Qasim never made it past the immigration stand at Cairo International Airport. The Mukhabarat subjected him to an extensive interrogation and, given his area of expertise, they were deeply suspicious. Rumors had swirled for years in Egypt that terrorist groups were recruiting experts on nuclear materials. Whether it was true was of little consequence—the regime’s paranoia ran deep. Qasim was arrested, and foregoing the nuisances of evidence or a trial, a judge sentenced him to twenty years’ incarceration for engaging in “subversive behavior.” And that was precisely where Malenkov had found him: rotting behind the seven-meter walls of Al-Aqrab, better known as the Scorpion Prison.
Malenkov knew he’d found his man.
The rest had been shockingly simple. Owing to his work in the GRU and SSD, Malenkov’s connections in Egyptian intelligence were extensive. He paid the requisite bribes—he would have paid far more—and Qasim was deposited on a dusty parking apron outside the prison. Bojan and two of his men collected the stunned physicist and spirited him by car to the Maghreb.
At that point, the only chore for Malenkov had been to bring Qasim on board in mind as fully as he was in body. He interviewed him at length, doing his best to avoid the atmosphere of aninterrogation—more a coach sizing up a prized recruit. He learned that Qasim missed his family, and that he hoped to go back to CERN to continue his work. Malenkov told him both wishes were possible if he undertook one vital project. The choices he presented were stark: a very large payday for a few months’ work, followed by a return to Geneva, or an immediate return to the arachnid-infested hellhole where Malenkov had found him.
Qasim committed without reservation, and even when he learned precisely what would be asked of him, he showed virtually no hesitation. Malenkov knew why—an angle he had played perfectly. He was not only offering the man freedom, but also a chance to extract payback on the nation that had imprisoned him unjustly.
Qasim’s work since that day had been exceptional.
Malenkov found him on the far side of the hangar, working beneath one of the aircraft. Qasim was a bespectacled man with curly black hair and a frail build. Leaning into an engine access bay in dirty coveralls, he looked like a typical mechanic, the only difference being a film badge clipped to his breast pocket.
“What are you working on tonight?” Malenkov asked as he approached.
Qasim popped out of the darkened bay, an illuminated headlamp strapped to his forehead. “The airborne mixing system,” he replied. “I am trying to get it to run at a lower speed. High speeds create a froth that injects air into the feed line.”
“Is that critical?”
“It’s only fine-tuning. I’ve verified operation of the dispersal systems on all ten aircraft.”
“Well done.”
“The difficult part will be meeting the tight schedule when the material arrives.”
Malenkov regarded the hardware set up on one side of the hangar. There was an industrial mixing tank with a three-thousand-gallon capacity and twin agitators. The attached network of pumps, valves, and piping was designed to be controlled remotely, and a network of cameras monitored the entire process. Aside from these elaborate safeguards, Qasim had installed basic shielding. Lines of stacked lead brick created a pen of sorts—such was their weight, the bricks had required two dedicated supply flights. The enclosure, large enough to contain a single drone, was where the transfer of the material would take place. Qasim had demonstrated the system yesterday, backing one of the drones into the pen with a tug and filling its supply tanks with water in less than ten minutes. Even the electric tug was wired for remote operation.
Malenkov was impressed. Qasim rarely socialized with the others at Al-Jaghbub, and he tended toward surliness. But his work was first-rate. Malenkov had chosen well.
“Is there any update on the delivery?” the Syrian asked.
“It is set to arrive the day after tomorrow, early morning.”
“That gives me a narrow window. Less than a day to make the transfer.”
“You said that was all you needed. The material is safe where it is and transferring it here will only draw attention. The less time it is in our hangar, the better.”
Qasim regarded him skeptically. “Do you doubt I can handle it safely?”
Malenkov grinned humorlessly. “Quite the opposite. I expect the danger will be minimal. You will see to that for your own sake.”
Qasim nodded, an admission of sorts. Then he turned away and got straight back to work.
34
Oval Office
The White House
Washington, D.C.
0638 Local Time
Jack Ryan was happy to get back to his morning routine. Yesterday had been long and eventful, mentally draining. But now he was back on schedule. He had set his alarm for an early wake-up, giving time for a solid workout in the gym. By his reasoning, that was worthy of a reward.
On the weekends when he managed to get home, Cathy unfailingly put together a doctors-orders breakfast. Granola, fruit, yogurt, orange juice. He knew his wife had his best interests in mind. The White House kitchen, however, was restricted by neither his borderline cholesterol numbers nor marital oversight. Quite the opposite, it was a culinary playground, any presidential whim on the menu. This morning: bacon, eggs, and toast. Purely to assuage his guilt, Ryan had requested whole wheat toast.
He’d taken the meal in the President’s Bedroom and then dressed comfortably in casual clothes and a light wool jacket. He’d cleared his calendar of ceremonial duties for the day, but hestuffed a tie in his jacket pocket just in case. By the time he reached the Oval Office his presidential mug was nearly empty and his thoughts fully caffeinated. Mary Pat, of course, was waiting.
