Ryan had offered to help with contacting witnesses, but Emily had declined. “Concentrate on the experts,” she’d said, though that was mostly a waiting game since he’d hired Strong and Trân to complete their reports and blood studies.
Emily’s insistence on keeping the lion’s share of pretrial preparation was the obvious source of the fatigue mounting in his daughter’s face. Now with trial less than three weeks away, they’d have to broach their respective roles at trial.
The elephant in the room on that front was Ryan’s obvious experience advantage over Emily, who was untested in a major trial. But the way things were going, she was unlikely to permit him any more of a role at trial than he had in the prep.
He probably had it coming, given how clearly he’d limited his initial offer to help. And he’d been impressed with her performance in court and the work she’d performed these past weeks. Still, he couldn’t shake his worry at the near certainty that Emily would be hopelessly outgunned against the more experienced Covington lawyer—regardless of her zeal and preparation, and regardless of what expert opinions they generated to support her.
Another runner broke the plane of Ryan’s vision, looking familiar with his red hair, white shorts, and a yellow shirt. The man slowed then halted as though he was taking a break as well, before slowly turning toward Ryan.
“I’ve seen you up here before,” the man said.
Ryan looked in his direction and nodded. “Same here.”
He was young—maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. His face was slim, with hair cut close but not buzzed. Ryan recalled that he had always seen him wearing the same white shorts.
“Beautiful,” Ryan said, gesturing toward the horizon.
The man nodded. “Always.”
“You live in Sherman?”
The man nodded again. “Yes. For a couple of years. You?”
“Just here for a trial. I’m a lawyer.”
A flicker of interest flashed in the man’s eyes. “What trial?”
Ryan was curious how the man would react. “An injury case,” he said. “An incident out at Hanford.”
A look of amusement came over the runner’s face. “Don’t you love that word, incident,” he said.
Ryan smiled. “Yeah, you’ve got me; that’s pretty vague. It was the explosion last fall.”
The comment brought on a full smile. “I knew what you were probably talking about. That was a big deal around here. I’m told they don’t get many explosions at Hanford anymore. Last fall’s incident gave everybody something to talk about for awhile.”
“What do they say about it?”
The runner looked off again toward the view. “Oh, I don’t know. I heard one of the workers might’ve done it intentionally. I suppose that’s what most people believe. The whole thing got some blood up.”
That was what he feared. “What do you do for a living?” Ryan asked.
The man paused as though catching his breath for an instant. “I’m in insurance. Life insurance. I’m Larry Mann, by the way.”
“Ryan Hart,” he responded, taking the extended hand.
“So what do you think. Got a good shot at winning?”
Ryan shook his head. “You never know. Juries usually get it right if you give them the right evidence.”
“That so?”
“Yes. That’s so.”
“Well,” Larry said, beginning to jog in place, “I’ve got to be off. Maybe I’ll see you around here again. And good luck with your case.”
Ryan waited until the man had gone over the slope of the hill toward town. Then he stood to follow, wondering if Mann’s comments reflected what most Sherman residents thought about the case. He’d taken too little time to get out and talk to people to find out for himself.
Which brought Ryan back again to the approaching trial and his role in it. He supposed that if Emily didn’t raise the issue, he shouldn’t either. Still, he dreaded what he might have to witness from the sidelines.
The slope began to fall more steeply and Ryan lengthened his strides. Ahead he could still see Larry Mann, though the runner was moving away. Then he passed out of view around a curve in the trail ahead—and his disappearance triggered in Ryan a final thought about the runner.
Was that an Australian or an English accent he’d detected in Larry Mann’s voice?
“Mr. Martin, whom do you believe is lying to you—and what do you believe motivates them to lie to you?”
Poppy sat on a rust-colored couch in suite 142 of the Treadway Inn. To his right was a dark wood table, next to an antiqued armoire. On the wall to the left were two prints of old wood-burning locomotives—one winding through a valley of firs and birch, the other crossing a river on a tall wooden bridge.
In the middle of his field of vision, his fingers flicking over the keyboard of a computer balanced on his lap, sat Dr. Zachary Janniston.
Poppy knew his limits in hotel rooms—even ones as spacious and upscale as this. In the navy he’d discovered how crazy he could get if he was cooped up for too long. It had never gone to full-blown claustrophobia like Poppy had felt down in his super’s office that night with Adam Worth—that was a first. It had always been more like pressure building in a steam boiler, like what ran those locomotives in the prints on the wall.
He was feeling it now, heating up his chest and head, making him hunger for moving air on his hands and face or the sight of an open sky. It’d been seven hours so far today in this hotel room where everything was in its place and the air didn’t seem to circulate. Eight hours yesterday. Four hours the first day before that. Bringing in lunch. Not letting him go until four thirty or five thirty—like he was punching off a shift.
