The Threat

Dan knew the difference between the low-emission isotopes used for tracing and the high-energy particle emitters used to zap cancers. He’d picked up quite a bit of that information after Horn’s contamination, making sure his crew was being taken care of. Holding the phone, he watched the men from the Citation drinking and shoving each other. One kept glancing his way.

“What’s all that hollering?”

“Just some locals blowing their paychecks. Look, I’ve got to get back on the road. When are you getting back?”

“Gonna take the weekend off and head back Monday. That cool, boss man?”

“Sure. See you then.”

The men started Dan’s way. He got into the Escort and pulled out. He watched for the on-ramp. The rain was coming down so hard he had the wipers on as fast as they would go. He merged with inches to spare as a tractor trailer roared and blared behind him. Traffic was insane, seventy-five, eighty, bumper to bumper and no visibility.

Why would anyone want to steal radioactives? Enough to put together a major, coordinated, obviously rehearsed raid?

Only the cartel killed their own wounded. But medical isotopes, however valuable in monetary terms, weren’t something they could sell on the street. Why would they want high-energy neutron sources? He was no nuclear engineer, but he was pretty sure you couldn’t use medical isotopes to make a nuclear bomb. The way he understood it, the only metals that would actually chain-react were uranium, plutonium, and thorium.

He tried putting it together with the idea of shipping containers going across the border to a humanitarian assistance organization. He smiled. It’d make a great premise for a thriller. It even locked in with that remark the Baptist had supposedly made, on the way to Haiti, before the Marines and the DEA had crashed their party.

Say the cartel had stolen the isotopes. Certainly they had the muscle, the money, the arms. They could get inside any organization they wanted. They send the isotopes, small, high-value packages — just like drugs, so much like drugs — across the U.S.-Mexican border, either in air freight containers, or by “mule,” ignorant peasant smugglers, or in small, low-flying aircraft — the way most coke traveled now.

Then, when they’re across, pool them at some location federal agents wouldn’t want to go. Like a religious compound. After Waco, nobody wanted to touch a religious compound.

He liked to drive, even in the dark, in the rain. The enforced idleness, the half attention you had to pay, let the back of your brain play with fantasies, idle reveries. Such as, if somebody wanted to make trouble with what had come out of Laguna Verde, what he’d do.

The bomb that had shattered Horn hadn’t been intended to wipe out Tel Aviv with blast and fire, but with a deadly cloak of radioactive cobalt. Cobalt wasn’t a common material. One of the techs who’d interviewed him after the blast had suggested sheep feed. It sounded off the wall, but the guy said the stuff was rich in cobalt compounds, and certainly common enough around the Middle East.

What if you spread some radioactive iodine around? Technium? The other isotopes Roald said Laguna Verde made? It wouldn’t have to be aimed at a specific target. A radioactive plume was the ultimate area weapon. It would sicken and kill thousands. Like Chernobyl.

There’ll be a hot wind in Washington this spring. What Nuñez had chuckled over in the plane with his financier. Say “Spring Wind” meant an isotope release. Say Washington really was the target. Something like that could make the Mall, the White House, Pentagon, Congress, uninhabitable for years. Maybe generations. Depending on the isotope mix, the laydown density, the half-life.

He was glad they hadn’t actually gotten their hands on any of the stuff.

* * *

He picked Nan up at her residence hall. Despite the weather she was in an off-the-shoulder blouse and a short skirt. He had to remind himself she was eighteen, old enough to choose her own wardrobe.

“So how’s the White House?” she said, once they were in his car and headed for the restaurant.

“Keeps me busy.”

“You look awful tired, Dad. Don’t take this wrong. But you look older than when you started.” She touched his temple. “Like, gray. And your eye’s all bruised.”

“Guys don’t complain about their hair. They’re just glad to still have it.”

He looked at her profile, the fall of dark hair, the button nose. A wave of gratitude swelled his heart. No matter what was wrong with the world or his life, she was in it. He surreptitiously touched his eyes, ashamed at getting so emotional. She gave him a conspiratorial smile and patted his hand.

They were into the second course when his pager hummed. “Damn, not again,” he muttered.

“What’s wrong?”

“Got to call the office. Sorry.”

He found a phone in the front lobby. Had to use his AT&T card. Same area code as the last time, but a different number.