extended at eye level, he scanned the dock for targets. It was clear.

Time to haul ass, Kilkenny thought as he chambered a round, then popped the half-spent clip out of the Glock and slipped in a full one.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the edges of the trailer, Kilkenny grasped the abandoned cart with his left hand and pushed. But one of the turning wheels was jammed in place, stubbornly refusing to rotate into position. Kilkenny furiously kicked the cart twice before the wheel freed up and began rolling smoothly. Once through the doorway, he pulled the double doors closed, then turned down a corridor, hopefully bringing Kelsey toward safety.

As if their timing were choreographed, Leskov and Josef reached the rear of the trailer simultaneously and, with their weapons poised, swept the dock for a target. Kilkenny and the woman were gone – the wide double doors that led into Nieuwland Science Hall were closed. Only Yuri remained, facedown in a growing pool of his own blood.

‘Get Yuri,’ Leskov ordered. ‘I’ll cover you.’

Leskov pulled himself onto the dock and took position beside the doors. Josef holstered his pistol, released the catch on the open trailer door, and hoisted himself onto the dock. Quickly, with little consideration for the dead, other than he didn’t wish to join them, Josef hefted Yuri’s body atop the others and latched the trailer door shut. Josef then slipped the U-shaped bolt of a padlock through the door latch and shut it.

‘Done. Let’s get away from this fucking place.’

9
JUNE 23

South Bend, Indiana

‘Nolan,’ Kelsey moaned weakly, her mind still getting reacquainted with her body as she carefully pulled herself into a sitting position.

‘I’m here, honey.’

Carefully looking around the corner at the double doors of the loading dock, Nolan saw the semi pulling away. Relieved, he holstered the Glock and sat beside Kelsey.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Numb. Kind of tingly, like my whole body went to sleep. They shot us with something.’

‘Probably some kind of stun gun.’ He picked up her hand, and her trembling stopped – just nerves.

Inside Sandstrom’s lab, the second bag ruptured in the sink. Its milky white contents oozed out, then slowly drifted down toward the bottom of the sink. When the contents of the second bag reached the layer formed along the basin by the first, the chemicals ignited in a hypergolic reaction. The initial flash was enough to evaporate the water in the sink. In less than a second from the initial contact, a whitehot fireball erupted inside the lab. The sink, and the bench it was set in, vaporized instantaneously.

A low rumble resonated through the building; lights flickered and dust fell from the ceiling as a shock wave telegraphed the concussive energy of an explosion through the structure around them. A moment later the highdecibel wail of the fire alarm punished their ears.

‘Where are Ted and Raphaele?’ Kelsey shouted over the din, her recovery almost complete.

‘I think they’re still upstairs. Come on, we gotta get out of here.’

He carefully helped Kelsey up; then, with one arm around her for support, he quickly walked her toward a side entry. She gained confidence with each step, easily keeping up with his increased pace by the time they reached the lawn in front of Nieuwland Hall.

A pall of smoke billowed out of a series of windows on the second floor where Sandstrom’s lab had been.

‘Oh my God,’ Kelsey cried, sickened by the thought of the two men trapped in the blaze.

A parade of flashing red and blue lights raced down Cavanaugh Road as a convoy of emergency vehicles from the Notre Dame campus police and the South Bend Fire Department converged on the burning science building.

By the time Nolan and Kelsey ran around the building to the loading dock, police officers were starting to secure the area and firefighters were pouring out of their yellow rigs.

‘Hey, stay back!’ a cop shouted as they approached.

‘We were inside when it happened, Officer,’ Nolan announced, ignoring the request. ‘The fire’s in a lab on the second floor. Two people may still be up there; they were unconscious before the blast.’

‘Keep your hands where I can see them,’ the cop demanded sternly when he spotted the combat knife strapped to Nolan’s leg and the shoulder holster tucked under his armpit.

Nolan understood immediately and slowly placed his hands behind his head.

The cop, a fifteen-year veteran of the force, eyed the pair warily. Both were disheveled, and the bloodstained man looked as though he had been to hell and back. The cop reached out and plucked the Glock from Nolan’s holster.

‘There’s another one in my waistband,’ Nolan offered, twisting his torso to offer a partial view of his back.

