thing. The odds of us catching him dirty in one day were nil.”
“So what next?”
“According to the consulate website, they’ve got a reception at the Holiday Inn Express tonight. Some kind of joint benefit party with the Polish consulate.”
“Left my tux at home,” Chavez said.
“Not going to need it. Point is, we know where Nayoan’s going to be tonight, and it ain’t at home.”
Eight thousand miles away, the engineer emerged from the tent’s changing room and used a rag to wipe the sweat from his forehead and neck. On wobbly legs, he walked to a nearby stool and sat down.
“Well?” Musa asked.
“It’s done.”
“And the yield?”
“Seven to eight kilotons. Smallish by today’s standards-for example, the Hiroshima bomb was fifteen kilotons- but it will be more than sufficient for what you’re planning. It should give you, say, fifteen pounds per square inch out to a distance of five hundred meters.”
“That doesn’t sound like much.”
The engineer smiled wearily. “Fifteen psi is enough to demolish reinforced concrete. You said the floor is mostly earthen?”
“That’s correct. With some underground hardened structures.”
“Then you have no worries, my friend. This enclosed space you’ve mentioned… You’re certain of its volume?”
“Yes.”
“And the overstructure? What’s its composition?”
“I’m told it is something called ignimbrite. It is-”
“Yes, I’m familiar with it. Also called volcanic pyroclastic or welded tuff-essentially, compacted layers of volcanic rock. That’s good. Providing the overstructure is thick enough, the shock wave should be directed downward with minimal attenuation. The penetration requirements you gave me will be met.”
“I’ll take your word for that. Is it ready for transport?”
“Of course. It has a relatively low output signature, so passive detection measures won’t be your worry. Active measures are a different story altogether. I assume you’ve taken steps to-”
“Yes, we have.”
“Then I’ll leave it in your good hands,” the engineer said, then stood up and headed toward the office at the rear of the warehouse. “I’m going to sleep now. I trust the remainder of my fee will be deposited by morning.”
63
THEIR CONTACT MET THEM near Al Kurnish Road on the east side of Sendebad Park, within a stone’s throw of the Australian consulate. Hendley had declined to explain to Brian and Dominic the nature of his relationship with the Aussie, nor had their boss felt it necessary to share the man’s name, but neither brother thought it a coincidence their bogus passports and visas bore Australian seals.
“Afternoon, gents. I assume you’re Gerry’s boys, yes?”
“I suppose we are,” Dominic said.
“Archie.” Hands were shaken all around. “Let’s take a stroll, what say?” They waited for a break in traffic, then jogged across Al Kurnish to a dirt parking lot beside the wagon wheel-shaped Al Fatah building, then down to the water’s edge.
“So I understand you’re on a little snipe hunt?” Archie said over the rush of the waves.
“Guess you could call it that,” said Brian. “Guy got murdered here last week. Hung first, then decapitated and feet chopped off.”
Archie was nodding. “Heard about that. Nasty bit of work, that. Call that the ‘naughty no-step’ around here. You think this bloke got out of line, did a little freelancing?”
Dominic nodded.
“The Swedish embassy, yes?”
Another nod.
“And you’re after the whos and whats, I take it?”
“We’ll take anything we can get,” Brian said.
“Well, first thing you need to know about Tripoli is that it’s a damned safe city, all things considered. Average street crime is pretty low, and neighbors watch after one another. The police don’t get overly concerned about this group killing a member of that group unless it spills over onto the streets or one of them does something to draw attention to itself. The last thing the Curly Colonel wants is bad international press, not after all the public-relations work he’s done. The truth is the URC has been rather quiet for eight or nine months. In fact, there’s some spin on the street that the Swedish embassy business wasn’t URC.”
“Not sanctioned, at least,” Dominic said.
“Ah, I see. A lopped head and chopped feet tends to send a strong admonishment, doesn’t it? Still, could be worse. Usually the family jewels are involved, too. Well, the apartment where your fellow got clipped is off Al Khums Road. Pretty tight-knit place. As I understand, that particular apartment was empty at the time.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I know some French ex-pats that are pretty friendly with the cops.”
“They just used the apartment for convenience, you think?” Dominic asked. “A studio?”
“Yeah. Poor dill was probably killed somewhere else. You saw it on a website? URC or LIFG?” Archie said, referring to the Libyan Islamic Fighting Group.
“URC,” Brian replied. “Anyone else the URC might have farmed the job out to?”
“Plenty. Wouldn’t even have to be a group. There’re crims in the Medina-the Old City-that’d slit your throat for twenty U.S. Not robbery per se, but murder-for-hire, mind you. But that video… Seems a tad highbrow for your average ape.”
“So why didn’t they just do the deed somewhere in the Medina?” Brian asked. “Kill him, then tape it, then dump the body on the street.”
“Then the cops’d have to go into the Medina, see? This way everybody gets to pretend it happened somewhere else and the natural balance remains. How many sites did this video go up on?”
“Six that we found.” This from Dominic.
“Well, there’re plenty of Internet service outfits around, but the groups that run those sites usually do the hosting themselves, with a dedicated server so they can pick up and move-physically and electronically. If the URC farmed out the killing, then you’re probably out of luck; if they did it themselves, it means the message came from high up the ladder. The kind of job you don’t leave to chance. If that’s the case, then there’s going to be some overlap-some local URC captain in touch with one of the mobile hosts.”
“I take it this ain’t something you look up in the yellow pages,” Brian said.
“You take it correctly. I may know a man. Let me make some calls. Where are you staying?”
“The Al Mehari.”
Archie checked his watch. “I’ll meet you there by five; we’ll have a drink.”
He was an hour early and came with his own car, a mid-’80s forest-green Opel; as was almost everything else in Tripoli, the car was covered in a fine layer of red-brown dust.
“You have a rental car?” Archie asked as they pulled west onto Al Fat’h Street amid a cacophony of horns and squealing of brakes.
“Whoa!” Brian shouted from the backseat.
“Traffic laws here are nonexistent. Call it Darwinism at its most basic. Driver survival of the fittest. So: the
