“That’s a good one. So what are you really up to?”
Faith pulled up her shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra, but Summer wasn’t looking at her breasts. Bruises covered her midriff with overlapping splotches of deep purples, browns and yellows. Her right side seemed in the worst shape.
“My God, honey.” He caressed her so lightly she felt only his affection. “Who did this to you?”
“The Stasi.”
“That’s it. You’re going back to the States with me. I won’t stand for someone beating you up like this.”
“I can’t.”
“Are you out of your frickin’ mind? I know you like to play cat-and-mouse with the commies over your toys. I don’t approve of that, but I always figured you came by it naturally, with your mama a Bible smuggler and your grandpa a bootlegger. But your genes aren’t going to help you with this one—you’re outta your league. You need professional help.”
“That’s why you’re here.”
“I mean like someone from Langley.”
“No way. They’ll kill me if I don’t cooperate.”
“Sure they won’t even if you do what they want?”
“Summer, please. It might not bother you, but we have a bomb on the kitchen table. I really think it ought to take priority. We can talk over a nice warm German beer after it’s defused.”
“Fair enough. Has it been moved?”
“It’s got a few miles on it. It’s had quite a tour over here while I ditched the Stasi. Why?”
“’Cause if it hadn’t been moved, I wouldn’t mess with it. Some bombs are rigged to blow from motion. We’d have to shoot it with a water cannon right here.”
“A water cannon? And how would you propose getting a water cannon into this apartment?”
“You told me to bring what I need.” He held his hands a couple feet apart. “It’s only yay big. I’ve got one packed with my gear. I’m pretty sure you saw one that time you visited me in Virginia Beach and I showed you how we’d handle a bomb in a suitcase.”
“Oh, yeah, that metal tube thing you put the sandbags behind because of the recoil.”
“That’s it. A high-powered burst of water disrupts the electrical circuit every time, but since you’ve lugged this all over creation, it’s safe to handle. We’re going to need to X-ray this puppy so we know if we can go in.”
“I don’t know how we’d ever get access to an X-ray machine. Maybe I could pay my dentist to let us take a couple of pictures.”
“You think I’m going to dig into a bomb using teeny-tiny dental X-rays? You always did have a good sense of humor. Now, see if you can find us some better light while I get my toys.” He sauntered over to his luggage, retrieved a metal box marked Golden Portable X-ray.
“I knew you were in a mobile EOP unit, but I guess I never really understood exactly how mobile you were.”
“EOD—Explosive Ordnance Disposal.” He opened a panel and pulled out the electric cord. He held out three electric plugs and she pointed to the one with two long round prongs set about an inch apart. “Now if we can get a good picture, we can hand-enter.”
“And if you can’t?”
“I’d be glad this isn’t my apartment.”
Faith stared at him, her eyebrows knit.
“I’m kidding. We’d use the water cannon in the woods somewhere—less problems with the neighbors if it blows.” He built a platform with the books and balanced the X-ray machine on it. He aimed the lens at the top of the case, handed a rectangular film frame to Faith, then clasped his hands over hers and repositioned her. “Find a way to get something to hold this right about here.”
Faith went into the bedroom and returned with a coat hanger. She bent it and placed the film cartridge inside.
Squinting his eyes, Summer traced the line from the lens aperture through the top of the case to the film. “Can you come down about an inch?”
“Doesn’t this thing come with a lead apron or something?”
“I forgot how cute you are when you’re all fussy. Looks good. Step out of the way.” He pressed the remote and the machine clicked and then he handed her another frame. “I want to get a couple of side shots of the locks while we’re at it. It’s harder to wire it up to detonate when you turn the lock, but the government over there gives everybody a job, so who knows what they piddle around doing.” He attached a film frame to a box and then turned a crank. Like with the first Polaroid cameras, he ran each film through the developer, waited three minutes and studied the X-rays against the light. “They definitely didn’t want you opening it up and snooping inside.”
“What’s this little thing?” Faith pointed.