The cop’s demeanor eased slightly at this show of good faith. He quickly confiscated the second pistol as well as Nolan’s knife.

‘Military issue,’ the cop commented as he eyed the black-handled blade. ‘Looks a little bloody. Anything else?’

‘Nothing other than a spare clip in my pocket.’

‘You can put ’em down.’ The cop checked the safeties on the pistols and signaled for the fire chief.

A stocky man encased in the bulky protective fire gear jogged over from the pumper truck.

‘Yeah, whatcha want?’ the firefighter asked.

‘Tell him what you told me,’ the cop ordered. ‘Then you and I are going to have a chat.’

‘The lab’s up on the second floor, far end of the corridor. There are two people still inside. They didn’t get out before the blast. We haven’t seen anyone else in the building all day.’

The chief nodded, then jogged away, calling several members of his crew over to map out a plan of attack.

‘Interesting artillery you got here. Now, take a walk with me,’ the cop commanded.

They headed over to a police cruiser parked on the grass. The cop tossed the confiscated weapons in his trunk and closed the lid. He then led them over to the paramedic truck.

‘What’s up?’ the paramedic asked.

‘Leg wound,’ the cop replied. ‘Take a look while I have a talk with these nice people.’

The paramedic carefully peeled off Nolan’s field dressing. ‘Jesus, we got us a gunshot wound. Clean through, all meat. I can clean ya up, but you’ll want this looked at in the ER.’

‘I just know there’s an interesting story about how you acquired that,’ the cop said, eyeing the hole in Nolan’s thigh. ‘Let’s start with your names.’

Nolan and Kelsey identified themselves and explained the reason for their presence on campus. The cop jotted down shorthand notes in a pocket pad as the story unfolded. An incredulous look swept over the cop’s face when Nolan calmly described killing three men. For Nolan, this was no different from the postmission debriefs from his SEAL days.

‘—and when we heard the sirens, we came over to tell you about Sandstrom and Paramo,’ Nolan concluded.

‘Officer,’ Kelsey added, ‘these men, whoever they were, have stolen valuable laboratory equipment and over a decade’s worth of irreplaceable research.’

‘Professor Newton, I’ll put the word out on the truck and the Blazer. Maybe we’ll get lucky.’

The cop turned and made a beeline for the elevated dock, all the while issuing a barrage of requests into the radio mike clipped to his left shoulder. At the dock, he found the bloodstains and put the call in for Homicide and Forensics.

As the paramedic finished treating Nolan’s leg, two teams of firefighters covered with soot rushed out of the building. Each team carried the supine form of one of the injured physicists strapped to a bright red backboard.

The paramedics and newly arrived EMTs met the firefighters halfway and started work on their patients as the backboards hit the gurneys.

‘I got a pulse,’ one shouted. ‘Weak, but there.’

From where they stood, Nolan and Kelsey saw that the burns were serious. Charred flesh, a blend of oozing red and black, covered the entire right side of Ted Sandstrom’s body.

‘This one’s dead,’ an EMT working on Paramo announced clinically.

‘Oh God,’ Kelsey sobbed as she turned and pressed herself into Nolan’s chest, his arms holding her. ‘That dear, sweet’ – her voice cracked with emotion – ‘old man.’

10
JUNE 23

South Bend, Indiana

After Nolan and Kelsey received treatment for their injuries, the Notre Dame campus police transported them back to Nieuwland Hall. The blaze that had engulfed Sandstrom’s lab was now extinguished, and the exhausted fire crews were slowly stowing their gear. A ribbon of yellow tape surrounded the damaged building, declaring it off-limits while the authorities investigated the incident. Nolan saw a team of forensic technicians photographing the crime scene and gathering evidence around the loading dock.

When the police car reached the cordoned-off area, a man and a woman walked over to meet the vehicle. Over their suits, both wore dark blue windbreakers stenciled with the letters FBI.

‘Mr Kilkenny, I’m Special Agent Harris,’ the woman announced. ‘This is my partner, Special Agent Young. We’d like to have a word with you and Ms Newton.’

‘Of course,’ Nolan replied.

‘Can 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.

‘How are the other arrangements coming?’

