by Nick Cook
He may have been one of the assets Ilitch used to prospect for diamonds and precious metals. He certainly had other gifts.
The abbot had heard how, as a young priest, he used to lay his hands on the sick; that there’d been talk of miracles, even.
Six years after the fall of the USSR, Danilovsky lost both of his parents in fighting between separatist Muslim guerillas – Islamist hardliners invading from neighboring Chechnya – and native Dagestanis defending their homeland from radicalism.
He remained at the monastery, at an orphanage that had been established there after the war, a legacy of the many scientists who’d died of radiation-triggered sicknesses in the ZATO.
The boy went to university locally when he was eighteen, to train as an engineer, and because Sarov, as it is now, does nothing other than design, develop, build and maintain Russia’s nuclear arsenal, for sure this is where his skills lie. He then became a priest – the ultimate cover for an operative in a sleeper cell.
We can arrest Ilitch. We can arrest all of his cronies. But this isn’t going to do any good. All it requires is for one word of the clean-up operation to leak and the Engineer will trigger the bomb.
We can get word to the conference, but we both know that any move to evacuate Jerusalem will also result in him detonating it.
‘So,’ Sergeyev says, ‘we need to get someone into the city who can find this man before it’s too late. There are effectively two candidates for the job: me, and you. And I have to choreograph the arrests of Ilitch and his siloviki network in Moscow.’
I tell him that’s OK. I’d come to the same conclusion.
‘Thanks to their friend Ilitch, the FSB are looking for you at every port, airport and border crossing, Joshua, so we are going to have to smuggle you out. But it is when you get to Jerusalem, my friend, that your troubles will really begin.’
He’s right. We can’t alert the Israelis; they’ll start to evacuate the city. And if the Engineer, the siloviki, or their allies in the US intelligence community get even a hint of this, our story can only have one ending.
This isn’t a negotiation. There will be no warning. There is no deal to be done. The cabal also wants to hit the reset button. It doesn’t like Thompson’s vision of the world. It likes chaos and fear. It needs them to survive and thrive. The Engineer will detonate the bomb, radical Islam will get the blame, the world’s security apparatus will swing into high gear, we’ll build more guns, bullets and bombs instead of schools and hospitals, and a century after two world wars that killed a hundred million people, we will have learned nothing.
So, where is the device?
And when will he trigger it?
Ilitch’s words echo in my head. In two days’ time, nobody is going to miss a doctor, even one as famous as you, who went for a walk in the wrong part of Moscow.
Sergeyev tells me the Pope arrives tomorrow.
‘He lands at Ben Gurion and goes straight to the Hall of the Assembly. His address is scheduled for midday. Thompson speaks directly afterward. This will be the point of maximum impact.’
I look at my watch.
Israel is an hour behind Moscow.
If he is correct, we have a little less than thirteen hours.
‘Between here and our field office,’ Sergeyev says, ‘there’s an old fighter base. Angelskoye. It has not been operational for many years, but it has a long and usable runway.’
He looks at the dash. ‘In approximately forty minutes, a jet under charter by my department is going to land there, and you are going to get on it. The flight plan says you’re a diplomat with data for our conference delegates. Israeli air-traffic control requires we provide them with a code word. Yours, my friend, is Omega.’
Vasiliy has not uttered a word since we came back through the checkpoint. He says something now to Sergeyev.
Sergeyev listens intently. ‘There’s a car behind us. Impossible to know who, but one of the monks may have raised the alarm.’ He speaks again to Vasiliy, then turns back to me. ‘We cannot afford for them to follow us to the airfield. And there may be checkpoints ahead.’
‘How far to the airfield?’
‘Close. Two more exits off the highway.’
We come off at the next ramp and pull onto the curb at the edge of a bend. Trees on both sides of us. A break in the snow. A light mist has descended. The second BMW, with the abbot in it, pulls up behind us. A couple of Vasiliy’s friends emerge from the rear doors, weapons at the ready, and disappear into the forest. Yefim, the driver, flicks off his headlights. Sergeyev gets out, runs over and holds a rapid-fire discussion with him.
