Mike asked, “Pierre, what rules did Havelock break to get on Interpol’s radar?”

“He has been moving small water-fission equipment around Europe. He bought a load of equipment from CERN—the European Organization for Nuclear Research—in Geneva last year. Little pieces, here and there. We always watch what sort of machinery moves through Europe when they come out of the nuclear fission laboratories. On the surface, it was not of concern—Havelock is a scientist, as I said, a visionary, with many irons in the fire. It wasn’t unusual for him to be gathering this type of material. But if you combine this machinery with black-market purchase of polonium-two-ten—” He drew a deep breath. “This is frightening indeed.”

Nicholas said, “Is he trying to build his own nuke, only in a nanotech environment? A mini-nuke of some sort?”

“I hope not, but I am afraid that is very possible. There have been advances made in nanotechnology weapons, certainly. North Korea, Iran, Russia—even Cuba has opened a nanotechnology university, and is studying the possibilities. The Americans have perfected their pinpoint laser technology, and I am sure they are quietly trying to develop miniaturized nuclear weapons. But I was not aware this technology had advanced past the theoretical. Even the smallest crop of suitcase dirty bombs are still fifty pounds. Imagine a miniaturized nuclear weapon the size of what? A wallet? Smaller, even?”

“So we could be dealing not with a mini-nuke, but a micro-nuke, one that’s virtually undetectable to our current safeguards.”

“Exactement. I must go, Nicholas. I will initiate an urgent investigation into Havelock immediately. The most recent information we have on him shows he lives in Berlin. I will start there.”

“What do you plan to do, Pierre?”

“Park a satellite above his home and listen in to his conversations. If he is importing polonium, we must find out what he plans to use it for. I will keep you informed of what we find. Thank you for alerting me.”

Mike said, “Pierre, this is a really sensitive situation. There’s a lot more going on here than the polonium. Be careful, don’t let Havelock know you’re onto him. Be very careful.”

The Frenchman laughed, a hard, empty laugh. “Naturellement. You as well. À bientôt.”

When the phone clicked off, Mike said, “Zachery. Now.”

“Yes, we need to warn him.”

Zachery sounded half asleep when he answered.

“Yes? Mike, what is it? You two didn’t get shot up again, did you?” They could practically hear him snap to.

“No, sir. I have news about the Pearce murder.” Mike told him about Menard, and Havelock, and the files, the polonium-210, and the frightening possibility of a miniaturized nuclear weapon. He was quiet for a minute, then, “I’ll take it from here, Mike. I need to talk to the director. Good work.”

“Sir, it’s Drummond here.”

“Talk to me.”

“There appear to be a group of fifteen men in Pearce’s files who are conversing regularly, much of it in code. They are all high-level government people, or financiers, from all over the world. I think Pearce was a member of a secret organization. There’s something big going on, and if one of their members has stolen spy satellite specs on his computer, and another’s son is trying to buy up polonium, we could be looking at a massive international problem. I respectfully request to come back on board, officially.”

“Nicholas, I can’t do that, not officially, at least. After the inquiry tomorrow, you’ll be reinstated.” There was a pause. “Do I want to know how you’ve come across this information?”

“No, sir.”

“Probably from the same place Gray Wharton got what he gave me. I’ll need a full report in an hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Nicholas punched off, Mike said, “No matter he didn’t officially lift your suspension, we’re still a go. I’ll call Gray, you keep searching these files.”

Mike watched him out of the corner of her eye as she dialed Gray’s number. He was completely focused, eyes calm, inwardly directed.

She spoke to Gray, who sounded punchy, his eyes were nearly bleeding, he told her, but they were nearly at the same point. She rang off. “Where’s the loo?” For a British accent, she didn’t think it was bad.

That got a grin out of him, but he didn’t look up, merely waved a hand. “Down the hall, to the right, the third door, I think. I’m still learning the place.”

She grabbed her purse and stepped out into the hall. He was right, the bathroom was behind the third door. She took care of business, brushed out her hair and put it back up in a ponytail. She was confident Nicholas would find out exactly what was going on. She’d call Ben, see what he was thinking.

She snapped off the light and stepped out into the hallway, right into the barrel of a suppressed nine-millimeter Beretta.

39

Mike’s heart nearly flatlined, but she didn’t make a sound, didn’t move. There was a man on the other side of the weapon stuck into her chest, a man she recognized. She had a fraction of a second to think Grossman—what in the world is he doing here? before he was on her.

He moved fast, but she was quick, too. She punched him hard in the chest, sent him stumbling back. She started to lash out a leg, knowing she had to take him down or she’d be in real trouble. Grossman anticipated the move, grabbed her ankle, and gave it a vicious twist. She was forced to spin with the twist or risk having her hip dislocated. But as she did, she brought her left elbow around and slammed Grossman in the temple. He went down with her, both of them crashing to the floor. She kicked him hard in the stomach, scrambled up and started to run, to call to Nicholas, to warn him, but Grossman got a hand on her shoulder and hauled her back down, flipping her on her stomach and getting an arm around her throat. She kept struggling, but his arm tightened, cut off her air, his forearm mashed up against her mouth, and she started to see spots. She clawed at his arm, but he didn’t move, didn’t let go, and her struggles became more feeble.

Nicholas, she tried to cry out, Nicholas, be careful! But no words came out. She couldn’t breathe, and fear was metallic and hard in her mouth.

She was about to black out when Grossman eased up on the pressure, enough for her to gulp in a huge breath.

His breath was hot on her neck, his voice cold, hard, so unlike the harmless bibliophile he’d appeared this afternoon.

“Don’t you dare scream, Agent Caine, or I’ll shoot you and leave you bleeding out in this hallway, and don’t think for a second I won’t.”

She nodded, still unable to swallow or breathe properly.

She realized she’d heard a bit of British in his voice, the cadence clipped, consonants long, and wasn’t that strange, because he was American, from Chicago, hadn’t he said that?

Grossman said against her ear, “We’re going to walk down the hall to the library, and your friend is going to give me Pearce’s files. Then I’ll walk out of here, and no one needs to get hurt. Do you understand?”

She managed another nod. She had to warn Nicholas, but she was starved for air and her muscles were still sluggish. She’d been gone for only a few minutes, he wouldn’t come looking for her yet, no reason even to wonder.

She pretended to lose her balance and hit her head hard against the wall. She hoped it was loud enough, hoped he believed her. He didn’t. Grossman grabbed her, jerked her forward and yanked her ponytail. “Nice try. Stay on your feet, Agent, there’s a good girl.”

No more Brit accent, but she was sure his American was fake. There’s a good girl. Oh, yes, the Brits were up to their eyeballs in this—this what exactly? But Grossman couldn’t have killed Stanford. Who did, then, a partner or another member of this organization in Britain?