‘Both trucks were taken to a chop shop and parted out, so neither exists anymore. Your cargo has been placed inside an air freight container with a few nondescript pieces of furniture. The furniture is camouflage; the bill of lading lists the contents as household goods and miscellaneous personal effects. Since there’s no contraband, we don’t need to lie about what we’re shipping. We’ve insured the entire lot for a few thousand dollars, low enough that no one on either end will be curious about it. It flies out Tuesday and lands in Moscow on Wednesday.’

‘Good. And the surveillance?’

‘I have a few people, former KGB, working on that. In a few days we should have Sandstrom and his associates well covered. How long do you think Orlov will want us to keep an eye on these people?’

‘I have no idea. Just don’t drop the surveillance until he tells you to.’

‘I’m not that stupid. Orlov will get regular reports until he tells me to stop.’

‘I am certain that he will be most appreciative of your efforts on his behalf.’

12
JUNE 26

South Bend, Indiana

‘This mass is ended,’ Father Blake said from his place on the gilded altar of the basilica. ‘Go in peace.’

With that final pronouncement, Sacred Heart Basilica, the ornate centerpiece of the Notre Dame campus, filled with music. The vaulted ceilings and carved recesses shaped each note as it emerged from the organ pipes, transforming ‘Amazing Grace’ into a triumphant edifice of sound.

A phalanx of priests and altar servers accompanied the polished oak coffin down the main aisle, a somber procession in honor of Raphaele Paramo. Pew by pew, members of Paramo’s family and those who held him in regard as a friend, colleague, or mentor filed out into a perfect summer day. High in the carillon, the great seven-ton bell named in honor of Saint Anthony of Padua pealed out its solemn thunder.

‘Thank you for such a lovely service, Joe,’ Paramo’s widow said, clasping Father Blake’s hand in both of hers.

‘It was my pleasure, Dorothy,’ Notre Dame’s President replied. ‘Raphaele was a good man and a true friend.’

‘Yes, he was,’ she agreed, knowing both descriptions to be true. ‘Excuse me, Joe, but I see someone I have to speak to.’

Dorothy Paramo waded through the milling crowd, leaving her children and grandchildren beside the limousine that was to carry them to the cemetery.

‘Professor Newton. Mr Kilkenny,’ the diminutive woman called out. ‘A word, if I may?’

Kelsey dabbed the corner of her eye with a handkerchief, then smiled bravely at the approaching widow. ‘Of course, Mrs Paramo. And please call me Kelsey.’

‘I prefer Nolan, ma’am.’

‘Very well, but in return you must call me Dorothy,’ she replied, a faint smile appearing momentarily on her face. Then the sadness returned. ‘The police told me what happened the day my husband was murdered. Nolan, they told me that you risked your life to stop the men responsible for this tragedy.’

‘I’m sorry it wasn’t enough.’

‘It could have been far worse. My only consolation is that the two of you and Ted survived. Did you know that Raphaele and I thought of Ted as a son? Burying a spouse is a sad eventuality, but a child is meant to live on after the parents are gone.’

‘Ted will recover from this,’ Nolan said reassuringly.

‘My prayers are most certainly with him. I was wondering, can you both stop by the house after the reception?’

Kelsey looked at Nolan, who nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Good, I have a favor to ask.’

Nolan followed the silver Buick, driven by Dorothy Paramo’s eighteen-year-old grandson, into the farm country just outside of South Bend. They stopped at a brick Victorian home with a weathered aluminum mailbox bearing the name PARAMO.

Nolan parked his SUV behind the Buick and followed Dorothy Paramo and her grandson into the house. Once inside, the young man bolted up the stairs, intent on trading his blazer and tie for a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a T-shirt.

‘This way,’ Dorothy Paramo said, leading her guests through the parlor toward the rear of the house.

She turned the crystal knob and opened the raisedpanel door that led to a small room lined from floor to ceiling with books. The only furnishings in the room were a couch, a small desk, and a chair.

‘This is where my husband came to think. Please, have a seat.’

Kelsey sat with Nolan on the couch as Paramo’s widow sat in Raphaele’s chair. A gnarled pipe, unsmoked in almost twenty years, still sat near the corner of the desk.

