ABDULLAH STARED AT THE CEILING of his downstairs bedroom. The revelation that Bashir shared communications between himself and Caliph Abd al-Ghayb in Rome made his muscles tighten. He felt anger because his importance became weakened by Bashir's involvement. He, the Sword, no longer was the sole warrior for Islam's advancement. With an inferior acolyte, he must share the glory and recognition that will flow from his accomplishments. This lesser man will stand in my shadow. A shadow cast by the bright light of my heroic deeds.
He ran his hands through his hair. As much as he loathed to admit it, Bashir's intervention served a useful purpose. This insignificant person, who now sleeps on the sofa of his living room, will act as a shield against those who would do him harm. The American dogs would rip Bashir apart while The Sword stayed free.
Other members of the team also contributed to his sleepless night. The substitute translator, Rashid al Youris, who appeared to be a trustworthy replacement, still made him uneasy. But Youris didn't trouble him as much as the Russian. The pompous Alexander Kosloff, irritated him by his appearance and his manner. Sleep finally came to Abdullah in fitful periods of shallow rest and troubled dreams.
THE NEXT MORNING Bashir awoke refreshed and ready to begin his day of work. The house remained quiet as he set about preparing to cook a fine breakfast for the guests and Abdullah. He needed some items from one of the cargo carriers mounted outside. Slipping out of the house into the morning light, he opened the rear door of the car and reached for the roof container. He found several kitchen utensils and a canister of baking flour. As he closed the container he noticed a white vehicle parked across the highway in a grove of trees. It seemed like an odd place to park, since there was nothing around it: no pump jacks humming, no storage tanks or oil field equipment nearby. Probably lovers hiding their sins.
Last night he had parked in front of the house without thinking how visible the Suburban might be in the daylight. He entered the car, started the engine, and moved it further down the side of the house. Bashir noticed an old car parked in the backyard, which he assumed belonged to Abdullah. He returned to the kitchen and his breakfast preparation duties.
RASHID AND KASSAR Suri came downstairs at a quarter past nine o'clock. The smell of fresh bread baking in the kitchen perked up their appetites as they waited for the others to join them. At half past the hour Abdullah arrived a bit blurry eyed and unshaven. "Where's the Russian?" Rashid said that Alexander was still snoring when they came down earlier. "Well, we can't wait for him all-day. Someone needs to wake him."
An hour later the Russian descended the stairs, dressed in a dark blue silk suit and carrying his oversized briefcase. Light bounced off his polished shoes. "I'm ready for breakfast," he said in broken English. Rashid crooked his head to the side and wondered if Kosloff had understood their conversations last night. As if reading his mind, he said to Rashid in his native tongue, "I only speak a few phrases in English. Your job is secure."
Bashir had set the dining room table for what would now be a late morning breakfast. He began bringing out plates of food. He set before them a choice of pan-fried or fresh baked Pita bread. Then he arrived with bowls of black and green olives, turnips, pickles, tomato wedges, and hard-boiled eggs that prompted words of praise. White cheese made from goat's milk and fresh jams complemented this Middle Eastern feast. To satisfy the Russian, a generous serving of chicken Shawanna was placed in front of him. "What is this," he asked. Rashid explained that it’s an Arabian sandwich–Pita bread filled with meat–rarely served for breakfast in the Arab world, but prepared for him on this special occasion. Wearing a pleased expression Kosloff caught Bashir's eye, and bowed his head.
The small talk during breakfast consisted mostly of comments on how difficult it must be to set a civilized table in the land of fast-food and endless frozen meals in a box. When breakfast ended, everyone complimented Bashir on his culinary skills. "Wait until dinner," he said with a flicker of a smile, something he rarely showed.
Abdullah, appeared annoyed by Bashir's morning success. "It is time we conduct the business that brings us all together."
Alexander Kosloff removed his coat and carefully draped it over the chair at the head of the table. Pointing to Abdullah he commanded, "Produce the nuclear device." Rashid dutifully translated, softening the tone and sometimes the words.
Abdullah opened the dining room buffet and lifted the lead container onto the table. In silence, everyone stared at the somber gray box. Kassar Suri, the weapons specialist from Pakistan, sat at one long side of the table. Abdullah sat across from him. Rashid, at the end of the table, sat opposite the Russian. Bashir lingered in the background.
Rashid translated during the meeting as needed.
Kosloff unlocked his briefcase, withdrew a small black battery-powered appliance and reached for the lead box. "As you may have noticed, this box lacks a handle or a lock. There is a purpose for this design. Only someone with a coded device like this one," he showed the black appliance, "can open this box without destroying its contents. It will self-destruct if opened with force." The Russian inserted the appliance into the connector hidden under the small hinged cover on the side. He flipped a switch and the lid snapped up. He lifted the lid and set it aside. Everyone peered into the opening. The Russian laughed. "What do you expect, a Genie to jump out?"
