The lodge is a labyrinth of connected buildings and stairways. The front section where the entrance is located is part of an old mansion. It contains twenty-odd rooms on two levels plus a two-room penthouse on a third level.
On the other side in the back is an enclosed ramp that leads to another three-story mansion on the back street, across from the zoo, and a small condominium complex. According to the online literature, this section was added recently.
Herman and I find our rooms in the new section. I open the door and we both step into mine so Herman can grab his bags. The room is spacious, high ceilinged and ornate, with king-size beds and exotic hardwood furnishings.
“I hope you didn’t get the only good room,” says Herman.
“You wanna trade?”
“Not yet. I haven’t seen mine.”
As we’re talking, Herman zips open one of his bags and takes out a small device the size and shape of a folded pocketknife. On one end is a small lens. He holds it up to his eye and peers through it, scanning the room, each wall, all the hanging pictures, the television and bedside clock and phone. He checks the bathroom as well as we discuss the weather and talk about the lack of humidity in San José.
Herman’s device is called a SpyFinder Personal. The battery-powered lens will detect any microcamera planted in a room, lighting up the camera’s lens with a red dot even if the camera is powered off at the time. It works off the same principle as the camera, using refracted light, only instead of using it to capture an image, it shoots beams of concentrated light that are refracted by the camera’s lens to reveal its position.
“What time do you want to have breakfast in the morning?” I ask him.
“I don’t know. I’m pretty tired,” says Herman. “Why don’t we sleep in?”
Herman shakes his head regarding any cameras, drops the device back in his bag, and removes the other half of his act, the small elec tronic bug detector. This is the size of an old transistor radio and has a short telescoping antenna. The entire device would fit inside the breast pocket of your shirt. It has a backup scanner to detect cameras that are transmitting and runs the entire frequency range of electronic bugs. Herman has already turned off the detector’s alarm so that it merely vibrates in his hand as the LEDs light up. The room is wired. He points to the phone and nods. Herman is assuming that the phone is tapped as well.
None of this surprises me. We used the firm’s credit card to book the hotel rooms, so Rhytag had plenty of time to plan ahead. We will use credit cards as long as we’re being observed and go to cash the moment we lose the FBI. Herman is carrying another ninety-five hundred in cash in a belt around his waist.
“Tell you what. Whoever wakes up first in the morning calls the other,” I tell him.
“But not before nine,” says Herman.
“We can do dinner downstairs. I’m too tired to go out tonight.”
“Sounds good to me,” says Herman.
I pen a note to him on a pad from the nightstand near the bed. “Sweep the hall and your room for cameras. We meet outside my room tonight at ten—very quietly!” I underline the last two words.
“Give me a call when you want to go to dinner.” He holds up the cell phone and mouths the words “I’ll take care of it.”
I nod. “Catch you later.”
Herman leaves and closes the door behind him.
I turn on the television, unpack my bags, and take a shower. I am drying myself with a towel as I call the front desk and leave a wake-up call for seven that evening. Then I slip between the covers, lower the television volume a bit, and take a nap to the muted sounds of a soap opera in Spanish playing in the background.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Judgment day had finally arrived. Yakov Nitikin had made his deal with the devil, and now it was time to perform.
Early that morning, Alim Afundi allowed two of the FARC rebels, a man and a woman Nitikin had known for years and whom he trusted, to escort his daughter, Maricela, back to Medellín and from there to her home in Costa Rica.
Nitikin kissed his daughter good-bye. She was crying. She knew she would not see him again. Yakov slipped a folded piece of paper into her hand and made her promise not to open it or read it until she arrived home in San José. After reading it she was to keep the contents to herself. “Do you promise?”
She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. She nodded.
He smiled. “We will see each other again.” He told her that he loved her, and kissed her once more, this time on the forehead. Then he watched as she boarded the truck and climbed into the middle of the front seat. Yakov stood in the dust at the side of the road and waved as the truck carrying his daughter to safety pulled away and disappeared in the distance.
But now there was no time for sorrow or tears. Now there was work to be done. In addition to allowing Maricela to leave the compound, Afundi had relented, agreeing to allow one of the other FARC soldiers, a twenty-six-year-old Colombian named Tomas to assist Nitikin in the final assembly of the device, on two conditions: that the work commence immediately, that morning; and that Nitikin verbally communicate each step in the process by using a walkie-talkie and explaining it to an interpreter who would in turn communicate it to Alim.
The Russian agreed to begin immediately, but tried to argue that it was impossible to brief Alim as they proceeded, that it would only serve to distract them and make the process more dangerous. But Alim insisted, and finally Nitikin agreed.
As he had suspected, Alim’s own nuclear expert tried to hitch a ride on the early morning truck with Maricela and her two guards. He was plucked off the truck by one of Alim’s men. The technician offered some lame excuse about supplies he needed to obtain in Medellín. Alim told him the supplies could wait. He wanted the man close at hand to answer technical questions that Alim might have as the assembly of the device proceeded.