‘Raphaele always said that physicists came in two flavors: thinkers and doers. Einstein was a thinker; Fermi was a doer. In his collaboration with Ted, Raphaele was the thinker and Ted was the doer. My husband was an accomplished thinker and a gifted instructor; teaching physics was his avocation. Raphaele knew his limitations, physically and mentally. In both regards he knew he wasn’t up to the challenge of tackling Ted’s discovery.’

Dorothy Paramo swiveled the chair and leaned forward to open one of the desk drawers. She withdrew a thick clasped envelope from inside the drawer and set it upon her lap.

‘Of all my husband’s papers, these were the most dear to him. Whenever a particular problem vexed him, he would invariably return to these. They were his inspiration. These are letters – a correspondence he had long ago with the greatest mind he’d ever known. Raphaele never talked about the man; their correspondence was over a year before Raphaele and I met. Once, shortly after we were married, I snuck a peek, thinking they were love letters from an old girlfriend. Except for a few personal notes, I didn’t understand a word. Raphaele was quite amused when I told him what I’d done, then he explained how important the letters were to him. He said they were ‘a brief glimpse into the mind of a genius.’ I don’t know what happened, but their correspondence ended abruptly. This is something that hurt Raphaele deeply.’

Dorothy paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. She closed her eyes, trying to quell the emotions rising within her.

‘A terrible thing has happened. My husband is dead, and our sweet Ted is lucky to be alive. He’s going to have a hard time recovering from all this, and I don’t want him to give up. Here’ – she handed the envelope to Kelsey – ‘I want you to take these to Ted. Raphaele wanted him to have them.’

‘Shouldn’t this come from you?’ Kelsey asked.

‘No, they were supposed to have come from Raphaele. He was going to give them to Ted after the lab had moved. He said that these letters contain ideas that might help a younger mind solve the riddle of their work. Ted is at the hospital in Ann Arbor now, and I don’t know when I’ll get up there to see him. The poor man has lost his life-work and his mentor. If these letters are all my husband said they are, I think Ted needs to see them as soon as possible.’

13
JUNE 27

Ann Arbor, Michigan

Nolan and Kelsey followed the blue-and-white directional signs that led them through the first floor of University Hospital. They were there to visit Ted Sandstrom, who had been transported by air ambulance to Ann Arbor after receiving emergency medical treatment in South Bend. Though more than fifty percent of his body was severely burned, Sandstrom’s prognosis was good.

Wending their way through the maze of corridors, the two of them finally arrived at the Burn Unit, which was located in a remote corner of the hospital. When they reached the electronically locked double doors of the unit, the head nurse buzzed them through and had them sign the visitors’ sheet.

The unit was built in a curved, two-story block that jutted out from the hospital’s north face. Twelve singlepatient rooms followed the outer curve. Sealed windows in each provided a view of the Huron River. A glass-curtain wall isolated the patient room from the hallway while providing a direct line of sight for the medical staff. SpaceLab monitors hung from the ceiling, displaying the vital signs of each of the patients.

‘You have visitors,’ the nurse announced pleasantly upon entering Sandstrom’s room.

She quickly checked the IV bags and glanced at all the vitals displayed on the small in-room monitor. Satisfied, she moved on.

‘Hey, Ted,’ Nolan said as they entered.

A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. The sight of Sandstrom’s burned flesh didn’t shock him; he had seen far worse on SEAL missions around the world. Instead, it triggered memories and feelings he had hoped to leave behind upon his discharge.

‘Aren’t you going to ask how I’m doing?’ Sandstrom wanted to know, a bitter tinge of sarcasm in his raspy voice.

‘No, because you’ll either lie to spare our feelings or, worse yet, you’ll tell us the truth.’

‘Nolan,’ Kelsey barked, annoyed by his insensitive comment.

Sandstrom feebly raised his hand. ‘He’s right, Kelsey, I feel as good as I look. At least they’re treating me well, and the pain meds keep the edge off. How’s Dorothy?’

‘She’s holding up very well,’ Kelsey replied. ‘She sends her love.’

Nolan pulled a chair around to the side of the bed for Kelsey and then sat on the chair’s flat wooden arm.

‘Any word on the guys who did this?’ Sandstrom asked.

