Critical Mass

by Steve Martini

  Even if there were two targets in North America, Gideon was convinced they wouldn’t send a second device by the same route. The risks of surveillance were too great.

  “You would send them to separate destinations, so that if one was discovered, the other might get through.”

  “Unless … ” said Mirnov.

  “Unless what?” Gideon looked at the Russian.

  “These are old weapons we are talking about. Some of these artillery shells date back to the mid-sixties. Their nuclear cores are aging. The high explosives surrounding the plutonium pit are old. The detonators, which are critical, may not have been checked in years. They have been in storage for two, maybe three decades. We do not have the maintenance records. I checked. I suspect that Dimitri had looked as well.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “What you call nuclear shelf life,” said Mirnov. “If you were purchasing a nuclear device on the black market, paying top prices, would you not want some assurance that it would function?”

  “I would,” said Gideon.

  “What better way than a second device?” said Mirnov. “Remember they have Chenko.” Grigori Chenko was the Russian technician who disappeared about the same time as the first device.

  “He would know if the first warhead was defective. Perhaps they found a problem after it was shipped. That would account for why they did not take them at the same time.

  “With a second warhead, you have spare parts. Even if both were defective in some way, Chenko could probably make one good bomb. And perhaps increase its yield.”

  There were two basic types of nuclear weapons, so-called gun devices that used high explosives to propel a projectile of highly enriched uranium into a larger core target of the same. The resulting collision, assuming there was enough velocity, would split the atom, releasing massive amounts of energy and setting off a chain reaction.

  The second type was more sophisticated. The so-called implosion device was constructed of a plutonium sphere in thirty-two individual pie-shaped sections. This was used to surround a beryllium/polonium pit in the center. The entire sphere was wrapped in conventional high explosives, a form of plastique, and set off by multiple simultaneous detonators. The uniform force of detonation, critically timed to one-ten-millionth of a second around the entire outer portion of the sphere, would drive the plutonium into the beryllium core, setting off the nuclear chain reaction.

  The implosion device was more powerful, generating more atomic yield. The two artillery shells in question were of this type.

  The elaborate nature of the implosion design also presented a problem. It required more maintenance. The timing of individual detonations around the outer sphere required exquisite precision. Without this, all that resulted was a dirty bomb, radioactive debris blown into the air by the explosion. By itself this could kill a few thousand people if they inhaled the dust. But if there was critical mass, if there was enough plutonium for a chain reaction and the device worked as designed, then in the flicker of an eye a major population center, hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of people would be incinerated in a matter of seconds.

  “Am I correct in assuming there are no safety devices for these shells?”

  “What you call permissive action links?” said Mirnov.

  “Exactly.”

  “No. They are too primitive for that.”

  The devices in question were small, and old, with a definite shelf life. They were not something that would find its way onto the shopping list of some rogue state for their own arsenal unless they had no other choice. It would be easier and more effective to purchase fissile materials and design their own bomb.

  The artillery shells in question would be the weapon of choice only for a calculated act of terror. They were easily armed and transported. Whoever had taken them had gone to the trouble of coming back for a second device, evidencing some concrete plan. Everything Mirnov was telling him led to one unassailable conclusion: whoever bought the weapons had a clear target in mind.

  He looked at the scrap of paper in his hand, the notes he’d made for his phone call to Caroline. He could catch a flight east across the Bering Sea, make a connection in Fairbanks. In ten hours, maybe twelve, he could be in Seattle. He wondered how long it would take him to get from there to this place on the note—this Friday Harbor.

  ELEVEN

  SEATTLE, WA

  A sign on the wall with an arrow pointing left said:

  Grand Jury Room

  Joselyn and Belden headed down the carpeted corridor in silence.

  The place had a hushed feeling of unfettered power. Joselyn had never been partial to the federal side of the law, where cold formality seemed to hold sway. Just being here sent a chill down her spine, the kind experienced by nearly every citizen when you mention words like “Internal Revenue Service.”

  Federal buildings were temples to power, where judges were appointed for life, and U.S. attorneys possessed the prosecutorial powers of warlords.

  The reach of federal criminal statutes was troubling to Joselyn. They had become so broad that they virtually mimicked every state crime. The protection of double jeopardy had become a joke. If a defendant was acquitted at the state level, but the crime violated notions of political rectitude, the defendant would be tried again at the federal level. This was now done routinely in high-profile cases where political points could be made by a president or his attorney general.

  While Belden may not have been concerned, Joselyn was. She knew that a determined federal prosecutor could indict nearly anyone they wanted for virtually any act of human conduct. Whether they could get a conviction from twelve unbiased citizens on a trial jury after they heard all the evidence, and not just hearsay that the government chose to dish up, which was the case before grand jury, was another matter. Even if you were innocent it could take a half million dollars and two years of your life to prove it.

