by Ben Bova
But Pavel took her gently by the arm and raised her to her feet. "Do as he says," the Russian whispered.
Hazard nodded to him. He understands the risks.
"Go with Pavel," he said to her. "I'll call you when I'm finished here."
The Russian had to drag her away. Kelly stared after Hazard as she was hauled to a safe distance.
It was actually almost easy. Almost. Hazard had to turn the heavy suitcase over, carefully unscrew six bolts and then lift the thick lead-lined oblong that held the plutonium.
It was about a third of the volume of the entire case; the rest of the device was electronic fusing and safeguard systems.
The bomb was not booby-trapped. He pulled up the handle that folded flush against the case's top. The lead=lined case slid out smoothly. Still, Hazard's hands were slippery with sweat, and perspiration stung his eyes.
Damned thing feels awfully light, he thought. If I didn't know better, I'd swear it was empty.
He took the hand-sized radiation meter from his pocket and ran it across the oblong box. Hot, but not dangerously so, he told himself. Not if I don't hold on to it for hours on end.
Getting to his feet. Hazard waved Kelly and Pavel back to him.
"Guard patrol's due in another thirty . . ." Kelly saw the look on his face. "What's wrong?"
Lifting the steel case by its handle. Hazard told them, "This thing is lined with lead, so it's heavier than it looks. But it feels a lot lighter than it ought to be."
"You shouldn't be holding it," Kelly said.
Pavel picked up on Hazard's meaning. "Lighter than it should be? You mean that it might be empty?"
Hazard nodded wordlessly.
"Empty? No plutonium in it?" Kelly asked.
"It should be heavier."
"We must check it," said Pavel.
"Before we get back to the plane," Hazard added.
Kelly glanced at her wristwatch. "Rendezvous in one hour and forty-eight minutes."
"We're going to miss the rendezvous," Hazard said.
"There's an American consulate here in Barcelona. Should have X-ray equipment."
"There is also a Soviet consulate," said Pavel.
Kelly planted her fists on her hips. "And while you guys are re-inventing the Cold War, tell me what good an X-ray machine will be with a lead-lined box."
So they hauled the oversized suitcase up to the roof.
Pavel clambering up the dangling nylon rope first. Kelly followed the bomb and Hazard went up last, with the box hanging from a length of rope attached to his waist and the radiation meter in his pocket clicking away.
They drove along the docks to the pier where the fishing boats came in and found the wholesalers already at work in the pre-dawn darkness. The place was a madhouse of furiously busy people, with the bustle and smell of cranes swinging cargo nets loaded with fish, men and women shouting prices at each other, diesel trucks waiting with their motors clattering and fumes fouling the air.
Kelly found a friendly dealer who let her weigh the case on a scale used for weighing fish. Then she went to the phone-booth at the end of the pier and plugged her portable computer into its access port. A few taps on her keyboard and she came back to Hazard and Pavel at the car with a worried frown on her face.
"You're right, Jay," she said as she got into the car. "The case is almost exactly ten kilograms lighter than it should be if it were loaded with fissionable material."
Hazard clenched both hands on the steering wheel.
"Then there's no plutonium in it. The bomb's a fake."
"Or someone else has already disarmed it," Pavel suggested.
"It's a fake," Hazard insisted. "Shamar has the plutonium back at his base."
"The plutonium from all of the bombs?" Kelly wondered.
Hazard revved the car to life and started through the pre-dawn darkness to their rendezvous point.
"Your father's going to piss himself when he finds this out," Hazard said.
Kelly said, "Maybe we should bring Sleeping Beauty here along with us, to see how much he knows about this."
"Julio won't know a damned thing," Hazard shot back.
"He's just the guy who stashed the bomb in the power plant, a guy who took a wad of money to do his employer dirt. He didn't even know it was a nuke."
Pavel said nothing. But his mind was racing with the possibilities that this new twist had opened up. None of the possibilities looked good to him. Not one of them.
