“Right,” Eleven said, snagging the roll of black electrical tape from his small tool kit and stepping over to the point where the line entered the container. It was really an unnecessary refinement; with the containers stacked two deep here on the Rabah Jamila’s deck, and his and Ten’s containers on the top layer, there wasn’t much chance anyone walking the deck would see the faint light that might leak out around the line.

  But Ten was right. The plan was running smoothly, and at this point improvisation was neither necessary nor desirable. “How about a game of chess?”

  “You’re on,” Ten said. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  Fifteen minutes later, with the reading lamp over his cot bathing his quarters in a soft glow, Eleven sat with his small magnetic chess board balanced on one knee. Ten fancied himself an expert at the game, he knew. Perhaps sometime in the next few days Eleven could take that opinion down a step or two. “Ready?” Ten asked.

  “Ready,” Eleven said. “Pawn to king four.”

  ~

  The phone rang, dragging McPherson out of a deep sleep.

  Beside him, his wife Sally muttered something and rolled over. Rolling the other direction, McPherson snagged the handset, focusing on the bedside clock as he did so. Two twenty-eight. He’d been asleep a grand total of twenty minutes. “Yeah, McPherson,” he muttered.

  “Cynthia Duvall,” came the crisp voice of the President’s NSA advisor. Far too crisp and alert for this hour of the morning, he thought sourly. The woman must be a vampire. “The President would like you at the White House at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  The sleep-induced cobwebs abruptly vanished. Tomorrow was Thursday; and Whitcomb invariably reserved Thursday mornings for the Cabinet. “Of course,” he said. “Can you tell me what the meeting’s about?”

  There was a pause as Duvall no doubt checked the monitor that watched for eavesdropping on the line. “We received a message from New Delhi an hour ago,” she said. “It appears they’ve lost a tactical nuke.”

  “Lost?” McPherson echoed. “What do you mean, lost?”

  “All they’ll admit right now is that the weapon is missing,” Duvall said. “Regardless, the President feels we need to discuss the situation.”

  “The President is right,” McPherson agreed grimly. “I’ll be there.”

  THE SECOND DAY

  03

  “The details of the theft itself are still spotty,” CIA Director Cohn said, sorting through his stack of papers and selecting one of them. “The Indian government isn’t even sure when exactly the weapon was stolen, let alone who might have done it. A dummy casing had been left in its place, and it wasn’t until someone went through taking the daily radiation readings that they found out it was empty. At which point they went instantly into ape-sh—ah, panic mode.”

  “The unusual military activity you mentioned yesterday?” President Whitcomb asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Cohn said. “New Delhi’s got an assumed window of opportunity for the theft, and they’re working to narrow it down. We’ve alerted our ambassadors and top overseas military commanders to keep their ears to the ground, but so far nothing.”

  “And that’s as far as I want the news to go for now,” Whitcomb said. “We want to keep this as quiet as possible.”

  Across the table from Cohn, Logan cleared his throat. “I agree, Mr. President, that we certainly need to find this thing,” he said. “But at the same time, I think we’re rather literally making a mountain out of a molehill. At last count there were over a hundred Russian nukes still missing; and those are strategic warheads, not piddling tactical jobs like this one. Besides, I see no evidence that the Indian nuke has anything whatsoever to do with U.S. interests.”

  McPherson threw a sideways look at Vaughn and Cohn, noting the contemptuous set to both men’s mouths. Clearly, Logan was completely missing the point, him and possibly Duvall, too. Just as clearly, Vaughn and Cohn were anxious to explain it to them.

  Whitcomb offered Cohn first serve. “Larry? You want to take that one?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cohn said, nodding to the President before turning back to Logan. “Let’s take your questions in order, Spence. First of all, yes, the Russians have quite a few missing nukes. But just because they don’t know where they are doesn’t mean we don’t know where they are. In point of fact, we have tabs on most of them, or at least know who the countries and groups are who have them.”

  “And how could you possibly know that?” Duvall scoffed.

