Eight men gathered around a table in the back room of a tavern in a village outside of Paris. On the table in front of them was a large serving bowl with fish soup. The heavy smell permeated the room. They spoke in hushed tones.
“Can you do it?” one asked. He directed his query to a slight man who sat at their center.
“It’s already done,” the man replied. “I made a few calls. Soviet security is incredibly weak on its nuclear stockpiles these days, and the black market is active. I’m not saying it was easy, but I managed to get enough of what I needed to do the job.”
The men peered at him wide-eyed, almost fearful. “How soon can you have it ready?” one asked.
“I’ve been working on the design for months,” he replied, “and I constructed the bomb over the last few weeks. All I needed was the nuclear material, and now that I have it, I’ll finish within three days.”
The room was deathly quiet as each man contemplated the implications. Then they murmured among themselves. “Is this something we should be doing?” one asked.
“Of course it is,” another responded harshly. “The Soviets have ground us under their jackboots for seven decades. This is a chance to bring them down, and we’ll probably never get another one.”
“Or we could start a nuclear war that will kill everyone,” another retorted.
“It won’t come to that,” the bomb-maker interjected. “This is a very small bomb, and the intent is to use it for blackmail.”
“You say that,” another broke in, “but both superpowers are ready to strike back. If Moscow thinks the US is involved, it’s all over. And how much do you know about this distant cousin of yours, this Yermolov? Just a few months ago you didn’t even know he existed.”
“That’s not quite true,” the old man replied. “Rasputin left several illegitimate children around. We had heard rumors of Yermolov, but until he appeared, we had no means of confirming his existence. He provided impressive documentation.”
“You know Aleksey won’t go for this,” another chimed in. “He’s not an active follower of Rasputin despite having served him, and he owns the cabins and cars that Yermolov and his men are using.”
“Then we’ll just have to make sure Aleksey doesn’t know,” the bomb-maker replied. His voice took on a bitter note. “Look, we’re all here because we were driven from our homes by this Soviet monstrosity. I saw Stalin’s goons kill my parents in the Ukraine. We’ve lived our entire lives in exile because Germany sent Lenin to Moscow to keep Russia out of World War I. This is the first and maybe only chance we’ll ever have to strike back, and I’m not going to pass it up.”
“You’re a nuclear physicist,” another broke in. “How certain are you that this thing won’t go off accidentally?”
“It could,” came the grim reply. “None of Yermolov’s men will know of its existence. It has some fail-safe mechanisms to prevent disarming it once it’s set. That’s so Yermolov can activate it remotely. But if someone finds it…” He shrugged. “I’ll give it to Yermolov as soon as I finish it.”
***
“Sir, you’d better see this.”
Noting the urgency in his voice, Burly crossed his thrown-together headquarters in the basement of the White House. Computers and communications equipment lined the walls, and a team of people sat at monitors. His home phone had been forwarded.
The man who had spoken handed Burly several pages. “We just got this from NSA, the section that monitors commo between the Soviets and western Europe,” he said. “A few days ago, they started catching telephone conversations between Paris and an area near a Soviet nuclear weapons depot. Look at this.” He indicated highlighted text on the page.
Burly scanned through the pages. When he looked up, the blood had drained from his face. “Call the national security adviser,” he ordered as he headed for the door. “Tell him I’m on my way.” When he arrived, he barged directly into the adviser’s office. “Sir,” he said, “Yermolov might already have a nuclear bomb.”