  In the distance, she could see a blue-blazered security man sitting behind a desk, just beyond a door with a frosted glass sidelight. On the glass the words GRAND JURY ROOM were etched in black letters. There was a line of wooden chairs backed against the wall in the corridor, hard and foreboding.

  Joselyn was hoping to see other witnesses, someone Belden might recognize, to confirm that it was as he said, Max Sperling and his escapades of larceny that had brought them here. She was disappointed. The chairs against the wall were all empty.

  Joselyn took the lead as they entered the door. She talked to the guard. With a pleasant smile, she handed him her business card.

  “I’m Joselyn Cole. I’m here with my client Mr. Belden. He’s been subpoenaed to testify today.”

  The guard returned the pleasantries, but his gestures and movements were automatic, like a robot’s. He looked at the card, then opened the desk drawer and pulled out a clipboard. He held it so that Joselyn couldn’t see what was printed on the pages clipped to the board, and he checked something in pencil.

  She assumed it was the witness list and hoped there were other names on it for this particular case. From what she knew of federal grand jury proceedings, they handled a vast mix of cases. The jury might hear bits and pieces of evidence on a dozen different and unrelated matters in a single day, most of it hearsay from government witnesses: the FBI, ATF (Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms), Customs and Immigration, the IRS, and the DEA (the Drug Enforcement Agency).

  Some of these might be long-term investigations involving complex criminal matters that could go on for months or even years. Some of them never resulted in indictments after prosecutors discovered that allegations were founded on nothing but rumors. Too often they made this determination after they called most of the target’s friends and all of their business associates before the grand jury for a good grilling. The subject of the investigation might not be convicted, but their reputation would certainly be destroyed.

  Other cases, the vast majority, were clear-cut: a bank robbery with a dozen eyewitnesses, for instance.
These would usually result in an indictment after half an hour of testimony from two witnesses. Joselyn had no idea which of the two extremes might be involved in the Sperling case.

  “I’d like to talk to the assistant U.S. attorney before my client testifies,” said Joselyn.

  The guy looked at the clipboard again. “That’s Mr. McCally. I’ll see he gets the message.” He wrote a note on the back of Joselyn’s business card.

  They took a seat outside on the hard chairs, and killed time counting the dimples in the plastered wall four feet away on the other side of the narrow hallway. A number of people filed by, looked at the two of them sitting there, passed through the door, said hello to the guard, and disappeared into the jury room. After the first few went by, Belden shot Joss a quizzical glance.

  “Jury members,” she told him.

  Another ten minutes passed and a few more jurors arrived. A door opened behind the glass sidelight, and a shadow appeared on the other side of the frosted glass. Undertones of a male voice could be heard talking to the gatekeeper at the desk. They heard Belden’s name mentioned.

  He got up.

  “Sit down,” she told him. Joselyn stepped around the door and came face-to-face with a tall man in a gray pinstripe suit. He had dark brown hair with some gray creeping in above the ears and deep-set eyes behind angular wire-framed glasses. His complexion was pale, like someone who has been indoors squinting under fluorescent tubes too long.

  “Mr. McCally?”

  “Yes.” There was nothing friendly about the man. The quintessential prosecutor. He was stone-faced, almost icy.

  “I’m Joselyn Cole. Mr. Belden’s lawyer.” She smiled and extended a hand hoping to crack the cold veneer.

  It didn’t work. He took her hand. “How do you do?”

  “Can we talk for a moment before my client goes into the jury room?”

  “Sure.” He didn’t move from the area directly in front of the guard’s desk. The marshal just sat there looking at them, expecting to be the third set of ears in the conversation.

  “I meant someplace private,” said Joselyn.

  “If you like.” McCally had a file under his arm, quite thick, with the edges of paper sticking out, but nothing Joselyn could read. He led her down a short hallway behind the guard’s desk to a room, where he opened the door and flipped on the wall switch. Fluorescent lights flickered on and hummed overhead.

  Inside was a small metal conference table with four chairs, two on each side, and a telephone on one corner of the table. The walls were bare, painted pea green. It was very institutional.

  They stepped inside, and McCally closed the door behind them.

  “What is it you’d like to discuss?” He apparently had no intention of sitting down.

  Joselyn was becoming concerned. If Belden was an uninvolved witness, the prosecutor’s demeanor certainly did not reflect it. Maybe it was just the hard-nosed edge of federal authority showing, a display of who was boss, but Joselyn’s antenna was up.

  “My client received a subpoena to appear. He has no idea of the subject matter or what this involves.”

  “Is that right?” McCally almost seemed amused by this.

  “Yes, it is. It would be helpful if you would give us some indication of what this is about?”

  “I’ll bet it would,” said McCally. “Have you ever appeared with a witness before a federal grand jury before?”

  Joselyn squirmed. He was checking her credentials.

  “Not federal,” she said. “I’ve accompanied witnesses at the state level.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said McCally. “Let me give you a little advice. I am not at liberty to discuss the subject matter or content of a grand jury investigation.”

  “So this is an investigation, not an indictment, at this point?”