‘Nada,’ Nolan answered. ‘The police set up roadblocks all over the area but came up empty. The FBI is slowly sifting through what’s left of your lab for any physical evidence, but that’s going to take a while. I’ve asked a guy I know at the CIA to take a look at this as well.’

‘CIA?’

‘Yeah, there’s an international angle to this that the folks at Langley are better equipped to handle than the Indiana State Police. The guys who hit your lab looked and sounded an awful lot like Spetsnaz.’

‘What’s Spetsnaz?’

‘Russian army Special Forces. No one in the Russian government is crazy enough to launch a mission like this on U.S. soil, so it’s more likely that these guys are mercenaries and somebody with very deep pockets sent ’em here. Enough with this talk, though. How about some good news?’

‘Please,’ Sandstrom said with a desperate weariness.

‘The boards of MARC and ND-ARC had a teleconference this morning regarding the joint venture for your project.’

‘I thought you said this was good news.’

‘I did,’ Nolan replied. ‘Despite the setback due to this incident, both boards have decided to pursue the project. This, of course, depends upon your ability to resume your work after you get out of here.’

‘So, are you telling me I still have a job?’

‘Yep, they still think you’re a good bet.’

‘As bad as this whole situation is, it’s temporary,’ Kelsey added. ‘You’ll recover, the lab will be rebuilt, and your work will proceed.’

‘I know, life goes on and all that jazz,’ Sandstrom said bitterly, his anger and sadness readily apparent.

‘Yes, Ted, it does. You and Raphaele made an important discovery, and now you have to follow it wherever it leads. It’s what Raphaele would have wanted you to do.’

‘How the hell would you know what Raphaele wanted me to do? We were a team. We were going to solve this thing together.’

‘Actually, after you moved into the new lab, Raphaele was going to retire.’ Kelsey held up her hand to stop the question she saw forming on Sandstrom’s lips. ‘We had a long talk with Dorothy yesterday after the funeral. She told us that Raphaele felt that he’d done all he could for you, and it was time for him to step aside. Had none of this happened, Raphaele would be telling you this right now and wishing you well. He would also have given you this.’

Kelsey set the thick manila envelope on the edge of Sandstrom’s bed. He stared down at it; across the top was his name scrawled in Paramo’s hand.

‘What’s in it?’

‘Letters. Dorothy said they were Raphaele’s most prized possession. Sometime back in the forties, he corresponded with another physicist. In Raphaele’s opinion, the man was one of the greatest minds he’d ever known. He also felt that something in these letters might help you figure out your discovery.’

Sandstrom’s eyes never left the envelope as Kelsey spoke. There were only a handful of twentieth-century physicists who Raphaele Paramo considered truly brilliant, and as best as Sandstrom could recall, Paramo never mentioned having significant communication with any of them.

‘Who was Raphaele’s pen pal?’

‘We don’t know,’ Nolan replied, just as curious about the letters as Sandstrom was.

‘We were tempted to read the letters on the way back from South Bend,’ Kelsey admitted, ‘but it wouldn’t have been right. These letters were meant for you.’

‘Well, I want to know. Open the envelope and read me one of them.’

Kelsey smiled as she unclasped the oversize envelope. Inside, she discovered a collection of old brown file folders bound together by string. Each folder bore the date of the letter it contained; the correspondence spanned almost two years.

‘I guess we should start at the beginning.’

Kelsey untied the string and opened the first folder. Surprisingly, the paper, which was older than anyone in the room, had barely yellowed – Paramo had kept his treasured letters safe for more than fifty years. The author’s penmanship was fluid and precise, like the work of a calligrapher.

‘Fifteen September 1946,’ Kelsey began. ‘Dear Raphaele… ’

After a few lines about personal matters, the author shifted direction into the realm of theoretical physics. The tone was conversational, as if Raphaele and the author were sitting in a bar having a discussion over a glass of beer. The man would pose a thesis, then let his imagination run wild, challenging his thesis from several different directions.

More than once Sandstrom had to ask her to stop so he could digest what he’d heard. The beautifully written prose was interspersed with mathematical notations and explanatory doodles. The first four-page letter took nearly an hour to read.

