“NUCLEAR WEAPONS CAN be detonated using two different methods: ground burst and air burst. Hiroshima and Nagasaki were both air burst detonations. Their energy was more evenly distributed over a wider plot of ground. To kill the most people beneath it. However …” The retired US Army Lieutenant General “Red” Doyle paused, frowned, and continued. “Ground bursts are recommended when contamination by nuclear fallout is warranted. They are much more deadly. They can suck up enormous amounts of dust in their cloud and disperse it contaminated with alpha particles over many times the area of an air burst ignition.”
Portier sat at his desk with the Alps on the horizon in the window behind him. It was a beautiful day, blue-skied and sunny, the first real spring weather they’d had. It didn’t show on his expression, since he was in a foul mood. Urinating had become his Armageddon.
“Give me an example of the most destructive scenario of a single detonation, and then the least,” he said wearily.
“Most destructive?” Doyle took a moment. “FEMA believes the most destructive would be a single ground burst to Nebraska.”
“To take out missiles?”
“God no. A megaton ground burst to the most fertile part of the Great Plains would be a holocaust. Minimum effort, maximum effect. It would destroy America.”
“Why?” Portier asked.
“The radioactivity from the dust cloud would disperse and contaminate the US’s most vital food source—the Great Plains—not to mention Canada’s.”
“But surely that would dissipate. Look at Fukushima—”
“It wouldn’t be in the ocean to dissipate. It would be in the air. Alpha particles everywhere.”
“But what if Washington was hit—”
“It is a quaint notion to worry about military bases and cities being nuked. If they really want to destroy the US, take out the farms in a ground burst and pfffst! America being a superpower is gone. Not only would the famine adversely affect the US, but grain imports to Russia, China, and India would cease. Best estimates are that a billion people would starve worldwide.” He shook his head. “No. Cities, missiles, a government, can all be refashioned and cobbled together. Surprisingly in a hurry. But the ability to feed ourselves? Americans can’t eat iPhones. No matter how much the USA prides itself on technology and its economy, food is the linchpin. Otherwise the US just becomes Singapore, an island nation beholden to everybody and anybody to send them rice.”
“I still don’t understand. Nagasaki and Hiroshima have been occupied for decades with no radioactivity—”
“Yes. But again, air burst. Little Boy was detonated two thousand feet above Hiroshima. Therefore, limited alpha particle ingestion. No, what you don’t understand is there are lots of different kinds of radiation. You can play with plutonium pellets with your bare hands if you like, not that risky. Alpha radiation is so weak it cannot penetrate a sheet of paper, let alone your skin. But ingest it? Just look up the pictures of the radium girls. They painted radialluminescent paint on watch faces in the 1920s, and were instructed to point their brushes with their mouths. You do not want to die of radium eating out your bones. The alpha particles from a ground-burst detonation would be scattered across almost every food source. The food supply would be either tainted and have to be destroyed, or worse, it would be suspect, perhaps forever. No, that is what would destroy the US.”
“Mmmm.” Portier took the news with an inscrutable expression. “What is the least damaging scenario?”
“Air burst over a relatively arid, non-populated area. The Gobi Desert, Siberia, some place like that.”
“Air burst or ground burst—are the bombs different?”
“Not at all. In fact, they are the same. The only difference is in the timer. Does it detonate early, while still in the air? Or do they allow the bomb explosives to detonate on impact, then triggering the nuclear reaction, kicking up the dust?”
“So, if I had a bomb, any bomb, I would be the one to choose how it is used?” Portier looked interested now.
“Exactly,” said Red Doyle.
Portier contemplated this for a moment before saying, “I meant to congratulate you on your appointment. The President is getting a true patriot in his new cabinet.”
Doyle nodded. “But we aren’t going to tell him about this consult, are we? With all the problems on the staff with the Foreign Agents Registration Act, the last thing I need is for them to think I’m working outside the office.”
“Our relationship predates your appointment,” said Portier.
“Yes, but the libtards would have a field day if they got a whiff of impropriety.”
“Yes, the … libtards.” Portier smiled. Like he gave a shit.
“The bastards whine very loudly. Then hand over all their rights. I swear it’s a mental disease,” Doyle said with disgust.
“We want good relationships, General. With you and the rest of the incoming cabinet.”
The general smiled. “You have quite an operation here, sir. When I was at Blackwater, we had the luxury of openly admiring you.”
