‘What would be the give-away?’ asked Mac. ‘What would tell the investigators in Kuta that the Sari explosion was a mini-nuke?’
There was a pause while Viktor thought, then, ‘Okay, so there would be very small traces of a material called tritium. This is easily removed with water, but then it becomes triated water.’
‘No radiation?’
‘This depends,’ said Viktor. ‘The Israelis and the Americans have a mini-nuclear device called MRR or Minimal Residual Radioactivity.
This is basically a clean explosion.’
‘Really?’
‘Fission reactions have different results. Big A-bomb releases many radiations; small plutonium cores, for local area blasts, not so dirty.’
‘So, an American or Israeli mini-nuke has no radiation?’
‘No. It has some, but very low levels.’
‘So, Vik,’ Mac breathed out, ‘could a mini-nuke make that hole in front of the Sari?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Shit, mate. Help me here.’
Viktor’s voice jumped an octave. ‘I am telling truth, McQueen.’
Through the windscreen, the security gates of the Belawan Port Authority loomed. It was Indonesia’s largest port outside of Java and was the originating point for much of the world’s rubber, coffee and palm oil, so it was heavily guarded.
‘Viktor, how do you think we got that crater in Kuta?’
‘Either very powerful device tamped on road, or under road.’
‘But not anfo?’
‘Anfo probably not powerful enough, unless there was whole truck. But anfo leaves traces that are easy to read so forensic tell us soon, yes?’
The Port Authority Prado led them across the concrete apron to a section of warehouses. They spilled out of the LandCruiser at a pale blue building with the huge painted letters, SUNDA LOGISTICS 31 across the loading bays. Two of the loading bays were in use, with large trucks offl oading containers, fl ashing orange lights everywhere and sirens beeping every time a forklift backed up.
It was in the high thirties but a breeze off the Malacca Strait provided some relief. Next to Mac, Freddi pointed to the far end of the large building, where the loading bays were locked up, and said to the Port Authority guy, ‘Let’s start down there.’
As they walked down the apron, Mac got in Freddi’s ear. ‘I thought we were working together on this, Fred – joint op, all that shit?’
‘Well it looked like you were working with Ari,’ said Freddi, inscrutable behind dark sunnies.
‘Oh, come on, Fred!’ Mac couldn’t believe the way spooks got with each other sometimes. ‘He’s down one guy – Samir’s people whacked his partner in Java the other night. And he’s on our side, right? I’m talking about BAIS failing to reveal that Hassan is probably in possession of a second device,’ said Mac.
Freddi stopped, gestured for Purni and the PA guy to walk ahead, then fronted Mac. ‘Can I get you a loudspeaker? Could you tell the whole world?’
‘Sorry, Fred,’ said Mac, scratching the back of his head. ‘I’m a little tired, confused. I can’t get my head around this thing.’
‘For a record,’ said Freddi, ‘the Samir shooter – that guy in the tree? – he started spilling this morning, about fi ve am.’
‘He talked?’
‘He screamed. That’s the fi rst time I could confi rm a second device, but yes, I suspected that yesterday.’
‘Are we chasing a nuke?’
Freddi laughed, white teeth fl ashing at the sky. ‘You been in this country too long, McQueen – you even started thinking like us.’
‘Well?’
‘It’s a possibility but it could be experimental explosive.’
‘CIA?’
Freddi stared. ‘I don’t want that getting around, understand?’
‘Orders?’
‘No, McQueen. I don’t want my guys making up stories about the Big Bad Yankee – that won’t help me.’
They watched Purni and the PA guy get to the inset door on the front of one of the loading bays. The PA guy used a master key and they went in.
‘So,’ said Mac, ‘is Hassan travelling with the second device, or is it stored?’
Freddi pointed at the warehouse. ‘Tree Guy says there were two large pale-green security cases in that storage a week ago. They delivered one three days ago, but they didn’t meet the buyers.’
‘Cellular?’
‘Totally,’ said Freddi. ‘The soldiers are separate links in the chain.
They don’t know the full picture or the whole set-up.’
‘Figures,’ said Mac.
‘Yeah,’ said Freddi, ‘that’s why they shot Akbar – he knew all the links.’
They were making for the warehouse when Purni sped out the door and jogged towards them. ‘You gotta smell this,’ he yelled.
‘Anfo fumes.’
Freddi lifted his radio handset but Purni put out a hand before Mac could. Radio waves and microwaves from a mobile phone could trigger unstable explosive vapours. The next step was to shut down the apron and get the army and fi re services to deal with it.
The PA bloke stepped out of the building and even from one hundred metres away the three of them all heard his mobile ring.
They screamed at him not to take the call, in different languages, but almost in slow motion his hand went to his hip, picked up the phone and pressed a button – the knee-jerk of modern life. As he put the phone to his ear the steel-clad walls of the warehouse bulged and split before expanding outward in a rush of air that sent the PA guy across the apron in pieces.
Freddi, Purni and Mac dropped to the ground as the shock wave swept along the container port, taking pieces of building and port worker with it. Mac got his head down, covered his ears and head, and prayed. The blast boomed, and then roared, the air shaking along with the concrete apron. Then came the tinkling, banging, scraping and smashing of thousands of pieces of material coming to earth and hitting other buildings, like the devil’s rain.
They lay like that for thirty seconds, lifting their heads only as the noise of shouts and sirens took over from where the explosion’s roar left off. When Mac sat up, he spat something that felt like hair from his lip and ran his hands over his head, checking for injuries.
Freddi stood, hitting at dust from his pants and looking around like a marooned man trying to work out where he’d landed. Purni sat with his arms on his knees, shaking his head between his legs and coughing at something stuck in his throat.
Dust and paper circulated like a confetti parade. Dead birds fell like a biblical curse.
Mac and Freddi stared at where the southern end of Sunda Logistics had stood thirty seconds ago. It now looked like a skeleton, like an industrial version of a carcass in an elephant graveyard. Blue-black smoke drifted upwards on the breeze and the smell of fuel and ammonia was strong enough to settle on Mac’s lips.
Mac saw something move. ‘Fred, over here.’
They started towards what looked like a body about fi fty metres away from the blast site. As they got closer it looked less hopeful.
