by Ward Larsen
Khalif felt pride well up from within. It was the first time he had seen it. He now remembered what Al-Quatan had said, about his surprise that it was not bigger or more complex in appearance. But as the truth of what lay before him settled in, he decided that the polished steel cylinder was made even more menacing by its outward simplicity.
“What are they doing?” he asked.
“Seeing what we have,” Aseem replied.
“But it is real!” Al Quatan insisted.
“Oh yes, we have already determined that. It contains nuclear material. But we must learn how the rest of it works. There are many ways to design such a thing.”
The two technicians were pulling fasteners from a plate near the back of the device.
Khalif said, “I am sorry we did not provide you with the technical data. It was promised us, but the devil who sold us this thing did not complete his end of the bargain.” Khalif made no mention of the fact that he himself had only paid half the agreed upon price. He wondered briefly if Roth might be holding back the technical information in order to get full price. Watching the two men work, slowly and deliberately, he realized it wouldn’t matter. It would only take a little longer. These were true scientists, the sort of people who could build a place like this underground city.
Aseem beamed toward his guests, “The Great One himself will be here this afternoon. He is very pleased. You have done a great service to your Arab brothers.”
The two engineers gently removed the metal plate from the device.
Khalif and Al-Quatan looked proudly through the window, two parents in the maternity ward admiring their offspring. Suddenly, the technicians seemed immobile. The men’s faces were largely obscured by the masks, yet their eyes were not. They stared into the thing, at the place where they had just removed the metal cover. Khalif thought they must be in awe, struck to inaction by the magnificent power within. But then one of the men stood back. He ripped off his mask, and it was not amazement encompassing his every feature — it was fear. He yelled, but Khalif could hear nothing through the heavy glass. The man threw his mask down and hurtled through the door that connected to the viewing area. Without a word, he bolted toward the laboratory.
“What?” Aseem demanded. “What is wrong?”
The man was gone. His partner came through moments later, and Aseem grabbed him by the arm. “Tell me!”
“Run!” the engineer screamed, tearing free and racing after his friend. There was shouting from the technicians and scientists in the laboratory. Feet scrambled and doors slammed. Khalif heard an engine start — the small pickup truck out in the tunnel.
Dr. Aseem looked through the window at the silvery object, regarding it as though it held all the world’s evil.
Khalif whirled to face him, “What is happening?”
Aseem began backing slowly toward the door, then turned and ran to join the others.
Only Khalif and Al-Quatan remained. It was the colonel who succumbed. He ran.
“Wait!” Khalif ordered.
Al-Quatan paused at the command, but with a desperate glance at his superior, he disappeared as well.
Moustafa Khalif felt more rage than fear. After a lifetime of struggle, victory was his. But what? Suppressing his anger, he pushed through the door and into the working area. At the entrance, he kicked aside the mask that had been dropped by the engineer. When the door closed behind him, all the noise and commotion outside disappeared. His world was enveloped by an overwhelming silence.
He went to it and slowly put out a hand as he approached. Khalif was not a man of science, but he knew such things were dangerous, in silent, hidden ways. They held invisible energy that could destroy a man. His fingertips made contact and he drew a quick gasp — the shiny steel case was cold to his touch. Khalif moved around to where the scientists had been and he saw the opening, no bigger than a man’s open hand. He looked inside and saw what they had, now understanding.
“Allah,” he pleaded in a hoarse whisper, “could thy be so cruel?”
Among a group of wires and circuitry was a clock with small, red digital numbers. Only time was going the wrong way.
“00:00:17 … 00:00:16 … 00:00:15 …”
Khalif was overcome. In a fit of wrath he banged his fists on the steel case. “No! No! No!”
“00:00:11 … 00:00:10 …”
He found a wrench on the workbench behind him and threw it at the horrid object.
“00:00:06 … 00:00:05 … 00:00:04 …”
Khalif lost all control, his eyes crazed and murderous. He lunged to the bench and found a heavy hammer. Holding it high and wildly over his head, he swung down with the weight of all the heavens.
The Americans were the first to see it.
“NUDET!”
Lieutenant General Mark Carlson, the three-star in charge of the National Military Command Center outside Washington D.C., choked on his coffee and stared at the big screen. He’d heard the word before a hundred times, but never here. It had always been in the “sim,” the identical-right-down-to-the-water-cooler training room three stories up. He saw the event designator fall onto a map, which automatically scaled down to show most of North Africa. The general recovered.
“Say confidence,” he barked.
A slightly built master sergeant at a console replied, “Confidence medium. One gamma detection. Interrogating KH-12.”
“Seismic?”
A female lieutenant answered professionally, “Seismic from initial fix … southern Libya … sixty to eighty seconds.”
“Zoom two-by,” Carlson ordered. The big screen’s scale shifted, and Libya got bigger. “KH visible when it’s up and locked.”
“Yes sir,” the sergeant confirmed. Then moments later, “KH confirms. 09:21:14 Zulu. Location matches, near Sebha, 380 nautical south-southeast of Tripoli.”
The commander muttered under his breath, “What the hell have you done, you crazy goat herder?”
“KH-12 now locked.”
