"The American colonel is Robert Pierson, a man who speaks directly to their president and I speak to President Putin. The colonel speaks Russian but his fellow does not. I understand you have good English so please use it. As you were told, you have been promised emigration to America, if you wish, if you give us all the information you have about the weapon and those who took it. Alternatively, you will be given money and, if you wish, an honorable discharge from the Russian military and can remain in Russia.

But youmustgive us all the information you have. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Colonel," the private replied. "I will give you all the information I have, freely. And if I may remain in the Motherland I would prefer it."

"This is good," the colonel said, sighing. "Your lieutenant has opted to go to America, but your sergeant also wishes to remain. I am glad for this. So, tell me what you know about the weapon. And take a position of at-ease, if you will."

"It was on the second level below ground," the private said, dropping to something that was more like parade rest. "In a room marked C-142. It was conical shaped, about a meter and a half long and perhaps two thirds of a meter wide at the base. There were no markings on the exterior, but on the base there was a plate, perhaps steel, with a number inscribed. It was corroded," he reached in his breast pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper, "but I could make out the numbers 7493. We moved it up to the upper levels and secured it in a top-side weapons locker. After it was determined to . . ." He paused and swallowed. "Colonel, I argued to turn the weapon over to the government . . ."

"So I have been told," the colonel said, nodding in understanding. "This reflects well upon you. But . . ."

he added, shrugging, "there is great corruption in Russia. And the Red Army is not well paid. This I know and have argued against, for this sort of reason if no other. Do not worry about the decision, just give us the facts."

"Very well, Colonel," the boy replied, swallowing again. "The lieutenant went to town to try to find a buyer for the weapon. While he was gone, two men arrived in a white van, a nine-pa.s.senger Mercedes van with tinted windows. The license plate had been removed. Oleg met them at the gate, as if the meeting had been prearranged, and let them in the compound. Sergeant Fadzaev ordered us to prepare our weapons, but Oleg said that they were potential buyers. They appeared to be unarmed. They were not Russian; they spoke with an accent that . . . well, if I was to guess I'd say Chechen, and Sergeant Fadzaev agreed. They were dark-skinned and had black hair: real black-a.s.ses. They looked at the weapon and told us it was a practice system, that the radiation was from isotopes that were in it to make it seem like a real bomb. They said that they wanted it for the isotopes, since they could be resold, but that it was not worth much.

"We discussed it a long time, everyone was involved. They had brought vodka and we drank, although they did not. They had ten thousand euros with them and most of the platoon thought that since the lieutenant had been gone for almost a week, we should take the money and be done with it. There was . .

. great fear that the government would find out and take it from us, and that we would get in trouble for not having reported it and trying to sell it. Finally, most of the platoon decided that they should sell it for the ten thousand. I and Sergeant Fadzaev disagreed but . . . everyone was armed and we could tell that if we didn't agree to selling it . . . we might be killed. When it was agreed, the weapon was loaded in the back of the van, the men gave us the money and then they left. Oleg went with them. The rest of the platoon became frightened about what might happen if the government found out. I stayed with Sergeant Fadzaev in his quarters, with both of us keeping watch. In the middle of the night, we heard the platoon truck start up and then drive out of the compound. We went to investigate and found the rest of the platoon gone. It was then that Sergeant Fadzaev called the lieutenant and told him what had happened."

"Two dark-skinned, black-haired, possibly Chechen males in a white, nine-pa.s.senger Mercedes van with tinted windows," Colonel Pierson said, sighing. "Same from both witnesses. And not much to go on."

"Why apa.s.sengervan?" Mike asked, puzzled. "Why not a panel van if they knew what they were buying?"

"I dunno," Pierson said. "But we've got the information; it's up to others to a.n.a.lyze it. Colonel," he said, turning to Chechnik, "we need to get the FSB involved as soon as possible. And I'd like to turn all this over to our intel people, start seeing if the weapon is going out of Russia."

"I am thinking it is headed for Chechnya," the colonel said. "Or for a Russian city."

"That's an internal Russian matter," Pierson said. "Although, if we develop any leads, we'll turn them over to you of course. But we need to get moving on the basis that it's going to go in playoutsideof Russia."

"Da," the Russian said, nodding. "The helicopter will take you to Perm and there is a jet waiting to take you to Moscow."

"Colonel," Mike said, standing up, "no unmarked graves."

"Not for these," the colonel said, waving at the still nervous private. "But if I find this Oleg fellow . . ."

"I'll hand you the shovel," Mike replied.

Chapter Two.

"Chatham Aviation, Gloria speaking, how may I help you?"

"Hi, the name's Mike Jenkins," Mike shouted over the racket from the Russian Hip helicopter. He knew diddly about Chatham Aviation, but they came up high on Google for "charter aircraft business jet" and their website promised on-call service. "I need a jet in Moscow. I don't know where I'm going to be going from there, but I need it there as soon as it can get there. I'll pay lay-about fees or whatever.

