Even best case, the calculated exposure fell high on the lethality curve.

After receiving that much radiation, Georg Dumenco would die within a week.

If he was lucky.

Monday, 2:04 p.m.

FBI Regional Headquarters

Oakland, California

“Sorry to disturb you, Craig,” Randall Jackson said. “The SSA wants you in her office in five minutes.”

Craig Kreident turned to see the tall, lean form of his junior partner, who stood dressed in a dark suit and tie, his skin dark as polished wood, his black hair neatly trimmed. Jackson had high cheekbones, deep brown eyes, and a serious demeanor that proved to be a perfect counterpoint to the good humor of his other partner, Ben Goldfarb-a pairing that June Atwood, the Supervisory Special Agent for Squad 22, recognized as being the best in the Oakland office.

“What, June can’t use the intercom?” Craig flipped his Science magazine shut. The desk was strewn with several months’ worth of Scientific American, Science News, Nature and other popular technical publications. He kept back issues of his magazines in a credenza behind his desk, cross-referenced so he could look things up.

It was his job to remain savvy on new developments, considering his specialization in technology-based crimes. Technology, inventions, and gadgets fascinated him, especially how the latest innovation could be replaced by a new design in such a short time.

Jackson shrugged, letting his lips curve upward with a trace of a smile. “Why should she use an intercom when she can use a personal messenger? Goldfarb is better at that sort of thing, but he’s still in Washington, so I got tapped to track you down.”

Craig sketched a comb through his chestnut brown hair. “I hope she’s got a new case for me.”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil the suspense for you.”

“Thanks, Randall,” Craig said dryly, standing.

“You got it.” He turned to leave. “And by the way, no matter what Goldfarb says, that Russian certificate looks great on your wall. Gotta run.” Grinning, he disappeared, leaving Craig looking back at his trophy wall.

Craig’s other citations came from several political entities, Bureau headquarters, even the Lieutenant Governor of California. But this newest award had been issued by the Russian Foreign Ministry, and it had already been the cause of some good-natured ribbing from his fellow field agents.

General Gregori Ursov, current commander of the Russian Strategic Rocket Forces, had applied considerable diplomatic pressure for the award-enough to convince Craig that the former nuclear inspector was far more important than his dossier implied. In overblown prose, the citation thanked Craig for his efforts at the Nevada Nuclear Test Site, and acknowledged him for “displaying remarkable foresight and cooperation in assisting General Ursov and his team.”

Craig had to snort at that, considering the stormy relationship he’d had with the Russian general, especially since Ursov had demanded to be included in every step of Craig’s murder investigation at the NTS.

Most curious of all was the personal letter Ursov had written along with the official transfer of the diplomatic document. The general cheerfully claimed that he had finished his final round of treatment for the radiation exposure he’d received at the Test Site, and while he would be required to maintain a careful watch for cancer signs, he was back on active duty again.

At the bottom of the letter Ursov had scrawled a perplexing postscript, “Our mutual friend says hello!” Craig wondered if he referred to their Department of Energy escort Paige Mitchell, other members of the disarmament team, someone from the Nevada Test Site, or even a fellow FBI agent.

Or perhaps Ursov had just written the note to baffle him. If so, it had worked.

Craig noted how the framed certificates covered most of the meager wall space. If he got too many more citations, June Atwood would have to move him to a bigger office. Right, he snorted. As if she even paid attention to details like that. He slipped on his jacket and turned down his small radio just as the headlines announced one of the year’s Nobel prizes, then walked down the hall to his supervisor’s office.

June Atwood sat at her desk waiting for him. She was a petite woman with well-manicured hands and a carefully molded brush of black hair just turning gray at the temples, which gave her a distinguished “elder statesman” look. She always claimed, with apparent seriousness, that her agents’ aversion to following the rulebook had given her the gray hair years before her time, though she was loath to admit her actual age.

Before he had a chance to knock, she looked up and nodded to him. “Inside, Craig.” She glanced back down at some papers on her desk, then flicked her eyes upward again. “And close the door behind you.”

That was Craig’s first indication of a bad sign. But once the door had clicked shut and he stepped forward to stand next to June’s desk, she gave him a broad, warm smile.

“Sit down, Craig. I just wanted a bit of privacy so no one would see me revert to my Old Softy persona.” Smiling mischievously, she pushed a folder toward him and leaned over the desk to shake his hand. “Congratulations. I want to give you a heads up that the Bureau will be awarding you the Shield of Bravery for the job you did in Nevada. The Director will be flying out next month to personally present the award. So at the risk of giving you a swollen head, you’ve truly become the Oakland office’s top asset.”

Craig shuffled his feet, feeling his cheeks flush. He looked down at the paper without seeing the words on them. The Shield of Bravery! The names of those who had won the prestigious award were engraved on metallic plaques back in the Hoover Building.

June continued to talk, and he missed part of what she was saying, “…your knowledge and expertise in technology-based violations has made you indispensable.” Then she amended quickly, “To a certain extent.”

He gave an uncomfortable cough. “June, you always yell at me for the way I handle things in the middle of a case, and then you pat me on the back for doing such a good job after it’s over.”

“Can’t argue with success, Craig,” she admitted, “but it’s also my job to correct you when you don’t follow procedures.” She picked up a sheet and slid it over to him. She seemed incredibly amused by his discomfort.

She steepled her fingers. “And speaking of following procedures, the newest list of approved weapons just came out. The Director is concerned that some field agents are carrying unapproved handguns-and we all know what that means. Could you make sure your partners are briefed on this?”

Craig glanced over the sheet, then folded it and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. June knew very well he didn’t care for any of the handguns on the official list. And as expected, the Beretta he carried was not listed, so he made a mental note to exchange the small caliber weapon with one of the larger Sig-Sauers as soon as he could. “I understand,” he said, trying not to sound annoyed.

“I thought you would,” she said with an even tone. “Getting this Shield of Bravery will put you in a fish-bowl, make you even more visible than being an ordinary relief supervisor for your squad. So watch it.”

Craig nodded. Somedays he imagined that June pictured herself as a reincarnated army drill sergeant who had missed her true calling in life.

“Now finish catching up on your paperwork before I assign you to something less interesting… say investigating unauthorized uses of the Smokey Bear symbol.”

Craig blinked, not knowing if she was joking or not. But either way she’s right, thought Craig. It’s in the statutes. “I’m on my way, ma’am.” He quickly left the office, closing the door behind him again.