ceramic. A second, smaller mold fit inside the first, to create the space for the artillery tube and the uranium plug. Bashir had sintered the molds — fused them from a powder of ceramic particles — in the vacuum furnace the day before.
“We pour on three. One. Two. Three.”
Slowly they poured the steel into the mold, their fourth pour so far. When they were done the mold was about half full. The tamper would be finished by late that afternoon. Once it had cooled, Bashir would cast the two pieces of the explosive pit — the narrow cylinder that fit inside the tamper and the larger piece, shaped like a pipe, that they fired at the cylinder and slid over it. The two shapes were relatively simple, but making sure they fit together smoothly was crucial. Before he cast the pit out of uranium, he planned to take a practice run using a steel ingot. Once he’d finished the pieces of the dummy steel pit, they would weld the steel cylinder into the tamper, then weld the muzzle of the recoilless rifle into the hole at the top of the sphere.
Once the muzzle had been attached, probably no later than tomorrow afternoon, they would fire a water glass at the plug, a test to make sure the two pieces fit together properly and that the barrel of the rifle wouldn’t explode from the stress. Nasiji had insisted on the practice test. They could make another tamper easily, he said. And Bashir hadn’t objected. Anything to give him more time.
THAT NIGHT NASIJI AND YUSUF left to check their e-mail accounts, something they’d done every couple of days since they arrived, never going to the same Internet cafe, or even the same town, twice. When they came home, Nasiji was smiling.
“I need you to put together a second mold, Bashir,” he said. “One that has space for a beryllium reflector. It’s easy: it fits between the uranium pit and the tamper. I’ll show you the design.”
“We’re getting the beryllium, then?”
“No guarantees. But it’s promising. Our contact says he’s received ten kilos of it and thinks the rest will come soon.”
“When will we know?”
“You’ll know when I tell you.”
TWO DAYS LATER, while Bashir tinkered with the design of the molds, Nasiji and Yusuf drove to Rochester and came back with a Sony digital video camera, a tripod, and even a spotlight. Then they disappeared into the basement. Bashir asked them what they were doing, but Nasiji was oddly coy. “My second career,” he said. “With Yusuf as the producer.”
The next morning, Nasiji called Bashir downstairs. The camera and spotlight were set in front of an Iraqi flag.
“I didn’t want to tell you beforehand,” he said. “I wanted you to see it with fresh eyes.” With a theatrical flourish, he flipped open the laptop and started the media player.
The video opened with Nasiji, sitting cross-legged in front of an Iraqi flag, red and white and green. He was dressed in Western clothes — jeans and a blue button-down shirt. He sat on the floor, a dagger sheathed on his hip, a beatific smile on his face, looking like a yoga instructor from hell.
“My name is Sayyid Nasiji. I was born in Baghdad, Iraq. With my own eyes, I have seen the destruction the Americans have brought to Iraq. With my own eyes, I have seen the bodies of my father and mother and sister and brothers. I represent the Army of the Believers,” he said in Arabic. “For many years we have waited for this day. We and all true Muslims. Now we have brought the wrath of Allah on the
Nasiji drew the dagger that was on his hip and scraped the blade across a cutting stone.
“America thought we could only use knives and guns. America thought we could not make the special weapon, that we hadn’t the technology. And I cannot lie. Anyone who tries to build such a weapon faces great difficulties. So you may ask, where did this bomb come from?”
A new image filled the screen: Grigory, sitting on a couch, a black sheet as background. The video that Yusuf had filmed in Russia, two nights before he killed Grigory and Tajid.
“My name is Grigory Farzadov,” he said in Russian. “I am an engineer at the Mayak nuclear weapons plant in Ozersk, Russia.” Grigory held up his plant security identification and his Russian passport. As he spoke, the camera’s focus tightened on his identification. “Several months ago I was approached by a group of men who told me that they wanted to steal a nuclear bomb and asked for my help. Naturally, I reported this action to my supervisor, Garry Pliakov. He is deputy manager of operations at Mayak. A week later, Garry told me that he wanted me to help the smugglers steal the bomb. He told me I was to provide the smugglers the codes to activate the weapon. I asked him why we should take this action. He told me that President Medvedev himself had made the decision and I was not to question it. He told me that if I did not do as I was told, I would be tried for treason. Naturally, I did not argue. I still do not understand why, but we have given the men the bomb.”
“Do you think Grigory is lying?” Nasiji said.
Then an image of the warhead, lying on its side on the dirt floor of the stable. The camera focused on the Cyrillic lettering atop the warhead.
“There is your answer,” Nasiji said. “This bomb comes from Russia. The Russian government gave it to us. Could we have broken into the Mayak plant ourselves? Could we have discovered the codes ourselves? Of course not. We were given this bomb. And the Russians, they knew where we planned to use it. Remember this, America, when you are deciding what to do next. Now, I do not know why the Russians gave us this weapon. Probably they intend to attack you for themselves and are using us as a mask. Probably they didn’t expect that we would expose them this way.
“But we want you to understand what’s happened, America. We want you to know that it isn’t just Muslims who are finished with you. It’s Russians, Chinese, everyone. Everyone sees how you rule the world. Everyone wants you to pull back your armies and let us live in peace. This explosion is divine retribution for all the evil that you have committed. Do not forget your sins, America. Remember that we Muslims want to live in peace with you. We have blown up this bomb because you’ve given us no choice. You must decide what action to take next. But do not retaliate. Understand this lesson and make peace with the world.”
Nasiji stood and raised the dagger, holding the tip to his neck.
“You can never stop us, America. For a thousand years, we have died for Islam. If we must, we will die for a thousand more. Nothing frightens us. Now, please, take this moment to change your path.”
He pressed the knife into his neck, drew a single drop of blood. He pointed the blade directly at the camera.
Nasiji stopped the playback. “That’s it. I’m planning to put your names in, too. Let the world see who we are. And if you want to make your own statements, we might consider that. Though I think it works better this way. One voice, yes?”
“Genius,” Yusuf said.
“Bashir,” Nasiji said, a kid fishing for compliments. “What do you think? Maybe I ought to use a plain black background instead of the Iraqi flag. I don’t want them to think Iraq is their only sin.”
BASHIR COULDN’T TAKE his eyes off the screen, the final image, Nasiji leaning forward, staring into the camera, the dagger held high in his hand. A madman. Or worse. Nasiji’s black eyes seemed to glow red as coals. An illusion of the camera, the spotlight on his face. Had to be.
“Will it work?” Bashir said.
“Probably they won’t believe it,” Nasiji said. “They’ll say I’m lying, trying to get them to attack Russia. But it’s worth trying. I’m hoping we’ll be done in time to set this gadget of ours off at the big speech, the State of the Union—”
“But that’s hardly a week away—”
“I know. I don’t think we can get the beryllium by then, and if we don’t have it we’ll wait. The beryllium’s the only way we can be sure we’ll get a full detonation. But if we can, imagine it. The whole American government is there. President, vice president, the Congress, the Supreme Court, all of them. All gone.”
