Bashir and Nasiji and Yusuf had tested the design three days before, using steel in place of the uranium that would be at the center of the live bomb. For the test, they loaded the outer half of the dummy steel pit and the 73-millimeter explosive round into the breech of the barrel. Then they covered the Spear and the tamper with heavy wool blankets to dull the noise from the blast. To be safe, they’d already moved all their equipment — and, of course, the partially disassembled Iskander warhead — out of the stable.
The Spear was fired by a trigger inside a pistol grip attached to its barrel. They would blow the real bomb simply by pulling the trigger. No point in trying to set it off from a distance. When it went, so would they. But for this practice firing Bashir soldered the tip of a flexible spool of thin steel wire to the trigger. Then Yusuf cut a hole in the wall of the stable and ran the spool through it.
Outside, Bashir walked through the woods, unspooling the wire until the slack was gone. He stood behind a tree, shivering, pulling lightly on the wire. The steel felt almost alive under his gloved fingertips, tensing and loosening as if a fish were hooked on the end of the line. Dusk had fallen and night was coming quickly, the weak winter sun disappearing into the hills behind them.
“Ready?” Bashir said.
Nasiji reached for the wire. Bashir wanted to pull the trigger himself. He was the one who’d forged the tamper, after all. But without a word he handed it over. Nasiji held the wire, closed his eyes — he might have been praying — gave the wire a sturdy tug—
And boom!
The explosion echoed through the woods, sending squirrels chittering angrily from the trees around them. A bird, big and black and fast, some kind of crow, took off from a stand of pines and flew straight at Bashir before turning up into the night. The stable shook, and though it held, a piece of the wall disappeared, sending shingles in their direction.
“Bang-bang,” Yusuf said. He grinned and squeezed Nasiji’s shoulder like a proud father.
They walked together back into the stable and looked at their handiwork. The steel tamper had held, but the force of the explosion had bowed it slightly. It was no longer a perfect sphere. The backblast had split the Spear from the tamper and smashed it into the side of the stable, leaving a jagged hole in the wall. The steel barrel had crumpled in half. It wouldn’t be of any use to them except as scrap, but they had a second tube in reserve.
Nasiji shined a penlight into the hole in the tamper.
“Not bad,” he said.
Bashir peered inside. The high-explosive round and the pieces of the pit had fused into a single mass, still warm to the touch, in the center of the tamper.
“Looks like a scrambled egg,” Yusuf said.
“Not perfect, though,” Nasiji said to Bashir. Nasiji reached in with pliers, tugged the crumpled, charred mass of steel out of the hole. “You can still see the outlines of the two pieces.”
“So?”
“So the live pit needs to come together more closely, within a millimeter. The tighter the fit, the less the chance of predetonation.”
“A fizzle,” Yusuf said in English. Bashir had learned that Yusuf used the word fizzle at every opportunity. He seemed to find it hilarious.
“You can do a better job, yes, Bashir?”
“Of course.” Bashir didn’t like Nasiji talking to him as though he were a child, but what could he say? Nasiji had controlled this project long before Bashir had ever been involved. No excuses, Bashir told himself. The truth. the truth was that until the last few days, he hadn’t minded letting Nasiji run this operation. That way he hadn’t had to think over what they were doing.
YET EVEN AFTER THE PRACTICE FIRING, even as they forged the replacement tamper, Bashir kept working, not a word about his doubts to Nasiji. For the next two days, standing over the forge, washed by its infernal heat, he tried to sort out the reasons for his silence: a runny mix of fear, confusion, esprit de corps, and anger. Fear of what they would do if he tried to stop them. More important, fear of what they would do to his wife. He had signed up for this project with eyes open, and he would accept the consequences if he tried to back out. But he wouldn’t allow Thalia to suffer.
At the same time, Bashir wasn’t sure if he had the right to undo Nasiji and Yusuf’s work. The time for doubt had come and gone. How could he substitute his judgment for theirs? They were a team. If the Americans found them together, they would certainly die as a team.