Two days later, one of our ferret satellites
picked up this series of electromagnetic
vibrations as it cruised slightly to the south
and west of Moscow. The voices were
identified by computerized voice-print
matching.
Pavel Zhakarov: There is no plutonium
in the bomb. We conclude that Shamar has
the plutonium with him, and all the bombs
that have been discovered so far are duds.
Gregor Volynov (KGB operations
director): So we have heard through the IPF.
The bomb in Moscow is likewise empty.
Zhakarov: The operation against
Shamar becomes even more important,
then.
Volynov: Yes. And more diflScult.
Zhakarov: I am confident that we can
make a success of it.
Volynov: Good. Once it is finished,
Alexander will be too dangerous to be
permitted to continue.
Zhakarov (after a pause of nine
seconds): You wish me to eliminate him?
Volynov: You are ordered to do so,
comrade. At the earliest possible moment.
VALLEDUPAR
Year 8
THE jet seaplane was moored once again in the Cesar River, but this time at a spot well above the city of Valledupar, in a branch of the river that cut through thick tropical growth as it curved around the base of the steep granite mountains.
While Chris Barker worried loudly about ripping out the hull against the shallow rocky river bottom, Alexander urged him to nose the seaplane as close to shore as possible.
Once anchored, the whole crew spent the rest of the day covering the broad wings and graceful fuselage with foliage to hide it from prying eyes.
That evening after dinner they convened in the wardroom.
To an outsider, it might have looked like half a dozen men and women taking their ease in casual conversation.
To Alexander, the dynamics of who sat where were not only interesting, but important.
Barker picked the lounge chair closest to the forward bulkhead and the flight deck, the braces on his lower legs bulging beneath his slacks. Alma Steiner, the logistics expert, wore a faded gray jumpsuit cinched at the waist with an old U.S. Army belt, tight enough to show off her neatly curved figure. She sat close to Alexander himself. Jay Hazard took a seat near the map table; Kelly automatically picked the seat beside his. Pavel was off in the comer by the rear bulkhead, looking alone and unhappy.
"It's been confirmed," Alexander said without preamble.
"Each one of those goddamned bombs is empty. Duds, all of 'em."
"But why?" Barker asked. "Why go to the risk . . .?"
"Shamar's smart," Alexander interrupted with a grim smile. "He gets local crazies to plant fake bombs in Washington, Moscow, Paris and Barcelona, then he makes sure that the IPF finds out about it. We spin our wheels trying to neutralize the bombs and find out what he's up to . . ."
"While he remains here in these mountains, constructing new bombs from the plutonium," Steiner concluded.
"Is that possible?" asked Barker.
"It isn't too difficult," Kelly replied. "It's mainly an electronics job, and he should have access to plenty of people who can do the work."
"College kids have made nuclear bombs," Hazard pointed out. "They just didn't have the fissionable material to make them go boom."
"Shamar does," Alexa
nder said.
"Enough to make five one-hundred-kiloton bombs,"
Kelly murmured.
"Which makes the task of nailing him even more important," said Alexander.
Steiner took a deep breath, something she did quite well, as far as Alexander was concerned. "The mercenary troops will arrive over the next four days. Two separate groups, each of them coming in two contingents, for a total of seventy-eight men."
Alexander added, "They'll disperse their camps along the river. Cold camps, no fires, so they run the minimum risk of being detected."
"Don't you think Shamar has the river under surveillance?"
Hazard asked, his handsome face looking slightly worried.
"And spies in the city?"
With a shrug, Alexander replied, "We do the best we can."
Pavel finally spoke up. "We strike in four days, then?"
"Six," corrected Alexander. "Got to give the meres a couple days to get settled and learn the tactical plan." With a sardonic smile, he added, "You can tell Moscow we'll hit Shamar six days from now."
Pavel did not smile back.
The meeting broke up. The three youngsters headed for their bunks. Alexander watched his daughter, she lingered near Hazard and ignored Pavel, who watched them with dark liquid eyes. Young love, Alexander said to himself.
