Virtual Destruction

CHAPTER 33

Craig Kreident paused at the top of the Metro escalator to get his bearings. This had already been one hell of a long trip, and he’d just arrived. His suit was damp and wrinkled from his own perspiration, and the humidity in the Washington area hit him like a sledgehammer after California’s dry heat.

He had not cared for changing planes in Chicago, fidgeting for an hour in the circus of O’Hare; but this flight took him into National Airport, which allowed him to bypass the crazy D.C. traffic and ride the Metro instead. His boss, June Atwood, had highly recommended that route.

After living in the Bay Area most of his life, Craig knew what to expect from California drivers — as long as he moved with the traffic, it didn’t matter if he was going 75 or standing still. People drove competently. They followed the rules.

But Washington D.C. was home to not only the worst drivers in the nation, but also to ambassadors in big limousines whose drivers had more diplomatic immunity than they had functional traffic experience. The whole city area resembled a bumper car ride that Craig had no stomach for, rental car or not.

Adjusting his sunglasses, he tried to flow with the crowd of pedestrians as he hurried along the wide sidewalks to the Department of Energy’s Forrestal Building. Here in the capitol city, at least, his suit and tie did not stand out. It seemed even the joggers wore ties. But when he asked for directions, twice, the people looked at him as if he had offended them.

The Forrestal Building was supported by massive pillars and extended over a plaza. Bored guards — yes, he saw they were actually called “guards” here, imagine that! — sat at stations inside the lobby. Craig snapped his sunglasses shut and slid them into his pocket. He groped for his Bureau ID as he approached the desk.

A weary-looking woman didn’t say a word as she took his ID and checked a computer list. Chewing on a mentholated cough drop so that blue smoke seemed to curl out of her mouth, she pushed a form at Craig and motioned for him to sign the document. When he finished, she flipped a Visitor badge across the counter, then turned away, all without speaking. She dug in her purse for another cough drop.

Craig clipped the large DOE HQ badge onto his suit lapel, then tapped the plastic so that it dangled properly. He looked around. The civil servant attitude struck him like a blizzard, a cold brushoff. People slowly agreed to help only after being asked, and then they offered assistance only under great duress. In his mind he contrasted it with the bouncy, “please let me help you” demeanor back at Livermore. He thought of how enthusiastic Paige Mitchell had been.

He snagged a guard standing just inside the secure part of the building. He held out his badge and brought out his Bureau ID, just in case he needed heavier ammunition. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Ms. Diana Unteling, deputy assistant secretary for international affairs.”

The guard scanned a thick list protected by a plastic cover. “Yeah. Fourth floor, room 4023. Got an appointment?”

Craig decided this was no time to debate details. “Yes,” he said firmly.

The guard squinted at Craig’s badge, and as if the words FBI suddenly clicked with him, he nodded to the left. “Those elevators will take you directly there, sir.”

“Thanks.”

Craig found the suite of 70s-vintage administrative offices without any further trouble. The glass door opened to a young black woman sitting behind a metal low-bid desk, dressed to kill in more finery than California women wore when they went to a formal party. Three office doors stood closed behind the woman, bearing engraved name plaques. The only access to Diana Unteling would be through this moat dragon.

The secretary looked up. “Yes?”

Thinking to fit right in with the Washington milieu, Craig decided to dispense with the Nice Guy act. He spoke brusquely and got straight to the point as he flashed his badge and ID. “I’m Special Agent Kreident from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, here to see Ms. Unteling.”

The woman looked confused. “Mrs. Unteling has already had her security interview for her Assistant Secretary appointment.”

“This isn’t a background check.”

She made a show of looking down at the appointment calendar on her government-issue desk. “I don’t believe you have an appointment, Mr. Kreident.”

“I don’t,” Craig said. “But I need to see her anyway.”

“May I tell her what this is about?”

“No.”

Her ebony eyes widened. Her eye shadow looked as if it had been applied with a spoon. A large one.

“Just a moment, sir.” She pushed up from her chair, which rolled across a hard plastic floor mat, and walked on two-inch high heels to the door on the far right. Rapping softly, she entered. Craig mulled over what the secretary had said. A new Assistant Secretary position? That must be what Unteling had been pestering Michaelson about on his answering machine.

The secretary reappeared and held the door. “Mrs. Unteling will see you now, sir.” Craig placed a smile — not much of one, just enough — on his face and took a deep breath. He held his briefcase like a shield in front of him as he entered the room.

Unteling’s office smacked of her former California background: a nicely matted watercolor series of golden brown hills, vineyards, and sandy beaches… a stark Ansel Adams photo of El Capitan in Yosemite.