Seated at the wooden table, he’d done MMPIs; Borderline Personality Disorder tests; tests for ADD and ADHD; mood disorder questionnaires; and other tests he couldn’t even remember. They hadn’t even bothered to hide the test titles—like they wanted him to know what labels they were thinking of sticking to him and his record. And between the tests, Janniston’s high-pitched monotone had droned on for hour after tortured hour.
He couldn’t leave. Janniston told him he was there for the duration, and he’d confirmed it with a call to the union shop. Under the collective bargaining agreement, they could yank his security clearance if he didn’t fully cooperate.
But if he kept taking tests and answering questions much longer, there was a chance that this pale-faced psychologist with ferret eyes and ears as big as his fist would find Poppy’s limit—and if Poppy came at him, Janniston could declare him psychologically unfit in a heartbeat. He couldn’t give them that.
Janniston was waiting patiently for an answer with a thin-lipped stare.
“What was the question again?” Poppy asked.
“Who do you believe is lying to you—and what do you believe motivates them to lie to you?”
He’d done it again. Poppy could wait ten minutes then ask for a repeat of the question, and every time, without even looking at his open laptop, this Janniston would come back with the identical wording. It was like Chinese water torture.
“I heard a gunshot on the roof of LB5 that night,” Poppy replied. “I don’t know why and I don’t know who’s behind it, but I’m being asked to change my statement about it. I won’t.”
There. It was the same answer Poppy’d given to dozens of questions over the past three days. Security guards could memorize too.
“Do you understand that your fellow security guard on the roof that evening denied firing any shot?”
“They tell me so.”
“You don’t believe that?”
“I haven’t spoken with Lew since that night.”
“So you believe you’re being lied to about that as well.”
“Yes.”
“And do you understand that there is no evidence of a rifle, other than yours, being fired on the roof that night?”
“That’s what they’ve said.”
“Also something you
do not believe?”
Poppy nodded.
“Mr. Martin, do you believe people are trying to persecute you?”
Poppy contemplated the question as he thought back three days. It was his first afternoon with Janniston, and the psychologist had released him after a short day. Poppy’d driven to the southwest end of town. A buddy of Poppy’s at the union hall had tipped him off that the lawyers representing Kieran Mullaney had rented a place over near the Winchester Inn.
He’d heard nothing back from Bev Cortez or any of his other contacts about Lewis. But maybe, Poppy had considered, the lawyers representing the Mullaney boy had learned where Lew was through the lawsuit. With that hope in mind, Poppy had driven his truck to the old River Knoll neighborhood, with its colonial houses and double-sized lawns. He’d driven past the inn and the building next door that the union hall buddy had identified—a building that looked like it was under renovation. Then he’d stopped his truck around the far corner and walked to a shady spot beneath a tree within sight of the place.
He’d just about gotten up the courage to cross the street and go knock on the door when the white van came into sight, approaching from the direction that Poppy had come not twenty minutes before. It pulled onto a different side street a block away from Poppy’s resting place.
Poppy carefully crossed the lawns in the direction that the van had disappeared, staying close to the front of each house. At the last house on the block, he cut around to the back. There he pressed against the vinyl siding and carefully looked around its edge.
The van was parked a third of the way up the side street, its back hatch facing the Winchester Inn and the adjacent building into which Kieran and his attorneys were located. No one had gotten out. No one was visible in the front passenger seat. Beyond that, he couldn’t see the driver’s side, and the back glass was too opaque for Poppy to see inside.
He could see, though, that the van still had no plates.
Poppy knew he couldn’t go see Kieran and his lawyers now even if he wanted to—or even risk telephoning. If the place was being watched, who was to say they didn’t have the inside of the place bugged too? If they caught Poppy talking to the lawyers, they’d fire him for sure.
He wasn’t ready for that. So he crept back up the street, staying out of view of the van, and drove away.
“Mr. Martin?”
Poppy became aware of the psychologist again, sitting motionless beside the paintings on the wall, still waiting for his answer.
“Sorry. What was the question?”
“Do you believe people are trying to persecute you?”
Poppy sighed. He looked to the left, toward the dark locomotive amidst the woodland, set against the white bark of the birch trees it was rolling past. It took him away from the stale air of this place and the eyes of his tormentor. He began to count the birch trees, as he mouthed the words that required no attention to repeat once again.
“Yes. Because I heard a gunshot on the roof of LB5 that night,” he said slowly. “I don’t know why and I don’t know who’s behind it, but I’m being asked to change my statement about it. I won’t.”
Chapter 26
The bustle of activity by the new Wolffia team in the bowels of LB5 was heartening tonight. Adam surveyed the scientists and techs making final testing preparations approvingly, listening to the snippets of discussions audible to him here at the primary monitoring station.
Most of the talk was unintelligible to him. Adam was a manager. He was not a nuclear scientist. Nor did he aspire to be one. He’d studied enough physics and been in his job long enough to follow a conversation between two of this breed. But he couldn’t begin to contribute, any more than a beginning Spanish student listening to the banter of two native speakers.