Something small and fast."

"Layover," the receptionist corrected. "I don't seem to find an account for you, Mr. . . . Jenkins."

"I've never used you," Mike said. "I got your name from the Internet. I figured an English company would have English-speaking pilots and I don't have time to wait on one from the States. I really need a jet, quick."

"Mike," Pierson said, "we can get you transport."

"Hold one," Mike said into the phone, hitting the mute. "I don't want to be begging for transport, Bob,"

he said, shrugging at the colonel. "And I figure I can afford a charter." He unmuted to the sound of the receptionist talking to someone in the background. "Is there a problem?"

"No problem, Mr. Jenkins," Gloria said. "Chartering a jet is . . ."

"Expensive, I know," Mike said sharply. "I take it you take American Express?"

"Wedo," the receptionist said cautiously. "However . . ."

"It's got a hundred-thousand-dollar line," Mike said. "And it's paid up. Or I can hand your pilots a sack of cash. I need a jet and I need onenow. Or do I call the next charter company on the list?"

"Not a problem, Mr. Jenkins," Gloria said. "Hold on while I take your information . . ."

"Everybody's running around like a chicken with its head cut off, Colonel."

Tech Sergeant Walter Johnson was career Air Force. He'd started off in satellite imagery and had slowly migrated to general intel and a.n.a.lysis. He was the only a.n.a.lyst currently a.s.signed to the American emba.s.sy in Moscow and, as such, he was very busy. But he'd seen the directive for Colonel Pierson and the civilian he'd mentally pegged as CIA spec ops, Mike Jenkins. So when Pierson had come in with his latest intel dump, he'd dropped everything else on his desk. They were meeting in a secure room and Johnson had brought in a disc with his current a.n.a.lysis to use on the room's computer.

"Normal in the early stages of the game," Pierson said, sighing, "all the intel groups will be going ape-s.h.i.t and the spec-ops boys will be running scenarios. What's the current playboard look like?"

"Well, you didn't give us much to go on," Johnson admitted. "Right now, the current thinking is that it's a Chechen operation. The Chechens, though, don't have anyone we know of who can do work with a nuke. So they'll probably sell it to someone or do a combined op. Whatever they do, whoever uses it, they'll have to call in an expert."

Johnson brought up an image on the screen of a "Middle Eastern Male."

"a.s.sadolah Shaath," Johnson said. "The most likely 'expert.' Thirty-seven. Born in Islamabad, Pakistan.

Dad is a minor official in the government. Educated at boarding schools in Pakistan and England, took a BS in Physics at Reading University and was working on his masters at Princeton when he was recruited by the Popular Front for the Islamic Jihad. Also picked up a BA in English literature, of all things, while at Princeton, centering on nineteenth- and twentieth-century American poets. Wrote a very nice paper on Longfellow, according to his a.n.a.lyst, and was a big fan of Poe. Went to Poe's grave and such like.

s.e.xual tastes run to long, slim blondes. Reported to be rather heavy handed with them. Also likes rock and roll, heavy metal and Goth music."

"Great," Mike grumped. "A mujahideen poet-engineer with my same s.e.xual and musical interests. Just what we need."

"Trained in Afghanistan in mujahideen techniques," Johnson continued, frowning slightly at the input.

"Appears on several captured Al Qaeda lists as an 'engineer,' what we would call a demolitions expert.

Appeared to be working on nuclear a.s.sembly with the Al Qaeda, unsuccessfully. Possibly worked with the Pakistani nuclear program for up to a year. Possibly connected to the Shoe Bomber, Richard Reid.

Tagged as one of the mujahideen involved in the Andros Incident, but that might be false info since there's a high probability he was spotted by a Mossad informant in Lebanon three months ago."

"One of them got away," Mike pointed out. "The one that armed the nuke."

"Really?" Johnson said, looking at his notes. "I don't have that."

"Trust me," Mike said. "Your intel is wrong. The one that got away probably set the timer."

"You're sure?" Johnson asked, quizzically.

"He's sure," Pierson said dryly. "Go on."

"Ooo-kay," Johnson said, reevaluating the civilian. "He's the top guy for potential weapons refiguring that we know of. There are two others that have almost his training and background. We've got a call in to Mossad to see if they can track him down."

"Preferably followed by a nine millimeter to the medulla," Mike said. "What about the van?"

"Lots of Mercedes vans running around," Johnson said. "The FSB has an all points out for it, but don't get your hopes up. It's probably in Chechnya or Georgia already."

"I'm bugged by one thing," Mike said. "It was a pa.s.senger van. Why a pa.s.senger van?"

"I'd thought about the same thing," Johnson admitted. "And I've got an idea, but it's a long-shot." He brought up a picture of a similar van. This one was apparently filled with people, and unless Mike was mistaken, they were all female except the driver. "The Chechens are into everything you can think of in the way of illegal moneymaking. Money laundering, drugs, gun running, what have you. All of them aren't funding the resistance in Chechnya, but a good bit of the money flows that way. But one of the things they're into is the s.e.x trade."

