Marchenko found a crowbar in the back of the truck and opened the crate. He peered inside. A stainless steel canister three feet high and two feet in diameter rested in a bed of foam rubber. He slipped a hand under one end and eased it from its housing. The canister weighed just thirty pounds. He grunted as he lifted it from the crate and set it down on the smooth hangar floor.

The bomb itself was not much to look at. Marchenko thought it resembled a large tear gas canister with one end domed and the other flat. Height: twenty-eight inches. Diameter: nine inches. Weight: eleven pounds. Its casing was made from unpolished high-tensile steel. It was an altogether unimpressive-looking object.

But it could kill.

The Kopinskaya IV carried four hundred grams of enriched plutonium 238 that when detonated had the explosive force of two thousand tons of high-grade TNT. A measly throw weight in terms of the big birds, but devastating nonetheless to any object, either living or inert, within a one-mile radius of ground zero. Anything within five hundred yards would be instantly vaporized. Inside of a thousand yards the bomb achieved a ninety-five-percent kill rate at detonation. The other five percent would die within two hours from a lethal dose of gamma radiation. The kill rate tapered off dramatically at a mile out. At three thousand yards, only twenty percent would be killed by the detonation, and those mostly by the debris blown outward from the epicenter: shards of glass, splinters of wood, chunks of concrete all propelled through the air at speeds over a thousand miles an hour. A city provided its own shrapnel.

Three latches held the canister closed. He opened them one at a time, then carefully removed the lid. He gave it to a soldier, then returned his attention to the bomb. The plutonium core was housed in a titanium casing. A chain reaction necessary to detonate the fissionable material could be initiated only when the firing rod had been inserted into the plutonium core, and the firing rod could be inserted only after the proper code had been entered in the bomb's central processing unit. Marchenko would not enter the proper code until he had received acknowledgment that Mr. Ali Mevlevi had transferred eight hundred million Swiss francs to his account at the First Kazakhi Bank in Alma-Ata.

Until then the bomb was worthless scrap.

He took the bomb in his hand and turned it upside down. The soldier assisting him removed six screws at the base of the weapon. Marchenko put the screws in his pocket, then lifted off the inferior lid. He was pleased to see a small dot at the bottom right-hand corner of a red liquid crystal display winking at him. Below the LCD was a keypad with nine digits. He entered in the number 1111 and waited as the unit performed its self-diagnostics. Five seconds later, a green light lit up in the center of the keypad. The bomb was functioning perfectly. All he needed to do now was program the detonation altitude and key in the seven-digit code that would activate the device.

Marchenko replaced the inferior lid, carefully screwing in each of the six titanium screws. He closed the device and set it down in its foam-rubber casing. He stopped his work and listened. It was quiet here. Almost serene. He looked over his shoulder, suddenly expecting to hear the shrill whistle of a squadron of Israeli F-16s swooping in to obliterate the compound. His soldiers stood casually around him, their weapons hanging loosely on their chests. Colonel Hammid loitered a few paces away, his gaze held by the dull metallic weapon sitting on the hangar floor. He laughed at his paranoia, then turned his thoughts down more promising avenues.

Marchenko imagined his portrait hanging in every government office in Kazakhstan. He reminded himself that in less than twenty-four hour she would have brought his country a princely sum in hard currency. And himself a small one percent commission- eight million Swiss francs. Maybe this is what the Americans meant when they said "rags to riches."

CHAPTER 57

The phone rang a second time.

Nick shot up in bed. It was dark and the room was cold. Still too early for the central heating to be turned on. He looked at his watch, squinting a second as the hands came into focus. Barely six. His hand fumbled for the receiver, finding first the bedside lamp, then a glass of water, before falling on the phone. "Hello."

"Hi, you. It's me."

"Hey you," he responded groggily. "Whatcha doin'?" It was their greeting and he was surprised to discover it still a reflex after three months. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and scratched at his hair.

"Just wanted to call," said Anna Fontaine. "See how you were doing. It's been a while."

He was awake now, her voice reverberating inside of him, coming at him from a dozen directions. "Um, let me check," he said. "I don't know yet really. It's only six o'clock over here."

"I know. I've been trying to reach you for a week. I figured if ever you'd be home, it would be now."

"You didn't try the office? Remember where I work, don't you?"

"Of course I remember. I also remember a very serious former marine who would not appreciate social calls interrupting his work."

Nick could imagine her sitting cross-legged on her bed, the phone in her lap. It was a Sunday, so she'd be wearing ratty blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a white button-down untucked. Maybe even one of his. "Come on," he protested, "I wasn't that serious. You can call me anytime at work. Deal?"

"Deal," she answered. "And how is it? Work, I mean?"

"Fine. Busy. You know, the usual trainee stuff." He stifled a sarcastic laugh. Jeez, Anna, if you only knew the shit I was up to…

"What about your dad?" she asked, cutting off his self-mocking commentary. "Is that panning out?"

"Could be," he said, not wanting to get into it with her. "I might know something real soon. We'll see. And how are you? How are things at school?"

"Just fine," she said. "Midterms in two weeks. Then the final push to the end. I can't wait."

"Well, you'll have a couple months off before you start in New York. You are still taking the job down there?"

"Yes, Nick, I am still taking the job. Some of us still think it's a decent place to work."

He heard hesitation in her voice, like she wanted to get around to something but she didn't know exactly how. Might as well help her along. After all, there could be only one reason she was calling. "You're not working too hard, are you? I don't want you pulling all-nighters."

"No, and by the way, you were the one to pull all-nighters. I was the organized one who studied ahead of time."

"Are you getting out any?" There it was, a fastball right down the middle.

Anna paused. He heard a batch of white noise fill the line. "Actually, that's why I'm calling. I've met someone."

Nick was suddenly alert. "You have. That's good. I mean, if you like him."

"Yes, Nick, I like him."

Nick didn't hear her answer. He sat still, looking around his room. In that instant, he had become acutely aware of his surroundings. He could hear the bedside clock ticking and the radiator groaning as it sprang to life. He could make out the rustling of the pipes in the ceiling above him as another early riser ran a bath. He suddenly noticed that his boxers were chafing at the waist and he decided that he really did have to lose some weight. Yes, the world was still there. But somehow his position on it had been altered.

"How serious?" he asked suddenly, interrupting her.

"He's asked me to go to Greece with him this summer. He's working for an insurance company in Athens while he gets his master's degree in international relations. Actually, you may know him. His name is Paul MacMillan. Lucy's older brother."