“‘— and I look forward to your thoughts on this. Your friend, Johann Wolff.’”

‘Amazing.’ Sandstrom sighed, physically drained by the effort he’d put forward to follow the letter. ‘I’d have to study that letter more carefully, but I’d swear that part of what you just read dealt with interaction-free measurement.’

‘I was thinking the same thing,’ Kelsey agreed.

‘I’m sorry to be the dumb guy in the room,’ Nolan said, crossing his arms over his chest, ‘but what is it about that letter that has you both so stunned?’

‘If Kelsey and I understand this letter correctly, Wolff was working on quantum optics.’

‘And why is this significant?’

‘The significance is not what, but when,’ Kelsey said. ‘Wolff was thinking about interaction-free measurement in the mid-forties. I’ve never seen anything on the subject dating that far back. In the early sixties the guy who won the Nobel Prize for inventing holography essentially said such a thing was impossible. No one was even fooling around in this area until the eighties.’

‘This is cutting-edge quantum thinking now,’ Sandstrom added. ‘Fifty years ago, my God. This guy’s grasp of the subtle nature of potential and probability is amazing. Las Vegas would hate a guy like this.’

‘Shall I read another?’ Kelsey asked as she carefully placed the first back in its folder.

‘Absolutely,’ Sandstrom replied eagerly.

Four hours and five letters later, Sandstrom was ready to get out of bed and go back to work. While Nolan was impressed with the author’s ability to describe incredibly complex phenomena lucidly, for Kelsey and Sandstrom the experience was something akin to an epiphany.

‘Raphaele was right,’ Sandstrom declared, ‘this guy’s thinking was decades ahead of his time.’

Kelsey nodded her head in agreement. ‘I’m just surprised that we’ve never heard of him.’

‘Me, too,’ Nolan said as he put the last few folders back in the pile. ‘Especially since he was here at Michigan when he wrote these letters.’

‘His comments on some of the senior faculty in our physics department sound like they could have been written today. Just change the names,’ kidded Kelsey.

‘Bureaucracies are eternal,’ quipped Nolan.

Still reclining in his hospital bed, Sandstrom stared in wonder at this gift from his mentor. ‘It’s like Wolff was doing stuff in his head that we’re just starting to figure out now using supercomputers. Based on what he showed Raphaele, I think Wolff was working toward a theory of everything.’

‘A theory of everything?’ Nolan asked. ‘Sounds like a Monty Python movie.’

‘For physicists,’ Sandstrom replied, ‘a workable theory of everything is the Holy Grail.’

‘I’ll bite then. What is it?’

‘You want to field this one, Kelsey?’ Sandstrom asked.

‘Sure. The short version goes something like this. Four basic forces are known to be at work in the universe – forces that determine the behavior of everything from the smallest subatomic particle to the universe itself. Current theory predicts that if we were to wind the clock back in time to less than a hundredth of a second after the Big Bang, we should find these four apparently separate forces merging into a single unified force.’

Nolan nodded. ‘I’m with you so far. Gravity, which keeps us from falling off the earth and affects all the big stuff in the universe is theoretically related to the forces that hold atoms and all the subatomic bits together.’

‘Exactly. A theory of everything, or TOE, describes the linkage between all the forces. If we can ever develop one that can survive experimental testing, we’ll have a much clearer understanding of how the universe began, how it works, and where it’s going. Now, trying to tie all four forces together in one shot is incredibly difficult. Einstein spent the later years of his life on his unified field theory and came up empty. Taking it one step at a time, we’ve managed to tie two of the forces – electro-magnetism and the weak nuclear force – together. Currently physicists are trying to tie these two forces with the strong nuclear force – the one that holds protons and neutrons together to form atomic nuclei. A theory describing the union of the three nongravitational forces is known in the trade as a GUT, which stands for grand unification theory. The next step after a working GUT is developed is a working TOE.’

‘So, based on Wolff’s letters, you think he was piecing together a theory of everything?’

‘Absolutely,’ Sandstrom assured Nolan, ‘and he was at least as far along fifty years ago as anyone is today. I’m seeing glimmers of M-brane theory in these letters and hints at strategies for resolving some of the stickier problems that current theorists are wrestling with.’

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