But then again, he didn’t need to. If the talk grew too complicated, he had a Project staff person who could translate. What Adam did need to understand was whether Project Wolffia was achieving its goal. And tonight, he was standing in the LB5 laboratory with high expectations.
It was his boss, Cameron Foote, who defined success for this Project. Project Wolffia, he’d say, would be worth its seven years and nine figures in research costs the day it produced a high-energy chemical trigger—the device that made the radioactive heart of a nuclear bomb detonate with its enormous capacity for destruction. Only in this case, the dramatically smaller trigger could make possible smaller bombs with proportionately more plutonium—capable of delivering a neutron pulse of radiation ten times that of current nuclear weapons. Bombs would become far cheaper, far more lightweight, and far more capable of being transported to a battlefield to irradiate men and material, rendering both permanently useless. Smaller, more potent radiation weapons would change everything, bypassing the stalemate of heavy thermonuclear bombs. The West, Vice-President Foote would say, would instantly capture the high ground.
That was it, pure and simple.
Adam always permitted his enthusiasm to show when Foote spoke on the subject. But underneath, he was keenly interested in a more tangible result: billions of dollars more in profits flowing to Covington Nuclear. Which meant an extraordinary bonus trickling to Adam.
Adam looked around the lab at the scientists settling in, preparing to begin the test. Development of this trigger was not, he reminded himself, necessarily illegal under international treaties. But the United States had been denying any effort to produce such components since the late 1990s. Which was why this team was working for a private company seeking to achieve the trigger on its own, working secretly in the lower levels of a defunct plutonium facility. Totally bypassing the cumbersome oversight, bureaucratic roadblocks, and political barriers of a congressionally approved program.
“Moving through channels,” Foote had told Adam when he’d brought him on board, “the Project would require triple the time, tenfold the cost, and more political guts than the whole of Washington could muster in a thousand years. That’s not an option for America.”
Foote had concluded his lecture, saying, “And what better use of resources than setting up the lab in this moribund plutonium facility, already under Covington’s supervision and control—a place already contaminated and slated for demolition. A location where Covington need only complete experimentation before LB5 is torn down—a convenient fact since Covington is in charge of the cleanup and destruction schedule for the entirety of Hanford, including this building.”
Adam had often wondered, given the secrecy of the Project, how many others even within Covington knew of it. Less than half a dozen key executives and managers, he’d guess: people capable of keeping the flow of research dollars coming to Sherman and LB5. And how many, he’d wondered, were driven by the patriotic principles that motivated Cameron Foote—as opposed to the enormous expectation of profit to be garnered from the sale of the new chemical triggers to the United States military?
And most curious of all, of those “in the know” about Project Wolffia, how many had ever heard Adam’s name? Except for Cameron Foote, he would bet not a single one.
“We’re ready to proceed,” Dr. John Wilson said. As the replacement head of the Wolffia team, Adam had insisted he be at his side during the test. Adam nodded in response, instinctively checking his protective eyewear.
The gear should have been unnecessary. They were outside of the specially constructed (and since the October explosion, reconstructed) concrete-and-steel-reinforced chamber where the red mercury trigger was about to be tested. All contingencies had been evaluated and controlled to avoid pressure changes—such as those caused by the errant Vat 17 that had spelled failure for the previous experiment. Besides, their observation of the event would be indirect: through the video feed from within the chamber.
A tech began a countdown. Adam’s cynical side wanted to dismiss it as melodramatic—but after the effort of the past two years, he couldn’t stay removed from the excitement of it all.
It reached zero.
Viewed through the video feed,
the flash was like a miniature sun going nova, spreading across the length of the chamber at terrific speed—like a ball of fire shot from a cannon. Then, as quickly as it had happened, it was over.
The half a dozen scientists and analysts spread across the room were transfixed by their monitors. Adam turned to Dr. Wilson, who was looking over the shoulder of a team member’s monitor to his left.
“Was it successful?” Adam asked.
Dr. Wilson demurred for a moment. Then he stood up. “We have to examine the data, the heat production, whether it properly detonated the assays of plutonium in the chamber. And we’ll have to reproduce this a few more times at different heat gradients to ensure reliability.”
Adam wanted to shake the man for a simple response. “Is the trigger a success or not?”
The dour scientist couldn’t even bring himself to smile. “Well, if you must have an immediate answer, I’d say yes. A qualified yes.”
Adam wanted to shout out loud at these words. He grinned for the both of them. “Congratulations, Doctor,” he said. Across the room a ripple of muted high fives and smiles were visible.
Did physicists ever party, Adam wondered through his own exultation.
He savored the moment. And there was another positive from this event as well. For the first time in months, he could look forward to his call to Cameron Foote later this evening.
Chapter 27
TEN DAYS UNTIL TRIAL
Seated near the window, Ryan examined the latest email from Dr. Strong on his laptop. More reassurances that the report would be done on time—which meant within the next two days. Still missing were any details about his conclusions.
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