Bashir couldn’t forget his uncle either. The old man in the visitors’ room in Tora, heavy and gentle and about to be destroyed. Bashir no longer thought that all Americans were evil — he’d seen too much compassion, too many tears in his emergency room — but they were certainly heedless. Nasiji wasn’t wrong to hate them. They’d caused great misery all over the world, especially for Muslims. Maybe this bomb was the answer.
Or maybe he wouldn’t have to take any action. Maybe the bomb would fail on its own. Maybe they’d be caught before they were done. And so Bashir procrastinated, putting off any decision, forgetting that procrastination was a choice in and of itself.
While Bashir worked with Yusuf to reforge the tamper, Nasiji had his own project. He was installing emergency flashers in the grille and rear of the used black Chevy Suburban that Bashir had bought a few months before, a private sale. Bashir had paid cash and never reregistered the Suburban, so it couldn’t be connected to him. Nasiji also picked up a couple of scrap Washington plates. Nothing intimidated other drivers, or even cops, more than a black Suburban with D.C. plates and hidden flashers, the combination preferred by the FBI. The lights wouldn’t get them onto the White House grounds, but they might get them close enough to make a difference.
Bashir also spent a day forging a second tamper, this one with a hole at its center big enough to accommodate a beryllium reflector as well as the pit. Nasiji insisted they make both, though he no longer seemed certain they would get the beryllium. His contact in Germany still hadn’t gotten the second shipment of the metal. And even if it arrived now, sending it to the United States before the State of the Union would be impossible.
“At least this way we’ll have time to make sure the design is perfect,” Bashir said. He was secretly glad for the holdup. Without the State of the Union as a deadline, they might not blow the bomb for months.
“Whatever happens with the beryllium, I want us to be ready,” Nasiji said. “If we wait too long, we’ll wake up with the FBI breaking down our doors.”
So they came to the stable before sunrise and worked until close to midnight. They returned to the house only to eat. The kitchen smelled of chicken and lemon and chickpeas, Thalia’s contribution to the cause. She’d asked Bashir twice if she could see the bomb. Both times he’d refused. Now, at meals, she was strangely focused on Nasiji. She even made sure his plate was full before turning to her husband. Bashir reminded himself that she was young and impressionable and probably in love with the idea of having this secret.
AFTER FORTY-EIGHT HOURS of nearly nonstop work, they finished the tampers. Nasiji and Yusuf drove to Binghamton to find an Internet café and check on the beryllium. Bashir turned his attention to sintering the mold for the uranium pit. As Nasiji had demanded, he was trying to shrink the gap between the pieces of the pit — the cylinder that fit in the center of the tamper and the pipe-shaped piece that they would fire at it — to less than one millimeter.
Bashir finished the first piece around lunchtime, melting the precious pieces of uranium, then pouring the molten metal — a thick gray-black soup — into the ceramic mold he’d created and transferring the mold to the vacuum forge. Through the inch-thick window of the forge, he could see that the uranium was setting perfectly. He turned down the gas until the metal solidified. Then he removed the mold from the forge and laid it on a steel plate to cool. He was just beginning to work on the second piece when Nasiji and Yusuf ran into the stable.
“Sayyid,” Bashir said. “Take a look—”
“How long before you’re done?
” Nasiji’s eyes were narrow, half-shut, his jaw thrust forward.
“I’ve just finished the first part.” Bashir pointed to the piece cooling on the tungsten plate, a dark gray cylinder of uranium, just six inches long, less than three inches in diameter. Nearly pure U-235, it weighed nineteen kilograms.
“That’s it?” Nasiji reached for it.
“Don’t touch. It’s still cooling.”
“How long for the rest, the cylinder?”
“It’s more complicated. It will take another day or so, at least.”
“No. You finish it tonight.”
“What’s wrong, Sayyid?”
“The Americans, they found the ship that brought Yusuf and me over.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. It was far from here, but somehow they discovered it. We have to assume that Bernard has been arrested or will be soon. The message came yesterday. Very bad luck we didn’t see it until now. Bernard should have called me directly, but he must have been afraid to take the chance.”
