“With your permission, sir, I could talk to Mr. Trent about it.”
“Hmmm.” Cabot stared down at his desk. “Okay, feel him out very gently. I'll bring this up with the President when he gets back. I'll trust you on M USHASHI. You and who else know his real name?”
“The DO, Chief of Station Tokyo, and his case officer.” The Director of Operations was Harry Wren, and if he were not quite Cabot's man, he was the man Cabot had picked for the job. Wren was on his way to Europe at the moment. A year ago Jack had thought the choice a mistake, but Wren was doing well. He'd also picked a superb deputy, actually a pair of them: the famous Ed and Mary Pat Foley, one of whom — Ryan could never decide which — would have been his choice for DO. Ed was the organization man, and Mary Pat was the cowboy side of the best husband-wife team the Agency had ever fielded. Making Mary Pat a senior executive would have been a worldwide first, and probably worth a few votes in Congress. She was pregnant again with her third, but that wasn't expected to slow Supergirl down. The Agency had its own day-care center, complete to cipher locks on the doors, a heavily- armed response team of security officers, and the best play equipment Jack had ever seen.
“Sounds good, Jack. I'm sorry I faxed the President as soon as I did. I ought to have waited.”
“No problem, sir. The information was thoroughly laundered.”
“Let me know what Trent thinks about the funding.”
“Yes, sir.” Jack left for his office. He was getting good at this, the DDCI told himself. Cabot wasn't all that hard to manage.
Ghosn took his time to think. This was not a time for excitement, not a time for precipitous action. He sat down in the corner of his shop and chain-smoked his cigarettes for several hours, all the time staring at the gleaming metal ball that lay on the dirt floor. How radioactive is it! one part of his brain wondered almost continuously, but it was a little late for that. If that heavy sphere were giving off hard gammas, he was already dead, another part of his brain had already decided. This was a time to think and evaluate. It required a supreme act of will for him to sit still, but he managed it.
For the first time in many years he was ashamed of his education. He had expertise both in electrical and mechanical engineering, but he'd hardly bothered cracking a book about their nuclear equivalent. What possible use could such a thing have for him! he asked himself on the rare occasions that he'd considered acquiring knowledge in that area. Obviously none. As a result of that, he'd limited himself to broadening and deepening his knowledge in areas of direct interest: mechanical and electronic fusing systems, electronic counter-measure gear, the physical characteristics of explosives, the capabilities of explosive-sensing systems. He was a real expert on this last category of study. He read everything he could find on the instrumentation used in detecting explosives at airports and other areas of interest.
Number One, Ghosn told himself on lighting cigarette number fifty-four of the day, every book I can find on nuclear materials, their physical and chemical properties: bomb technology, bomb physics: radiological signatures… the Israelis must know the bomb is missing — since 1973! he thought in amazement. Then why…? Of course. The Golan Heights are volcanic in origin. The underlying rock and the soil in which those poor farmers tried to raise their vegetables were largely basaltic, and basalt had a relatively high background-radiation count… the bomb was buried two or three meters in rocky soil, and whatever emissions it gave off were lost in background count…
I'm safe! Ghosn realized.
Of course! If the weapon were that “hot”, it would have been better shielded! Praise be to Allah for that!
Can I… can I? That was the question, wasn't it?
Why not?
“Why not?” Ghosn said aloud. “Why not. I have all the necessary pieces, damaged, but.. ”
Ghosn stubbed the cigarette out in the dirt next to all the others and rose. His body was racked by coughing — he knew that cigarettes were killing him… more dangerous than that… but they were good for thinking.
The engineer lifted the sphere. What to do with it? For the moment, he set it in the corner and covered it with a tool box. Then he walked out of the building towards his jeep. The drive to headquarters took fifteen minutes.
“I need to see the Commander,” Ghosn told the chief guard.
“He just retired for the evening,” the guard said. The entire detail was becoming protective of their commander.
“He'll see me.” Ghosn walked right past him and into the building.
Qati's quarters were on the second floor. Ghosn went up the steps, past another guard and pulled open the bedroom door. He heard retching from the adjoining bathroom.
“Who the devil is it?” a cross voice asked. “I told you that I didn't want to be disturbed!”
“It's Ghosn. We need to talk.”
“Can't it wait?” Qati appeared from the lighted doorway. His face was ashen. It came out as a question, not an order, and that told Ibrahim more than he'd ever known of his Commander's condition. Perhaps this would make him feel better.
“My friend, I need to show you something. I need to show it to you tonight.” Ghosn strained to keep his voice level and unexcited.
“Is it that important?” Almost a moan.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
Ghosn just shook his head, tapping his ear as he did so. “It's something interesting. That Israeli bomb has some new fusing systems. It nearly killed me. We need to warn our colleagues about it.”
“Bomb? I thought—” Qati stopped himself. His face cleared for a moment and the Commander's expression formed a question. “Tonight, you say?”
“I'll drive you over myself.”
Qati's strength of character prevailed. “Very well. Let me get my clothes on.”
Ghosn waited downstairs. “The Commander and I have to go see about something.”
“Mohammed!” the chief guard called, but Ghosn cut him off.
I'll take the Commander myself. There is no security problem in my shop.'
“But—”
“But you worry like an old woman! If the Israelis were that clever, you'd already be dead, and the Commander with you!” It was too dark to see the expression on the guard's face, but Ghosn could feel the rage that radiated towards him from the man, an experienced front-line fighter.
“We'll see what the Commander says!”
“What's the problem now?” Qati emerged from the door, tucking his shirt in.
“I'll drive you myself, Commander. We don't need a security force for this.”
“As you say, Ibrahim.” Qati walked to the jeep and got in. Ghosn drove off past some astonished security guards.
“What exactly is this all about?”
“It's a bomb after all, not an electronics pod,” the engineer replied.
“So? We've retrieved scores of the cursed things! What is this all about?”
“It is easier to show you.” The engineer drove rapidly, watching the road. “If you think I have wasted your time — when we are done, feel free to end my life.”
Qati's head turned at that. The thought had already occurred to him, but he was too good a leader for that. Ghosn might not be the material of a fighter, but he was an expert at what he did. His service to the organization was as valuable as any man's. The Commander endured the rest of the ride in silence, wishing the medicines he was taking allowed him to eat — no, to retain what he ate.
Fifteen minutes later, Ghosn parked his jeep fifty meters from the shop, and led his Commander to the building by an indirect route. By this time Qati was thoroughly confused and more than a little angry. When the lights went on, he saw the bombcase.
“So, what about it?”
“Come here.” Ghosn led him to the corner. The engineer bent down and lifted the tool box. “Behold!”
“What is it?” It looked like a small cannonball, a sphere of metal. Ghosn was enjoying this. Qati was angry, but that would soon change.
“It's plutonium.”