  “At this time, that’s correct.”

  “Is my client a subject or target of the investigation?”

  “Did he receive a target letter?”

  “No. Not to my knowledge.”

  “There’s your answer.”

  “That doesn’t tell me much.”

  “Sorry about that, but it’s all you’re going to get.”

  “Can you at least tell me how many witnesses are being called besides my client?”

  “No.”

  “Are any charges pending against anyone in connection with the investigation?”

  “You don’t appear to understand English.”

  “I represent a client who is being compelled to testify with no indication of the subject matter. You expect me to allow him to walk into a room without legal counsel to be grilled by God knows how many federal prosecutors and an army of grand jurors, and you won’t give us a clue as to the subject matter?”

  “Welcome to the real world,” said McCally.

  “My client doesn’t have to testify. He can take the Fifth.” She was testing the water, to see if she could walk on it. How badly did they want Belden’s testimony? Maybe she could draw McCally into a discussion of immunity.

  “He can take the Fifth,” said McCally. “That’s his right. However, I would point out that in long-term investigations it’s often better for a client to stake out his turf before others give us their side of things. Mr. Belden could come up on the short end.”

  “What are you saying? That he is a target?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “What are you talking about? You just threatened him.”

  “I didn’t threaten anybody. I just explained how the system works.”

  “In other words, if some other witness comes before the grand jury and lies through his teeth, you’ll focus suspicion on my client because he exercised his constitutional right to remain silent?”

  “He has an opportunity to dispel any suspicion by testifying.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Well. That’s his decision, isn’t it?”

  Joselyn could feel the blood boil like molten lead in her veins, fired by the heavy hand of the federal government.

  “You’ve already focused suspicion on him.”

  “No, I haven’t.” He smiled as if to say, “Prove it.”

  “If you want him to testify, we want a grant of immunity.”

  “Forget it.” He turned toward the door as if to leave, then turned to face her again. “Tell your client he can expect some more mail.” He was clearly implying a target letter.

  “Wait.” Now he had her attention. “You’re telling me that if he doesn’t testify you’re going to aim this thing at him?”

  “What I’m telling you is that he can help himself or hurt himself. It’s up to him.”

  “What kind of government is this? You won’t tell us what the hell is going on, and now you’re telling me that if my client doesn’t waive his right to remain silent you’re going to indict him.”

  “I’ve got nothing more to say. Tell your client to make his decision.”

  “Wait a second. There’s no way we can talk about this?”

  “That’s the process. Take it or leave it.” McCally started for the door again.

  “Let me talk to him.”

  He turned. “I would have thought you’d done that before you came here.”

  Whatever McCally thought Belden had done, he clearly thought Joselyn knew about it. She bit her tongue, afraid that what might come out of her mouth at this moment would only cause her client more grief. It seemed he was already in trouble. Her advice would be that he take the Fifth. But she wanted to keep open the lines of communication with the prosecutor.

  “I’ll have to talk to my client.”

  “Do it.” He looked at his watch. “How long do you need?”

  “I don’t know. Give me ten minutes.”

  McCally was out the door, leaving it open behind him and Joselyn in the room alone. She knew Belden was in trouble. What she didn’t know was why. It wouldn’t have been the first time a client had lied to her.

  She waited for a m
oment, so that McCally would not be loitering in the hall when she talked with Belden. She heard the door to the jury room open and close. Then she went out past the guard station and through the frosted glass door to the row of chairs against the wall. They were empty. There was no sign of Belden. She looked down the long corridor. Nothing.

  She stood there frozen in place and for a moment wondered if McCally had pulled one on her, if during the confusion of their conversation he’d taken her client inside the jury room. Even the Feds wouldn’t do that, she thought. Still she asked.

  She turned to the guard behind her at his desk. “Did Mr. Belden go into the jury room?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “He’s not out there?” The guard looked puzzled, stood up and came to the door, took a look for himself.

  “Maybe the men’s room,” said the guard.

  She turned and looked down the hall in the direction indicated by the guard. It was a long stretch leading to the solid oak double doors of one of the courtrooms at the other end.

  “Unfortunately I can’t check,” she told him.

  He gave her a look, like he really shouldn’t leave his post, but he did. He walked quickly down the corridor, with Joselyn following behind him. The guard went into the men’s room, and the door closed behind him.

  She waited outside pacing back and forth, running the fingers of one hand nervously through her hair. She looked at her watch. Seconds seemed like minutes. Finally the door opened. She spun around expecting to see Belden. Instead, it was the guard. He was shaking his head.

  “Nobody inside.”

  “Where could he have gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re sure he didn’t go inside the jury room?”

  “Yeah. Mr. McCally went in, but nobody else. You want me to check with him?”

  “No.” That was one thing Joselyn didn’t want. Next he’d be issuing a subpoena for her. McCally was already wound and wired for action. If he found out that Belden had gotten cold feet and boogied, it would only serve to confirm whatever suspicions he already had.