TEXT MESSAGE from our Russian girl,” Tariq said, striding into the living room. The Emir stood at the window, staring out at the desert. He turned.
“Good news, I trust.”
“We will know in sixty seconds.”
Tariq powered up his laptop, opened his Web browser, and went to a website called storespot.com, one of dozens of free online file-storage sites available on the Internet. All that was required to open an account was a user name, a password, and an e-mail address, and for that there were sites that offered throw-away “self- destructing” e-mail addresses.
Tariq logged in to the account, clicked on three links, and found himself in the upload/download area of the site. There was one item waiting, a plain text file. According to the annotation, the file had been uploaded twelve minutes ago. Tariq opened the file, copied the contents to his clipboard, then deleted the file from the account. Next he opened the laptop’s built-in text program and pasted the contents into a new file. He took two minutes to scan the contents.
“It’s all here. Everything we need.”
“Which entrance?”
“The south.”
The Emir smiled. Allah was with them. Of the two, the facility’s southern entrance saw less activity than the northern main entrance. This meant fewer security personnel. “Where exactly?”
“The third drift layer, five hundred meters in and three hundred meters below the surface. According to Jenkins, that’s the area the engineering department is most concerned about. Next week they’re having a meeting with the Department of Energy and Nuclear Regulatory Commission to discuss backfilling and capping the entire drift before they start accepting shipments.”
There was, however, a drawback to using the south entrance, the Emir knew. Within minutes of the truck turning onto the service road from Highway 95, sensors and cameras would likely record its passage and alert the monitoring center at the facility’s main entrance. Once the staff realized the truck was headed toward the south entrance, how would they react? It seemed unlikely an alarm would be immediately raised; this was, after all, only a trial shipment, and the first of its kind. More likely, the staff would assume the driver had taken a wrong turn. Calls would be made, perhaps a vehicle sent to the south entrance to collect the wayward truck. Musa and his men would take care of it.
Of all the feasibility studies the URC had done in the early stages of Lotus, the most troubling and nebulous question had involved the facility’s on-site security, an issue that neither the DOE nor NRC had publicly addressed, either because of security concerns or because of internal indecision. As planning for Lotus progressed, it became clear to the Emir that they had to assume the worst-case scenario, which, in the case of nuclear facilities, involved the presence of NNSA protective forces, a well-trained and well-equipped paramilitary force under the control of the DOE.
As it had many facets of American government and society, 9/11 had brought into sharp focus the need for more robust material control programs, and to its credit the DOE had spared no expense in pursuit of that goal. NNSA Protective Forces were trained in small-unit antiterrorist tactics and equipped with armored vehicles and heavy-caliber weapons, including grenade launchers, armor-piercing rounds, and at select sites, mobile and fixed Dillon M134D Gatling Gun systems.
None of the URC’s intelligence suggested the NNSA was manning the facility this far in advance, but the Emir had been clear with Musa:
“Where are we with the other elements?” the Emir asked Tariq. “The truck.”
“It left the plant this afternoon. Transit time is four days. Ibrahim and his team are on the ground. Unless we send him the abort, they should be moving in”-Tariq checked his watch-“three hours. The ship is two days out; our people in Norfolk are ready. As it stands, the ship will probably have to overnight at anchor before being assigned a berth.”
“Good. And Mr. Nayoan’s men?”
“In place and ready. They will not move until you give the order. They’ll need twenty-four hours’ notice.” The Emir nodded, and Tariq asked, “What do you want to do with the girl?”
“Let her go. She knows nothing about us, and Beketov is dead. The link between us and her people is gone. Even if she’s picked up, the only leads she can offer will either go nowhere or go where we want them to go. She’s earned her money.”
“She knows about the facility.”
“What of it? She was hired by some fringe environmental group to dig up damaging information about the facility. That’s all. She’s a mercenary, Tariq. She’ll take her money and move on.”
Tariq considered this, then nodded. “Very well.”
“One last detail: I’ll be joining Musa on his mission.”
“Pardon me?”
“I’ll record a message before I leave. Once we’ve succeeded, you will make sure it reaches the right hands.” Tariq opened his mouth to speak, but the Emir waved him off. “Old friend, you know this is necessary. My death, and what we do here, will fuel our war for generations to come.”
“When did you decide this?”
“It’s been the plan from the start. Why else would we have come here-to this forsaken place?”
“Let me join you.”
The Emir shook his head. “It’s not your time. You must trust me on this. Promise me you’ll do as I ask.”
Tariq nodded.
73
PULLING INTO the town of Paulinia just after sunset, Shasif Hadi could see the lights of the refinery, still some four miles away, long before he could see the complex itself. Seventeen hundred acres of distillation columns, fractionation towers, and high-voltage wires, all festooned with blinking red lights designed to warn off low-flying aircraft, and all unnecessary, as far as Hadi was concerned. If any pilot managed to miss seeing the dozens of pole-mounted stadium lights illuminating the complex’s work areas, he deserved to crash.
The main highway from Campinas, the SP-332, wound along the northern outskirts of Paulinia before swinging back first to the west, then to the north, before finally passing the refinery complex on the left. Hadi drove past it and continued north for another mile before reaching his turnoff, a two-lane asphalt road heading due east. This he followed exactly one and a half miles to where the road curved yet again and the blacktop gave way to gravel. A hundred yards ahead, his headlights picked out what looked like a bridge spanning the road. Hadi felt his pulse quicken. This was not a bridge, he knew, but rather an ethanol pipeline. As he passed under the line, he glanced out his passenger window and could see a grass-covered clearing barricaded by a cattle gate. Sitting in front of the gate, hood facing out, was a white pickup truck. Hadi kept going, making one more turn, this time south, onto a dirt road. After fifty yards he slowed, scanning the tree line to his left. He spotted the gap between the trees and pulled in and shut off his headlights as he coasted to a stop. He checked his watch: on schedule.
He got out, locked the door, then walked out of the trees to the edge of the road. He looked right. A half-mile down the road a pair of headlights appeared around a corner. Ibrahim’s blue Volkswagen Fox slowed beside Hadi, its brakes squealing slightly.
“No trouble?” Ibrahim asked.
“None.”
Hadi climbed into the backseat. Fa’ad sat beside him, Ahmed in the front passenger seat. As part of their exfiltration plan, Fa’ad and Ahmed had parked their cars on back roads to the southeast and northeast of the refinery, where they were picked up by Ibrahim. If for some reason the group became separated, they would rendezvous at one of these cars and make their way back to the coast.
