by Ward Larsen
“Gently,” he ordered. “Bring down the speed.”
The technician seated next to him entered a command, and the machine tools three floors below decreased their revolutions. The machining vault was on the lowest level of the complex outside Qom. Sealed and secure, the entire room was built on dampers to resist the slightest seismic tremor, and the climate was stabilized to provide constant temperature and humidity. But most importantly, the vault lay beneath eighty yards of earth and reinforced concrete, making it safe from Israeli and even American warplanes.
“There, yes. Now let’s measure.”
More commands were sent. The cutting tools pulled away, and seconds later the surfaces were measured using laser interferometers. The numbers that lit to the control display fell just outside the desired tolerances.
“Almost,” Hamedi said. “Keep going.”
The operator took the control stick in hand and was about to reengage the grinding surfaces when Hamedi saw him hesitate. The man seemed frozen, his face twisted in an odd expression.
“What is wrong, Ahmed?” Hamedi demanded.
The man almost answered, but then his head rocked back and he sneezed. The sudden muscle contractions caused his hand to jolt the control grip. The alarm sounded instantly, red lights and an audible warning blaring from the console, as the emergency system began its automated shutdown sequence. Hamedi sucked in a deep breath and watched the video feed in horror. He saw the mechanical arms pull away cleanly from the hemispheric casing, and watched the grinding heads spin to a stop. Only then did he begin to breathe again.
“You fool!” he shouted.
“I am sorry, Doctor. I … I went home to see my family last weekend, the first time in a month. My son had a cold. I promise it will not happen again.”
Hamedi rubbed his temples with thumb and forefinger before fixing an icy stare. “No, Ahmed, it most certainly will not happen again! Get out of here, and send in Faisal! You are the filthy Jews’ best friend!”
The technician stood slowly.
“And if you make a mistake like that again, you will not answer to me. I will feed you to Behrouz. I can assure you he is not of my forgiving nature.”
Ahmed’s eyes glazed over.
“Go!” Hamedi shouted.
The technician scurried away, and Hamedi waited until the door behind him latched shut.
He closed his eyes. Time was getting short, as was his patience. He knew he would have to smooth things over later with Ahmed—the man was actually one of his more competent operators. Still, these were the kinds of mistakes they could not afford, not when success was so near. The pressure was getting to him, robbing him of sleep, but at least he was spared Ahmed’s complications. For Hamedi, family was not a concern. He had no wife, no children, not even any brothers or sisters. His only blood relation was his old mother, and he was no longer welcome at her door. Aside from his work, Hamedi was alone, and for the moment that was a good thing. A distraction avoided.
Hamedi went to work resetting the system, yet his thoughts were elsewhere. After the project was complete? he wondered. Would things change for him then?
That was a question only God could answer.
* * *
Hamedi was back in his office ten minutes later, sorting through the most recent internal messages. By his orders, all critical communications, both between the facilities and within the Qom compound, were restricted to paper copy and military courier. Email and electronic file transfers were no longer an option—Israel’s hackers had penetrated their supposedly secure server on three occasions. Three that they knew of, anyway. The result of Hamedi’s directive, of course, was that the movement of information had slowed to a crawl. But at least it was a secure crawl.
A knock came at the door.
“Come.”
Hamedi looked up to see Farzad Behrouz, and it struck him that something about the man seemed more distorted than usual. If he didn’t know better he might think Behrouz was pleased. Hamedi wrote it off to the harsh subterranean lighting.
“Is it true?” Behrouz asked.
“Is what true?”
“I’ve been told you are getting very close.”
Hamedi’s eyes went back to his desk. “We are on schedule. In truth, we would be ahead of schedule if I had more competent technicians.”
“What do you mean?”
“A few minutes ago one of my machinists nearly dented three weeks’ work.”
“Did you make an example of him?”
Hamedi broke from his reading. “I didn’t shoot him in the back of the head, if that’s what you mean.”
Behrouz smiled, or at least gave his troll’s equivalent.
“I cannot fault a man for inexperience,” Hamedi continued. “Six months ago he was working in a factory grinding lenses for reading glasses. Now he is manufacturing nuclear bombs. Such a leap cannot rely on faith alone—even if the black robes in Tehran tell you otherwise.”
“Are more experienced workers not available?”
“A few, yes, and I requested them.”
“But?”
Hamedi let his frustration vent. “But most of them work in universities, and this makes them unreliable. Or so I am repeatedly told.”
Behrouz did not falter at the accusation, which was directed, if not at him personally, at the ideology of the imams he served. He said, “And you, Professor? Not so long ago you were lecturing at one of our finest institutions. Surely you are reliable.”
Hamedi glared, his contempt obvious. “What do you want?”
“Your trip to Geneva is near. We should discuss security arrangements.”
“Please don’t tell me the Israelis will be senseless enough to try again.”
