fed the floating terminal structure were sheared off and crude began to erupt through the surface of the bay in great reeking clots.
The fireball rising in the middle of the harbor seemed to rival the sun climbing over the Caucasus. It topped out at four thousand feet, a roiling column of fire and smoke that resembled a nuclear detonation. As the explosive force dissipated, the ocean surged back into the void the blast had gouged in the water. The torrent created by the backflow ripped floating docks from their moorings, swamping pleasure craft and small fishing smacks in the process. A bulk carrier leaving the port was dragged back a hundred yards by the surge and slammed into another big freighter entering the harbor. Both vessels were holed and started taking on water.
The echoing roar of the explosion faded, leaving in its wake the angry shriek of thousands of car alarms.
And under the surface of the churned waters of the bay two containers that had fallen from the deck of the fishing boat lay silent, their tough metal hides dented, as they’d been tossed like leaves in a maelstrom, but they had not been breached. They had come to rest close enough for the plutonium in one container to begin calling to the material in the other like a separated lover. It would take time, but the increasing exchange of charged particles would go critical and their bond would be consummated in a blast more deadly than the one that had just destroyed the harbor.
“What happened?” Mercer asked as Devrin and Ahmad continued to speak in rapid-fire Turkish.
“An explosion in Novorossiysk.”
“That’s the oil port you just mentioned,” Cali said.
“How bad?”
“Reports are just coming in now. They say the harbor was leveled. There are ships on fire and many buildings too. The media estimates the death toll in the thousands. Some eyewitnesses claim it was a small nuclear blast.”
“Poli couldn’t have refined the plutonium to make a bomb that quickly. If anything it’s a dirty bomb.”
“Which is just as bad,” Cali remarked. “And spreading plutonium dust over the sea will make cleanup virtually impossible. It will be decades before the area could be rendered safe, if it’s possible at all.”
“We have to tell the authorities about the plutonium,” Mercer said, thinking through the logical steps the Russians would be taking. The harbor would be jammed with rescue personnel, firefighters, and medical teams. They’d be running into an invisible cloud of highly charged plutonium atoms. Inhaling just a tiny amount of the radioactive dust would cause cancers of unspeakable intensity. “They have to evacuate the city as soon as possible.”
Ahmad said something to Devrin and the college student handed Mercer his satellite phone. “I do not know who to talk with to get the Russians to evacuate a city,” Ahmad added.
Mercer checked the phone, waiting a second for it to make a link with an orbiting satellite. He dialed Ira Lasko’s direct office number. Ira’s secretary answered.
“Carol, it’s Philip Mercer. I need to speak with Ira right away.”
“I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting with the President and the national security team. I assume you’ve heard what happened in Russia. Can I take a message?”
“I have some critical information about the explosion. You’ve got to get Ira for me.”
“They should be done in an hour or so. I can have him call you.”
“I’m on a satellite phone and I may lose the connection any second,” he said, keeping a tight rein on his exasperation. “I know you’re used to dealing with crises but unless you get him for me, thousands of people are going to die a horrible death.”
A few seconds passed, the phone buzzing in Mercer’s ear. “Give me a minute to transfer you to the situation room.”
She transferred Mercer to a Marine colonel stationed outside the situation room buried deep under the White House. Mercer had only to say the words “dirty bomb” for the colonel to step into the inner sanctum and bring Ira Lasko to the phone.
“What’s this, Mercer?” he asked gruffly.
“We’re too late. I stopped Feines from getting the bulk of the plutonium but he managed to make off with two barrels; I estimate about a thousand pounds’ worth of the ore. I believe it was in Novorossiysk.”
“Any proof?”
“Not a shred, but Feines steals two barrels of plutonium and twenty-four hours later a city within driving distance gets leveled. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“We’ve already been in touch with the Russkies. My buddy Greg Popov is apoplectic that extremists would pull something like this but he says they’ve already swept the harbor with Geiger counters and gamma ray detectors. The site’s clean.”
That wasn’t what Mercer had expected. “It has to be there. Maybe the drums didn’t rupture or maybe their equipment’s bad but I know it was there.” He thought for a second. “How did they do it? The explosion I mean.”
“Greg tells me it was a fishing boat loaded with explosives, amfo most likely. Ammonium nitrate and fuel oil. They were approaching the tanker side of the harbor when they were spotted by harbor patrol. Last transmission from the patrol guys said the boat was turning away and throwing away contraband. A minute later it went up and leveled about two square miles.”
“Ira, the contraband was the barrels. I bet they rolled off the deck when they turned the boat. Go over Popov’s head if you have to.”
“I almost had to when I talked to him about the plutonium in the first place. I told you he’s a cagey operator.”
Something in the way he said it gave Mercer an idea. What was it Ahmad had suggested earlier, “Be more cynical than you usually are.” That cynicism had been born of grief but Mercer could use it. He spoke even as the idea coalesced in his mind. “The explosion happened this morning, right? It takes hours to begin any kind of relief operation and your guy Popov says they’ve already scanned for nuclear materials so fast. Is that standard operating procedure?”
“I really don’t know,” Ira replied warily. “What are you getting at?”
“You told me that the Russians didn’t even know they still had this plutonium until you called them on it. Then two days later Feines shows up just before we arrive. He’s got RPGs capable of bringing down a chopper and enough firepower to hold off an army. What if Popov tipped him?”
“And let Feines nuke one of Russia’s most important ports? The guy’s cagey, not insane.”
“Ira, I have it on good authority that a faction inside Saudi Arabia’s behind the whole thing in a bid to prevent Caspian oil from cutting into their bottom line. What if Popov was told they were going to hit the other big oil terminal in Turkey? He wouldn’t have cared less. It would actually help Russia by eliminating competition.”
“Only he was double-crossed?”
“I just remembered he was supposed to be coming to the mine today. What was he doing in Novorossiysk anyway?”
“He did mention he’d been there since yesterday.”
“Hold on a second.” Mercer strode across the camp to where Sasha Federov was chatting with the pilot. “Sasha, can you think of any reason Grigori Popov could have gone to Novorossiysk last night?”
The soldier looked confused by the question. “Novo? I don’t know why he would be there. He was supposed to land in Samara last night so he could follow the train. Which is late, by the way.”
Mercer thanked him and spoke to Ira once again. “Popov should have been in Samara, not on the Black Sea. Ask yourself, do you think he’s capable of helping Feines if he thought the plutonium would be used outside Russia?” Ira didn’t answer for a long moment, which told Mercer everything he needed to know. “Go over his head, Ira. He’s stalling so he can recover the drums, get them back up here, and sweep this whole thing under the rug.”
“I hate to say it, but it’s possible.”
“Remember Ibriham Ahmad, the Turkish professor I’ve been trying to reach. He’s here with me right now. Turns out he also heads the Janissaries, but the important thing is that we stop fundamentalists from taking credit for the blast and inspiring others in the region from taking up the fight. This shit feeds on itself. If we stop it now, it’s going to save us a whole lot of problems in the future.”