Inside, a black metal box sat suspended on a bed of a dense gelatin. The same substance coated the inside of the lid. Kassar Suri, the weapons specialist from Pakistan, placed his hands on either side of the black box. "Gentlemen, you are about to inspect one of an estimated 250 Soviet made nuclear weapons designed in the Sixties. The USSR intended this to be a tactical weapon for use on a battlefield. Not a strategic weapon designed for large populations such as Boston or New York. This weapon can level a small city or inflict limited damage to a larger metropolitan area. The device, designated as a RA-115-01, was built in the late Seventies. It's one of almost a hundred that fell into private hands when the Soviet Union dissolved and the Cold War ended. No one knows how many of these bombs have survived. Many assume they are no longer operational. Of course officially they don't exist."
Abdullah hesitated to touch the black box. "Are we exposed to radiation?"
Perplexed, Kassar said, "Of course, but only a low dose, no more than you would experience from several X-rays." He lifted the lid of the black box and displayed the internal workings of the bomb. "Plutonium 239 is the neutron acceptor in this bomb. The construction of this bomb is quite simple." he pointed to various parts. "This is a long life battery. The system will fail if the electric charge is lost." With admiration in his voice he stated, "Alexander Kosloff has, shall we say, nurtured this device for many years so it remains in working order."
The Russian withdrew a charger out of his briefcase and attached wires to the battery. He handed the plug to Bashir.
Kassar continued. "This is a pure fission weapon using a gun-type assembly. Upon detonation a high explosive charge forces a bullet of Pu-239 down a tube and into a Plutonium target. You will note two neutron generators astride the tube. They serve as linear particle accelerators. The space between the bullet and the target is filled with gases that, when electrically charged, create hydrogen ions, which result in critical mass when the atoms of Pu-239 collide. This in turn causes nuclear fission–an explosion."
Struggling with the technical jargon, Rashid translated Kassar’s explanation. Abdullah nodded his head to show he understood. The Russian appeared bored.
Abdullah found the technical description academic, and not useful. His interest lay in how to blow the damn thing up in a controlled way. "How do you trigger the bomb?"
"Yes, of course," responded Kassar. "Setting the bomb off is a two-step process. First arm it, then detonate it. You will notice this switch." He pointed to a red button on top of a stainless steel box in the corner of the unit. "Pressing this will arm the bomb," he said as he pushed down on the button. Abdullah, Rashid and Bashir uttered a sound of surprised shock and pulled back. A red light blinked next to the button. Amused by their reaction, Kassar grinned with satisfaction. "Don’t be frightened. As I said a detonator must be added before the device will fire."
After a few moments, Abdullah lashed out at Kassar. “This demonstration is not entertaining. This is serious business, and is not a matter for theatrics."
"Forgive me, I didn't mean to frighten you," lied Kassar, still entertained by Abdullah's concerned expression. "The detonator is missing. A simple and effective precaution against a nuclear accident."
Rashid hastily translated as he, Abdullah and Bashir composed themselves. Bashir asked the obvious question, "Where is the detonator?"
The Russian stood. "I have it." He reached into his briefcase and took out two pieces of equipment, both slightly larger than a man's fist. He placed them side by side on the table.
Kassar thanked him. "If this bomb should fall into the hands of the enemy, it would be useless to them without these accessories." He positioned the detonators in front of him, then cleared his throat and straightened himself. "So far we have talked only of the mechanics of this weapon. We have not explored the effects the explosion will produce." He paused as if gathering his thoughts. “Explosive blast, ionized radiation, thermal radiation, and radioactive fallout are the four significant results from a detonation. Anyone living in this nuclear age should be familiar with these effects. I will not go into details." He checked the room, but no one asked questions. "The intensity of these effects are influenced by the manner in which detonation is delivered." He stopped and looked intently at Abdullah. "I must stress it is highly influenced by where detonation takes place."
Everyone turned to Abdullah, who felt he had become the center of attention, but didn't know why. He glanced from face-to-face and then responded to Kassar. "Are you making a point of some kind?"
Kasloff, the Russian, stood and addressed Abdullah. Rashid quickly translated between pauses. "You have told your handlers in Rome that you intend to attack a crowd of spectators in a small stadium not far from here in Mexico." Rashid corrected the Russian by saying New Mexico. "Yes, I mean New Mexico. You have estimated in your reports the maximum damage to life would not exceed thirty thousand Americans, and could be far fewer. Your plan," he continued, "is to hide this weapon somewhere in the stadium at ground level and explode it remotely when you are at a safe distance." The Russian stressed the words ‘safe distance.’ Rashid repeated what he said word for word.
