you…?” Elliot let her eyes trace across the far wall.
“Marcus Cabot has an opening for a research assistant. You'll need a security clearance, and you'll need to sign a very strict non-disclosure agreement. You cannot publish anything without having it cleared in advance.”
“That's almost prior-restraint,” Goodley pointed out. “What about the Constitutional issue?”
“Government must keep some secrets if it is to function. You may have access to some remarkable information. Is getting published your goal, or is it what you said? Public service does require some sacrifices.”
“Well…”
“There will be some important openings at CIA in the next few years,” Elliot promised.
“I see,” Goodley said, quite truthfully. “I never intended to publish classified information, of course.”
“Of course,” Elliot agreed. “I can handle that through my office, I suppose. I found your paper impressive. I want a mind like yours working for the government, if you can agree to the necessary restrictions.”
“In that case, I guess I can accept them.”
“Fine.” Elliot smiled. “You are now a White House Fellow. My secretary will take you across the street to the security office. You have a bunch of forms to fill out.”
“I already have a 'secret' clearance.”
“You'll need more than that. You'll have to get a SAP/ SAR clearance — that means 'special-access programs/ special access required.' It normally takes a few months for that—”
“Months?” Goodley asked.
“I said 'usually.' We can fast-track part of that. I suggest you start apartment-hunting. The stipend is sufficient?”
“Quite sufficient.”
“Fine. I'll call Marcus over at Langley. You'll want to meet him.” Goodley beamed at the National Security Advisor. “Glad to have you on the team.”
The new White House Fellow took his cue and stood. “I will try not to disappoint you.”
Elliot watched him leave. It was so easy to seduce people, she knew. Sex was a useful tool for the task, but power and ambition were so much better. She'd already proven that, Elliot smiled to herself.
“An atomic bomb?” Bock asked.
“So it would seem,” Qati replied.
“Who else knows?”
“Ghosn is the one who discovered it. Only he.”
“Can it be used?” the German asked. And why have you told me?
“It was severely damaged and must be repaired. Ibrahim is now assembling the necessary information for evaluating the task. He thinks it possible.”
Gunther leaned back. “This is not some elaborate ruse? An Israeli trick, perhaps an American one?”
“If so, it is a very clever one,” Qati said, then explained the circumstances of the discovery.
“Ninteen seventy-three… it does fit. I remember how close the Syrians came to destroying the Israelis…” Bock was silent for a moment. He shook his head briefly. “How to use such a thing…”
“That is the question, Gunther.”
“Too early to ask such a question. First, you must determine if the weapon can be repaired. Second, you must determine its explosive yield — no, before that you must determine its size, weight, and portability. That is the most important consideration. After that comes the yield — I will assume that—” He fell silent. “Assume? I know little of such weapons. They cannot be too heavy. They can be fired from artillery shells of less than twenty- centimeter diameter. I know that much.”
This one is much larger than that, my friend.'
“You should not have told me this, Ismael. In a matter like this one, security is everything. You cannot trust anyone with knowledge such as this. People talk, people boast. There could be penetration agents in your organization.”
“It was necessary. Ghosn knows that he will need some help. What contacts do you have in the DDR?”
“What sort?” Qati told him. “I know a few engineers, people who worked in the DDR. nuclear program… it's a dead program, you know.”
“How so?”
“Honecker was planning to build several reactors of the Russian sort. When Germany reunited, their environmental activists took one look at the design and — well, you can imagine. The Russian designs do not have a sterling reputation, do they?” Bock grunted. “As I keep telling you, the Russians are a backward people. Their reactors, one fellow told me, were designed mainly for production of nuclear material for weapons…”
“And…”
“And it is likely that there was a nuclear-weapons program within the DDR. Interesting, I never thought that through, did I?” Bock asked himself quietly. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“I need you to travel to Germany and find some people — we would prefer merely one, for obvious reasons — to assist us.”
Back to Germany? Bock asked himself. “I'll need—”
Qati tossed an envelope into his friend's lap. “ Beirut has been a crossroads for centuries. Those travel documents are better than the real ones.”
“You will need to move your location immediately,” Bock said. “If I am caught, you will have to assume that they will get every bit of information I have. They broke Petra. They can break me or anyone else they wish.”
“I will pray for your safety. In that envelope is a telephone number. When you return, we will be elsewhere.”
“When do I leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
12
TINSMITHS
“And I'll raise you a dime,” Ryan said, after taking his draw.
“You're bluffing,” Chavez said after a sip of beer.
“I never bluff,” Jack replied.
“Out.” Clark tossed in his cards.
“They all say that,” the Air Force sergeant observed. “See your dime and bump you a quarter.”
“Call,” Chavez said.
“Three jacks.”
“Beats my eights,” the sergeant groused.
“But not a straight, doc.” Ding finished off his beer. “Gee, that puts me five bucks ahead.”
“Never count your winnings at the table, son,” Clark advised soberly.
“I never did like that song.” Chavez grinned. “But I like this game.”
“I thought soldiers were lousy gamblers,” the Air Force sergeant observed sourly. He was three bucks down, and he was a real poker player. He got to practice against politicians all the time on long flights when they needed a good dealer.
“One of the first things they teach you at CIA is how to mark cards,” Clark announced, as he went for the next round of drinks.
“Always knew I should have taken the course at The Farm,” Ryan said. He was about even, but every time he'd had a good hand, Chavez had held a better one. “Next time, I'll let you play with my wife.”
“She good?” Chavez asked.
“She's a surgeon. She deals seconds so smooth she can fool a professional mechanic. She plays with cards as a kind of dexterity exercise,” Ryan explained with a grin. I never let her deal.'
“Mrs. Ryan would never do anything like that,” Clark said, when he sat back down.
“Your turn to deal,” Ding said.
Clark started shuffling, something he also did fairly well. “So, what you think, doc?”