By ten that morning, Nitikin and Tomas, his Colombian assistant, were locked away in the wooden hut with the innards of the gun device spread out before them on a large table in the center of the room.
Against one wall, another table, supported by three sturdy sawhorses, bore the weight of two lead caskets. These containers shielded the two men from radiation emitted from the uranium projectile in one casket and the four uranium target disks in the other.
The first stage, assembly of the gun itself, involved mere mechanics. Except for the precision of certain measurements involving alignment of the barrel, it was no more complicated than installing minor motor parts in an automobile. The work should have taken less than an hour. It stretched out, consuming more than two hours because of the constant need to communicate with Alim through the walkie-talkie and to answer the endless stream of questions he posed through the interpreter.
Nitikin knew what Afundi was up to. He was having one of his men write it all down, so that if he needed to, he could dispense with the Russian’s services whenever he wanted. Except for one thing; Nitikin had no intention of telling him everything. He would let the Iranian know this only when he was finished with the preliminary assembly of the device.
There were certain aspects of the process involving safety features and final arming that only Nitikin would know. Yakov had no intention of allowing them to take the device that he had guarded for decades, and detonate it at some undisclosed location without his express consent and participation. Alim and his men might kill him when they were done, but not before.
Gun-type devices, while being the most rudimentary and reliable of nuclear weapons, were also the most dangerous. The simplicity of design was what made it hazardous. A plutonium implosion device, unlike Nitikin’s, while potentially far more destructive, required the intricate and precise alignment of a number of elements before criticality could be achieved. The failure or inhibition of any one of these would neutralize the bomb. But a single subcritical uranium projectile, like Nitikin’s, being fired down a tube at high speed by a conventional explosive charge into a larger target of uranium, meant tha
t a simple premature detonation of the firing charge would result in a full-yield nuclear explosion.
Alim had insisted on installing two items himself: the cordite charge, which involved the simple removal of a breech plug from the back end of the gun tube and the insertion of the cordite; and the setting of the timing device that would initiate the firing of the gun. Nitikin had warned Alim not to install the newly acquired cordite charge in the chamber of the gun, behind the uranium projectile, until the last moment. This would be done on-site and could be performed by virtually anyone. In fact, Yakov did not even have possession of the cordite. That was held by Alim.
Apart from a full-yield detonation, the next fear was a high-explosive fizzle. This could occur in the event that the projectile slides down the barrel at a reduced speed. It could happen as a result of gravity if the projectile is not properly installed, or because of kinetic energy following a collision with the vehicle transporting the bomb. In actuality the risk of this happening to Nitikin’s device was virtually nonexistent because of its design, though this was not something Yakov shared with Alim.
Nitikin’s device incorporated safety features, including compression bands installed around the projectile to secure it firmly in the gun barrel, and a mechanical saving device that blocked the projectile once it was installed in the barrel. This saving mechanism had to be disengaged before firing, and only Nitikin knew the proper sequence for doing so.
Once the safety device was in place, if the gun was fired, the worst that would happen was a fizzle. The device would be blown apart before the two elements of uranium could achieve critical mass and establish a chain reaction. The explosion would kill anyone in close proximity to the device. Depending on the force of the blast, wind velocity, and other factors, it could shower any person within hundreds and up to thousands of feet with a deadly dose of radiation.
The problem was that none of these safety features could be installed until after the uranium target was bolted in place and the projectile was prepared and inserted down the muzzle of the smooth bore tube.
To make things worse, all of this had to be done with precision and speed. During training, in his youth, Yakov had performed the procedure at least eight times and had done so each time in under eight minutes.
While Nitikin and his helper would have the protection of lead-lined suits and gloves, including hoods, face shields, and breathing apparatuses, these garments only provided partial protection. Once they opened the lead coffins containing the uranium, their bodies would begin absorbing radiation.
According to Nitikin’s calculations, they had slightly more than twenty minutes to bolt the target in place, prepare and load the projectile, install the saving mechanism, and seal the gun tube assembly inside its lead-shielded case. Anything beyond twenty-five minutes and the burden of radiation their bodies would be absorbing could become lethal.
Nitikin and his helper had practiced the procedure for four days, using a short section of three-inch pipe for the gun tube and wooden mock-ups of the uranium components.
Yakov liked the young Colombian. Unlike some of the older FARC commanders who had lost sight of the goal of social change and had become warlords presiding over narco empires, Tomas, like most of the young rebels, adhered to revolutionary principles. He would lay down his life in a minute if he believed it would advance the cause of the revolution. In this way he was fearless, but not foolhardy.
Tomas learned quickly and asked questions that made it clear he understood the most critical parts of the procedure and the risks involved. Most of all he understood the time constraints.
After assembling the parts of the tube and the steel anvil that would form the base for the target, Nitikin placed an old alarm clock on the sill of the window directly above the two lead caskets. The clock was set with both hands straight up, twelve o’clock.