‘What now?’ I ask.
‘We wait.’
At this time of night, there is no traffic. As I watch through the rear window, a set of beams appears from the direction of the ramp.
We move slowly through the darkness. There are flashes in the trees. I hear what sounds like fireworks.
Vasiliy rejoins the empty highway and accelerates past a hundred before he switches our lights back on.
59
WE GET WAVED DOWN BY A MAN WITH A FLASHLIGHT – SOMEBODY from the private security company hired by the local authorities to keep kids and crack-heads off the site pending its redevelopment into Nizhny’s new terminal. A glimpse of Sergeyev’s ID and we’re through, navigating the weed-ridden roadways and former barrack blocks.
Vasiliy drives slowly. The road opens onto the airfield. We stop and get out. Night turns into day as the guard brings up the flare path.
I hear engines in the distance, above the wind.
To the north, lights blink below the cloud base and then rock as the jet is buffeted by crosswinds on its final approach. Moments later it barrels past us, then veers onto a taxiway and comes to a halt twenty meters from where we’re parked.
Airstairs drop beneath the tail and a guy with stubble-length blond hair and a white, short-sleeve shirt with two bars on his epaulettes bounds down them.
He speaks to Sergeyev then turns and shakes my hand.
Sergeyev tells me Vadim is ex-Air Force, now a major in the GRU. A man I can trust. I’m about to make my way toward the steps when he puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘How do I contact you?’
‘I imagine that you and Christy already have some pretty secure protocols.’
He grins, exposing his gold incisor. ‘As secure as can be.’
‘I hope that she will now have been alerted to the fact that I’ve spent two days in Russia. Tell her as much as you need to. Whatever else you need to say to me, route it through her too.’
He gives me a bear hug and I follow Vadim.
‘I meant to ask,’ Sergeyev yells over the whine of the spooling engines. ‘In the monastery, who told you about the photograph?’
‘A very helpful nun,’ I yell back.
Two minutes later, we pull into the clouds and bank hard toward the south.
60
WE’RE SOMEWHERE OVER THE NORTHEAST MED WHEN VADIM shakes me awake.
‘Message from Sergeyev,’ he says, handing me his phone.
Joshua – I trust you have slept. I have some more data for you.
Danilovsky left Sarov nine years ago. As a boy, he trained there for a special mission, and still has the ability, using the energy of his mind, to collapse a ballotechnic and trigger a nuclear weapon.
He went initially to Dagestan, a village called Dalukhani. There are reports of a priest answering his description returning to his birthplace, re-embracing the faith of his people and committing himself to jihad. Some say it’s here that he took on the nom de guerre Al-Mohandis.
Next set of sightings: Iraq, coinciding with the rise of ISIS, then from all around the Caliphate – first Syria, then Yemen, Egypt, Somalia, Sudan and Niger.
We believe he entered Israel through Gaza, and have to assume the presence of a fully assembled hydrogen bomb somewhere in the city, built by Vladimir Ilitch with a 3D printer, and the support of the siloviki and your own intelligence community.
I look up to see Vadim beckoning me toward the cockpit.
As I squeeze through the door, the co-pilot turns, smiles, and shakes my hand. His name is Oleg. The sun is up. We are between Turkey and Cyprus, two hundred miles from Ben Gurion, closing on the Israeli coast.
I take the jump-seat and reach for a headset.
‘Tel Aviv Identification,’ Oleg says into the radio, ‘this is Moscjet Two One Two, flight level three-nine-zero, squawking one-six-six-four.’
The response crackles in my headset. ‘Moscjet Two One Two, Tel Aviv Identification. Request standby on One-Two-One, Decimal One.’
Oleg switches to the new frequency.
‘Moscjet Two One Two, One-Two-One, Decimal One, Moscjet Two One Two, standing by.’
‘Moscjet Two One Two, go ahead.’
‘Please be advised we are a diplomatic flight with a VIP on board for the conference talks in Jerusalem, codename Omega.’