What a pain.
Barker got to his feet and headed forward, muttering about an engine overall that was long overdue.
"After this job is finished," Alexander said, starting forward toward his own quarters.
When he got to the door to his quarters, the passageway was empty of everyone else except Steiner. She was at her own door, but she looked over her shoulder at Alexander and smiled charmingly.
"Want a drink?" he stage-whispered.
She nodded eagerly.
Motioning her to him, Alexander opened the door and stepped into his bedroom. Unlike the built-in bunks of the smaller sleeping compartments, his quarters contained a real double bed, a couch, and even a low bookcase that covered the entire forward bulkhead. The shelves were encased in glass; all except one section that was fronted by a polished teak door.
A plastic worktable, its top painted to resemble teak, extended the length of the inner wall, from the door to the rear bulkhead of the room. It was covered with photographs and strange artifacts.
"Satellites can't see much of Shamar's base," Alexander said, gesturing to the photos. "Too much foliage. Locals call it Montesol; say it's an old Inca city. They claim it's haunted."
Steiner picked up an exquisite quartz carving of a panther, no more than six inches long, but beautifully detailed. "Did this come from there?"
"All this junk did," Alexander said. "The carvings, the silver medallions, the glass knives and all."
"Someone is not afraid of ghosts," she murmured, fingering the smooth back of the panther, "Oh, I think the old grave robbers spread the story about the place being haunted to keep everybody else away."
"Someone should tell the university about this. The anthropologists would be ecstatic over a lost Inca city."
Alexander gave her a crooked grin. "Shamar wouldn't be too happy with them."
"Yes. Of course."
"First we clean out the rats. Then we can tell the anthropologists about Montesol."
He pulled down the teak door of the cabinet to form a miniature desktop. Inside was a small bar, complete with a row of tumblers fitted snugly into wooden racks.
Steiner sat on the couch while Hazard poured two brandies. She was a tall woman, almost Alexander's own height, with long legs and a lithe figure that her faded fatigues accented rather than concealed. Her face was strong, a good jaw and clear blue eyes. Hair the color of straw, always tied up neatly. A young Brunhilde, visiting in the twenty-first century.
"Don't have snifters," he said almost apologetically.
"I'm surprised that you have alcohol of any kind aboard," she said, accepting the heavy tumbler with its inch of amber liquor.
"Rank hath its privileges," he said, tossing off the drink in one gulp as he stood before the couch.
Steiner's smile saddened slightly. "You didn't give me time to offer a toast."
Raising one finger of his free hand, Alexander replied, "Easily fixed." He turned back to the bar and poured himself another.
Sitting down next to her, he asked, "What should we drink to?"
"Success to our mission."
His lips twisted into a grin. "Confusion to our enemies."
They touched glasses and sipped.
"You know," Steiner said, looking into his eyes, "I almost feel like one of those people you see in the war videos. The night before a mission."
"Eat, drink and be merry," Alexander quoted, "for tomorrow we die."
"Yes. That sort of thing."
Her eyes were incredibly blue, Alexander noticed. And staring straight at him. "Are you trying to get into my pants?" He forced a laugh.
Steiner did not laugh. "I think making love would be a better release for you than getting drunk, don't you?"
Pursing his lips as if deep in thought, Alexander answered, "Well . . . there's no hangover the next morning."
"Not for the man."
"Not for you either, Alma. I'm sterile."
She made a little sigh. "Ahh. I suspected as much. From the radiation."
"Yeah. It's killing me slowly."
"But you are not impotent?"
Alexander made a bleak smile. "No, not impotent. Just—not interested, I'm afraid."
"Not interested?" Steiner put on a girlish pout. On her strong features it looked almost comical.
"It's got nothing to do with you, Alma," he said, looking away from her, staring into his glass. "It's my problem. Maybe after we get Shamar . . ." He drifted to silence.
