Free The 4400® Promises Broken by David Mack Page A

widened eyes. “In which case, we’d be talking about something that puts a lotta punch into a small package.”
    “Exactly,” Marco said.
    Diana stepped around Marco’s chair and walked right up to the projection on the wall. Turning sideways to minimize her shadow, she traced lines with her fingers, as if it might help her to find the meaning of each detail in the puzzle of data.
    “Marco,” Diana said, “I’ve seen parts lists for homemade nuclear bombs before, but I’ve never seen one like this.”
    “That’s because it’s not for a nuke. You wouldn’t need that many kilos of superconductive composite, or a magnetically partitioned shell. Those are the building blocks for something completely different.”
    Crossing his arms, Tom asked, “Care to be more specific?”
    Marco hesitated to answer, because the type of device that would utilize such technologies was, as far as he had known until that morning, purely theoretical. But, since Tom had asked … He shrugged and said, “If I had to guess, I’d say someone’s figured out how to build an antimatter bomb.”
    Tom looked back at the projected data and muttered, “I don’t like the sound of that.”
    Diana turned back toward Marco and squinted into the projector beam. “Where’s this stuff being shipped?”
    “No idea,” Marco said. “This was all the data the NSA was able to back up before its own cache got wiped. Whoever scrubbed these records zapped ‘em like a pro.”
    “So we’re talking about someone with a top-level government clearance,” Diana said.
    “Or a promicin ability,” Marco said.
    Tom sighed. “I
really
don’t like the sound of that.”

FIFTEEN

    “P ARDON THE INTERRUPTION , Dennis. I need a moment of your time.”
    Dennis Ryland’s lunch had just been served. He looked up from his bowl of lobster spaghetti to see his visitor. Miles Enright, Haspelcorp’s executive vice president in charge of research and development, stood in a pose that was as casual as his expression was severe. The man was in his mid-fifties, gaunt and pale. He kept his perfectly round skull shaved, and he wore impenetrably opaque black sunglasses all the time, even indoors.
    Gesturing with his fork at the otherwise empty, earth-and-brick-toned private dining room of the Pacific Grill, Dennis said, “I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence running into you here?”
    “No, it’s not,” Enright said. He pulled out the chair opposite Dennis’s and sat down. Folding his hands on the table, he continued. “I notice you’ve been incurring some interesting charges on the R&D budget lately.”
    Masking his ire with a tight-lipped smile, Dennis kept his stare level and unblinking. “Have I?”
    “Yes. I admit, accounting can be a bit slow on the uptake from time to time, but even the most lethargic bean counter tends to notice when two billion dollars gets spent in less than two months with nothing to show for it.”
    To buy time and annoy Enright, Dennis shoveled a forkful of gourmet pasta into his mouth. Tender chunks of Maine lobster meat and jumbo shrimp mingled with the subtle richness of oven-roasted tomatoes, julienned zucchini, and crushed red pepper in a lemon-butter sauce with fresh basil. He took his time and savored as he chewed. Then he swallowed and picked up his glass for a sip of his Bonterra Viognier, a crisply acidic white wine made from organically grown grapes.
    Enright sat as stoically as a golem while he watched Dennis chew, sip, and swallow.
    “Order something, Miles,” Dennis said. “I hear the steak salad’s fantastic.”
    “You still haven’t answered my question,” Enright said. “You haven’t asked one,” Dennis said.
    A waitress approached the table. The slim young Asian woman moved with a light, almost soundless step through the elegantly appointed space. She set a plate and a wineglass in front of Enright, then handed him a white cloth napkin and put down a set of utensils in their correct places on either