The Nitrogen Murder(25)
“Well, most of what I do is classified, as I think Elaine told you.” Phil had a pleasant smile, but I read his face: So this is really a waste of time.
“I’ve been reading about a nitrogen fullerene molecule, where some of the sixty carbon atoms are replaced by nitrogen atoms. This gives it much more explosive power, of course.” I took a sip of coffee. “Is that part of your work?” I asked. I meant Are you working on explosives?
The appearance of our lip-ringed waitress gave Phil time to think, though I was sure he’d been preparing since Elaine set up this meeting. The young woman, in black jeans and turtleneck despite the lack of air-conditioning, set down the toasted bagels we’d ordered at the counter.
“My project deals with computer modeling to determine the stability of energetic materials,” Phil said.
Energetic materials. I smiled at the euphemism, but Phil remained straight-faced. We talked for a while about the various possibilities of inserting nitrogen subunits into an otherwise carbon fullerene. All very interesting, but not moving me toward the connections I sought among Phil, the Indian scientist, and a certain briefcase.
With a mental picture and my creative X-ray vision I saw through the leather briefcase to a computer disk or DVD storing classified data. Phil’s spy-partner had messed up the assassination of Lokesh Patel, followed the ambulance, killed Tanisha, and run off. But he took the wrong bag. Phil knew this and was now desperate to get his hands on the briefcase. My scenario was so real, I was surprised to hear Phil’s voice out loud.
“I have something for you,” he said. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, now hanging on the back of his metal chair. “I brought an article that might interest you, on some of our modeling work. It includes some new work on boron doping as well.”
I marveled that he’d brought a report. I’d been correct to figure that Phil was much more prepared for this meeting than I was.
I was losing ground. I had to catch up.
“I read about plans to develop TATB even further, to make it more insensitive. Are you involved in that at all?” I hoped Phil wouldn’t challenge me to recite the composition of TATB; I remembered only that it ended with trinitrobenzene, and I wasn’t sure I could find the URL again since I’d had to refrain from bookmarking Elaine’s browser with my revealing choices.
“You know I couldn’t tell you even if I did know anything about it,” he said. “Our funding sponsors keep their cards close to their vest.”
I love gambling metaphors almost as much as sports metaphors. More minus points for Phil. As he ran his fingers through his dark brown hair, I glanced at his fingertips for signs of dye.
“Dorman seems to be a match for BUL as far as its security and funding,” I said, honestly wondering why our government wouldn’t keep classified work on its own sites.
“Yes, indeed,” Phil said. “You must remember what a complicated org chart BUL has, as far as funding.”
“Money from the government, oversight from the university or private industry,” I added.
“And your annual raise determined by no one who ever saw your work.”
I nodded, sensing a bonding moment. “Does Dorman have the same Big Brother physical safeguards around the building?”
“Not quite that bad.” We laughed at the reminder of the barriers around BUL’s site. About half a block from the checkpoint was a STOP sign. If you decided not to stop your vehicle and accelerated as you approached, a four-foot metal barrier buried in the ground would rise from the asphalt.
“At one point in my career, I had fourteen passwords,” Phil said. “One to get into a VTR—you probably know what vault-type rooms are—and then thirteen others to access all the different computers and storage areas once I was inside. On a given day, I’d use at least eight or nine of them. And they’d change every six months. It’s definitely not that bad at Dorman.”
“I recall a lot of inconsistencies,” I said. “Your briefcase might be searched on a random basis, but never your coat pockets, for example.”
“You bet,” Phil said. “Or how about this—no cell phones or personal laptops in the VTR, but you can keep your PDA handy.”
Phil’s expression turned serious, and he seemed concerned about the illogical procedures, as I used to be. “And download anything you want into your address book,” I added.
Personal digital assistants weren’t around when I was working. I suspected it took management a while to catch up with all the new technologies that threatened the security of a classified system. Maybe Phil remembered the old days, as I did, when everything was on paper, to be hand-carried from one facility to another. I’d had a little white card in my wallet authorizing me to carry classified material.