The Heisenberg Legacy

by Christopher Cartwright

  The lead CIA agent walked quickly. The senators had to trot in their efforts to keep up.

  After several long minutes, the lead agent led them to a set of steel stairs that rose into darkness.

  “Where are we?” asked Congresswoman Bledes.

  She received no response.

  The five of them climbed the stairs, their footsteps echoing eerily back to them.

  Finally, they reached the top, a steel door with a pair of bolts holding it shut and a small monitor mounted near the door. The agent checked the camera, then his earpiece. “It’s clear.”

  The bolts snapped with ominous finality as they slid back in to the door, sounding like muffled gunshots.

  The door opened. All three members of Congress put up an arm to block the bright sunlight shining on their faces.

  The first agent pulled his dark sunglasses down and climbed out. “Wait here while I secure the area.”

  Peter watched the agent disappear.

  Congresswoman Bledes turned to the remaining agent. “Where are you taking us?”

  This time she received a response. “We’re taking a short walk to the next set of tunnels, Congresswoman Bledes, where you will be met by other agents and escorted across the Beltway to safety.”

  “Thank God,” she said. “And do we know who’s responsible for this attack?”

  “Not yet. But right now, every agency in America from the CIA through to every level of the military is working on it. No one can hide from that sort of concerted effort for very long.”

  Congressman Grzonkowski said, “We were informed there was a nuclear threat to the capital.”

  “Yes,” came the agent’s monosyllabic reply.

  “How the hell did someone smuggle a nuclear weapon into D.C.?”

  “I don’t know, Congressman.” The agent stopped walking at the base of a ladder. “That’s not my concern right now. My job is to get the three of you to safety, and that’s what I intend to do.”

  “It shouldn’t take long,” the agent said, a comforting but vague comment. The three members of Congress visibly relaxed.

  At the bottom of the steps, an agent, receiving information from the agent up ahead, said, “Understood. I’ll tell him.” He then turned and pointed at Congressman Grzonkowski. “You go first.”

  “No. Call me old fashioned, but I’d feel better if we got Congresswoman Bledes out of harm’s way first.”

  The agent nodded. “That suits me fine. I’ve been instructed to protect all three of you.”

  Congresswoman Bledes smiled. “Congressman Grzonkowski, flattered by your chivalry though I am, we all know I’m nearly twenty years your senior and I have no more right than you or anyone else to survive. You go first. Besides, you will be quicker out across the open than I could hope to be.”

  Grzonkowski shook his head. “Not an offer, I insist. I wouldn’t feel right. You go first. I’d like to see the five of us come out of this alive.”

  “Okay,” Bledes conceded.

  Congressman Peter Grzonkowski watched her climb the last couple steps and out into the opening above.

  He followed a few seconds later until all five of them were out in the daylight and onto a residential street packed with cars and with people talking on their cell phones, pacing back and forth, arguing both softly and loudly. Children played basketball in the gaps between cars. Calm, quiet. Normal.

  The members of Congress remained in a cluster. The two CIA agents seemed to melt into the pedestrians before and behind the senators, unseen but still present. Trees arched overhead. Townhouses lined both sides of the street.

  A series of shots rang out.

  Congresswoman Bledes gasped and fell back against her two male peers.

  “She’s been shot!” Peter shouted, as he held her up.

  The crowd in the street scattered.

  Ducking down, Peter asked, “Where did it come from?”

  No one responded to him – or if they did, he couldn’t hear it.

  This time, everyone seemed to pick out the sound of the shot. A short cracking sound. Something you’d hardly notice, it was happening so far away.

  This time, Peter dropped to the ground. He was there before he knew it. He didn’t intend to fall. He’d been bending over Ms. Bledes when pain surged through him like an electric shock. He had been hit in the back.

  Another distant crack.

  The third Congressman fell.

  The agents stood over the three Congresspersons calling for help in their earpieces.

  Instinctively, Peter rolled over. The pain in his back stung, but it didn’t feel like it was going to kill him. He met Carmichael’s eye. The man nodded, like he would be okay, too. It was then he felt liquid on the grass beside him. Still lying on the ground, he ran his hand across his back and held it out in front of his eyes. His hand was covered in a wet, sticky, pink liquid.

  “Paint?” he said, with incredulity. “Someone shot us with paint guns!”

  Next to him, he heard one of the agents hurriedly speak into an earpiece. “The assets have been negated.”

  A pause.

  “No, sir. Not dead. They used paint.”

  The three Congresspersons’ sober, professional outfits were all brightly decorated pink.

  “We’ll have to try to move out some other way,” the agent said. Then, “All right. We’re returning now.”

  Peter shuffled over to help Congresswoman Bledes up, but she didn’t move.

  He rolled her on her side. Blood flowed freely from her back. While he and Congressman Carmichael had been targeted with paintballs, her wounds were very real.

  The agent came over to him and said, “We’ve gotta go! What’s taking Congresswoman Bledes so long?”