  “Because most of the current owners bought them outright on the black market,” Vaughn rumbled. “That means large money transfers, and we’ve become quite adept at tracking large money transfers.”

  “So have we,” Logan said, a bit testily. “If you know where they are, why haven’t you gone after them?”

  “Two reasons,” Vaughn said. “First, because we don’t have the manpower to hit all the locations at once. The minute we started an operation like that everyone we didn’t hit in the first wave would punch the panic button and squirrel the things away where we couldn’t easily get to them.”

  “Or might use them,” Cohn added pointedly.

  “Or might use them,” Vaughn agreed. “And second, because as Mr. Cohn just said, quite a few are currently owned by sovereign nations who bought them as insurance policies against unfriendly neighbors. I presume you’re not suggesting the United States launch an invasion against, say, Turkey or Greece?”

  Logan made a face. “Point taken.”

  “Point not yet complete,” Cohn countered. “You seem to think that the missing nuke being tactical instead of strategic is a good thing. In actual fact, it’s precisely these lower-yield weapons that are the most likely to be used.”

  “I don’t follow,” Duvall said, frowning.

  “The more devastating the weapon, the more certain the massive retaliation following its use,” Cohn told her. “You fire off a twenty-megaton warhead and vaporize two hundred fifty square miles of someone’s real estate, and they will hunt you down—absolutely guaranteed. If they can’t find you personally, they’ll take it out on your nation or ethnic group or funding partners.”

  “Whereas with a tactical weapon, the victims won’t be nearly so mad,” Vaughn said. “Oh, they’ll still hunt you down—we showed that after 9/11—but it won’t be the feeding frenzy it would be with a larger warhead.”

  “All of which means your average wild-eyed fanatic would be more tempted to give a small weapon a whirl,” Cohn said. “And the fact that they passed over whatever strategic weapons were at Raipur in favor of a tactical tells me they do intend to use it.”

  “Yes,” Duvall said, and for the first time since the meeting began McPherson could see some genuine concern behind her eyes. About damn time. “Yes, I see.”

  “Good,” Cohn said. “Then let me add one more unpleasant consideration into the mix. Because this particular weapon was stolen instead of purchased, there’s no paper or contact or money trail for us to follow. In other words, unlike those strategic weapons Spence mentioned, we have no idea who has it.”

  “Uh-oh,” Logan murmured.

  “Exactly,” Cohn said. “Furthermore, let’s not forget the scale we’re working with. When I call the warhead small—when you call it piddling—we’re not talking bottle rockets. A point-two-kiloton weapon still has the explosive yield of two hundred tons of TNT. Imagine that stacked up against the White House fence.”

  At the head of the table, Whitcomb stirred. “I believe we have the threat adequately defined,” he said. “Cynthia, you’ve talked to New Delhi most recently. What exactly do they want from us?”

  “They started by asking us to go back through our satellite data,” Duvall said. “See if we could spot the theft vehicle leaving the Raipur facility with the nuke.”

  “They were joking, I trust,” Cohn said. “We don’t have nearly enough satellite coverage of that region to pull off a stunt like that.”

  “Yes, I did explain that to Minister Rao,” Duvall said. “He wasn’t very happy about it.”

  “Who’s Minister Rao?” Logan asked.

  “Home Affairs,” Duvall said. “He’s been put in charge of coordinating the search with us.”

  “I’ll bet he was thrilled,” McPherson murmured. “After all the rhetoric over their nuclear program, asking us for help has to gall them no end.”

  “Which just shows how badly they want the weapon back,” Whitcomb pointed out. “I gathered from our earlier conversation that they’re near panic over the possibility that an Indian weapon might be used against some foreign capital.”

  “Which brings us to our possible target list,” Cohn said. “And to answer your final question, Spence: no, I don’t think the nuke is headed this way. But that doesn’t mean U.S. interests won’t be affected. Quite the contrary.”

  “Cynthia, let’s start at the top of Jameson’s preliminary work-up,” Whitcomb said. “What’s the likelihood the weapon is intended for use inside India itself?”

