grams of the material at 10 meters, a vast improvement over the most commonly used sensors, which could detect perhaps a third of a gram at the same distance.
Besides providing a check on the IAEA’s tests, the First Team operation would show if materials from illegal reprocessing were being shunted into the secondary and low-level waste area, something the North was suspected of having done with its earlier extraction program.
The tags had gold-colored ends, which had to be upright. The gold turned red if the tag made a detection. While a full analysis of the tag would provide additional data about the exposure, the simple indicator would make it relatively easy to check on the site. Another IAEA inspection was tentatively scheduled in three months.
The director came to his last slide, and the scientists applauded politely before filing out of the room. They toured the monitoring station down the hall, where technicians controlled the machines that received and moved waste containers. The setup reminded Thera of an elaborate toy-train layout one of her cousins used to have in his basement that used a wireless remote to run the engines. The trains here were full sized, and they worked in conjunction with large cranes and automated lifting gear.
Radio devices permanently attached to the containment vessels showed where the recyclable power waste was at all times. No terrorist could steal the potentially dangerous waste, the director boasted, at least not without the entire world knowing.
Security around the perimeter of the plant and in the area where the recyclable fuel was kept was relatively strong; cameras with overlapping views covered a double fence, which was patrolled by guards at irregular intervals. But the security system left the rest of the facility relatively open, making Thera’s job simple, assuming she could drift away from the pack.
That part wasn’t going to be easy today, though. Norkelus kept prodding her to stay close to their host, reminding her in pantomime that she should be jotting things down.
The director led them into the reception building, a large shedlike structure whose ribbed walls were made of steel. Every truck or trainload of waste entering Blessed Peak came to the large building first, where it was recorded, classified, and then prepared for storage. A large overhead crane, similar to that used to load containers onto and off of ships, sat near the middle of the building. The crane could swivel 360 degrees, setting containment vessels and waste “casks” — essentially smaller vessels with less serious waste — onto the special railroad cars.
“No people,” said the director, waving his hand, “except the truck driver. All is controlled from the administration station, with the aid of the cameras.”
He pointed overhead, where a pair of video cameras in the ceiling observed everything in the building.
The cameras made it impractical to plant the tags inside, but Thera wouldn’t have to; the metal ribs that ran upward from the ground to the roof on the outside would make easy hiding places near the door.
As the group left the building, Thera pulled out a pack of Marlboros and broke off from the rest of the group. She lit up, then leaned against the side of the building.
It was a perfect cover: She could slide a sensor right into the metal seam while pretending to light a cigarette.
Why not do it now?
She slid her hand inside her pocket, flicking off the exterior casing of the tag and sliding the detector between her fingers.
One-two-three, easy as pie.
“Miss?”
Thera looked up in surprise. A man in a lab coat was staring at her a few feet away.
“Um, cigarette,” she said, holding the cigarette up guiltily.
“You will come with me,” said the man. “Come.”
“But I was just having a smoke.”
The man grabbed her arm. It took enormous willpower not to throw him down to the ground and even more not to flee.
5
Senator Gordon Tewilliger pulled himself into the limo and shut the door. The weather had turned nasty and his plane from Washington, D.C., had been delayed nearly an hour from landing at Delaware County Airport, just outside of Muncie, Indiana. That meant he was even further behind schedule than usual.
“State Elks dinner begins with cocktails at six.” Jack Long, his district coordinator, leaned back from the front seat. “Your speech is scheduled for about eight thirty. You can just blow in, do the speech, then skip out. Which will get you over to the hospital before ten.”
“That’s still not going to help us, Jack.”
“You cut the ribbon at the Senior Center at six. We go from there directly to the Delaware County reception. You spend fifteen minutes there, then we swing over to the Boy Scout assembly to give out the Eagle badges.”
The door to the limo opened, and Tewilliger’s deputy assistant, James Hannigan, slipped in. Though his title seemed to indicate that Hannigan was number three in the hierarchy of his aides, in actual fact he was the senator’s alter ego and had been with him since Gordon Tewilliger had first run for state assembly. Hannigan, a short, wiry man, put his head down and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to rub off some of the rain. Once the aide was inside, the driver locked the doors and put the car in gear. The windshield wipers slapped furiously, as if they were mad that the rain had the audacity to fall.
“Finish the Eagle badges no later than seven-ten,” continued Long, “then stop by the reception at the Iron Workers Union. If things run late, we can cut that. Then—”
“You don’t want to cut the Iron Workers,” said Hannigan.
“Gordon could stand on his head, and they won’t endorse him,” said Long.
“Sure, but Harry Mangjeol from Yongduro is going to be there, and he wants to say hello.”
“He wants more than that,” said the senator. “He’s going to harangue me about the nuclear disarmament treaty again. ‘South Korea get raw deal.’” Tewilliger mimicked Mangjeol’s heavily accented English.
“He and his friends are supplying the airplane to New Hampshire tomorrow,” said Hannigan. “It wouldn’t be politick to tell him to screw off.”
“No, I supposed it wouldn’t,” said Tewilliger.
Mangjeol was a first-generation Korean-American who owned an electronics factory halfway between Muncie and Daleville. Though a rich man in his own right, Mangjeol was more important politically as the representative of a number of Korean-American businessmen with deep ties to South Korea.
The Americans were always complaining that the North was getting away with something. Oddly, at least to Tewilliger, in the next breath they would say how much they hoped the peninsula would be reunified, as if getting the two Koreas back together wouldn’t require a great deal of compromise and understanding.
“McCarthy’s not budging on the disarmament agreement,” said Tewilliger. “He won’t change a word.”
“A powerful argument to Mangjeol in favor of backing you for president,” said Hannigan.
“Here we go, Senator,” said Long.
Tewilliger looked up, surprised to find that they were driving up to the senior center already.
“Mayor’s name is Sue Bayhern. Serious lightweight, but she gets eighty percent of the vote,” said Long, feeding the senator the information he’d need to navigate the reception. “The place cost six point seven million dollars; the federal grant covered all but two hundred thousand.”
6