“No, nothing I’ve heard about, but I am always listening.” Behrouz let that hang before launching into the details of his precautions. He would have fifty men at his disposal in Geneva, and Hamedi was sure this was not a complete accounting—a man like Behrouz always kept something in reserve. The plans seemed solid enough, and at the end Behrouz said, “I am concerned about the event you’ve added after your speech.”
“What of it?”
“It seems unnecessary. Must you attend?”
Hamedi leaned back in his chair. He had been working terrifically hard, but there were still a great many details to be resolved. “I am deluged with work, and had no desire to go to Geneva in the first place. But what can I do? The international inspectors have insisted on this special meeting. Apparently they do not trust our latest inventory numbers. The good news for us is that this trip will be our last. Once the test has taken place, I shall never again have to conjure up ridiculous lies to deny our development of this weapon. As for the event I’ve added—yes, I am going. I don’t expect you to understand, but as a member of the world academic community these things are expected. Besides, I find little time to socialize here in Qom, something I’m sure you are well aware of.”
Behrouz shrugged. “The world academic community—yes, very impressive. It will be a night to remember for a boy from south Tehran, no?”
Hamedi said nothing.
“Tell me again,” the security man said, “what neighborhood was it that you grew up in? Udlajan?”
“No,” Hamedi said, “Molavi.”
“Of course, that was it.” Behrouz moved toward the door. “All right, I will make the preparations, including your evening out. Oh yes … the president has asked for an advance draft of your presentation to the inspectors.”
Hamedi managed a smile as he said, “Is he worried that I will give away our state secrets?”
Behrouz raised an admonishing finger.
“All right,” Hamedi relented. “I will have it for you tomorrow … since I have nothing better to do.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
Behrouz closed the door, and air seemed to refill the room.
Hamedi turned back to his desk and again reviewed the sequence of events that would lead to the under
ground test. Only ten days remained. Three for work here, three in Geneva, and then four final days in Qom to complete his preparations. And finally—the culmination of all his work.
There was only one task lagging behind in his demanding schedule, the placement of a seismic array to measure the blast’s yield. Sensors were being sunk into the earth all around the test site, but progress was glacial. Hamedi could not imagine how a country whose life’s blood involved drilling holes in the ground could fail such a challenge. Fortunately, the work was not critical. By his own estimate the yield would be five kilotons—seismic arrays or not, there would be no missing it. The test had been carefully timed so that an Israeli satellite would be overhead. The Americans, of course, were always watching. Soon all the world would see his project succeed in a blaze of glory.
He wondered for a moment what his old professors might think, and his colleagues from graduate school. Most were now making a respectable living in private industry, others doing research at the best universities. Hamedi could not deny that virtually all had found some measure of wealth and prestige. Yet none would make a mark on the world as he soon would. Hamedi had taken the harder path, something he never shied from, and the result of his work would be a blaze to rock the Middle East, indeed a shift of power to last a generation. Hamedi supposed he would get his name in the history books—either honored or reviled, depending on the language.
And is that why I am doing it? he wondered. In all honesty, he had to say yes, that was part of it. His scientist’s ego.
But then there was the other part.
* * *
Slaton woke at seven, enjoyed two of Greta Magnussen’s best waffles and a deep pot of coffee, and by eight o’clock he was climbing into the right seat of the Cessna next to her sister.
“Do you have coordinates for our destination?” his pilot asked. “Or are you going to give me progressive vectors?”
“Do you have a map?”
Janna Magnussen toggled up a map display on the central screen of the instrument panel.
“Can you expand it?” he asked.
She pressed a button twice and the map graduated to cover more of Sweden. Slaton got his bearings as the captain went through her preflight checks, and he applied the message he’d found on Christine’s work message board: BRICKLAYER111029.
“Here,” he said, pointing to the islands east of Stockholm. “Get me that far and I can be more precise. Will the weather be good?”
“The whole country is in the clear today. But tomorrow may be different—there is a cold front approaching. If you still want to depart then, we should make it no later than midday. Otherwise you may be stranded for some time.” She seasoned this with a distinctly Bohemian grin.
“My friend and I will be staying in a remote location, so we should have a contingency plan. If you can’t reach us tomorrow then wait for me to call.”
“Do you have a satellite phone?”
“No, but I’ll find a way to get in touch.” Slaton reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. “The first installment.”
She took it, not bothering to count. “Do you want a receipt?” she asked, adding mischievously, “For tax purposes?”
He gave her a good-natured smile. “Remember—bring extra fuel tomorrow. We may want to do some sightseeing.”
Magnussen put the money into a sidewall storage pocket, wedging it against an aircraft operating manual that looked as if it had never been opened. “I’ll bring full fuel tanks,” she said. “But if we go beyond the agreed flight time the price will go up.”
“Done. Let’s get going.”
Minutes later the engine was straining and rattling as the Cessna skimmed over the faultless morning calm of Stjärnholmsslott Bay. The wings took a grip on the air, tenuous at first, and soon the twin creases of wake behind them came to an end. An easy sea was replaced by an easy sky, and Magnussen’s hands were soft on the controls, sure and familiar. Slaton watched the glowing map display rotate in perfect synchronization to the heading of the airplane. Once established on a heading of north by northeast, everything settled. Magnussen made an effort to chat, pointing out a few sights, but Slaton was minimally receptive and she soon gave up. The only sound then was the steady drone of the engine.