“I’d say it’s a C battery—the electricity source to set off a blasting cap.” He studied the next X-ray. “And I’d say this thing with the wires running off it is an alligator clip. We’re gonna find it’s pinching a little strip of something nonconductive.”
“You’re losing me.”
He lightly pinched the tip of her index finger between his thumb and middle finger. “Now your finger is that little strip keeping my fingers from making contact. My fingers are the alligator clips. My thumb is wired to the battery and my finger to the cap. When I pull away from you and my fingers touch, it completes the circuit so electricity flows to the cap and detonates the Semtex. Now that little strip is pinched by an alligator clip and is attached to the top of the case so it’s pulled out of the clip when the lid is opened.” He pulled his fingers away from her until they made contact.
“I get it. Boom.”
He examined each X-ray. “I’m guessing they stuffed some Semtex in a can and the cap’s inside. Seems pretty straightforward. Doesn’t look like there are any extra electronics, but you’ve got a few slabs of Semtex in there, though guess it could always be a couple bricks of heroin or something.” He pointed to fuzzy white forms on the film.
“The CIA is the one who works with drug dealers. I’ve never heard of the commies getting messed up with that.”
He picked up a scalpel. “We’re going to hand-enter.”
“You’re sure it won’t explode if you puncture the Semtex?”
“Faith, I do this every day and I still have all ten fingers. Plastic explosives are so stable I’ve nailed them to a wall before. You could whomp it with a sledgehammer and it wouldn’t go off.” He plunged the scalpel into the satchel, sliced away a half-moon window and then peeled the leather back. “Holy moly. This isn’t Semtex. Where’d you say you got this stuff?”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
BONN-BAD GODESBERG, KGB RESIDENCY
Even in his cover identity as Second Secretary of the Soviet embassy, the chief resident of the KGB in West Germany rarely received Western visitors, let alone American ones. The residency in the West German capital was a KGB backwater. The most important intel on NATO and the West was extracted in Bonn—not by the KGB, but by the Stasi. The Stasi had penetrated Bonn from the train station toilets to the Chancellor’s office, and it freely handed the flood of information over to the KGB. To the Berlin-Karlshorst residency. The Bonn residency was in the center of Warsaw Treaty Organization intelligence activity in Western Europe, but was cut out of the loop. At least tonight the Americans remembered that they were still in the game.
Aleksei Voronin straightened his tie, wondering why the CIA station had been so bold as to tap into his secret direct line and to demand an immediate meeting on a Friday evening. He gulped down the contents of his glass and dropped his half-empty bottle of vodka into a drawer. As he waited for his assistant to escort the American cultural attaché to his office, he began talking to himself in English: “I am very pleased to meet you. To which do I owe the honour?”
The American pranced into his office. The striking woman had fine, delicate features that were rare among the hearty Slavs. Her petite body was poured into evening attire, a French designer dress with a plunging neckline. Her supple breasts begged to be touched. Voronin was pleased they’d sen
t a woman, and he hoped the CIA had sent her to seduce him. He would have to play along—anything for the Motherland. He didn’t bother to force his eyes away from her chest when he took her hand and kissed it. Stumbling over the English words, he said, “It is very pleased to meet you.”
“I can see that.” She glanced down, then rolled her eyes.
“To which do I owe the honour? You like a drink with me?” Her perfume intoxicated.
“I’ve only got a minute. Obviously there’s somewhere else I’d rather be—and will you please quit staring at my boobs?”
“I was looking at your necklace. It’s charoite from Russia, is it not?” He jerked his eyes away, but stepped closer to her and fingered the deep purple beads of her necklace.
She swatted his hand. “I don’t have time for bullshit, and you sure don’t. I know who you are and you know who I am, so let’s cut the introductory crap. Your government’s in danger.”
He pulled out a chair for her. “Please sit.”
She ignored him. “We’ve picked up chatter—a lot of it. Someone is planning a terrorist attack against your government.”
“Terrorists are going to attack the embassy?”