  “Reasonably low,” Duvall said, opening a three-ring binder with the State Department seal on the cover. “New Delhi’s got their usual level of political tension, but there isn’t any abnormal intrigue or rhetoric coming from the opposition.”

  “What about Jammu and Kashmir?” Vaughn asked. “That region’s been an on-and-off hot spot for decades, and it’s been grabbing a lot of press lately.”

  “That’s mostly due to their new unofficial spokesman,” McPherson said. “Tahir Kazi. The media always gives a blip of interest when there’s fresh blood on the scene.”

  “Mr. Jameson does mention Dr. Kazi specifically,” Duvall said, turning over a page. “He reminds us that Kazi’s a very determined and charismatic man, and that historically that’s a dangerous combination.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Whitcomb said mildly. “So far Kazi’s advocating only peaceful solutions to the Kashmiri situation. Besides, Jameson’s already granted him a visa to speak at the UN’s human rights conference, so he can’t be that worried about the man.”

  Cohn snorted. “Wait till Kazi sees just how little world attention a UN platform gets him. He’s likely to be a tad disappointed.”

  “Unless he plans to use that platform to declare holy war against India,” Vaughn said darkly.

  All heads turned to the general. “You know something we don’t, General?” Whitcomb asked.

  “Just observation and gut-level feelings, sir,” Vaughn said. “With most of the world’s ethnic, religious, and other splinter groups screaming for attention, it’s getting harder and harder for any of them to stand out of the crowd.” He gestured toward Duvall’s binder. “Imagine how far out you’d stand if you punctuated your demands for independence with a nuclear blast in downtown Delhi.”

  “It would be suicide,” Logan declared. “For his people as well as him.”

  “Maybe he thinks they’ve got nothing left to lose,” Vaughn countered. “Maybe he’s right.”

  There was a moment of silence around the table. “All right, that’s one possibility,” Whitcomb said. “What’s next on Jameson’s list?”

  Reluctantly, McPherson thought, Duvall looked back down at her folder. “There’s Pakistan and China,” she said. “Both have nukes of their own, of course, but there are various border grievances some splinter group might think they can remedy the quick way. Alternatively, the Indian government or some segment thereof could itself be behind a border operation, and have cooked up the whole stolen-nuke idea to push the blame off on person or persons unknown. Finally, either the Pakistanis or Chinese might have decided they want a closer look at the kind of work India’s turning out these days.”

  “That takes care of the major players on the subcontinent,” Whitcomb said. “Who’s next?”

  “A whole smorgasbord of local unrests,” Duvall said, shaking her head as she leafed through the binder. “We’ve got new or long-standing minority problems in Sri Lanka, Myanmar, Thailand, Cambodia, and the Philippines.”

  “Not to mention North Korea,” Vaughn said.

  “Jameson devotes an entire page to North Korea,” Duvall said. “There are also a handful of small but sophisticated anti-government groups in Japan. Remember the subway poison-gas attacks?”

  “All too well,” Whitcomb said soberly. “Is there more?”

  “Much more,” Duvall assured him. “Heading the other direction, we’ve got Somalia, the Sudan—most of Africa, actually—plus the Basques, Northern Ireland, much of central Asia, and large tracts of the Balkans. And of course, there’s always the Middle East.”

  “Iran,” Cohn said.

  “And Iraq, Syria, and Turkey,” Vaughn added. “Also known as the Kurdish problem.”

  “The Kurds take up another full page of Jameson’s report,” Duvall said. “Mustafa Dagli has been whipping them up lately, and there are signs the local governments are starting to get extremely annoyed with him. Then there’s Rabbi Salomon and the Third Temple crowd threatening to put a match to the whole Muslim world.”

  “Salomon’s also scheduled to speak at the UN conference,” Logan pointed out.

  “Dagli and a Kurdish delegation will be there, too,” Whitcomb said. “Turkey’s already threatened to walk out if they’re allowed to speak.”

  “I understand Reverend Lane plans to attend, too,” Duvall added. “Protesting out front, no doubt. He and the Turks should make for interesting TV coverage.”