“But he doesn’t know where we are. They don’t know me or you. They can’t track us here. We have plenty of time.” Bashir hoped his voice didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. In his head he heard a clock ticking, so loudly that for a moment he wondered if it was real. The moment of decision was here, far sooner than he’d expected. He wasn’t sure whom he feared more, the Americans or the men beside him.
“If they’ve found him, they’re only one step from us. We have to get the gadget done as quickly as possible, get it out of here.”
“Can you reach him? Find out whether he’s been taken?”
Nasiji laid a hand on Bashir’s bicep and squeezed, his fingers digging in as though he wanted to snap Bashir’s arm in half. “Stick to your forge, Doctor. Let me worry about this.”
“Yes, Sayyid. But what about the beryllium? I thought you said—”
“If we don’t move now, we’re going to lose everything. Anyway, we’ll try for the State of the Union.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, tomorrow.” Nasiji leaned back, opened his eyes, looked Bashir up and down. “Is something wrong, Bashir? Losing your nerve?”
“You asked me that before, and the answer’s the same: no. Now, take your hand off my arm so I can get back to work.”
“Good,” Nasiji said. “I’m glad there’s some fight in you yet. God willing, we’ll finish this pit tonight, get the pieces together, be ready to travel in the morning.”
“God willing.” And then what?
30
I need to see you.” The voice was Bernard’s. “Now.”
“Where are you?” Wells said.
“I have your money. The final three million. It’s yours. I don’t want you to hurt my family.”
“Wire transfer it like the two.”
“It’s cash. I must hand it over face-to-face.”
“BND watching you? You setting me up?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“Let’s meet somewhere nice and public.”
“That wouldn’t be safe for either of us. You want your money, come to the Stern Hotel. Room 317.”
“Three-one-seven?”
“On the Reeperbahn.” Bernard hung up.
This meeting would end badly, Wells knew. He’d done too good a job scaring Bernard. Now Bernard thought he had only one way to be sure that Wells wouldn’t come after his family.
Wells stripped to his gray T-shirt and pulled on the bulletproof vest he carried and put a heavy wool sweater on over it. The vest offered limited protection, but it was better than nothing. He strapped his shoulder holster around his sweater and tucked in his Glock and hid the holster with a loose-fitting leather jacket. Cold weather made carrying pistols easy. He headed for the door, reconsidered, grabbed his phone, called Shafer.
“At the Flughafen already?” Shafer said.
“The Germans know where Bernard is?”
“Not at the moment.” Disgust dripped across the Atlantic. “So the associate director of the BND just informed me. Not at the moment.”
“I do.” Wells explained the call he’d just received.
“Good. The BND can bring him in.”
“I’ll get him.”
“Thought you were done freelancing. Let the Germans handle him.”
“He’s expecting me. He sees anybody else coming, he’ll jump out the window. I show, it’ll slow him down. He’s still not sure what side I’m on.”
“The best way to do this is with a tac team and some flash-bangs.”
“That worked great in Munich.”
“Nineteen seventy-two was a long time ago. The Germans have learned a few things. You’re not the only one who can do this, John. You keep making the same mistake. Definition of insanity and all that.”
“Save me the fortune-cookie wisdom. I’ll bring him in, get back to Langley before tomorrow morning.”
“You planning to fly commercial or just flap your cape and go?”
“Funny, Ellis.”
“I have to call the BND. But I’ll give you an hour. Plenty of time to get there.”
“Two hours.”
“Two hours.”
The late-afternoon Hamburg traffic was heavy, and Wells wished he had left the Mercedes at the hotel and taken the U-Bahn. Forty minutes passed before he reached the Reeperbahn, quiet and gray in the twilight. The long cold winter nights were enough to keep even the most debased whoremongers at home. On the south side of the avenue, he saw the Stern—
Surrounded by German police cars and dozens of officers in riot gear. Wells looked twice, hoping that the cops were there coincidentally to bust an unlicensed brothel or a heroin-dealing kebob shop. But as he watched, three men in helmets and face shields ran into the hotel. Shafer hadn’t given him two hours. Shafer hadn’t given him five minutes.
