Page 19 of Player

Clarissa

When the bombing in Aleppo began, I knew what to do.

My host family, The Nassars, and I had practiced for this in a way that’s reminiscent of how children practice fire drills and lockdown drills at school. A quick exit from my host family’s third-story apartment down a sturdy, cement stairwell. A hurried three block sprint to the recently constructed bomb shelter. An orderly descent down another concrete stairwell into a large underground space. A well-thought-out plan that was drilled into our daily routine.

In case of the worst happening.

What no one could prepare for was a person’s natural response to danger. The confusion caused by a sudden rush of adrenaline, when a person is subconsciously deciding between fight or flight. Scientists have proven that, when activated by real or imagined threats, the neural connections between the cerebellum can cause a person to automatically freeze.

And, God forever bless them, that’s what happened to my host family. I was outside playing with Christiana when the Russian aircraft appeared on the horizon. The Nassars were three-stories up, standing outside on the apartment balcony. He was talking on the phone and drinking tea. She was watering plants.

Flight kicked in for me. I grabbed Christiana’s hand and began running. It wasn’t until we were two blocks down—one block away from the shelter—that I looked back.

And there they were, still as statues on that balcony.

A bomb hit the apartment building, killing them.

Another landed a block in front of me, a direct hit that destroyed the bomb shelter.

Bomb after bomb.

With me in full-fledge flight mode, running through street after crumbling street, little Christiana in tow.

Boom!

Boom!

I’m suddenly fully awake and rolling up in bed, shaking off the nightmare while trying to get my bearings.

For a few panicked seconds, I don’t recognize the small room with a twin bed, two chairs and table. It’s the slight pitch of the ship that reminds me I’m on a cargo ship headed to Ireland. I booked passage—something a globe-trotting friend had told me was possible if you had the money.

I’m onboard the ship transporting illegal, black market cargo. Except it’s not drugs or weapons as I previously thought. It’s uranium. Enriched uranium—a main component of nuclear weaponry.

At one point in every journalist’s career, something she believes to be true turns into something far more horrific. That often beneath the ugly surface of a story, unthinkable things lurk.

Bad enough drugs and guns are sold on the black market. But uranium?

I’ve had time to research things, to do my homework and lay the groundwork for this story. In the 1970s, governments concerned about nuclear weapons being built passed the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons Treaty. Parties who sign the treaty will cooperate with each other in developing nuclear energy for peaceful purposes, with consideration of developing countries. In 1974, the United States added Section 123. For non-NGS member, US consent is required for any material or equipment designed or prepared for processing of uranium.

The worry? If uranium reaches the wrong hands, every country, every citizen is at risk.

No wonder I’m having nightmares.

Part of being a smart investigative reporter is recognizing when a good opportunity changes into an excellent one. For me, everything changed when I stumbled upon a small slip of paper I found stapled to the original shipping manifest on my return visit to the Acapulco port. The new clerk had taken it upon herself to organize the scribbled bits of note paper her boss had stuffed inside a drawer. I’d interrupted her while she’d been muttering about “unorganized operations” and stapling the fragmented pieces to their corresponding files. Rough, torn edged paper. Scribble I can barely translate.

Señora del Leon

Hacienda Santa Miguel, Tepoztlán

52 33 4500 1122.

$2.97 per kilo (American dollars).

50 crates.

Enriched uranium.

Sunday 22/8