“Are you crazy? Do you think I’d be here with you? There’s some kind of plot against Gorbachev.” She walked over to his desk and fished a piece of hard candy from a crystal bowl. “All I can tell you is that we’re reasonably confident the terrorists and their weapons are being channeled through West Germany.”
Voronin swallowed hard. “The CIA warns me that terrorists soon attack the Soviet government?” He backed toward his desk chair, staring into space as he lowered himself into his seat and reached for a drawer. Without looking at what he was doing, he pulled out a bottle of vodka and dumped it into his glass, spilling some. He downed it and poured more. “You want?” He raised his eyebrows and tipped the glass toward the American.
She shook her head as she slowly pulled on the ends of the candy wrapper.
“Who are they? Where are intercepts come from?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Even if I could tell you that, I don’t know. You know as well as I do that we can’t reveal sources.”
“We know you listen.”
“You have no idea. A drunk can’t call his mother from a pay phone in Pinsk without us on the other end.” She was careful to keep the candy from touching her ruby lipstick as she popped it into her mouth.
“Tell me more. When is it happening?”
“All we know is that a terrorist or terrorists are attempting to move some kind of weapon from here to Moscow. We don’t know what it is, but we believe it’s highly mobile—most likely no larger than a suitcase.”
“Suitcase? You saying an American suitcase atomic weapon is missing and terrorists are taking it to Moscow?”
“I honestly don’t know. But today the chatter spiked. Our analysts believe that it’s going down within the next twenty-four hours. And I’ll give you a tip, Aleksei. Don’t trust the Germans—either flavor.” She turned to leave, her stilettos clicking on the hardwood floor. She stopped and looked back at him. “And I wouldn’t be so sure about everyone in your home office either, if you get my drift.”
Major Natalia Nariskii slammed down the phone, dropped the stolen copy of The Detonator magazine onto the bed and quickly dressed. Voronin had slurred his words on the phone. He was plastered again, but he wasn’t going to get away with it this time. Just like before, it was Friday night. And, just like before, he demanded she come to his office at once without notifying anyone. She stopped to slip her prized Chechen dagger into her pocket. Fool me once, shame on you. Try to fool me twice, you lose your balls.
She dragged herself into the chief resident’s office. Voronin sat at his desk in a stupor. He looked up at her, his eyes bloodshot and glassy. She would’ve sworn he’d been up all night on a binge, but it was only ten-thirty. “Reporting to duty as ordered, sir.”
“Sit, major.”
She preferred not to restrict her movements. “I prefer to stand, sir.”
“No, you won’t.” He shoved the bottle away. “I’ve had a visit from the CIA. About half an hour ago. Sometime within the next twenty-four hours a terrorist is taking a nuclear suitcase from the FRG to Moscow. The plan is to take out our leadership. The agent wouldn’t come right out and say it, but she implied that the Germans are working with some of our people.”
Nariskii pulled out a chair and sat down. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the CIA is telling me there’s a German-KGB conspiracy to assassinate Gorbachev.”
“Disinformation.”
“I think not.”
“Which Germans?”
“Does it matter? They’re all Nazis. I remember the day when they rolled through my village.” He poured more vodka, but only drops came out. He tossed the bottle into the wastepaper basket and glass clinked, betraying the other empty bottles. Voronin stood and stumbled over to his bookshelves and reached behind a row of the blue and red volumes of the collected works of V. I. Lenin. He pulled out a fresh bottle. It wasn’t dusty. The stash definitely had high turnover.
“Sir, with all due respect, you shouldn’t be drinking.” She walked over to him and grabbed his arm. “Not now.”
Voronin slumped over his glass. “There is no better time. I’m facing the greatest crisis of my career and I don’t know what to do or who to trust.”