Wells parked the Mercedes in an alley off the Reeperbahn and grabbed his sat phone.
“Tell me I’m not seeing this.”
“I had to, John. Their country, their op.”
“Their op? Who found him? Who’s been playing him?”
“What are you gonna do with him? You can’t arrest him. And they say no renditions.” A delivery truck turned into the alley behind the Mercedes and honked, a quick double-tap, move along. “He’s a German national, he stays on German soil. I promised them.”
“You promised me, Ellis. Two hours.” Wells hung up. He would deal with Shafer later. Betrayal and betrayal and betrayal. He jumped out of the Mercedes, ignoring the shouts of the delivery driver, and dodged traffic as he ran across the Reeperbahn, heading for the armored police van parked outside the hotel’s entrance.
“Halt! Halt!” A big man in a black flak jacket, Polizei emblazoned across the chest in white, trotted at Wells, right hand hovering over the pistol on his hip. Wells slowed.
“I need to talk to the agent in charge, whoever’s running the show—”
“You are American?” the officer said. “This is a police action. Very serious. You must leave.”
“I know the guy in there,” Wells said desperately. “I gave him to you.”
The officer put a heavy hand on Wells’s shoulder and steered him away from the hotel.
“Listen, my name’s John Wells—”
From above, the thump of a flash-bang grenade, and then another. Wells and the officer swung around, watching as a window blew at the west end of the hotel, three stories up, glass pouring like confetti toward the pavement, a pair of hookers screaming and shielding their mascaraed eyes—
Then a single gunshot.
The officer pushed Wells to the street, landed on top of him, 250 pounds of German cop protecting him. Wells barely restrained himself from rolling the guy over and punching him in the face. “Let me up.”
“When it is safe.”
“It’s safe now,” Wells said, staring down at the Reeperbahn pavement, cigarette butts and crumpled beer cans. “Unless that guy up there can shoot when he’s d
ead.”
The officer rolled over and Wells stood. A team of medics ran into the hotel, carrying a stretcher and a defibrillator. Too late, Wells was sure. They’d gone in hard and slow and given Bernard plenty of time to take the coward’s way out. Or the hero’s. Depending on who was telling the story. Either way Bernard wouldn’t be much help.
Three minutes of explanations later, Wells found himself outside the hotel’s front door, pleading with the BND agent in charge to let him inside.
“You want to see the room? But the man inside is dead. He killed himself, yes?”
“No doubt. Maybe he left me something.”
“We will find it.”
“I’d like to look for myself.” You guys blew this top to bottom, so please don’t make me beg, Wells didn’t say.
But the agent seemed to understand. “As you wish. Jergen will accompany you.”
THE STERN CATERED to British chavs who piled into cheap charter flights for weekend vacations in Hamburg: all the pilsner they could swallow and a stop at the brothels on Herbertstrasse. Good times. The third-floor carpet had once been blue. Now it was closer to black and covered with cigarette burns. The plaster in the hallway was laced with fist-sized holes where guests had traded punches with each other and maybe a few unlucky hookers. A dozen BND agents stood outside the room, murmuring to one another, knocking around what had happened, what had gone wrong, the stories they would tell their bosses and the internal investigators who would second-guess every decision they had and hadn’t made. They fell silent as Wells passed.
And in Room 317, Bernard Kygeli, the top of his head split like an overcooked egg. He lay on his back on the queen-sized bed, his blood soaking through the cheap wool blanket. The medics weren’t even pretending to work on him. Bernard hadn’t taken any chances when the BND came through the door. He’d put his pistol in his mouth and swallowed eternity. His brains were splattered on the grimy yellow wall behind the bed.
Wells knew he ought to feel a touch of pity for Bernard, or at least disgust at the ugly way he’d died. But he could muster only annoyance, the annoyance of a district manager whose top salesman had just quit. Bernard should have stuck around a little bit longer, instead of bailing this way, leaving him shorthanded with the end of the quarter coming up. Not a team player.
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