A trim, no-nonsense woman with graying blond hair rose from behind her desk — a polished wooden desk, he noticed. She extended a hand. The gold in her wedding band was thick; the diamond sparkled, too large. “Mr. Kreident, is it? Agent Kreident?”

“That’s right. I appreciate your time — sorry to barge in on you unannounced.”

Sitting back in her chair without offering Craig a seat, she dispensed with any pleasantries. “What can I do for you, Mr. Kreident? You have caught me at a particularly busy time.”

Craig pulled up a chair, easing close to her desk. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Dr. Hal Michaelson.”

Her face was stony, and it may have whitened, but it could also have been his imagination. “I heard that he died. Terrible thing to happen. He was one of our top people at Livermore. Why are you questioning me?”

“Just routine questions, Ma’am.” He remembered how much Paige had hated being called Ma’am. “Dr. Michaelson died on Federal property, and until we can get a firm cause of his death, I’m interviewing all of his past associates. His close associates.” He paused, but again saw no reaction. “Did you know Dr. Michaelson very well?”

“I worked for him when I lived in Livermore. I was also part of his on-site inspection group that went to the former Soviet Union to oversee the dismantling of their nuclear weapons complex. But that was many years ago.”

“Have you maintained your contact with him since that time?”

Her dark eyebrows arched slightly. “In what way? I’m from Livermore, as you probably know. He was a family friend, but living on different coasts makes it hard to get together too often. I’m afraid he didn’t put much stock in my husband’s work on the Coalition for Family Values.”

“When was the last time you saw Dr. Michaelson?”

“I can’t recall. Last year maybe.”

“How about the last time you spoke with him?”

She twisted in her chair and tapped a long fingernail on her wooden desktop. “What are you getting at, Mr. Kreident? How often do you recall speaking with a friend?”

“Ms. Unteling—”

“Mrs. Unteling, please. I’m a happily married woman.”

Craig cleared his throat and smiled at her. I'm sure your husband would like to know that — especially after hearing the messages you left on Michaelson's answering machine. “I went through Dr. Michaelson’s office with a classification specialist. They were able to open his safe and inventory his classified documents, but several were missing.”

She stiffened. “Why are you telling me this, Mr. Kreident? Do you have any idea how many classified papers are created every year at Livermore?”

“This is a special case, I think. You see—” He steepled his fingers and leaned closer to her. She backed away. “—every one of the missing documents originated from your office, Mrs. Unteling. There were sixty memos, all transmitted over the past year and a half.” He watched her closely.

“Once the documents are out of our hands, they are no longer our responsibility.”

“Then what about the subject matter? If I provide you with a numerical list of specific classified memos, could you tell me what they contained?”

She shook her head. “Impossible. I’m afraid, Mr. Kreident, you don’t have the proper need-to-know. You would have to get a specific search warrant for those specific memos, and in order to do that I think you would have to make an extremely compelling argument to prove they are in some way connected with Hal’s death. And that’s not just a DOE regulation — that’s the law.”

He tried a throwaway comment, anything to make her yield. He shut his notebook and stashed it in his briefcase again. “Dr. Michaelson personally signed for those documents; they all came from your office. Now he’s dead, and those memos were… misplaced for a while. I thought you might want to talk about it.” He had a sudden flash of insight. “In light of your recent nomination for Assistant Secretary, I mean.”

Diana Unteling’s face hardened even further, like a glacier calving icebergs. “Mr. Kreident, my office had the responsibility for coordinating those classified memos with Lawrence Livermore. Every document was logged out of this office and transmitted over secure communication channels in strict accordance with DOE security regulations.

“It is not your place or duty to question that procedure. If you have any question about the disposition of classified material at Livermore, then I strongly suggest that you restrict your queries there, and not here, since that appears to be where the breach of security occurred — if in fact there was any breach.”

Craig studied the unflinching woman. Nothing seemed to crack her exterior. He smiled instead. “Oh, you misunderstand me, Ma’am. I said the memos were missing from Michaelson’s document repository. I didn’t say we haven’t found them.” He breathed slowly as he kept his voice calm, taking a big gamble. “I just wanted to look you in the eye and ask you what was in them. But you’re quite right. You don’t have to tell me.”

Craig clicked his briefcase shut and placed it on his lap. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Unteling.” He stood and held out a hand; she ignored it.

From the door Craig said, “I’ll leave my card in case you decide to get hold of me.” He placed one of his FBI cards on the wooden desk and patted it with a smile. “Don’t hesitate to call.”

Pressing her lips together, Unteling didn’t say a word. Craig could almost feel her gaze boring into his back as he departed. He still couldn’t tie down all the details, but he felt as if he had jabbed a hornet’s nest with a stick.