“Wonderful. I expect to travel to Amsterdam in the next two days. Perhaps you could show me the property then?”

“I’d be happy to. Just let me know your itinerary.”

“I’ll call again as soon as I have the details. I assume you take cash?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Perfect. I’ll make the arrangements, and call you again shortly.”

He hung up, relieved that it had gone smoothly. It wouldn’t have been the first time an asset forgot his fallback instructions, but Demeere had clearly drilled the man well. Damn, he would be hard to replace. He’d reeled in Boezeman so efficiently after Accinelli had introduced them at that conference in New York, and then managed him perfectly afterward.

It had taken a while to get everything else in place. First, they’d needed the material. Accinelli had come through there. Cesium 137 was a radioactive element and therefore highly regulated, but Accinelli was willing to fudge the paperwork at Global Pyrochemical Industries and provide it to a fellow Gulf War veteran he trusted, who he believed was still with the Agency. Hilger had hinted that the cesium was being used to develop a new kind of ion propulsion engine for the military, a black program, totally off the books, everything acquired from private sources without any official government funding. Accinelli was a patriot, and was pleased to be able to leverage his success in the private sector in the interests of national security.

The only problem was that Accinelli knew of the Hilger-Demeere-Boezeman link. When the operation was completed at Rotterdam, it would be worldwide news. The initial explosion would be trivial-only a hundred pounds of TNT-and, with a little luck, wouldn’t even produce casualties. It was the fallout, literal and figurative, that would get all the attention.

Cesium 137 emitted gamma rays. Less toxic than the alpha rays emitted by, say, uranium, but prone to travel farther. Even better, cesium was hugely reactive, and combined eagerly with other elements. Roofing materials, concrete, soil…none of it could be cleaned afterward.

Thankfully, the people exposed to the radiation would be at minimal risk. The body could process half a cesium exposure in less than a hundred days. Strontium 90, another ingredient they had considered, would have been absorbed by bone, and the body would need thirty years to excrete half a dose of that. Overall, a one-mile swath-not coincidentally, the heart of Rotterdam’s refinery facilities-would see an increase of cancer rates to one in ten thousand. Only a.05 percent jump, and that would only be for anyone stupid enough to stick around afterward, but it would be enough to turn the area into a no-go zone for decades. Very low casualties, but a very high fear factor. No wonder people called radiological bombs “weapons of mass disruption.”

The key was to detonate the device at the very center of the refinery facilities. To do that, someone needed to access it on the premises, ensure that it was properly placed, arm it, and leave before it exploded. That meant cooperation from an inside man. It meant Boezeman.

But knowing the connection to Boezeman, Accinelli would have suspected his cesium had been involved. With Accinelli gone, that link was severed. He had been a good man, and was now another unfortunate casualty, another Hilger would have to live with. But the alternatives-the costs of inaction-were infinitely worse. And he wasn’t asking anyone to make a sacrifice he wasn’t willing to make himself.

It had gone so smoothly at first. They’d taken possession of the cesium, assembled the device, and sealed it in a lead-and-concrete container to prevent detection by the port radiation scanners that were coming into vogue since 9/11. As soon as Dox was taken and they’d made contact with Rain, they sent the device to an accommodation address in Rotterdam by commercial sea shipping, knowing it would have to go through the port. While it was on its voyage, Rain had killed Jannick. The man was so damn efficient that he’d actually gotten ahead of schedule, and they had to make him wait so Demeere could set up in New York to ambush him when he came for Accinelli.

Hilger knew Accinelli well, well enough to know his friend always kept some pretty young thing, usually a struggling artist or aspiring actress, in an apartment or loft. Demeere had traveled to New York a few weeks earlier, tailed Accinelli, and discovered the whereabouts of Accinelli’s latest. They had discussed it, and decided that, capable as he was, Rain would discover her existence, too, and that because the woman’s apartment represented more favorable terrain than either Accinelli’s home or office, Rain would likely hit Accinelli when he went to visit the woman. That’s where Demeere had decided to lay the ambush. But something had gone wrong. Somehow, Rain had seen it coming.

Hilger realized now he’d been too ambitious. Demeere could have silenced Accinelli, and they could have taken Rain out another time, another place. But the opportunity to have Accinelli dispatched naturally, like Jannick, raising no questions, and to set up Rain up simultaneously, had been so perfect…too perfect, he understood in retrospect. After all, the perfect is always the enemy of the good.

So, yes, there had been losses, but there always are in war. And on balance, things could be worse. Boezeman was still game. They still had Dox. And Rain…the man was resilient, no doubt. But no one was bulletproof. He was going down. And Hilger would relish it when it happened.

30

THIS TIME, when Kanezaki opened his door in response to my knock, he didn’t have any smart comments about whether I was coming in. He just stood there, looking at Boaz, Naftali, and me. He didn’t say a word, but I didn’t need to be psychic to know what he was thinking: some variation on the time-honored What the fuck?

I smiled. “May we come in?”

“I guess so,” he said, moving aside so we could all file past him.

We all sat across from each other along the edges of the beds. “Tom, Boaz, Naftali,” I said, gesturing as appropriate. Boaz had been right about Naftali. The man hadn’t said a word since I’d met him. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn’t place what.

There was a round of uneasy handshakes, and I went on. “I’m sure we can imagine our various affiliations, and they don’t really matter anyway. What matters is, we all showed up here for the same thing and we don’t want to trip over each other’s dicks trying to get it. With me so far?”

Everyone nodded. Boaz smiled and said, “Trip over our dicks?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It means…”

“No, no, I get it. I like it. It’s better than ‘cluster fuck.’”

“They’re a little different,” Kanezaki said, and Boaz nodded to show he was eager to hear more. “A cluster fuck is…”

“Not that it’s not important, but why don’t we do the language lesson later?” I said.

No one responded, and I went on. “I want my friend safely off that boat. You all want Hilger dead.” I paused again, locking eyes just for an instant with Kanezaki. “We know Hilger’s on the boat now, but don’t know for how much longer. So we need to move fast.”

Kanezaki’s face betrayed nothing, and I went on. “We know the general layout of the yacht club. What we don’t know is the precise location of Hilger’s boat, the nature of the opposition on board, whether any sentries are posted off the boat, and where Dox is being held on the boat. What I propose is this. We’ve got two vans. We use both, arriving separately. Naftali and Tom, you wait in the vans, engines running. Hilger knows my face, and probably Tom’s, too, so we’re the wrong guys for reconnaissance. That’s Boaz’s job. So far, so good?”

Everyone nodded. Kanezaki said, “What do we know about club security? Can Boaz just walk in?”