CHECHNYA, NORTH OF GROZNYY
In 1996, a group of Chechen rebels—or “freedom fighters” in Daruyev’s phrase—planned to blow up a dirty bomb in central Moscow. The operation was doomed from the start—Russian intelligence had infiltrated the guerrilla network. But the project had proceeded to the point of moving approximately one thousand pounds of material into the city. The material had a relatively low alpha value—in other words, it wasn’t very radioactive. But no one exposed to the material itself was expected to die immediately; its primary value was as a weapon of terror. And while the bomb itself was never set off, the simple fact that the Chechens were willing to go to such lengths might have played a role in the Russian government’s decision to halt the offensive there and begin negotiations, even though the takeover of a hospital in Kizlyar in the province of Dagestan was generally credited with forcing their hands.
Daruyev had been one of the people responsible for planning the bomb. Before the war, he had been involved in research for food irradiation, and had spent considerable time in America as well as France studying the problem. He told
Ferguson and Conners that he had originally argued against using such a weapon, though in the end he was as responsible as anyone for its design, as well as for the theft of some of the material used to construct it.
He had also apparently paid a price beyond his arrest and subsequent fifteen-year sentence—he had lung and thyroid cancer.
“The lung cancer, perhaps because I smoke,” he allowed. “But the thyroid cancer, a large dose of radioactivity, surely.”
“What stage?” asked Ferg.
Daruyev shrugged. “It hasn’t been operated on. I can feel the growth with my fingers,” he started to pull up his hand to show them, forgetting that they were in irons.
“If you can feel it, you’re probably pretty far gone,” said Ferguson. The surgeon had shown him how to palpate—the technical term for feel—his own growth before the operation.
“I guess.”
Other rebels knew of the plot, and of Daruyev. From time to time they contacted him. Kiro’s man was only the latest of a long series. Daruyev claimed that he only listened and never offered true advice.
“A man came to me from Bin Saqr more than a year ago. His questions were dangerous ones,” said Daruyev.
“Why?” asked Conners.
“Because he wanted to know if different types of radiation would cancel each other out, as a practical matter.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ferguson.
“They were wondering if in arranging the material a certain pattern should be laid out. They were more concerned about alpha radiation—you understand, alpha particles, as opposed to gamma?”
“Yup,” said Ferguson.
“They were concerned if there might be a cancellation effect when a bomb was exploded.”
“Is there?” asked Ferguson.
“Bah. It was a question designed to see if I would help them, not to elicit a true answer. An imbecile would know there is no such thing.”
Ferguson started to laugh—he had, in a roundabout way, just been called an imbecile.
“Did you help?” asked Conners.
“No. But if they are asking about alpha waste—that is a much more dangerous prospect than what we planned. Allah’s Fist—they are not against the Russians. They want to destroy all infidels, which means you. I would be wary.”
“So why are they in Chechnya?” asked Conners.
“I don’t know that they are.”
“Someone was to talk to you,” said Ferguson. “And what about Kiro?”
Daruyev made a disparaging noise with his mouth, dismissing Kiro. “Chechnya is a perfect place for the misfits of God,” he said. “The Russians control the cities, but the mountains and hills—they cannot be everywhere at once. Even where they do control, you are proof that their level of efficiency is not very high.”
“You speak like a plant manager, you know that?” said Ferg.
“It was another life.”
Conners stopped the truck in the field near the burned-out buildings they had seen on the sat picture. They took the Chechen out and sat him in the back while they looked over the ruins. The cluster of buildings had been burned several years before; there were not only weeds but thick bushes between the ruins.
“Time to call home,” said Ferg. “Find him a good place to sit, then you can take off the hood.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Maybe it’ll inspire him.”
“Or get him more pissed off at the Russians,” said Conners.
“Same thing,” said Ferg. He took one of the AK-47s and walked across the dirt road they’d driven in on, climbing a hill that overlooked the ruins.
“Jack, next time you give me background on something, get it right,” said Ferguson, as soon as Corrigan came on the line.
“What?” said Corrigan.
“That nurse almost got us wasted. I mentioned God, and she dialed up an exorcism.”
“Which? In the prison?”
“No, I had a date this morning,” said Ferguson.
“It’s not like we have unlimited resources,” protested Corrigan. “Besides, I told you I wasn’t one hundred percent sure of—”
“Then don’t give it to me.”
“That level of intelligence,” said Corrigan, remembering the information now. “Shit, Ferg, that was good stuff. When I was in the Army if we had that level of intelligence—”
“You’re not in the Army now, Jack. Intelligence is our middle name, remember?”
“Well, it’s going to improve exponentially from now on. I have a replacement for Lauren. A bit, you know, eccentric, but I think he’s a real home run hitter.”
“Good.”
Ferguson saw light glint off a windshield in the distance. He pulled up his binoculars; it was a Russian troop truck, driving on the road they’d taken.
“All right, listen Corrigan, I’d love to stand around and chat, but I’ve got work to do. Call Van and arrange a pickup for me. I want to get out tonight if we can.”
“No can do,” said Corrigan.
“Why not?”
“You’re in Chechnya.”
“Am I? No shit. I thought I was sitting in Disney World. I’m talking to Mickey Mouse, after all.”
“Working with you’s a barrel of laughs, Ferg.”
“Yeah, well listen, I have to go. See what you can figure out for me, Corrigan.”
“It may take a few days.”
“Pull something together tonight,” he said, snapping off the phone and running down the hill.