She took a long swallow of her brandy. "I suppose it would make things difficult if members of the crew began —fraternizing with each other."
Alexander made a bleak smile. "Some companies have rules against that sort of thing."
"Yes." Steiner finished her drink swiftly and got to her feet. "You'd better speak to your daughter, then. If you don't want a romantic mess on your hands."
"Yeah, I know." He stood up beside her. There were fires smoldering in her eyes now. Fires of anger, barely suppressed.
Hell hath no fury, Alexander realized.
Aloud, he said, "Look, I'm sorry . . ."
Steiner turned from him and put her glass down on the bar. "As you said, it's your problem."
"Yeah."
She went to the door, then turned. With a slow, warming smile she said softly, "Maybe after we get Shamar your problem will be solved, eh?"
Alexander went to her and kissed her on her lips, briefly, chastely, almost as a brother would. "Maybe then," he said, his voice choking slightly.
She nodded, opened the door and left.
He stood there for several minutes, damning himself for not feeling anything.
Alexander watched the trees that hung out over the water as he held the tiller of the little inflatable Zodiac. He stayed under their shade as much as possible, not satisfied that his bulky bush jacket and wide-brimmed hat gave him sufficient protection from the sun.
The morning was broiling hot. The rising sun baked moisture from the thick forest on each side of the river; wisps of steam rose up through the trees to waft away on the soft breeze.
Kelly sat up in the prow of the dark gray rubber boat, an Indian shawl over her head, more to hide her red hair from prying eyes than to keep the solar ultraviolet off her. She wore a simple native blouse and skirt, both of them loose enough to hide a small arsenal. If anyone saw them, they would look like a well-to-do planter and his daughter out for a trip to Valledupar. Or so Alexander hoped.
With a twist of his wrist Alexander turned the throttle down low. The engine's roar muted and the Zodiac's bow settled into the water.
"Why'd you slow down?" Kelly asked. "I was enjoying the spray."
"Time for us to have a talk," said Alexander.
She nodded knowingly. "So that's why you brought me along with you."
"I want to talk with you," he said.
"Father-daughter kind of talk?"
"You bet."
Kelly sniffed, "That means you want to talk to me, not with me."
"I'll listen too."
"Really?"
"Yeah. What's going on with you, kid?"
She made a sad little smile. "Nothing very much."
"Come over here." He tapped the bench alongside him.
"I don't want to holler the length of the damned boat."
Kelly made her way down the rocking boat, across the midships bench, to sit beside her father.
"Now what's happening, little lady?"
Leaning her head against his shoulder, Kelly replied, "Like I said, nothing much."
"Looks like a romantic triangle to me."
Kelly nodded.
"Pavel's gawking at you like a little lost calf, and you seem to be mooning the same way over Jay."
"True enough," she admitted miserably.
"So?"
"So I fall for tall rugged guys. First Robbie, now Jay."
"Must be a father fixation," Alexander joked.
Kelly did not laugh. "I love Jay. I know Pavel thinks he's in love with me, but I love Jay."
"And Jay?"
"He's so hurt and mixed up he doesn't know what he's doing." Her words came in a rush, filled with pain and despair. "He's afraid of letting down his defenses, afraid of letting anybody get close to him."
He's not the only one, Alexander told himself.
"Pavel's nice," Kelly went on. "I mean, I like him and he's sweet and terribly romantic but there's just no chemistry there. I don't have the vibes with him that I get from Jay. He's so lonely and scared, really, when you get right down to it. So far from home and so mixed up."
"Pavel?"
"No," she said, "Jay."
Alexander slid an arm around his daughter's slim shoulders.
"So you love Jay but he doesn't love you, while Pavel loves you but you don't love him. Is that it?"
"That's it." Kelly's voice was small, almost childlike.
Alexander wondered what in hell he was supposed to do about this. You've never been much of a father, he thought.
You were never around when she was growing up. Now's your big chance to make up for all that neglect. Come up with some fatherly wisdom that'll set everything straight and make her smile.
