CHECHNYA
The mosque was a humble one, erected by traders more than a thousand years before. Its walls had seen the rise and fall of many fortunes; the trade route that once passed within sight of the spiraling minaret was long forgotten. Holes pockmarked the walls inside and out; the air within was stale, as if the building were afraid to expel the breath of its ghosts. But for Samman Bin Saqr the mosque was as treasured as any in his native Yemen—all the more so for the fact that it was considerably safer.
The man before him had interrupted his meditation to tell him that it was the Americans who had kidnapped Muhammad al Aberrchmof, known to them by the nom de guerre of Kiro. In some ways this was a relief—Kiro had seen himself as something of a rival, and Samman Bin Saqr had evidence that he was plotting to siphon off some of his material to use on his own.
Kiro, perhaps under the influence of his new Chechen friends, had been interested in cesium 137. Samman Bin Saqr had good stores of this gamma-ray-producing material, amounting to well over fifty pounds more than he actually needed. The waste was one of several used in many medical
applications and particularly easy to obtain; had the circumstance been right, Samman Bin Saqr would have given Kiro some for his own use.
But the circumstances were not right; Kiro was not a stable man, as his sudden devotion to the Chechen cause proved without a doubt. His recent inquiries—Bin Saqr had learned that he had gone so far as to send a messenger to speak to a man who had plotted against the Russians with a similar bomb in the 1990s—had alarmed the Russians, who quite properly feared that their capital would be targeted. They had arrested the messenger; surely Kiro had survived only by bribery.
Samman Bin Saqr closed his eyes, trying to guage the effect of Kiro’s capture. He had been careful to limit his access to information, but the Americans might yet stumble on something that would lead to him.
No. Allah would not allow it. Still, the timetable must be moved up, even if it meant the mix of waste would not be optimum. Imperfection on this round would give him something to improve for the next.
Bin Saqr’s inspiration had been to mix waste containing high-alpha radiation—obtained primarily from radioactive control rods and, in two cases, a very small amount of spent uranium fuel—with gamma-producing materials. The idea was to present the American Satan with a panoply of threats—short- and long-term. When his device exploded, the highly radioactive alpha-producing particles would be pulverized, entering the lungs of all those within a mile or more radius. Some would die immediately; others would linger in their illness.
The gamma waves would do their duty more slowly, seeping into their bodies and causing leukemia and other cancers over five or ten or fifteen years—his legacy to the future.
How many people would die? The scientists he had consulted could not agree. There was no model for such an event. It might only be a few hundred, and most of these by the explosive force needed to shatter and spread the waste material.
Or it might be millions. There was no way of knowing.
What he did know was that the effect would be deep and lasting fear. And Islam would be one step closer to the necessary final confrontation.
There were many things to be done yet, adjustments to be made to assure success. But he was sure that he could accomplish them; so much else had been done in so short a time.
“Honored one?” asked the messenger, waiting to see if there was an answer. Samman Bin Saqr had forgotten him temporarily.
“I will return immediately. Send word to proceed expeditiously,” he said. Then he closed his eyes once more, picturing before him the delicious image of the American paradise in ghostly ruins.