"Slaving," Mike said.

"Bingo," Johnson replied. "It's not exactly the way that it's portrayed in the news media, though. Yeah, some of the girlsares.n.a.t.c.hed off the street. But most of them aresoldby people that have authority over them. Parents, orphanages, what have you. The Chechens go on regular rounds and gather up girls, then sell them to various buyers."

"There's a main market," Pierson said. "Eagle Market in Bosnia."

"Agreed," Johnson said. "I ran that idea past the a.n.a.lysts and Langley and they put it as a low-order probability. The max prob is the device is going through Georgia or St. Petersburg to be shipped elsewhere, or down to Chechnya, possibly into Georgia, to be refurbished and used against the Russians."

"Yeah," Mike said. "But if it's internal to Russia, it's not our ballgame. And all of that more or less ignores the pa.s.senger van anomaly."

"You want to try to track it?" Pierson asked.

"That's why I'm here," Mike replied. "And why I put that jet on standby. Do we have anyone in Bosnia that's a kind of expert in the slave trade?"

"I don't have that info right here," Johnson said. "But I can round it up."

"Call me," Mike replied, standing up. "Pierson will give you my scrambler code."

"You're going to Bosnia?" Pierson asked. "Now?"

"Better now than later," Mike said, shrugging. "We're five days behind them. I don't know how long it takes to refurbish a nuke . . ."

"Depending upon their equipment," Johnson interjected, "as little as ten hours. I checked. If they're planning on planting it somewhere, they'll probably trap it. Longer for that."

"But we don't have all the time in the world," Mike finished, looking at the face of the terrorist "engineer"

and burning it into his brain. "When I get there, I'm going to need a radiation detector. Preferably something I can secret on my person and use covertly."

"We can do that," Pierson said, standing up as well. "I'll get you a contact in IFOR to get the stuff and the name of a person to guide you around."

"Johnson, thanks for the brief," Mike said, walking to the door. "And you need to update your intel. At the island-one got away."

"Yes, sir," Johnson said as Mike left the room. "Although, I'd love to know where he getshisintel. As far as I knew, just about everybody on that island got vaporized. And I didn't know that the guy who armed the nuke escaped."

"Let's just say that some people are tough to get an after-actions report out of," Pierson replied with a sigh.

The Gulfstream V was sitting at an out-of-the-way hangar at Moscow International when Mike arrived.

He paid off the taxi driver and strode over, his jump bag on his shoulder. It was all the luggage he was carrying. It held the usual toiletries, a couple of pairs of socks and underpants and two shirts. Between that and the jacket and jeans he was wearing, he figured it would do. It also held his "walking-around money," about sixty thousand dollars in mixed euros and dollars, mostly hundreds. The door of the plane was open and the steps down, but n.o.body seemed to be around.

"h.e.l.lo, the plane," he called, stepping up to the door.

"Mr. Jenkins?" the pilot asked, stepping out of the c.o.c.kpit. He had a strong southern British accent and a military bearing. Mike pegged him immediately for former Royal Air Force.

"The same," Mike replied, handing over his entirely fict.i.tious pa.s.sport.

"John Hardesty, sir," the pilot said handing back the pa.s.sport after a searching study. "I'm pleased to be piloting you to wherever your destination might be."

"Former military?" Mike asked, stepping past him and tossing his jump bag on one of the front seats.

"Astute of you to guess, sir," the pilot replied neutrally.

"Okay," Mike said, shrugging. "RAF . . . Tornadoes. Close?"

"Bang on, sir," the pilot replied, frowning.

"And you got out as . . . oh, a major I'd say," Mike continued, grinning. "Because you could see from there on out it was going to be, at best, squadron command and much more likely a coalition staff position. Flying was going to go away."

"Did you read my bio or something?" Hardesty asked, going from somewhat annoyed to amused.

"No," Mike replied, shrugging. "Just a very 'astute' judge of character. Bit of a hobby figuring out plane drivers' backgrounds."

"And may I ask what your profession is, sir?" Hardesty queried carefully.

"I do odd jobs," Mike replied, sitting in one of the forward seats.

"If you'll pardon me, sir," the pilot said, still curious. "You don't get the money to charter a jet, much less have it sit around on call, by digging ditches with a shovel."

"I've used a shovel in my time," Mike said, smiling broadly. "But I usually prefer to find the local guy with a backhoe. Quicker and easier to hide the bodies. You ready to go?"

"Of course, sir," the pilot said, reevaluating his pa.s.senger. "We're refueled. I need to do a preflight."

"Make it snappy, please," Mike said, pulling out his satellite phone. "I'm in a bit of hurry."

"Well, Mr. Jenkins," Hardesty replied, smiling faintly, "it would help if we knew where we were going."

"Someplace in Bosnia," Mike said. "Just head for Sarajevo and I'll try to get a better read when we're in-flight. I'm expecting some calls."