“If it’s imminent, Moscow couldn’t help anyway. Cut them out. I’d like West German assistance, but I don’t trust them. I’ll leak a story to a leftist reporter for the TAZ who we use from time to time. I’ll tell him the Americans are trying to cover up the loss of a nuclear suitcase and that the Russian mafia is trying to get it out of Germany. As soon as it’s on the wires, the BKA and BND will be screening everything moving East. If it’s their op, it’s blown. I’ll activate every network we have—even sleepers—but I’ll avoid any shared assets.”
He inhaled deeply. “You’re a good officer, Nariskii.”
“I serve the Motherland.” And I regret that it sometimes means saving your ass. “I assume I’m authorized to use any force necessary.”
“Do what you must.” He shoved aside the bottle. “Nariskii, if you were tying to get a nuclear suitcase from here to Moscow, how would you do it?”
“A boat if I had no hurry. Trains cross too many frontiers.” She glanced over at the calendar hanging on Voronin’s wall. Although it was almost May, the page was still turned to March. Almost May. May Day. “Monday is the first of May—International Workers’ Day.”
“Most of the Politburo will be atop Lenin’s tomb for the parade.”
“They’re in a hurry. They have to have it in position before Monday morning.”
Voronin stood, but wobbled. “They’ll do it by air.”
“I’d go through Frankfurt. It’s the busiest airport on the continent—too busy to carefully screen anything. Aeroflot, Lufthansa and Pan Am—they all fly nonstop to Sheremetyevo.”
Voronin cleared his throat. “Concentrate your people there. Once you activate the networks, I want you in Frankfurt. Take what you need to stop them. Whatever you need.”
As soon as Nariskii left, Voronin returned the vodka to its cache behind the Lenin library. He felt a rush like back in the old days, before alcohol and the boredom of a small town in Germany had taken such a toll on his career. Voronin was now heading the effort to stop a nuclear terrorist threat to Gorbachev. For the next twenty-four hours, he would be the most important man in the KGB. But no one could be trusted with that knowledge. He swallowed the last gulp of vodka that he’d be having for a while and felt the juices of youth warming his veins. The one person to whom he’d really like to boast wasn’t even in Moscow. Voronin convinced himself his old classmate from the Dzerzhinsky Higher School had to be far enough removed from Lubyanka as not to be involved with the conspirators—if there were any KGB conspirators. What if the CIA were lying?
A call to an old riv
al wouldn’t hurt. He reached for the phone to dial the Berlin residency. It had been years since Aleksei Voronin had been able to gloat about his importance to his successful comrade. And working to stop a nuclear threat to Gorbachev was indeed reason to rub it in to Gennadi Titov.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Catch a man a fish and you can sell it to him.
Teach a man to fish and
you ruin a wonderful business opportunity.
—KARL MARX
WEST BERLIN
Summer and Faith looked through the half-moon slit in the leather satchel. Four rows of white rectangular bricks stacked two high, each one wrapped in clear plastic. Summer pulled out a package of something that looked like Play-Doh. “You really got this from the East Germans?”
“What is it?” Faith said.
“C.”
“What the hell are the East Germans doing with American explosives? Are you sure that’s what it is?”
“I’ve never actually seen Semtex, but it’s supposed to look a lot like C-3, kinda yellowish, but not as brownish. More orange. But I’d recognize C-4 anywhere, and this is it. They could’ve stolen it from the military or a private firm. We use it all the time—all the EOD units do. Our allies—the Brits, Australians—they all use it. Even civilians with the proper ATF licenses can order it. I think it comes from a place in Texas.”
“And there’s a black market for everything,” Faith said.
“You oughtta know. Whatever this is about, I’d say someone wants it to look like it’s an American job.”
“Can you really tell whether it was Semtex or C-4 after something’s blown up? I thought they were chemically about the same.”
“They both use the same stuff, but lab boys can tell them apart. About ten years ago, the government started encouraging manufacturers to include something called taggant—microscopic chips coded so you can tell where and when it was manufactured. Now I think this was mainly for the stuff they sell to civilians. I’m sure it’s not in what we use in the field in SpecWar—SEALs don’t always want to leave a calling card.”
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