‘Moscjet Two One Two, Tel Aviv Identification, understood. Be advised that Iron Dome is active.’
Vadim and Oleg look at each other.
‘What’s Iron Dome?’ I ask.
‘The Israelis’ missile shield,’ Vadim says.
‘For protection against short-range artillery rockets,’ Oleg adds. ‘Normally it is switched off. But because of the conference it’s active, I guess.’
Another crackle in my headset. ‘Moscjet Two One Two, this is Tel Aviv Identification. Please repeat name and identification of your VIP. Over.’
Vadim indicates to Oleg that he has the mike. ‘Moscjet Two One Two, VIP’s codename, as stated, is Omega, repeat …’
‘Understood, Moscjet Two One Two. To proceed as cleared to Ben Gurion, we need your passenger’s actual name. Over.’
I think for a moment, as we continue to head toward Israeli airspace at six miles per minute, then signal that I have the mike and dip the transmit button. ‘Tel Aviv Identification, VIP’s name – my name – is Colonel Joshua M. Cain, and I am required—’
The controller jumps in before I can finish. ‘Thank you, Omega. Stand by.’
I look again at Vadim. There’s an interminable pause.
Then: ‘Moscjet Two One Two, Tel Aviv Identification. Continue as cleared to Ben Gurion, landing on Short Runway zero-three, two-one. Be advised you are cleared through Iron Dome and your ground party is waiting for you by the old Israel Defense Force cargo ramp east of the runway. Shalom, Omega. Welcome to Israel.’
Fifteen minutes later, we thump down and taxi to the site of the former IDF base.
I clamber out of my seat while Vadim is still shutting down the jet and make my way toward the back of the plane, where the airstairs are already starting to deploy. I exit as fast as I can into the glare of the apron and the rising temperature.
Hetta is at the wheel of the waiting Suburban, hair tucked into a baseball cap, eyes hidden by Ray-Bans, her freckled face angled toward the sun.
61
HETTA STEERS THE SUBURBAN OFF THE RAMP ONTO ROAD 1. THE signs all point to Jerusalem.
‘The Engineer has built a bomb,’ I say.
She keeps her eyes on the road. ‘There’s no way anyone could smuggle one in.’
I envy her conviction.
‘All they have to do is smuggle in the deuterium and tritium. Neither carry a signature on their own. Ilitch can do the rest with a 3D printer.’ I pause. ‘Why are you here?’
‘PIAD liaison with Presidential Protection.’
‘On whose orders?’
‘Cabot’s.’
‘Cabot’s here?’
She nods. ‘A message came in two hours ago. Secret Service eyes only. From Christy. My orders are to pick you up and bring you in. To avoid a diplomatic incident. Stop you doing anything stupid. Everyone’s seriously on edge. If the Israelis get even a whisper of this, they’ll scrub the conference.
‘But the consensus is, nothing can get through. You’ll see the security arrangements when we hit the Needle Eye cordon.’
‘Consensus?’
‘The considered opinion of our multi-agency intelligence cell.’
‘The CIA director. The head of the NSA. The DCI. Are any of them here?’
‘No. Cabot is the only person of any seniority with intelligence connections.’
‘That’s something, at least.’
‘Meaning?’
‘We can trust him. Cabot isn’t going to sacrifice himself for the intelligence cabal that put this together.’
‘Cabal?’
‘Us and the Russians.’
Her eyes narrow.
‘The Russians?’
‘I was in Stockholm, Hetta. I saw Koori.’
‘Gapes’s trainer?’
‘Koori went back to the US. He briefed Christy. I went to Russia.’
She breathes in sharply when I remove my glasses and show her the dents on my face.
‘I met Ilitch.’
There’s a line of vehicles ahead.
A policeman with a baton is directing ordinary traffic to the two right-hand lanes, diplomatic to the left.
A barrier that looks like a toll booth stretches across the highway – a thing with walls and a roof.
The diplomatic lane is empty. The volume in the others is already building.
