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“Agreed. Have Craig reassemble the weapon so we can get it back to Pakistan. The situation’s heating up and we can’t afford to keep it any longer.”
“Shirani’s going to blame us,” Rapp pointed out. “He’ll say we took the fuel and use the accusation to pump up the religious fanatics. It could be enough for him to take over.”
“No question. But I’m not sure what we can do about it at this point. We need to focus on making sure no more fissile material is removed from the Pakistani arsenal.”
“Mas and I can jump a plane back to Pakistan, but this makes our job a hell of a lot harder. We’ve been looking for people moving against entire nukes. They’re big, heavy, and visible. If all they need is a wrench and a few minutes alone, we’ve got an entirely different game. Now it’s just a matter of slipping some low-level army officer a few grand or sneaking into the back of a train or truck while it’s on the move.”
She didn’t respond.
“Irene?”
“I need you to come to Maryland before you leave, Mitch.”
He tensed. “Why?”
“The surgeons in Afghanistan missed some perforations in Scott’s small intestine. Our people have repaired them but Scott has a serious infection.”
“Bottom line?”
“They’re doing everything they can, Mitch—”
“Bottom line, Irene!” Rapp said, the volume of his voice rising. Some of the scientists working below turned and shot him a nervous glance.
“They think he’ll be gone before sunrise.”
Rapp disconnected the call and turned back to Craig Bailer.
“Everything okay, Mitch?”
“You’re done. Get that thing put back together.”
“Can I shave a little off that canister? No more than a few thousandths of an inch. With some time to analyze it, I might be able to tell you where it came from.”
“As long as you can do it in
the next few hours.”
“Not a problem.”
“Craig, I need a favor.”
“Sure. What?”
“My plane’s gone and I need to get to Bethesda. Fast.”
Bailer nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. I think I can help you out.”
CHAPTER 24
NEAR DOMINICAL
COSTA RICA
GRISHA Azarov eased his pickup along the badly rutted dirt road, keeping his speed under thirty kilometers per hour. Not that he couldn’t go faster. He’d paid almost two hundred thousand U.S. dollars to have the vehicle custom built. It looked like a thousand others roaming Central America, but beneath the stock Toyota body was a 600-horsepower offroad racing machine. Based on his tests, he could maintain almost two hundred kilometers an hour on roads that most people crawled along at the pace of a horse-drawn cart.
He was relieved to be out of Pakistan, away from the CIA men operating there, and outside Maxim Krupin’s intelligence network. It was a beautiful day in Costa Rica. Humid, but unseasonably cool. Skies were clear and the sound of the jungle around him calmed his mind. In many ways, this was home. Or at least the closest thing to a home he would likely ever have.
Azarov turned onto an even rougher road and began climbing, scanning the dense trees on either side but keeping his window open and his left arm hanging out. The glass wasn’t bulletproof and even if it had been, anyone Krupin sent to punish him for his failure would use a weapon sufficient to defeat any armoring.