“Almost every uranium ore has its own identification, like a fingerprint. If there’s anyplace on earth that hasn’t been fingerprinted, so to speak, I don’t know where it is. So if the Iranians want to nuke someplace, they’re not going to use material from their own backyard. They have at least three mines but they’ll want to use refined ore from someplace else, the farther away the better. They’d use it from Colorado if they could get enough of it.”
Bosco, whose scientific interest generally was limited to pulp fiction and
Langevin grinned hugely. His smile said,
When the laughter abated, the scientist raised a hand. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. But it’s a fair question. I can’t talk about current weapons, but for the Little Boy that flattened Hiroshima, about sixty-five kilos. Less than 150 pounds.” Warming to his subject, he continued. “But that’s not a very efficient use of a valuable product. Now, take Fat Man, the Nagasaki bomb. That only used six kilos of plutonium, but of course you need a lot of uranium to process plutonium. There’s an intermediate step called a composite, with a core using both uranium and plutonium. A little over three kilos of plutonium and six and a half of U-235.” He shrugged. “Actually, it doesn’t make a lot of difference. An exact duplicate of Little Boy is still about twelve to fifteen KT yield, and we know what that did to Hiroshima.”
“I have a question.” It was Josh Wallender, who rarely spoke in meetings. “Libya has been awfully quiet for several years, like maybe they learned a lesson. Why would they risk another setback on behalf of Iran?”
Langevin shifted in his seat to face the Green Beret. “Good question, Sergeant. For some years there was cooperation between Libya and Iran on weapons research, even though Qadhafi’s regime is pretty secular. But there was a Libyan group of Islamic extremists that attacked government facilities inside Libya so Qadhafi had them expelled. They went to Afghanistan, then settled in Iran with some other al Qaeda groups. Along the way, some of their recent knowledge about Iran’s nuclear program got back to Libya, and that had something to do with Qadhafi renouncing WMDs in 2004. So it looks like there’s a connection: Tehran doesn’t want Libya spilling what it knows about the Iranian bomb program, and threatens to return the radicals to Libya if that happens.”
Wallender emitted a long, low whistle.
Langevin smiled in appreciation. “Yeah. Welcome to the Middle East.”
Regaining control of the session, Lee said, “That’s the long way ‘round the block to say that we should be prepared for a Libyan reaction. It’s entirely possible that some yellow cake can be moved to Libya with or without the government’s knowledge, and shipped elsewhere. That means we want to do this as slick and quick as possible.”
He scanned the room, unblinking behind his Army issue glasses. “Anything else for discussion?” He glanced at Foyte, who shook his head.
“Very well then.” Lee shot a look at his watch. “Let’s get our people moving. Equipment check before the briefing and nobody leaves the compound. We’re wheels in the well in four plus thirty.”
43
The Cessna 421 braked to a halt on the hard-packed runway and shut down the left engine first. Before the three-bladed propeller had stopped spinning, the door opened and two men immediately debarked. Marcel Hurtubise and Paul Deladier carried overnight bags that contained few clothes. Anyone hefting the satchels would have commented upon the weight.
Cruising at 190 knots, the trip had taken over three hours. Deladier would have preferred to try to sleep during the trip but his superior had other priorities. In one way, however, Deladier welcomed the diversion. He did not want to dwell upon Gabrielle Tixier.
Etienne Stevin was waiting. Anticipating the question, he met Hurtubise and said, “We’re almost ready.”
The three mercenaries climbed into the Land Rover and talked en route to the mine. “Tell me,” Hurtubise commanded.
Stevin’s stubby fingers grasped the wheel, navigating the unpaved road from the landing strip. “After we got Paul’s message, we reinforced the guard and changed the schedule. We’re now at fifty percent alert during the night, thirty-three percent during the day. Moungar’s assistant is practically using a whip on the blacks; they’re pushing hard to get two full loads ready for loading.”
“How soon?”
“The first one — maybe day after tomorrow. No later than Tuesday. The second load maybe later that day.”
Hurtubise chewed his lip and rubbed his stubbled chin, measuring the time-distance equation. It was going to be tight. He could feel it. He looked at Stevin. “Who is the assistant?”
“Name’s Jean Djimesta. I thought you met him before.”
“I did. I just don’t remember the name. Medium-sized, really black, balding. Bit of an attitude for a nigger.”
“That’s him.”
Hurtubise glanced over his shoulder to Deladier in the rear seat. “Well, seeing that he’s getting the job done, we can tolerate some attitude. But not too much, eh?” He almost laughed.
Deladier leaned forward between the front seats. “What about Moungar? Will he be here?”
“No,” Hurtubise replied. “I’d like to have him here because he represents the government. But he’s making arrangements with our friends across the border.”
Downshifting to cross a narrow defile, Stevin said, “Boss, I’d like to hear more. What do we really know about the Americans? And how good is the information?”
Hurtubise dropped the impending grin. “The information is about as good as we can expect, but it’s the usual situation. You never have everything you want. I got suspicious when Gabrielle came back from her second meeting with the American woman.” He shook his head in self reproach. “That was my fault, really. I thought she could handle it. The little shrew was pretty good at getting people to talk but…”
Deladier felt a small, electric prickling between the shoulders at Tixier’s name. He sat back, grasping a door handle to steady himself as the Land Rover jounced over the graded road.
“Anyway, she spilled more than she learned,” Hurtubise continued. “When I realized what had happened, I sent her to deal with the American broad but she didn’t come back.”
Stevin did not know what to say. Deladier had already described the basics so the burly Belgian merely nodded.
“The rest I filled in with contacts at the embassy, and intuition. The American firm is training a counterinsurgency unit in N’Djamena but we have to assume they can get up here pretty fast if they want. That’s why I want to get at least two loads out as soon as possible. After that, we’ve met our contract. Anything else is a bonus.”
Stevin turned toward his boss and unzipped a tobacco-stained grin. “I like bonuses.”
Hurtubise scowled in reply. “You just blow it on gambling and booze and whores. In a couple of weeks or months you’re broke again.”
The Belgian nodded gravely, looking at the road again. Then he perked up. “But there’s always another job. Thanks to you.”
The Frenchman regarded his colleague with a sideways glance. “Not after this one, Etienne. Not after this one.”
Terry Keegan had a good opinion of his dead-reckoning ability, but he was glad of the GPS set in the borrowed Alouette III. Flying with Charles the mechanic in the seat beside him, the former naval aviator led his two helicopters in a descent to Bardai airfield in the rugged terrain of northern Chad.
From studying aeronautical charts and Web sites, Keegan knew that only seven of the nation’s fifty-one