A set of lights instructs us to slow and then stop.
A scanner sweeps from front to back, checking out the exterior and interior of the SUV for anything with a signature that looks weapon-like, while a mass-spectrometer takes micro samples of the air.
The merest trace of explosive, biohazard, or a nuclear or chemical material would be flagged to the heavily armed cordon beyond the barrier.
A green light invites us to drive.
I wait till we’re accelerating again.
‘This device is different. It doesn’t need explosive. It’s a high-precision, compact nuclear weapon, tiny, potentially, with a yield somewhere in the five-to-ten-kiloton range – enough to destroy half the city. The printer builds the casing to the tolerances required. The Engineer makes it go bang by collapsing the ballotechnic.’
‘How?’
‘With his mind. He has trained for this since he was a kid.’
She turns and stares at me. ‘Fuck you, Josh.’
I point to my face again. ‘Believe it or not, this is evidence-based.’
We pass through a cutting. The road narrows from three lanes to two and drops into a valley. I can see tall buildings on the distant hillside.
‘Christy’s team has compiled a dossier of all the intel on the Engineer. She doesn’t believe he’s for real.’ She pauses. ‘Nobody does, Josh. They think he’s blowback, like Johansson said – a myth we created, returning to haunt us.’
We slow again. Another checkpoint. A soldier spots our plates and waves us into the left lane. Hetta powers down her window and hands our documents to a guy with a submachine gun. CCTV cameras scan our movements and facial expressions for anything that suggests we might have something to hide.
The spectrometers provide their usual back-up.
We’re waved through, toward a cluster of vehicles. Soldiers milling about. Motorcycle outriders. Guys in suits and shades watching the road and the skies.
‘What about the President?’ I ask.
She pulls in. ‘He remains to be convinced, too.’
I spot the Beast, five vehicles ahead.
‘You’ve got five minutes,’ she says.
Hetta and I clamber into the back of the Beast. Cabot and Graham flank the President. Christy’s brief sits on his lap. I know Sergeyev’s dossier on the Engineer will have been passed to him too.
I give them the missing piece to their puzzle: the Russian determination since the seventies to find someone with the talent to trigger an explosion by psychokinesis, the power of thought.
‘
Insane,’ Graham says. ‘We have covert WMD inspection teams at key points who’ve scoured the city, including the Mount of Olives, for a chemical, biological, radiological, nuclear or high-yield device. They’re still out there, patrolling, backed by some serious SEAL support, five minutes, max, from any point they need to reach within the city. Trust me, Cain, there’s no trace of one.’
Cabot nods, but I can see that he’s less convinced.
I lean forward. ‘This isn’t a conventional nuke. It’s a fourth generation weapon with a vengeance. The initiator – a thing called a ballotechnic – is chemically inert. And on their own, tritium and deuterium don’t emit detectable radiation. A Geiger counter in the Hall of the Assembly would get more excited by the exit signs. But when subjected to high pressure, that all changes.’
Thompson’s jaw clenches. ‘This initiative is the reason I became a politician. It’s the culmination of everything I’ve ever worked for. Everything I’ve dreamed about.’
I sense the ghost of Kit Harper at his shoulder – the kid who threw himself under a train to get away from Pastor Green and his other tormenters at the Southern Cross, the reform school Thompson was sent to by his parents as a fourteen-year-old.
‘If I leave and there is a bomb, I’m the worst kind of coward. If I leave and there isn’t, I’ll be a laughing stock.’ His gaze falls on each of us in turn.
‘So,’ Cabot says, ‘we don’t have a choice. We have to find him.’
I nod. ‘We know the Engineer’s name is Danilovsky, and that he’s from Dagestan. He’s thirty-five years old. There’s a photograph of him as a priest from around a decade ago. And the sketch from the cabin.’
‘If we circulate them, we risk alerting the Israelis,’ Cabot says. ‘It’ll trigger an evacuation of their key personnel. That happens, it gets flagged by the intelligence community. And picked up by Danilovsky. Then, boom.’