The big screen changed to a visual picture of the area in question from 113 miles up. Carlson thought it seemed out of focus, but then his training kicked in and he realized they were looking at a huge cloud of dust. He needed radar to look for a crater.
“How long for a Lacrosse image?”
A man wearing very thick glasses and civilian clothes studied a real-time computer display of orbital data. “Two hours and seven minutes,” he announced weakly.
“Damn!” the general cursed. “Never there when you need it.” He watched seconds tick by on the digital wall clock and waited for the female lieutenant. The CIA had recently completed installation of a covert network of seismic sensors across the Middle East, Northern Africa, and parts of Asia. If anything had happened, the data would be automatically sent by way of a satellite relay. The only problem was that the speed of sound lagged the speed of light by a considerable margin.
“Here it is,” the lieutenant said eagerly, knowing all eyes were on her. “Four point two single spike event. Initial filters analysis estimate subterranean nine megaton device, position concurs.”
The word “subterranean” raised some eyebrows, but Carlson would have to deal with that later.
“Confidence level now high,” the master sergeant added, telling the commander what he already knew.
“That’s it then.” The general moved two steps to his right, cleared his voice, and picked up the blue phone. On the third ring, the President of the United States answered.
Christine and Masters had been chatting for half an hour. He was just returning with a refill on her coffee when he stopped dead. Two fingers pressed to his earpiece.
“All right lads, we’re on!” he shouted.
Chairs flew back and the Rapid Response Team scrambled to the helicopter. Masters smacked Christine’s coffee cup down on the table and sprinted away.
“Simon! What is it?”
He turned. “They want us on airborne alert, miss. Seems something is imminent. But we still don
’t know where he is.” He paused for a moment, as if not sure what to say next, then ran for the door that led outside.
Christine sat paralyzed. This was it. They were going after David. She watched the six policemen scramble onto the helicopter, its rotor already starting to spin. She had no choice. She ran.
When she got outside, the noise was deafening and the big blades whooshed violently overhead. She rushed for the side door, and as she got to the runner Masters’ hulking figure filled the opening.
His voice boomed, “Get back, miss! It’s bloody dangerous out here!”
“Simon, I can help you find him!”
He looked at her as if she was mad. “We’ve no time for this.”
“I can stop him! You know I can!”
She looked up pleadingly against the rotor’s downwash.
“Let’s go!” came a shout from one of the pilots.
Masters reached down and grabbed a mittful of shirt at the scruff of her neck. There was no hope of moving as he stared at her, his face only inches away. He bristled with an anger she’d never seen, his eyes narrow, the veins bulging in his neck. Just when Christine thought he was going to drag her back inside, she felt herself being yanked off the ground and into the chopper.
At precisely 9:52, Greenwich Mean Time, the heads of state arrived. Limousine convoys stopped twenty meters behind the stage and disgorged their entourages — advisors, security types, and eventually the principals, who quickly disappeared into a large tent behind the stage. From there, final preparations would be made, and at ten o’clock sharp the actors, thirty-one diplomats in all, would climb up to the platform in a strict sequence that had, in and of itself, taken weeks to negotiate. Once on stage, each would walk to his or her chair at a dignified speed and sit — after those who were less important, but before the more important. There would be no nods, winks nor smiles that had not received official sanction and preapproval. When the national anthems began, each would rise and stand respectfully through the course, no yawning or slouching for enemy and neutral music, no particular enthusiasm for one’s own. Then the speeches would begin, the order of these set in stone. In fact, the speeches themselves were designated word-for-word, each having been precisely drafted and redrafted to appease all parties. The choreography was absolute. Nothing left to chance.
Chatham and Dark stood inside the tent. They were the only regular law enforcement types present, the rest being politicians, diplomats, and their respective state security details. Chatham noted how they had all dispersed to the four corners of the place. The Arab and the Israeli delegations were separated diagonally, giving the most distance between the two. Their security men eyed one another continuously and with great suspicion. In another corner were the British, acting as hosts and chief negotiators. The British Prime Minister, today’s key speaker, was presently surrounded by Foreign Office lackeys who were no doubt pressing in for face time. The fourth corner was station to the largest group, made up of diplomats from all the other countries. Some had aided in the negotiations, while others were simply self-important enough to have sent an “emissary” or “special counsel.” They all chatted and mingled casually, as though it were cocktail hour at a state dinner, and a few sipped nonalcoholic refreshments, a prohibition driven more by the time of day than the soberness of the occasion.
Chatham paid particular attention to the Israeli delegation. Zak was in the center, intermittently visible amongst an encirclement of bodyguards and aids. He seemed casual enough.
“Do you think Slaton’s right about him?” Dark asked in a hushed voice.
Chatham was having the same thoughts. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
Someone called out, “Three minutes!”
“What did the Assistant Commissioner say when you told him Slaton’s version of this mess?”
“Shearer? What makes you think I told him?”
Dark looked mortified until Chatham winked and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “He thought I was stark mad.”
Chatham took Dark in tow. They left the tent to take up their position, a small platform at the back of the stage, off to one side. It had been placed specifically on Chatham’s instructions. High enough to take in the crowd and surrounding grounds, yet far enough off center to not draw attention. It would also be out of view from any of the three camera angles to be broadcast.