Nitikin spoke in Spanish, but his Russian accent destroyed any trill to the Spanish rs. “I will set the alarm for twenty minutes. When the alarm goes off, or if it fails for any reason, when the big hand reaches four, Tomas, you are to exit the hut and get as far away from the building as fast as you can, no matter whether we are finished or not. Do you understand?”
“Sí.”
“You are not to argue with me, talk to me, or ask any questions, just go. Understood?”
“Yes, seńor. I understand.”
They donned their lead-lined suits, pulled the hoods over their heads, gloved their hands, and began breathing through the respirators. They had only practiced with the suits once before, but they wore the thick gloves each time. The gloves made it difficult to manipulate the tongs that would be used to pick up and carry the subcritical uranium components and to hold them in place as they were fastened down or fitted with other parts.
Within less than a minute, Tomas and Yakov began to feel the drag of the heavy lead as gravity began to pull on their bodies.
Nitikin used a ratchet-and-socket set to unscrew the four bolts from the lid of the first casket. He reached up with his gloved hand, took the clock from the windowsill, reset the hands to twelve, flipped the alarm lever, and put the clock back on the sill. Then he reached down with his hands and lifted the heavy lid off the casket, setting it on the table.
The target elements of uranium, four of them, rings stacked upside down, forming a V-shaped cup, looked like lead to the naked eye.
Tomas took the tongs and grasped the top ring. Sure-footed and steady, he moved to the table and quickly aligned the first ring. This was the bottom of the cup-shaped target. It fit perfectly in the prepared bed of the high-carbide steel anvil.
Nitikin tried to explain the procedure to Alim through the interpreter, using the walkie-talkie. Because of the hood, the translator was having difficulty understanding him. Alim kept coming back, asking for clarification.
Tomas repeated the process and the second ring of the target was in place.
Nitikin tried to explain this. The question came back, “How many is that now?”
“Two,” said Nitikin.
“What did you say? Repeat one more time.”
“Two target disks installed.”
“How much time remaining?”
“I don’t have time to look right now.”
“Give us an estimate.”
Nitikin ignored them. He could see that the constant static and shouting from the walkie-talkie was making Tomas nervous. If he dropped one of the elements on the floor and deformed it, the device could well be useless.
Without any air-conditioning in the hut, the suits had become stifling. The small glass lens inside Nitikin’s hood through which he could see began to fog up.
“What is happening now?”
“Listen to me. You can either have a bomb or a description of how to make one, but you cannot have both. Do you understand? You must decide,” said Yakov.
A few seconds passed, then the translator’s voice. “Afundi says he wants to come in and see for himself.”
“Tell him to come ahead as long as he is prepared to die,” said Nitikin. He turned off the walkie-talkie and tossed it on the table.
As Tomas moved back to the casket one more time, Yakov realized there was only one uranium element left in the storage case. The Colombian grabbed it with the metal tongs and quickly placed it on top of the others as Nitikin took up the ratchet and two of the bolts from the lid of the empty casket along with two steel washers. The uranium target disks had been milled with two small holes. These lined up precisely with threaded holes in the base of the anvil. Now that the target disks were stacked and aligned, they were ready to be bolted down.
Avoiding any contact by his gloved hand with the uranium, Yakov put one bolt through a washer and dropped it into the first hole, then did the same with the second bolt. He used the ratchet to carefully tighten them, making certain not to deform the soft uranium.
The moment he was done he turned and looked at the clock. The most critical part of the process was still before them. The
y had used up seven minutes, including precious time wasted arguing with Alim over the walkie-talkie.
Yakov moved to the second casket and started loosening the bolts. Less than a minute later he had the lid off. The smaller portion of highly enriched uranium, the bullet, lay before them, cradled in a shaped cavity cast in the bottom lead casket.
Tomas moved with the tongs, gripped it, and picked it up. He hadn’t cleared the top lip of the casket when the slick cylindrical projectile slipped from the tongs and fell back into its case and settled again in the cavity in the bottom.
Tomas stopped and looked at Nitikin. Yakov could tell he was rattled. He reached over and took the tongs from him. Nitikin delicately reached in and lifted the projectile from the bottom of the case. Gripping the tongs tightly with both hands, he rotated the object up close in front of the thick glass lens of his hood, examining it for any deformation or dents.
“It’s all right.”
Tomas nodded.
Nitikin set it back down in the case, handed the tongs back to Tomas, and retrieved another smaller set for himself. Using the smaller tongs, Yakov picked up a brass ring, banded metal, with a fused neoprene seal along the center of the outside of the ring.
Tomas picked up the projectile again, this time using both hands to squeeze the tongs. Holding it firmly, he set the base end on the table so that the bullet rested upright, like a missile on a launch pad. He used the tongs to steady it near the bottom, at its base, as Nitikin carefully slipped the brass ring over the tip of the projectile.
To the naked eye, the bullet looked perfectly cylindrical, but it wasn’t. The circumference was imperceptibly larger at the bottom than the top, so that the ring slid down the projectile to the bottom third and stopped. Yakov tested it with the tongs to make sure that it was properly seated. The ring didn’t move.
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