“I understand the constraints now. We will keep our secrets. After all, it’s what we do,” Portier offered.
“Yes. It’s what we do,” Doyle repeated, toasting him with his snifter of Henri IV cognac.
Kronbauer looked up expectantly. He sat in the Arema Cafe on the Birkenstrasse in Moabit, a nice little island of old-school refuge in the bustle of modern Berlin. The cafe was a butcher shop from the 1800s and now was a jewel of original art nouveau tile.
Stag sat down at the table.
“I don’t have much time,” Kronbauer said, looking at his watch.
Stag looked around. Kronbauer was too dressed up and fussy for the casual cafe, but it was the perfect place to meet. It was unlikely any of his rich cronies would happen in on them. It was this or stand on the street eating Döner Kebab.
“I was surprised you called me back. I don’t take you for a spy,” Stag said.
“By default, everyone who works with Tarnhelm is a spy,” Kronbauer answered.
“Yeah. I got that.” Which was why Dedman had the apartment in Sony Center and why he refrained from inviting Jake to their meeting. Tarnhelm didn’t need to know about him. He’d been pretty scrupulous in making sure there was no connection between them for Tarnhelm to sniff out. He didn’t want Jake to go the way of Harry. Ice and Micotil made a hellacious cocktail.
“Mr. Maguire, I am taking a chance meeting with you. Not only do I value my job, but my neck as well.”
“I think they’ve got a bomb. A really bad bomb.”
Kronbauer looked unsurprised. “Certainly, they protect that apartment as if it held the Holy Grail.”
“They will sell it to the highest bidder. Unlikely anyone will bother detonating it in Berlin—”
“My son is a lobbyist for Krupp in Washington, DC.”
Stag suddenly knew where Kronbauer’s disjointed loyalties came from.
“We’re all kind of spread out these days, aren’t we? Hard to decide what place to protect and what to let go.”
“I don’t get involved in the workings of Tarnhelm. But that apartment … Well, it has me worried.”
“I need to get back inside of it. There’s something I’m missing there. If I could figure out what, I think I could solve this whole problem.” Stag silenced as the waitress came with their drinks. When she left, he said, “I’d like to know the history of the place.”
Kronbauer frowned. “There actually isn’t much to tell. My family’s been maintaining it with the Dresdenhof since before the war. The only one who had any real experience with the occupants was my grandfather. He’d met the woman in the portrait.”
“Isolda Varrick?”
“Yes. But as I’m sure you know, the apartment didn’t actually belong to her. It was Heydrich’s. He kept her, you see.”
“Yes.”
“There are only two things I know about the last days of the occupants. My grandfather spoke of these stories in hushed tones with the promise they were not to be repeated. He was very loyal, you see. SD himself. Quite patriotic.”
Stag nodded.
“My grandfather had a bit of a crush on Isolda, I believe. As a child, I can remember accompanying him on his inspections of the apartment. He would stand very still, for long moments, and stare at her portrait. Sometimes, I think there were tears in his eyes.
“The only thing I ever heard about her at all was that, one day, she went up to the apartment after greeting my grandfather at the concierge with mausebär, her little endearment for him—he loved the silly name because he was so smitten with her.”
Kronbauer paused for effect. “She never came back down.”
Stag wasn’t exactly shocked by the revelation. It could mean anything really. Where the SD was involved, people just disappeared. Nacht und nabel.
“The other story he told me concerned the mirror. When Heydrich had placed the empty apartment in his trust, he walked through it with my grandfather, pointing out how everything must be exactly maintained. Then he did the most unsettling thing. Heydrich caught the reflection of the portrait in the mirror that hung opposite. He stared into the mirror for a very long time. Then, in a rage, he drew his pistol, and fired the shot that shattered it.”
The waitress returned to ask if they needed anything. Kronbauer politely waved her away. When she was gone, he leaned in and said, “The thing that got to my grandfather, you see, wasn’t that he had to maintain the apartment, nor was it that he could never figure out what had happened to its occupant. I think deep down he half-dreamed Isolda Varrick would show up again, and be pleased her apartment was well cared for, and call him mausebär.
“No, the thing that ultimately placed a wedge between my grandfather and his patriotism to the SD was Heydrich’s behavior. He was never sure if Heydrich was unhinged by the image of Isolda—or the image of himself.”