  Peter sighed heavily. “She’s dead.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ms. Zyla Needham walked through the locked archive. It was turning out to be a very long day. Ironically, the terrorist who had caused the city to be on lockdown was turning out to be the least of her worries. Several of her assistants had called in “sick,” a.k.a., unable to make it into the city via their usual commute.

  Worse, the library was currently packed with worried tourists and commuters begging to know if they should stay in this building or demanding the location of the nearest bomb shelters. On top of that, a large number of Congressmen and women were making heavy research demands. It was all over the place. Everyone wanted to know everything about the nuclear program during and after World War II. Where was the proof of German bomb-making capability? Had anyone known that they had a bomb available to use against the United States?

  In short, they were panicking.

  She shook her head. Her phone buzzed, but she ignored it. She was on her break. Back in college while studying her Master of Library and Information Science, she had broken herself of the habit of smoking. Librarians who smoked were, in her opinion, an abomination. A librarian had no business bringing smells in among their precious documents. Ms. Zyla Needham had given up perfumes, scented lotion, and care products as well, but it was the lack of being able to step out for a smoke that got on her nerves.

  Consequently, she treated herself with a walk through her favorite shelves.

  When she turned the corner toward the Heisenberg Legacy, a man was already there. A dark suit and black sunglasses, his head turned slowly toward her.

  She had a sudden urge to scream and run but suppressed it.

  “Hello? Who are you? You don’t have authorization to be here.”

  The man said, “My name’s Smith. George Smith. I appear to be lost.”

  “Then allow me to escort you back to the public areas.”

  Afterward, she walked back to the shelves and checked the titles where he’d been standing. They were all smoothly set into place, nothing out of order, nothing different.

  Still.

  She pulled the binder case for the Heisenberg Legacy off the shelf. The other documents were valuable, too, but this one was perso
nal for her, the great ethical question of her professional career.

  She removed the case and opened the binder.

  The document was still there. She started to close the binder, then stopped to look again.

  And to read it.

  Her eyes widened with horror.

  She had read that letter literally hundreds of times during her years as a public servant. At the moment, whether that was wise or not wasn’t the issue. The fact that she knew every word by heart was.

  And the words written in print on the page had been changed.

  She swallowed hard and burst back into the lobby where she had left Mr. George Smith, only moments ago.

  He was, of course, gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sam’s new phone rang. “Hello?”

  The disguised voice said, “The CIA just tried to smuggle three senators out of D.C. If they can’t learn to follow directions, I’ll hit the big red button and level D.C. Then it’s game over.”

  “I’ll let them know,” Sam said drily.

  “Good luck with getting the CIA to behave.”

  Ms. Toben screamed.

  Sam turned to her, saw that she was watching a live news feed on the TV. The video was replaying a terrorist attack on a Congresswoman who had been shot dead while attempting to escape.

  “What is it?” Sam asked.

  “Congresswoman Bledes was shot and killed.” Ms. Toben’s face was ashen and her lower lip trembled. “We studied at college together. I’ve been friends with her for nearly forty years. She dedicated her whole life to making the lives of U.S. citizens better. This is terrible.”

  Into his cell phone, Sam said, “Are you happy?”

  “She wasn’t supposed to die,” the garbled voice replied.

  “But your men shot her!”

  “That was someone else, not my men.”

  “Really?” Sam asked. “Are you saying your men didn’t fire at anyone?”

  “They fired paintballs and most of the shots were intentionally aimed high.”

  “How do you know a stray bullet didn’t ricochet and kill someone?”

  “Because they were shooting blanks. That was the whole point. It was a warning. I hope they’ve learned from their mistakes. I told you that I would kill the next senator who attempted to leave the Capital. Next one who tries to escape won’t be hit by a rogue sniper, they’ll be struck by an intentional kill shot.”

  So, the guy didn’t want to be a killer…

  “How do we even know you have the bomb?” Sam snapped, letting anger come through his voice. “How do we even know it would’ve even worked? Our own military couldn’t keep a World War II experimental German bomb up and running. What are your qualifications?”

  He hoped that the man would snap back, giving away something.

  Anything.

  “You think I’m bluffing?” The words came out through a garbled robotic voice, but Sam was sure he still heard the amusement behind it.

  “I think you’re standing on top of a building with a paintball gun and a cell phone. And that’s it. If you don’t actually want to hurt anyone, what do you want to…”

  “I didn’t want to have to do this,” the voice interrupted. “But you leave me no choice.”

  “Wait –”

  Too late. The call cut off.

  “What happened?” Ms. Toben asked.

  “I don’t know. The terrorist says he didn’t shoot your friend.”

  “If he didn’t, who did?”

  “He doesn’t know. Says there must be a rogue sniper out there acting alone.” Sam swore under his breath. “There’s something else, too.”

  “What?”

  “He says, we have to pay the price.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The explosion rocked the Smithsonian Institute.

  Dust and small flakes of paint from the bomb casings displayed on the ceiling overhead fell. Sam took cover beneath a pile of sandbags used to depict a soldier’s bomb shelter. Above, one of the large bombs swung dangerously in its wire harness.

