This would, of course, explain what happened to the large cache of missing coins and Pike’s computer. According to the police, Katia’s co-conspirator has them.
“And there’s a good chance that whoever it was set her up,” says Templeton.
“What do you mean?” I say.
“Well, think about it. He left with the lion’s share of the coins, and he avoided having his picture taken on the security cameras coming and going. You notice he sent her out through the front gate, right into one of the security cameras that was still working. Guess he figured somebody had to take the rap. So now he’s got most of the gold, and she’s left facing the death penalty, twisting in the wind, as you might say.”
He allows this to settle on us like mustard gas.
“Bullshit,” says Harry. “If what you’re saying is true, she’d be mad as hell. You don’t think she would have told us by now?”
“Maybe there’s a reason for that,” says Templeton.
“What?” says Harry.
“I don’t know. Mr. Hinds, maybe you should talk to your client. You are, of course, free to make of this evidence whatever you can in her defense. Personally, I don’t think it will make a difference,” says Templeton.
“Spare us your heartfelt assessment of our case,” says Harry.
“Of course, but there is one more item, the reason I asked you to come over here today. A bit of a wrinkle that’s developed.”
“What wrinkle?” I say.
“Do I have your word that what I’m about to say doesn’t leave this room?”
I look at Harry. He nods. “Go ahead.”
“It better be good,” says Harry.
“Ordinarily I’d let you flounder for a few weeks, push and shove over the items in dispute. I could leave you with the illusion that they’ve simply been misplaced. But that would be deceptive.”
“And, of course, you’d never do that,” says Harry.
“Never,” says Templeton.
“You’re talking about the missing photographs?” says Harry.
“Six of them, I believe. They were taken from your client and inventoried when she was arrested.”
“Where are they?” I ask.
“That’s the problem.”
“Don’t tell me they’ve been destroyed,” I say.
“No, at least not as far as we know.”
“What do you mean as far as you know? Listen,” says Harry, “either deliver them up or tell us where they are.”
“That’s the problem. I can’t.”
“Why not?” I say.
“I can’t tell you that either. What I can tell you is that you would be wise to take the matter into court at your earliest opportunity. File a Brady motion. I won’t oppose it. Give you my word. Get a ruling from the court if you can.”
“Personally, I think the photos are probably irrelevant and immaterial,” says Templeton. “It’s hard to see how you could fashion a defense around six photographs. Of course, I don’t know what the photos represent. Maybe you could enlighten me,” he says.
“Last time I looked, Brady is a one-way street,” says Harry. “We don’t have to truck information in your direction.”
“I just thought as long as we were sharing things,” says Templeton. “And, of course, as far as I’m concerned you’re entitled to look at the photographs.”
“But you can’t just give them to us?”
“Sorry,” he says.
“I don’t get it,” I tell him. “If you think the photos are immaterial, why wouldn’t you oppose a Brady motion?”
“File it and find out,” says Templeton. “That’s all I can tell you. You won’t get the photographs any other way.”
TWENTY-ONE
Anyone familiar with such things might have been skeptical, but Nitikin knew that regardless of the passage of time, more than forty years, the device itself was virtually pristine.
The reason for this was the manner in which it was stored. Soviet physicists had long known that the greatest threat of deterioration to a gun-type nuclear device would be from oxidation and corrosion of the metal parts, and degradation of weapons-grade uranium if it were subjected to oxygen and hydrogen in the atmosphere for long periods.
Corrosion resulted from the close proximity of highly enriched uranium and ferrous metals, in this case tungsten carbide steel. Separate the uranium from the steel, and store each of them properly, in the case of uranium in a vacuum-sealed container, avoiding moisture and humidity, and the shelf life for a weapon of this kind would be extended geometrically, almost indefinitely.
The two subcritical elements of uranium, the projectile and the four concentric rings of the target, had been machined to precision and stored in their separate sealed lead-contained vaults while the weapon was still in the Soviet Union, before it had ever been shipped to Cuba. They had never been removed.
Nitikin had never even seen them, but he knew they were there from the periodic Geiger readings he took through the test vents in each of the lead cases. From these readings he knew that the two separated elements of weapons-grade uranium, the target and the projectile, neither of which alone possessed critical mass sufficient to cause a chain reaction, would, when combined under pressure at the proper velocity down the gun barrel, result in a massive chain-reaction detonation.
If it worked properly, the entire sequence, from detonation of the cordite initiator launching the uranium bullet down the barrel, to the flash of light hotter and more brilliant than the core of the sun, would take but the barest fraction of a second.
The parts were relatively easy to assemble as long as you had the proper tools, protective gear, and, most important, a deft touch with the tongs needed to position each of the elements while they were bolted or fitted into place.
For Nitikin it was this last part that had become the problem. He had developed a slight palsy in his hands. Over the past few years it had worsened. He knew that he could no longer manipulate the metal tongs either to load the gun with the subcritical uranium projectile or to fasten the uranium target rings to the tungsten carbide tamper at the muzzle end of the barrel.
Nitikin had told no one about this, least of all Alim or any of his cadre. He was afraid of what they might do if they knew, not for himself, but for Maricela, his daughter.
Nitikin, at least in his mind if not his heart, remained the staunch warrior. But he knew that Maricela was
