The lights of Poli’s vehicle showed the sign for his turnoff. He exited the deserted highway and drove slowly through the fishing town. The smell of the sea, which tinged the air, was overwhelmed by the stench of rotted fish and diesel fuel. North of the town a road ran parallel to the sea. He could see the bright lights of Novorossiysk across the bay. There were several supertankers lined up to load oil transported on the new pipeline from Kazakhstan. And out on the still waters of the Black Sea, more ships could be seen headed into or out of the port. The laden tankers would need to transit the full length of the Black Sea and pass through the Bosporus Strait at Istanbul, one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world, where on average there is an accident every three days. Before reaching the Mediterranean, they also faced the navigational nightmare of crossing the Aegean Sea.
The headlights revealed a small fish processing plant built on pilings over the water. The parking lot was deserted but for two cars, a luxurious Audi A8 W12 and a limousine. The lights were on in the office trailer at the edge of the parking lot. Alongside the plant was a long wooden jetty where an eighty-foot commercial fishing boat was moored. Poli could see the glow of navigation equipment through the broad bridge windscreen.
He parked the UAZ jeep next to the black Audi. He reached over his shoulder to touch one of the barrels. It was warm but not yet hot. The heat was a by-product of the exchange of subatomic particles from one barrel to the next. By themselves there wasn’t enough ore in any one of the containers to start such a chain reaction, but two in close proximity created a critical mass. In the mine the barrels had been stored well away from one another, but in the confines of the truck it was almost as if they were calling to one another in a deadly siren song. Left unchecked, the plutonium would eventually explode in a shower of deadly dust that would contaminate several city blocks or more, depending on the wind.
Two men emerged from the office trailer and he sensed movement on the fishing boat.
The older of the two walked up to Feines and hugged him while the other held back at a distance. Poli didn’t return the embrace. The man released him. He was of average height, with thick salt-and-pepper hair. His mustache was tell tended, and below his arched brows were arresting blue eyes that even in the dim light of the parking lot possessed a devilish charm. “First of all,” he said in Russian, “are you okay?”
“I’m fine. But I think all the Arabs sent to help me were killed.”
“What happened, Poli?”
“You didn’t give me enough time,” Feines snapped.
“I couldn’t stall the Americans any longer,” Grigori Popov said. “Ira Lasko was about to go over my head. If that happened there would have been an investigation and it would have been my ass on the line. As it is I’ll have a lot of explaining to do. I can only hope to convince my superiors and the Americans that the timing was a coincidence or perhaps there is a leak within Lasko’s office. Tell me what happened.”
“We were loading the last barrels when the chopper appeared. We were ready for it but somehow the stupid raghead missed. It was a MI-8, for Christ’s sake, as big as a barn, and the damn fool only managed a glancing shot with an RPG. From the amount of fire we got after it crashed, I estimated most of the soldiers survived, so rather than get into a pitched battle I ordered us out.”
“But you decided not to go with the train?” Popov asked slyly.
Poli remained grim. “As was my plan all along, just in case something happened to the train. I wanted to make sure I got some of the plutonium here. I heard the train wreck as I drove out of the valley, and saw the fire. Even if I went back, there’s no way we’re going to recover those barrels.”
“How many did you manage to bring with you?”
“Two.”
Popov nodded. “More than enough for their current operation.”
“Good, because I am done with this operation,” Feines remarked.
“You’re not going after the alembic?”
“This operation has been a lot more than I anticipated,” Poli admitted. “I thought I’d find what I needed in Africa, only to learn your army beat me to it by a half century. Then I thought I had it from the samples the American recovered and shipped home on the
“I don’t blame you,” Popov said. “I’m glad my only part in this thing was giving you information about the cache in Samarsskaya.”
“You mean selling me that information.”
Popov shot him an oily smile. “We’ve known each other for a lot of years, Poli, but business is business and helping you smuggle nuclear materiel out of Russia, well let’s just say my conscience needed a little help accepting it. In truth I wouldn’t have given that information to anyone but you, because I know you couldn’t let these crazy bastards do anything to us.”
It sounded like a question to Poli. In truth he had just a vague notion of what the people paying him were going to do with the plutonium, and given the amount of money he’d receive, he really didn’t care. He doubted the little village in Bulgaria he planned to return to was a terrorist target, so nothing they did would affect him personally. Let them nuke the States and then face her wrath. It wasn’t his problem anymore. “What about Mercer and the other survivors at the mine?” he asked.
“Federov reports directly to me. I am supposed to be there tomorrow when the real train arrives. I will tell the engineer and his crew that Federov needs more time. They’ll be isolated for a few days at least.”
“Good.” Feines considered driving back up there with a sniper rifle and at least killing Philip Mercer, but he didn’t want to rush his hunt. He would make certain he and Mercer met soon enough.
Popov motioned for the other man to join them. “I don’t believe you two have actually been introduced formally. Poli Feines, may I present the deputy oil minister of Saudi Arabia, currently stationed at the United Nations overseeing charitable contributions from the cartel, Mohammad bin Al-Salibi, your employer.”
Al-Salibi shook Feines’s hand but there was a cold reserve behind his handsome face. “I understand that you ran into a setback.” He spoke with a slight British accent from having prepped and gone to university in England.
“Philip Mercer.”
“Not the Janissaries this time.”
“No, it was Mercer.”
“Resourceful man.”
“A man on borrowed time.”
“He’s not a priority to me,” the Saudi ambassador said.
“This is personal,” Poli snarled.
“Let’s go into the office,” Popov suggested. “A little coffee is in order, I think.”
The fish processing plant’s office was as unkempt as the plant itself. It stank of fish oil, and the furniture in the reception area was stained from years of supporting the backsides of dirty fishermen. Popov got the coffee machine brewing and poured when it was ready.
“How much ore do you have?” Al-Salibi asked.
“There are two barrels in the back of the UAZ. I estimate about a thousand pounds’ worth.”
“For curiosity’s sake how much was at the mine depot?”
“Tons of it. We loaded sixty-eight barrels onto the train before Mercer showed.”
A wistful look crossed the ambassador’s face as he considered what could be done with such a deadly cache.
Even for a stone killer like Poli Feines the look was disquieting. “That fishing boat out there,” he said just to cut the eerie silence, “is that the one they are going to use?”
“Yes. It was stolen a week ago in Albania. Her name’s been changed of course so she’s completely untraceable.”
“And your crew?”
“Are ready to travel to Turkey and are most eager to martyr themselves.”
After the fire had died down some Mercer and Cali checked the wreckage for survivors, first tying strips of cloth over their noses and mouths in case any of the barrels had ruptured. Neither was surprised that no one had survived the crash and subsequent explosion, but both were relieved that the barrels they could see in the twisted pile of railcars remained intact.
