and the big gray sky.
“We’re about four hundred kilometers from the landing point. We should be off the coast in twelve hours. Just before midnight. After that, another ninety minutes.”
Nasiji reached for the satellite phone in his jacket. He didn’t like using these. They were easy for the Americans to track. But he’d bought the phone only a few weeks before and only used it twice. And as far as he knew, no one was looking for him. Anyway, this was a call he had to make. He punched in an American number with a 716 area code — upstate New York — and a few seconds later the connection clicked in.
“Hello?”
“Doctor?”
“We’ll be in tonight. Around one a.m. You have the location.”
“Of course.”
“Good. We’ll see you tonight.”
Nasiji ended the call and tucked away the phone. “Thank you, Captain.”
“You forgot the bad news.”
“What could that possibly be?”
Haxhi motioned to the glass windows at the front of the wheelhouse. In the distance, heavy clouds, more black than gray, filled the horizon. “Those.”
NASIJI WAS MISERABLE for the next few hours. He stayed in the wheelhouse for a while with the captain and Yusuf. Finally he staggered back to his cabin, where he filled the bucket beside his bed with vomit — twice. Haidar, the steward, came by with Dramamine, which Nasiji accepted, and Xanax, which he turned down. Better to suffer than to put himself in a haze. But when he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, his dreams were black poems, unfinished stanzas that always ended at the same place, the overpass where his family had died.
Just before nightfall, Yusuf rejoined him in the cabin. The
“You didn’t want to pray?” Yusuf said when he was done.
“I didn’t want to throw up.”
“Why do you think Allah’s chosen us for this mission, Sayyid?” Yusuf had never raised the question before. It seemed to be as close as he could come to questioning his faith, or the morality of what they were doing, Nasiji thought.
“Because he knew we were strong enough to carry it off.” The easy answer.
“Does he speak to you?”
“Do I look like a prophet, Yusuf?”
“But you’re certain.”
“Yes. We’re his instrument.” If divine sanction would soothe Yusuf, then Nasiji would give it to him. Let Yusuf think what he wished, as long as his hands stayed steady. Nasiji didn’t need God’s voice in his ear to know why he’d undertaken this quest.
“Do you imagine what it will be like when we set it off?”
“Of course.”
“Does it scare you? Killing all those people.”
“No. Not for this life or the next.” This was true. “Never forget it was the Americans who set off the first bomb. You know the
“What is that?”
“The plane the Americans used to drop that first bomb on Hiroshima. The pilot who flew it was called Paul. He lived a long time, until he was more than ninety. One day I saw an interview he gave. They asked him if he felt sad about what he’d done.”
“And was he?”
“Not at all.” Nasiji tried to remember exactly what Paul Tibbets had said. “He said, ‘We’ve never fought a war anywhere in the world where they didn’t kill innocent people. That’s their tough luck for being there.’”
AFTER NIGHTFALL the waves lessened and Nasiji slept, waking to a light tapping on their cabin door. “The captain says it’s time,” Haidar said. Nasiji’s watch read 23:30.
When they reached the wheelhouse, Nasiji saw that the rain had stopped. But thudding clouds covered the sky and the black waves beneath them were topped with white foam. “Ready for the little boat?” Haxhi said.
“How long will it take?”
“Ninety minutes, maybe. It’s twenty kilometers”—twelve miles.
“We can’t get closer?”
“There’s not much chance the Canadians will notice us here. Closer in. ”
“Fine.”
“It won’t be the most pleasant hour of your life, but you’ll be fine. Believe it or not, this is average weather for the North Atlantic in January.”
“Who’s bringing us in?”
“Me and Ebban”—the first mate—“I told you you’d be safe and you will. At least on the water. Land is another story.”
“That part I’ll handle.”
“Let’s go, then.”
The lifeboat was lashed with cables to the freighter’s port side, a high-sided steel boat, painted black, with a small outboard engine. Haxhi and his men had already pulled off the heavy green plastic tarp that covered it and laid the warhead crates inside. They were wrapped in plastic and strapped to the sides of the boat with thick ropes. As Nasiji watched, they wrapped the long SPG crate in plastic and wedged it snugly under the lifeboat’s benches. The fourth and smallest crate, the one that held the rounds, they also wrapped in plastic and tucked under the front bench.
Nasiji stepped forward gingerly toward the lifeboat, eyeing the black waves below. He could hardly believe that this little boat, six meters long, would get them to shore. Haxhi handed him a life jacket, orange and battered. He snapped it over his windbreaker. A blast of harsh Atlantic wind cut through his gloves and sweater and settled mercilessly into his lungs.
“Step back and keep clear,” Haxhi said.
Nasiji stepped back and Haxhi yelled “Now!” to Ebban, the first mate, another Albanian, who stood beside a spool of cable attached to the side of the
“Jump?”
“You can’t miss.”
Nasiji took Haxhi’s hand, stepped through the gap, and fell—
Into the boat. He regained his feet and pulled himself forward to the front bench. Yusuf followed. Then Ebban and finally Haxhi.
“Go,” Haxhi shouted back to Haidar, who had taken over the spool from Ebban. The boat lurched downward, foot by foot, into the water below. It landed with a huge splash and rocked sideways, clanging hard against the
