9

BANDAR’ABBAS, IRAN

The tracks leading to two of the three railroad yards Ferg wanted to look at were ripped up and missing in spots, and when the radiation detector didn’t pick up any readings nearby, Ferg decided not to bother with them. The third was located about thirty-five miles northeast of Bandar “Abb as, in a town that wouldn’t have seemed terribly out of place in middle America—once you adjusted for the veils, beards, and minarets.

The rail spur skirted the town; the siding Ferg was interested in sat in a valley at the eastern edge, linking with a large complex of buildings and steel warehouses. Most of the buildings looked dilapidated, but there were two in the center of the complex in good repair.

There were also at least a dozen armed guards.

“What do you think?” Ferg asked Keveh.

The Iranian shook his head. He had no idea what they did inside.

“Why don’t we drive in and see what happens?” Ferg asked.

“They may shoot us.”

“There is that,” said Ferg.

They drove past the road leading to the site, then up around another set of roads that brought them near but not to the train tracks. Ferg and Keveh got out, leaving Conners and the other Iranian with the car. Ferg walked down the siding toward the gated rail entrance to the facility. There were a pair of guards inside the fence about two hundred yards from him; it was impossible to tell whether they were paying attention or not. A boxcar sat on the tracks near one of the dilapidated buildings; there was a tanker car beyond it.

“What if I’m a foreign investor who wants to buy some of the old buildings?” Ferguson suggested to Keveh.

“Very suspicious.” Keveh squinted and shielded his eyes from the rising morning sun.

“Yeah, but will it get me in?”

“Better if I say I’m from the Revolutionary Council at Bandar,” said the Iranian.

“Who am I?”

“A foreign expert on railroads—on steel,” said Keveh. “A Russian. Better from Russia—they won’t be interested.”

“I like that. I always wanted to play with trains.”

An hour later, Ferguson and Keveh drove inside the complex, watched but not stopped by the guards. They’d left the others outside, watching as best they could from the road near the town.

As Keveh circled around toward the two train cars, Ferguson slid out his radiation tester. The tester could record sixteen data points or levels for reference in both REM and Rads, and could detect energy levels down to 1 nR/hr, the low end of normal background radiation. Its isotope identification mode tracked a variety of isotopes stored in its memory, and it could record and retain up to thirty-two bits. (Depending on the type of radiation, REMs and Rads were considered essentially the same measure, indicating how much energy was being absorbed and potential biological damage done. At high alpha levels, however, the Rad measurement was more useful. A REM was equal to .01 sievert.) He had a larger device in his pack that could record becquerels and curies for a hundred data points; this used a gas tube and was bulky, and its precision wasn’t really necessary. (In fact, the difference in measurements were mostly a matter of math. One becquerel represented the disintegration of one nucleus per second. While standards varied wildly, a waste tank might generate one hundred curies, which was 3,700 billion becquerels. The effects of exposure would vary depending on time and distance as well as the nature of the exposure, but a person working in a uranium mine would be “allowed” a safe exposure to 3.7 becquerels per liter of air a month.)

Ferg took the first level as they got out of the car; it was flat. He walked to the tanker, holding the device on the metal skin. The needle didn’t budge, even on its most sensitive setting.

He went to the boxcar—empty—then along the track, stooping at a connection as if he were truly inspecting it. The rail line was very old and not used much, but undoubtedly in good enough shape to handle cars. The building at the left beyond the boxcar had a rail running into it.

“Company,” said Keveh. A small Gator-style AT with two guards had appeared from around the corner of one of the sheds and was heading their way.

“Keep’em busy,” said Ferg.

“What?”

“I have to take a leak,” he said, trotting toward the building.

He pretended to check left and right, then stood next to the side and held out his counter.

Nothing. Ferg pretended to concentrate as Keveh called to him. He held up his hand and waved, as if intent on finding a spot to do his business.

A single window stood at the side of the building near the corner. Ferg glanced back, saw that the guards weren’t following, and walked toward it. He couldn’t see through the dirt on the window, so he walked past, feigning interest in the tracks as he turned the corner of the building.

There were several windows there, the first with a face in it. The face glared at him, its eyes furrowing into its head above a stubby beard. Ferg waved, and held up the radiation meter, as if it were something the face ought to be familiar with. The frown only deepened.

Ferguson moved on to the next window, leaning over and looking through the dirt.

It was some sort of warehouse for DVDs, or maybe a manufacturing operation. There were several piles of boxes near the floor, a woman smiling. He couldn’t read the writing. He pushed his head closer, put his hand up to cut off the glare.

There were different covers, but they all had young women on them.

Good work, he thought to himself; I’ve busted a DVD-pirating operation.

Ferg headed back. As he turned the corner he saw that the guards had become a little more threatening—they had their pistols out. Keveh, his face red, was talking nonstop to one of them, who was shaking his head.

Ferguson shoved his meter in his pocket and walked toward them. He couldn’t understand the particulars, but the gist was fairly clear—the guards didn’t like the fact that they were nosing around. Ferg gave them a long blast in Russian as he approached, asking if they were filming porn inside and, if so, could they take some walk-ons. Fortunately, neither man had a clue what he was saying.

“Counterfeiting DVDs,” he said, in English, to Keveh, encasing the explanation in a sentence of more Russian nonsense.

Keveh gave him a look that didn’t need to be translated. Then the guard issued his own command, gesturing with the gun.

“Guess it’s time to leave,” Ferguson said to Keveh. He took a step back in the direction they had come.

A warning shot in the dirt nearby stopped him.

“Okay,” he said, turning around. “Sprechen sie Deutsch? Parla Italiano? Speak Englishy?”

The guard’s only answer was to raise the barrel of his gun so that the next shot had a reasonable chance of hitting him in the throat.