  “No doubt,” Whitcomb said. “So which of these potential powder kegs does Jameson consider our front-runner?”

  “Mr. Jameson currently has no idea,” Duvall said. “His analysts hope to have a probability chart worked up by the end of the day.”

  “Handy,” Logan growled. “Especially since the bomb’s probably already arrived at its detonation point.”

  “Certainly if they took it out by air,” Cohn said heavily. “Possibly even if they went overland if it’s headed to one of their neighbors. The trick will be to track its route before the fireworks start.”

  “Then we’d best get to it,” Whitcomb said. “Larry, I’d like you to take over Cynthia’s liaison with New Delhi. We’ll need all the data they can pull together: air freight lists, shipping manifests, rail information, car rental records. If it moves without using feet, we want to know about it.”

  “Minister Rao and I have already discussed that,” Duvall said. “They should be downloading everything later this morning.”

  “Good,” Whitcomb said. “Frank, since the Bureau isn’t directly involved with this, I’d like your people to help out with some of the data consolidation and analysis work.”

  “We can certainly do that, sir,” McPherson said. “However, I don’t agree that the Bureau isn’t necessarily involved. The U.S. mainland might not be the intended target; but on the other hand, it might. Certainly yesterday’s Goose List included plenty of people mad enough to park Larry’s two hundred tons of TNT out there by the fence.”

  “I don’t think any of them are that mad at me,” Whitcomb said. “But I suppose you’re right. Very well. Along with helping with the analysis, you can also put together your own threat assessment and potential target list.”

  “Yes, sir,” McPherson said. “What about your whistle-stop tour? That was supposed to start tomorrow.”

  “And so it will,” Whitcomb said. “Is there a problem?”

  “I’m thinking you might want to consider canceling it,” McPherson said. “Or at least postponing it a few days.”

  Whitcomb shook his head. “The timing is too important, Frank. I need to build as much support for the UN as I can prior to the conference. A little jawboning from me, plus the stories of human rights’ atrocities we’ll be hearing at the conference, might be enough to create the momentum in Congress that the UN so desperately needs.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand that,” McPherson said. “But—”

  “But even more important is the principle of the thing,” Whitcomb continued. “I can’t change my schedule every time there’s a crisis somewhere in the world. I have complete confidence in all of you, and you certainly don’t need me looking over your shoulders in order to do your jobs. I can keep up with things just as well from Air Force One as I can from here. If for some reason you need my participation you can always get to me through Cynthia.”

  McPherson looked down the table, again noting Vaughn’s compressed lips. Clearly, the general didn’t like the President running off at a time like this any better than McPherson did.

  But Whitcomb had his mind made up, and there was no point in arguing with him. At least, not now. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Good.” Whitcomb said. “You’d best get to it, then. Good luck.”

  ~

  The sun had long since been swallowed up by the Santa Cruz Mountains rising in the distance behind Angie Chandler, but the security lights ringing the Sand/Star Technologies grounds were more than adequate for her to see the coil of razor wire topping the perimeter chain link fence. She gazed with distaste at the fence and its unpleasant new crown as she let her car coast up to the gate and the softly lit guardhouse beside it. The razor wire had been added three weeks ago, in response to some vague and nameless threat her husband James had been equally vague about, and in Angie’s mind it did a decided disservice to a place that already looked too much like a prison. It evoked half-remembered childhood memories of the quiet but tense journey as her family slipped across the border from the Chinese mainland into Hong Kong twenty-eight years ago.

  Little in the way of specific images remained of that night, but she vividly remembered her pregnant mother snatching her upstart four-year-old’s hand as she reached out toward the curiously shiny spider web they were passing.

  The night duty officer was waiting outside the door of his booth as she rolled to a stop and slid down her window. “Good evening,” she said, nodding politely and trying hard not to see him as a border guard. She didn’t recognize this one, but most of the Sand/Star security people she’d met seemed pleasant enough. “Angie Chandler, to see Dr. James Chandler in Building D.”