The Threat

“Let’s see, this says … ‘Cesium chloride. A fine, talcum-powder-like precipitate.’ God … yeah.” She ran her hand over her hair, the same self-comforting gesture, Dan noticed, he used sometimes himself.

“What is it?”

“The half-life’s thirty years. After area contamination, it takes six half-lives for decay to safe levels.”

“Six times fifteen’s 180 years,” Alvarado said behind them.

“And you’re sure this was what was actually stolen?” she asked them.

Dan explained that was a weak point. All they had was cop-to-cop liaison, anonymous background — nothing in writing. “But Miles, my DEA guy, says the federale he got this from, he’s a good source.”

“You say you think the cartel, this Baptist guy, was behind the plant hit. But the people who were into air cargo were a charity foundation?”

“An Islamic charity foundation. Out of Pomona. They were shipping cargo containers across the Mexican border. Empty, but that could have been a rehearsal. And you know NSA’s been reporting back chatter between the terror boys and the drug people. They’re starting to work together.”

She looked doubtful. “This is all pretty thin, Dan. We could get burned if we take this seriously, and it turns out to be nothing.”

“I know it’s thin. But look at the downside, too.” He tried to make his voice earnest. “Captain, prudent mariners don’t wait till somebody comes out of the fog at us. If we hear something out there, we stop the engines. All I’m saying is, let’s call the skipper. Put Transportation, the FBI, and Customs on alert. Maybe they’ve heard something too. Maybe they’ve got a piece we’re missing.”

She thought a bit more. Then, with a quick gesture, flipped open a binder and ran her finger down a list. “Put one of your people on finding out if there’s actually anything going on in L.A. At the charity. See if they can persuade the local FBI to go over and check them out again. I’ll call a couple of people on the alert chain. I also want to know how big a threat this thing would be. Whether cesium chloride would disperse in a brisk wind, the effect of precipitation on dispersion, and so on. Get me some numbers. Get me some facts. Then maybe I can help you.”

Dan said he’d do that, and went back out into the admin area. Alvarado and Lynch trailed him to one of the vacant terminals. The same one he’d sat at during the futile run-up to the Eritrean retreat. He logged in, wondering again what he was supposed to do if Alvarado really was dirty. Somebody inside the counterdrug establishment was leaking. But who?

He finally told himself it didn’t matter. It might even work to their advantage. If Luis was their leaker and passed the word to the other side that the operation was compromised, they might abort.

Which would be fine with him. They might lose track of the conspirators, but if they stopped whatever was going on before it got off the ground, he’d settle for that. In fact, that might be the smartest thing he could do.

“Okay, let’s split this up. Luis, I want you on the phone to anybody and everybody you know in Santa Cruz and Mexico City. Use that excellent Spanish. Find out if what Miles got is the straight skinny. Anything they’ve uncovered. How much material’s missing, if you find anybody who can drill down to that level of detail. Call in all your chips and don’t be afraid to beg. Tell them something wicked might be coming our way, and we need the facts.”

“I need to go back to the office to do that.”

“Why?”

“All my phone numbers are there.”

Dan hesitated, then said that was all right.

Marty Harlowe came in, shaking wet off her raincoat. She hung it carefully. Underneath she was wearing black slacks and a lacy, clingy white blouse. “Miles said you needed us.”

He explained again. Midway through she said, “The dirty-bomb concept. A radiological-dispersal device, like we used to think about for area denial.”

“That’s kind of our sense of what we’re looking at. Yeah. Ed’s working the airline end. Luis’s backtracking with his contacts south of the border, trying to confirm what Miles heard, get specifics on the isotopes. We need hard data for Captain Roald to pass up the alert chain.”

“Hard data, meaning what?”

“Exactly what got stolen. Where it is, and what they’re planning to do with it.”

The marine said, “I can’t help you with the first two. But maybe I can with the third.”

“Yeah?”

She looked toward the back of the admin area, where a beige steel workstation with a small wire-gridded screen stood. Red-striped burn bags bulging with shredded paper lay stacked against it, on it, adding to its air of dusty neglect.

“Let’s go back to the Wimmicks,” she said.

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