Dark said, “Oh, I think we found out where Slaton purchased that window blind. It was a home improvement store near the hotel where he was staying. He also bought a couple of screwdrivers and some hardware.”
“Hardware?”
“Nuts and bolts, that sort of thing. Their records weren’t the best, so we’re still working on it.”
Chatham frowned and scanned the crowd from his perch. Thankfully, it wasn’t the kind of event to attract a huge gathering. People everywhere were interested in peace, but they weren’t going to stand out in the cold to watch it happen. The skies had been a dull gray all morning and there was rain in the afternoon forecast. A steady wind swept in from the northwest and Chatham found himself wondering what effect it would have on the ballistics of an L96A1, 7.62mm sniper’s rifle.
The crowd was an interesting mix. Probably half consisted of diplomatic staff who’d been ordered to attend and applaud enthusiastically at the right times. There were some business types, who apparently thought it smart to be seen at a function like this, and the inevitable smattering of activists. They were students, mostly, here to see the realization of their efforts. Pro-peace, human rights, anti-globalization — they all imagined a degree of victory. Then there were simply the curious, the socially conscientious and, finally, the passers-by with nothing better to do.
Chatham knew there were over a hundred police milling about the area, many of them plainclothes. In retrospect, he regretted it. There was no way they could all recognize one another, which might lead to more harm than good.
Cued by a blast of martial music, the cast began filing onto the stage.
“Inspector!” someone called from below. “Message for you from Headquarters. It’s marked urgent.”
Chatham recognized the man from the mobile command post that was tucked away on a nearby sidestreet. He took the paper. Ignoring the gibberish on top, he read the clear text message.
A NUCLEAR DETONATION HAS BEEN CONFIRMED IN LIBYA. POSITION COINCIDES WITH LIBYAN WEAPONS DEVELOPMENT FACILITY. LOOKS LIKE YOUR FRIEND SLATON HAS GOT IT RIGHT, NATHAN. RAPID RESPONSE TEAM IS ON AIRBORNE STANDBY. HEADS UP. SHEARER
Chatham showed the message to Dark, then crumpled it and shoved it in his pocket. They watched as Zak came into view, stepping with smooth decorum alongside the head of the Palestinian Council. They took their respective seats behind the podium at center stage.
“He’s not going to sign it,” Dark remarked. “But he doesn’t look worried, does he?”
“No,” Chatham agreed.
The British Prime Minister began his remarks. He was notorious as a speaker who could drone for hours, but today’s remarks had been strictly limited to three minutes. Zak would be next.
A well-dressed man appeared at the back of the stage. He walked over to Zak and bent down low, almost theatrical in his effort to be discreet. He whispered at length into Zak’s ear.
“There it is,” Chatham said.
“Can’t we just stop it? Stop the whole thing right now? If Slaton is out there, the minute Zak steps up to that podium—”
“No, Ian. I wish we could, but we can’t be sure. Speculation doesn’t give us that kind of authority.”
“No,” Dark said in frustration, “not until the first shot is fired. And I doubt there will be more than one.”
The British Prime Minister’s speech was coming in for a landing as Chatham turned and gave Dark the most peculiar look.
“What did you just say?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Slaton watched the British Prime Minister closely, and considered what the wind would do to his shot. He couldn’t hea
r what the man was saying, but that wasn’t important. The important thing was the visual picture, recognizing the moment that Zak took the podium. The little battery-powered Casio television got good reception. Slaton had checked it at ground level, but here, up higher, the picture quality was even better. Finally, the British Prime Minister backed away from the podium. The view on the screen suddenly switched to a scene of the crowd applauding politely. Slaton hadn’t anticipated that. He picked up the cell phone.
Elizabeth Merrill was standing at the window on Dhalal’s third floor, watching the ceremonies in the park. She couldn’t see it very well from this far away. On the street immediately below she noticed two uniformed policeman who were not watching the proceedings, but instead staring straight at her. How odd, she thought, turning away uncomfortably. Mr. Dhalal told her the police had already taken a brief look through the apartment this morning, with his consent. He was clearly annoyed, but more so that the big crowds he’d anticipated had not materialized. Business was suffering.
She milled about the empty flat and looked at her watch. It was 10:06. She’d been twenty minutes early. Parking had not been a problem, but she’d gotten bogged down at a security checkpoint that restricted access onto Crooms Hill Road. She suspected that was where Mr. Linstrom was now. Her cell phone rang.
“Elizabeth Merrill,” she announced glibly.
“Good morning, Miss Merrill. This is Nils Linstrom.”
“Ah, Mr. Linstrom. Good morning. Have you been held up in all the security outside?”
“Unfortunately, no. I’m afraid I’ve had a family crisis. I apologize for not calling sooner.”
Elizabeth Merrill’s face tightened, but her voice quickly filled with concern, “Oh, dear. I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Probably not, but something I must see to. I’m at the airport right now.” Linstrom paused. “But I do have some good news. My banker was very enthusiastic about the property and my plans for it. I think we have a very attractive offer for you.”
