Dubinin's was the only ship in the area, and he did the best he could to start rescue operations.
The interrogation room was ten by ten, with a cheap table and five equally cheap chairs. There was no two- way mirror. That trick had been around far too long. Instead, two fiber-optic cables ran out of the room and into cameras, one from a light switch, and the other from what looked like a nail hole in the door frame.
Both terrorists were set in place, looking somewhat the worse for wear. The broken fingers both sported offended the professional ethic of the FBI, but Murray decided to pass on that. Clark and Chavez went off for coffee.
“As you see,” Ryan told them, “you failed. Washington is still here.”
“And Denver?” Ghosn asked. “I know about Denver.”
“Yes, you did manage to do something there, but the guilty parties have already paid.”
“What do you mean?” Qati asked.
“I mean that Qum isn't there anymore. Your friend Daryaei is now explaining his misdeeds to Allah.”
They were just too tired, Ryan thought. Fatigue was the worst enemy of men, even worse than the dull pain in his hand. Qati didn't show horror at all. His next error was worse.
“You have made an enemy of all Islam. All that you have done to make peace in the region will be as nothing! because of this.”
“Was that your objective?” Ryan asked in considerable surprise, drawing on the two hours of sleep he'd had. “Was that what you wanted to do? Oh, my God!”
“Your god?” Qati spat.
“What of Marvin Russell?” Murray asked.
“We killed him. He was merely an infidel,” Qati said.
Murray looked at Ghosn. “This is true? Wasn't he a guest in your camp?”
“He was with us for some months, yes. The fool's help was indispensable.”
“And you murdered him.”
“Yes, along with two hundred thousand others.”
“Tell me,” Jack said. “Isn't there a line in the Koran that goes something like, 'If a man shall enter your tent and eat your salt, even though he be an infidel, you will protect him'?”
“You quote poorly — and what do you care of the Koran?”
“You might be surprised.”
44
THE BREEZE OF EVENING
Ryan's next call was to Arnie van Damm. He explained what he had learned.
“My God! They were willing to—”
“Yeah, and it almost worked,” Ryan said huskily. “Clever, weren't they?”
“I'll tell him.”
“I have to report this, Arnie. I have to tell the Vice President.”
“I understand.”
“One more thing.”
“What's that?”
The request he made was approved, largely because no one had a better idea. After the two terrorists had had their hands treated, they were bedded down separately in FBI holding cells.
“What do you think, Dan?”
“It's — Christ, Jack, where are the words for something like this?”
“The man's got cancer,” Clark said. “He figures that if he has to die — why not a bunch of others? Dedicated son-of-a-bitch, isn't he?”
“What are you going to do?” Murray asked.
“We don't have a federal death-penalty statute, do we?”
“No, neither does Colorado as a matter of fact.” Murray took a moment to understand where Ryan was heading. “Oh.”
Golovko had considerable trouble tracking Ryan down with his phone call. The report on his desk from Dr. Moiseyev, sitting there amid all the other things, had dumbfounded him, but on learning Jack's plans, it was easy to set the rendezvous.
Perhaps the only good news of the week was the rescue. The Admiral Lunin pulled into Kodiak harbor at dawn. Alongside the pier, she offloaded her guests. Of the Maine 's crew of one hundred fifty-seven, perhaps a hundred had gotten off before the submarine was claimed by the sea. Dubinin and his crew had rescued eighty-one of them, and recovered eleven bodies, one of which was Captain Harry Ricks. Professionals regarded it as an incredible feat of seamanship, though the news media failed to cover the story until the Soviet submarine had put back to sea. Among the first to call home was Ensign Ken Shaw.
Joining them on the trip out of Andrews was Dr. Woodrow Lowell of the Lawrence-Livermore Laboratory, a bearded, bearish man, known to his friends as Red because of his hair. He'd spent six hours in Denver reviewing the damage patterns.
“I have a question,” Jack said to him. “How was it the yield estimates were so far off? That almost made us think the Russians did it.”
“It was a parking lot,” Lowell replied. “It was made of macadam, a mixture of gravel and asphalt. The energy from the bomb liberated various complex hydrocarbons from the upper layer of the pavement and ignited it — like a great big fuel-air explosive bomb. The water vapor there — from the snow that flashed away — caused another reaction that released more energy. What resulted was a flame-front double the diameter of the nuclear fireball. Add to that the fact that snow cover reflected a lot of the energy, and you got a huge augmentation of the apparent energy released. It would have fooled anybody. Then afterwards, the pavement had another effect. It radiated residual heat very rapidly. The short version is, the energy signature was much larger than the actual yield justified. Now, you want the real bad news?” Lowell asked.
“Okay.”
“The bomb was a fizzle.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it should have been much larger, and we don't know why. The bomb residue was lousy with tritium. The design yield was at least ten times what it actually delivered.”
“You mean?”
“Yeah, if this thing had worked…”
“We were lucky, weren't we?”
“If you want to call that luck, yeah.”
Somehow Jack slept for most of the flight.
The aircraft landed the next morning at Beersheba. Israeli military personnel met the aircraft and convoyed everyone to Jerusalem. The press had found out some of what was happening, but not enough to be a bother, not on a secure Israeli Air Force Base. That would come later. Prince Ali bin Sheik was waiting outside the VIP building.
“Your Highness.” Jack nodded to him. “Thank you for coming.”
“How could I not?” Ali handed over a newspaper.
Jack scanned the headline. “I didn't think that would stay secret very long.”
“It's true, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you stopped it?”