Slaton began to feel restless.
He had gotten this far using the contingency procedures he’d forced on Christine months earlier. At the time she’d not seen a need for it, convinced that his past with Mossad was permanently buried. Slaton had feared otherwise, a fear now proven correct. But clearly she’d listened, because the agreed upon message was there. Christine had done her part, and now the rest was up to him. Tactically, his execution had been good, though not without mistakes. How easy would it be for someone else to check her message board at work? The meeting with Nurin’s men had gone horribly wrong, and now the Swedish police were looking for him. And then there was Mossad. Would they give up? Perhaps coerce another retired assassin to do their bidding? Or was Nurin sitting patiently, waiting for Slaton to show up in Geneva? There was no way to tell. The more he thought about it, the more faults he saw in his and Christine’s escape plan.
All the same, he was close. She was close.
He looked at the seascape ahead and saw a vast archipelago, hundreds of square miles of rock and forest and dark water. It seemed overwhelming. He didn’t know what he was looking for—not exactly, anyway. He had no more than a rough starting point and two sets of sharp eyes, his and Janna Magnussen’s. Slaton didn’t want to carry his plan any farther—every time he tried to imagine where he and Christine could go next, doubt rolled in like a heavy fog. He simply had to find her. Would she be where he hoped? What was she doing right now? For Slaton there was only one certainty.
The next hour would be the longest of his life.
SEVENTEEN
Christine Palmer was, at that moment, waist deep in the very cold Baltic Sea.
The sailboat she’d appropriated, a vessel that normally drew five feet of water to the base of the keel, was heeling markedly in three briny feet on a rising low tide. Standing on the rocky bottom of a nameless bay, Christine had a paintbrush in hand and was mopping a wide blue line around the waist of the boat using bottom paint she’d found in a storage bin. The heavy stripe was the final touch. She had already removed a set of faded red sail covers and made slight alterations to the boat’s registration number. Taken together, the changes gave a markedly different appearance from the craft she’d spirited away from a private dock outside Stockholm. That was the word she’d settled on: spirited. Far preferable to stolen, pilfered, or the overrationalized borrowed.
With one last stroke, she reached the stern of the boat and backed away to appraise her work. The detailing was awful, edges smeared and uneven, and a dozen drip marks ran down to the waterline. It hardly mattered. She was following David’s instructions to the letter. Do what you can to make it look different. Think large scale, so that no one looking from a mile away will recognize it. Christine dropped the brush into the paint bucket and used her wrist to wipe a strand of hair from her face. She regarded the stern, where she’d worked for thirty minutes with a barnacle scraper to take off the old name, a Swedish word that meant nothing to her. After scratching right down to bare fiberglass, she had christened the boat with its new name, struck in bold blue lettering: Bricklayer.
Noticing an uneven C, Christine reached out to perform a touchup. At that moment, three feet underwater, the rock she was standing on wobbled. She nearly tumbled into the sea, but caught herself at the expense of a wayward paintbrush. When she regained her balance Christine was staring at a fresh streak of blue that snaked nearly to the waterline. Between the block letters K and L was what looked like a drunken S.
Brickslayer.
At that moment, Dr. Christine Palmer was struck by the absurdity of her situation. This was what her life had come to—standing in the Baltic Sea to paint a new name on the boat she’d stolen so it wouldn’t be recogniz
ed by Israeli spies.
“What the hell am I doing?”
She smacked the transom with the wet brush, paint splattering across the deck like the droppings of some massive blue bird. She climbed up the boarding steps, and dropped the bucket and brush as cool air bit into her exposed legs and hips—she had stripped down to her panties to go into the sea, the only option for a sailor with one set of dry clothes. Mercifully, the owner kept a tall stack of towels on board.
Christine went below. There was no shower on the boat, so she soaked a hand towel with warm water from the sink and dragged it over the lower half of her body to cut the saltwater. It felt warm and wonderful. Using a fresh towel to dry, she dressed before turning to the table where a nautical chart was rolled open, anchored on opposing corners by two empty coffee mugs. The boat was fitted with receptacles for an electronic navigation suite, but the owner had clearly removed the system for the season—only the most hardened sailors bothered to cruise Scandinavia in the winter. The chart bore a single heavy line that was drawn from the center of Stockholm to her present position. Magnetic bearing, 111 degrees. Distance, 29 miles. The numbers had not worked out perfectly—as usual, variables had come into play, the most significant being the anchorage she’d settled on which was nearly a mile from the precise distance and bearing. David would also have to work out the beginning reference point of her last known position—the Strandvägen. And of course, all this assumed that he’d gotten to Sweden and found her message to begin with. From there it was simple. Find a way to reach her in the middle of nowhere.
What could go wrong?