  Sam looked at the Director. “What happens if any of those bomb casings overhead fall?”

  “Obviously, no explosive material is within those bombs,” the Director said. “Although I wouldn’t stand directly underneath any of them.”

  Meanwhile, Ms. Toben’s phone was ringing again. “Yes? No, we’re safe. What?”

  She put her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Director Nelson. “A number of explosions have occurred across D.C., Director.”

  “Oh, my God. Is anyone hurt?”

  “They don’t know yet.”

  Sam was shaken. He’d underestimated the terrorist.

  The phone rang again.

  “Yes?”

  “Do I have your attention now?”

  “You do.”

  “Good. Now, as I previously stated, I don’t want to have to hurt anyone, but I will if I have to.”

  “Understood.”

  “Now, tell me. What have you found?”

  Sam stood up and climbed out of the mock-bunker. His eyes swept the ceiling where everything appeared to have settled into place. He looked around, back toward the display where they found the figurine of Werner Heisenberg and Andrei Sakharov.

  “I don’t know yet,” Sam admitted. “I’m still trying to make sense of it.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve lost the game already?” the garbled voice replied. “I thought you’d be better than this. Should I just press the little red button now and be done with it?”

  “No, no! Wait!” Sam shouted. “We’ve found two figurines that don’t belong in the Atomic Age exhibition.”

  “Go on.”

  “Werner Heisenberg and Andrei Sakharov.”

  “Good, and do you know your history?”

  “Werner Heisenberg won a Nobel prize for his theory of quantum mechanics, which later proved to be the ground work to the development of nuclear fission and the atomic bomb. During the second World War, Heisenberg became the principal scientist for Uranprojekt – the German Nuclear Weapons Project.”

  “And Andrei Sakharov?”

  “He was the leading Soviet physicist and designer of the Soviet Union’s RDS-37, a codename for their thermonuclear weapons development program. Interestingly enough, he was also an activist for disarmament, peace, and human rights. His efforts toward civil rights reform led him to state persecution and later earned him a Nobel Peace Prize in 1975.”

  “Excellent work. They said you were meant to be bright. Maybe they weren’t so wrong after all.”

  “Now what?” Sam asked.

  “Work out what the two men really have in common and what you know about history might start to unravel.”

  Sam said, “They both worked on their respective country’s first development of a nuclear weapon.”

  “Sure. Everyone knows that. The history books even agree with you. Find out what isn’t published – what has been intentionally concealed for many years – and we just get ahead in this game. Until then, you’re no better to me than anyone else.”

  Sam felt his heart race. “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “Okay, I’ll work it out.”

  “Good. To show that I’m taking note of your effort with the first task, I’ve left you a reward.”

  “A reward?”

  “There’s a car parked in front of 1530 Bleaker Street, a 1979 Buick LeSabre, dark green. I haven’t left you the keys – you’re not going to want to drive it yourself. The material in the trunk should be shielded well enough, but you never know.”

  “Understood.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The director and Ms. Toben were starting to exchange startled looks. Sam followed their gaze over to one of the printed signs.

  Sam looked away. Now was not the time to be distracted. “And then what?” he asked his mystery caller.

  “Haven’t you found the next clue yet?”

  Sam didn’t
answer.

  “Be there in twenty minutes. Or it’s game over, man. Game over.” The terrorist gave an evil chuckle. When heard through the radio garbling device being used, it came out like a malevolent cartoon character.

  Click.

  Sam lowered the cell phone from his ear. If this guy expected him to be in place in twenty minutes or less, then it was close, wherever it was. Somewhere on or near the Mall.

  He quickly took the Director aside and told him about the car parked on Bleaker Street, admitting his own guess about what it contained.

  “Mr. Reilly!”

  Sam turned toward the other two. Ms. Toben was pointing excitedly at writing on another panel.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Ms. Toben began reading the text out loud. “The first nuclear device was detonated on July 16, 1945, in the Jornada del Muerto desert of New Mexico. It was code named JX234.A23 81st, 1st 1949 L,” she said triumphantly.

  “I’m sorry, is that supposed to mean something to me?” Sam asked.

  She smiled. “Of course! Its code name was, Trinity!”

  “Another clue?” the director asked.

  “It must be!”

  “But to where, my dear, to where?”

  Ms. Toben’s finger stopped pointing at the text and began tapping her chin.

  “Excuse me,” Sam said. “You’ve both been helpful, but I’m going to have to run. I have new orders.”

  “Run? Where?” Ms. Toben asked, her eyes wide in alarm.

  “That’s some kind of document call number,” Sam said. “And I seem to remember that there’s a huge library near here. If one of you could point me toward the Library of Congress…”

  Ms. Toben gasped.

  Director Nelson grabbed Sam’s shoulder, shoved him out the emergency exit, and pointed him down the sidewalk.

  “Past the Capitol. Corner of First and Independence.”