“Straws,” Bock noted.
“Yes, I said the same thing,” Ghosn said. “It is truly brilliant. Like building a bridge from paper.”
“And the yield from the Secondary?” Qati asked. He didn't really understand the physics, but he did understand the final number.
“The Primary will generate approximately seventy kilotons. The Secondary will generate roughly four hundred sixty-five kilotons. The numbers are approximate because of possible irregularities within the weapon, and also because we cannot test to measure actual effects.”
“How confident are you in the performance of the weapon?”
“Totally,” Fromm said.
“But without testing, you said…”
“Commander, I knew from the beginning that a proper test program was not possible. That is the same problem we had in the DDR. For that reason the design is over-engineered, in some cases by a factor of forty percent, in others by a factor of more than one hundred. You must understand that an American, British, French, or even Soviet weapon of the same yield would not be a fifth the size of our 'unit.' Such refinements of size and efficiency can only come from extensive testing. The physics of the device are entirely straightforward. Engineering refinements come only from practice. As Herr Ghosn said, building a bridge. The Roman bridges of antiquity were very inefficient structures. By modern standards they use far too much stone, and as a result far too much labor to build them, ja? Over the years we have learned to build bridges more efficiently, using fewer materials and less labor to perform the same task. But do not forget that some Roman bridges still stand. They are still bridges, even if they are inefficient. This bomb design, though inefficient and wasteful of materials, is still a bomb, and it will work as I say.”
Heads turned, as the beeper on the lathe went off. An indicator light blinked green. The task was finished. Fromm walked over, telling the technicians to flush the Freon out of the system. Five minutes later, the object of so much loving care was visible. The manipulator arm brought it into view. It was finished.
“Excellent,” Fromm said. “We will carefully examine the plutonium, and then we will commence assembly. Meine Herren, the difficult part is behind us.” He thought that called for a beer, and made another mental note that he hadn't gotten the palladium yet. Details, details. But that's what engineering was.
“What gives, Dan?” Ryan asked, over his secure phone. He had missed the morning paper at home, only to find the offending article waiting on his desk as part of The Bird.
“It sure as hell didn't come from here, Jack. It must be in your house.”
“Well, I just tore our security director a brand-new asshole. He says he doesn't have anything going. What the hell does a 'very senior' official mean?”
“It means that this Holtzman guy got carried away with his adjectives. Look, Jack, I've already gone too far. I'm not supposed to discuss ongoing investigations, remember?”
“I'm not concerned about that. Somebody just leaked material that comes from a closely held source. If the world made any sense, we'd bring Holtzman in for questioning!” Ryan snarled into the phone.
“You want to rein in a little, boy?”
The DDCI looked up from the phone and commanded himself to take a deep breath. It wasn't Holtzman's fault, was it? “Okay, I just simmered down.”
“Whatever investigation is underway, it isn't the Bureau running it.”
“No shit?”
“You have my word on it,” Murray said.
“That's fair enough, Dan.” Ryan calmed down further. If it wasn't the FBI and it wasn't his own in-house security arm, then that part of the story was probably fiction.
“Who could have leaked it?”
Jack barked out a laugh. “Could have? Ten or fifteen people on the Hill. Maybe five in the White House, twenty — maybe forty here.”
“So the other part could just be camouflage, or somebody who wants a score settled.” Murray did not make it a question. He figured at least a third of all press leaks were aimed at settling grudges in one way or another. “The source is sensitive?”
“This phone isn't all that secure, remember?”
“Gotcha. Look, I can approach Holtzman quietly and informally. He's a good guy, responsible, a pro. We can talk to him off the record and let him know that he may be endangering people and methods.”
“I have to go to Marcus for that.”
“And I have to talk to Bill, but Bill will play ball.”
“Okay, I'll talk to my Director. I'll be back.” Ryan hung up and walked again to the Director's office.
“I've seen it,” Director Cabot said.
“The Bureau doesn't know about this investigation, and neither do our people. From that we can surmise that the scandal part of the story is pure bull, but somebody's been leaking the take from SPINNAKER, and that sort of thing gets agents killed.”
“What do you suggest?” the DCI asked.
“Dan Murray and I approach Holtzman informally and let him know that he's stepping on sensitive toes. We ask him to back off.”
“Ask?”
“Ask. You don't give orders to reporters. Not unless you sign their paychecks, anyway,” Jack corrected himself. “I've never actually done this, but Dan has. It was his idea.”
“I have to go upstairs on this,” Cabot said.
“God damn it, Marcus, we are upstairs!”
“Dealing with the press — it has to be decided elsewhere.”
“Super — get in your car and drive down and make sure you ask very nicely.” Ryan turned and stormed out before Cabot had a chance to flush at the insult.
By the time he'd walked the few yards to his private office, Jack's hands were quivering. Can't he back me up on anything? Nothing was going right lately. Jack pounded once on his desk, and the pain brought things back under control. Clark 's little operation, that seemed to be heading in the right direction. That was one thing, and one thing was better than nothing.
Not much better. Jack looked at the photo of his wife and kids.
“God damn it,” he swore to himself. He couldn't get that guy to back him up on anything, he'd become a lousy father to his kids, and sure as hell he was no great shakes as a husband lately.
Liz Elliot read the front-page article with no small degree of satisfaction. Holtzman had delivered exactly what she had expected. Reporters were so easy to manipulate. It opened a whole new world for her, she had belatedly realized. With Marcus Cabot being so weak, and no one within the CIA bureaucracy to back him up, she would have effective control of that, as well. Wasn't that something?
Removing Ryan from his post was now more than a mere exercise in spite, as desirable as so simple a motive might have been. Ryan was the one who had said no to a few White House requests, who occasionally went directly to Congress on internal matters… who prevented her from having closer contact with the Agency. With him out of the way, she could give orders — couched as “suggestions”—to Cabot, who would then carry them out with a total absence of resistance. Dennis Bunker would still have Defense and his dumb football team. Brent Talbot would have the State Department. Elizabeth Elliot would have control of the National Security apparatus — because she also had the ear, and all the other important parts, of the President. Her phone beeped.
“Director Cabot is here.”
“Send him in,” Liz said She stood and walked towards the door. “Good morning, Marcus.”
“Hello, Dr. Elliot.”
“What brings you down?” she asked, waving him to a seat on the couch.
“This newspaper article.”
“I saw it,” the National Security Advisor said sympathetically.
“Whoever leaked this might have endangered a valuable source.”
“I know. Somebody at your end? I mean, what's this about an in-house investigation?”
