“Good,” the American said. “All you have to do is hold that spoon down, just like you’re doing—it only takes a couple of pounds of pressure. Like I said, sometime in the next hour or so, another car will come by. Might be sooner, might be later. Best of luck.”
And with that, the big man stood and began walking away. He raised his hand over his head, made a circling motion, and his team began loading into the aircraft.
Dmitri’s hand began trembling. He adjusted his fingers, trying to get a better grip on the safety lever. A bead of sweat trickled down his nose and landed on his wrist.
The American didn’t even look back. He was fifty feet away now, issuing orders to his team.
One of Dmitri’s bent fingers slipped, and he nearly dropped the grenade. His entire arm began to shake.
“Wait! I’ll tell you!”
The American stopped, turned around. He said nothing.
“I was never given the name of the target on the airplane, but I was told he was Swiss. And we work for Malenkov. Andrei Malenkov. Now please…take this thing. I have told you all I can.”
The American thought about it, then nodded, and said, “Yes, I think you have.” He turned again and set back out toward the airplane, his gait loose and unbothered.
“Wait! I have told you everything!”
His pleas were soon drowned out by the sound of the aircraft’s engines firing to life. Dmitri screamed to be heard above them, but it was no use. Soon all the Americans were on board, and the boarding ramp was raised. The transport began moving, its propellers blowing a massive cloud of dust in his face. His eyes burned and he coughed up brown spittle. Dmitri blinked away the dust just in time to see the airplane accelerate and lift into the sky. In no time it disappeared, merging into the blackness.
Completely alone, Dmitri stared at his sweaty hand and the quivering explosive device. His gaze shot outward, looking up and down the road in desperation. He saw no approaching vehicles. The muscles in his ruined hand began cramping. He fought for control, but it was a losing battle, the physical agony magnified by an overwhelming sense of dread. His entire body began shaking. The grenade seemed to dance beneath his chin, and with a final shudder it fell from his grasp and landed squarely on his crotch.
His eyes bulged in fear. He tried to squirm sideways, but his bindings made it impossible. Dmitri braced for the explosion that would end his life.
Time seemed to expand.
Five seconds. Surely it had been five seconds.
Surely.
The Russian glanced down at his lap, anticipating a faceful of shrapnel. Still nothing happened.
Then he looked at the grenade more closely. The safety lever he’d held in a death grip was still in the safe position, aligned with the metal shell. Then he saw why. The pin had been broken offand was still in place—the device had never been armed. But he hadseenthe American pull the pin! Only then did he piece together what had happened. It had been nothing more than a magician’s trick. Mere sleight of hand. The pin he’d seen pulled had never been engaged. It was a prop, probably taken from a spent grenade.
Dmitri canted his face toward the empty sky, and with all the vitriol he could muster, shouted, “You bastard!”
33
The Maghreb
Al-Jaghbub Airfield
2302 Local Time
The hangar was quiet when Malenkov entered. Gone were the whirring of drills, the crackle of welding. The distant howl of a jackal could easily be heard. It was nearly midnight and most of the technicians were asleep.
The team worked long hours, in part because there was much to be done, but also because diversions were kept to a bare minimum. All phones had been put under lock and key, and even if that hadn’t been the case there was no mobile signal or internet connection. An old TV in the common room was connected to an ancient aerial antenna and offered two snowy local channels—news and prayers in Arabic, and the odd Egyptian soccer match. It was a Spartan existence, but everyone understood that this was part of the contract. Long workdays and short nights.
Yet there was one exception to that circadian rhythm.
His name was Omar Qasim, and of all those here, save for Malenkov himself, he was the most vital contributor to the mission. Malenkov had realized early on that for his scheme tosucceed, one position would be particularly difficult to fill. He needed a man who was both technically proficient and extraordinarily desperate. An extensive search turned up only three leads, and the CV that rose to the top of the pile did so as a reflection of hardship rather than academic exceptionalism.
Qasim had been born outside the ancient city of Qatana, Syria, in the shadow of Mount Hermon. He was Syrian by upbringing, British by education, Druze by faith. None of those influences, however, were what had brought him here, to a refurbished hangar on the edge of a desert wasteland. His father had been a teacher, his mother a house cleaner. As a child Qasim had been frail and sickly, a punching bag for the other young boys, and useless in the olive groves. Yet for all the misery God had inflicted upon him, Qasim had been bestowed with one great gift. He had a superior intellect, particularly when it came to mathematics. His father had recognized his talents, and also that they would be wasted in the tinderbox of Syria, which, at that time, was in the darkest throes of its civil war. For a young man with an astonishing mind, it was a land without prospects. The only escape was a literal one—migrate abroad into an increasingly unwelcoming world.
His father called in every favor from a lifetime of teaching, and with his life savings he sent his only son to England. It worked brilliantly for a time. Qasim had excelled at university, earning a bachelor’s degree in applied physics, followed by a graduate fellowship to CERN, the prestigious European Organization for Nuclear Research.
Everything had been going to plan until, one crisp spring day in a pub overlooking Lake Geneva, just over two years ago, Qasim had met George Walid. Walid presented himself as the son of a wealthy Egyptian businessman, and that much was true. Malenkov,however, suspected he was far more. He was certain George Walid had been sent to recruit Qasim, although on behalf of whom, or for what purpose, he was never able to determine. An intelligence organization, a terrorist network, possibly even organized crime. In Egypt the lines between them were blurred at best. It was likely that someone had identified Qasim and viewed him precisely as Malenkov did—a talented young physicist ripe for recruitment. All he knew for certain was that Walid convinced Qasim to join him for a weeklong vacation on the Red Sea.