Abdullah, his heart pounding, stood and faced the Russian, an aging hulk that he regarded with less respect than a pile of camel dung. "May Allah the Bringer of Death, damn you for your impudence!" Abdullah advanced on the Russian. "My plan is not made in haste. I have created a plan to uphold the values of my faith and the moral codes of Islam. Something a nonbeliever such as yourself cannot grasp–much less respect."
Rashid softened the translation to avoid further confrontation, almost to the point of misrepresentation. Bashir regarded Rashid with disapproval.
Kosloff pulled back, surprised at the ferocity of this verbal counterattack. Then he fired back, "I speak the truth as I have learned from your masters, who do not agree with you." With a curled lip he leaned forward, "Explain the merits of your strategy."
Abdullah, his hands still trembling with rage, moved away from his opponent. "I do not answer to you, but for the benefit of the others, I will put to rest your accusations." He turned to Kassar, Rashid and Bashir. "I have studied this opportunity to punish the Americans for their meddling in our affairs. I have determined I must get their attention without forcing them to bloody Islam with their great military power, which is known to be vast and invincible. Their stockpile of nuclear weapons would easily annihilate the Muslim world. No, this must be a measured attack. I have selected a target that not only reduces the possibility of killing Muslims who live in America, but avoids the slaughter of children within the age of innocence. My target includes Americans of ethnic diversity, mostly the young and the able bodied. This fool," pointing to the Russian, "would relish a holy war of worldwide proportions. He would become richer for it." The translation in both Russian and Urdu took several minutes. No one spoke when Rashid finished. The Russian shrugged his shoulders, turned away and sat down.
Looks were exchanged around the table. Finally, Kassar resumed the briefing. "If I understand this discussion, we have two scenarios to consider: limited impact versus maximum impact. Fortunately, detonators exist for either choice. In my right hand I hold a detonator that incorporates a radar altimeter to measure the height of an aircraft above ground. This altimeter is programmed in a special way. First the plane must arrive at an altitude greater than one thousand feet to activate it. When the aircraft descends below 500 feet the bomb will detonate. Five hundred feet is the correct distance above ground if the greatest effect is to be achieved. Once armed, it cannot be disarmed." Kassar paused a moment. "In my left hand, I hold a detonator that may be activated at any chosen time by a remote signal, produced by a cell phone. Entering a coded sequence of numbers is all it takes. Obviously this would be used for a ground-level explosion." He summed up. "In both cases, arming the bomb must be done manually, that is to say, by a human being."
No one spoke after the translation.
The Russian closed his oversized briefcase and placed in on the floor. "I will leave these accessories. How you use them is not my decision. I have met my obligations to the deal." He folded his hands behind his back.
Abdullah demanded further training in the proper procedures for attaching the detonators. He took notes, as Kassar explained the fine points. When the briefing ended and Rashid no longer needed to translate, he asked to be excused, explaining he needed a trip to the bathroom. Abdullah waved him off.
RASHID PUSHED HIS chair back and left the dining room. He climbed the stairs and headed for the bathroom that served both second floor bedrooms. He shut the door and quickly reached down and pulled his pant leg up, retrieving a compact phone. He quickly tapped in a number, and then a short text message. As he finished he heard someone stumping up the stairs. Bashir knocked on the door. "Don't you know there is a bathroom downstairs?" He asked in a loud voice. Rashid lifted the toilet tank top and dropped his phone in the water, then carefully replaced the top and flushed the toilet.
"Of course I know," he answered opening the door, "but what if someone else needs the facilities? We can't all fit in the same bathroom, now can we?" Bashir, wearing a pair of binoculars around his neck, peeked over his shoulder into the bathroom. "If you need to go, Bashir, help yourself. I'm done."
ABDULLAH REVIEWED HIS notes. The Russian left the dining room and stepped out on the front porch stretched his body and faced the overcast sky–his eyes closed and his expression blank. Rashid checked to see if anyone needed his services, but Abdullah again waved him off. Rashid flopped down on the sofa, picked out a six-month-old magazine and thumbed through it.
Bashir, after leaving the upstairs bathroom, deposited the binoculars on the dining room table, and joined the group. He eyed his watch, then started for the kitchen to prepare dinner. Everyone agreed they would stay a second night and make arrangements for morning flights out of El Paso.
The Team of Deliverance had met, talked, exchanged views and trained Abdullah in the use of his suitcase nuke. Except for dinner, packing up, and the flight home tomorrow, the day was over. Or was it?