Havoc - v4 (32 page)

It sounded like a question to Poli. In truth he had just a vague notion of what the people paying him were going to do with the plutonium, and given the amount of money he’d receive, he really didn’t care. He doubted the little village in Bulgaria he planned to return to was a terrorist target, so nothing they did would affect him personally. Let them nuke the States and then face her wrath. It wasn’t his problem anymore. “What about Mercer and the other survivors at the mine?” he asked.

“Federov reports directly to me. I am supposed to be there tomorrow when the real train arrives. I will tell the engineer and his crew that Federov needs more time. They’ll be isolated for a few days at least.”

“Good.” Feines considered driving back up there with a sniper rifle and at least killing Philip Mercer, but he didn’t want to rush his hunt. He would make certain he and Mercer met soon enough.

Popov motioned for the other man to join them. “I don’t believe you two have actually been introduced formally. Poli Feines, may I present the deputy oil minister of Saudi Arabia, currently stationed at the United Nations overseeing charitable contributions from the cartel, Mohammad bin Al-Salibi, your employer.”

Al-Salibi shook Feines’s hand but there was a cold reserve behind his handsome face. “I understand that you ran into a setback.” He spoke with a slight British accent from having prepped and gone to university in England.

“Philip Mercer.”

“Not the Janissaries this time.”

“No, it was Mercer.”

“Resourceful man.”

“A man on borrowed time.”

“He’s not a priority to me,” the Saudi ambassador said.

“This is personal,” Poli snarled.

“Let’s go into the office,” Popov suggested. “A little coffee is in order, I think.”

The fish processing plant’s office was as unkempt as the plant itself. It stank of fish oil, and the furniture in the reception area was stained from years of supporting the backsides of dirty fishermen. Popov got the coffee machine brewing and poured when it was ready.

“How much ore do you have?” Al-Salibi asked.

“There are two barrels in the back of the UAZ. I estimate about a thousand pounds’ worth.”

“For curiosity’s sake how much was at the mine depot?”

“Tons of it. We loaded sixty-eight barrels onto the train before Mercer showed.”

A wistful look crossed the ambassador’s face as he considered what could be done with such a deadly cache.

Even for a stone killer like Poli Feines the look was disquieting. “That fishing boat out there,” he said just to cut the eerie silence, “is that the one they are going to use?”

“Yes. It was stolen a week ago in Albania. Her name’s been changed of course so she’s completely untraceable.”

“And your crew?”

“Are ready to travel to Turkey and are most eager to martyr themselves.”

After the fire had died down some Mercer and Cali checked the wreckage for survivors, first tying strips of cloth over their noses and mouths in case any of the barrels had ruptured. Neither was surprised that no one had survived the crash and subsequent explosion, but both were relieved that the barrels they could see in the twisted pile of railcars remained intact.

They set out for the long walk up the tracks back to the mine, Mercer using a stout branch as a crutch. At dusk they built a fire and slept in its rosy glow, Cali cradled in Mercer’s arm, her silky hair caressing his face. They reached the mine two hours after sunrise. The Russians were camped near the remains of the helicopter. Ludmilla, the heavyset scientist, was cooking rations scavenged from the chopper, while the other scientist and the pilot, who’d run from the gunfight because he had no weapons, tended an injured man. When they got close they could see it was Sasha Federov.

Mercer hobbled up and knelt next to the soldier, grinning. “I was certain that RPG had your number on it.”

“Bah,” Federov dismissed with a pained smile. “Nothing more than a little shrapnel in my shoulder and one hell of a headache. Did you stop the train?”

“Derailed it about twenty miles down the valley. No one got off at their last stop.”

“I’m afraid someone didn’t get on it at this one.”

Mercer’s relief that Federov had survived turned to instant concern. “What are you saying?”

“Yesterday I sent Yuri, the pilot, down to the tracks. One of the UAZs was there, its engine destroyed by gunfire, so we couldn’t use it. The other was gone.”

“Son of a bitch,” Mercer shouted and got to his feet. “Fucking Poli. He took off in the truck knowing I was going after the train.”

“Do you think he had any of the barrels?”

“Yes, goddamn it. There wasn’t enough time to load the last two. I had assumed Poli would have cut his losses and left them behind.”

“What are we going to do?” Cali asked.

“Sasha, how long before your superiors send someone out here when they don’t hear from us?”

“Do not worry, my friend. The real train should arrive sometime today.”

“Thank God.”

“That still gives him a day’s head start,” Cali pointed out. “Those barrels could be anywhere in the world by then.”

Her remark soured Mercer’s mood even further. She was right and he began to understand the stress of her job. Being right ninety-nine percent of the time when dealing with nuclear materials wasn’t good enough. He’d stopped Poli from carrying off tons of the plutonium ore but failed to prevent a couple of barrels from slipping away. How many people would die because he screwed up? In theory that was enough plutonium to irradiate dozens of square miles or the water supply of an entire city.

What would happen when elevated radiation levels were detected in the aquifer feeding Manhattan? Thousands would die just from the rioting and looting that would break out. How many more would perish during the evacuation? And then how many would suffer the devastating effects of ingesting the plutonium dust? It was conceivable that cancer would claim tens or even hundreds of thousands more.

And what would become of New York City with every pipe and conduit potentially contaminated? It would be uninhabitable for years, a ghost town of skyscrapers.

Mercer had been so proud of himself for blowing the train off the tracks, and now he’d never felt worse in his life. It was his fault. All of it. He would feel as responsible for those deaths as if he was the one who released the plutonium.

“We’ll get him,” Cali said, reading the anguish in his eyes.

“And if we don’t?”

“At NEST failure is simply not an option.”

“Cali, that looks good on the letterhead but it’s just not realistic.” He didn’t want to sound so harsh but his emotions were running at the breaking point. “There is a lunatic out there with a thousand pounds of plutonium and we’re stuck here. By the time Sasha’s train arrives, Paris or London or Rome could be a radioactive wasteland.”

A voice came from the other side of the helicopter. “Or New York or Chicago or Washington, D.C.”

Mercer recognized it immediately.

The Janissary who’d rescued Cali and him in Africa and had warned them off at Mercer’s brownstone stepped from around the helo’s scorched wreckage. He wore the same black suit he had in Washington and with him was the same assistant. “However, I believe Ankara, Istanbul, and Baku are more likely targets.”

Mercer had his pistol out and trained on the Janissary’s head. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now.”

He smiled. “For a man who’s been calling me for a week, you don’t seem too interested in what I have to tell you.”

It took Mercer a moment to understand. “You’re Professor Ibriham Ahmad. Of the University of Istanbul.”

He made a gracious half bow. “At your service. I am also General Ibriham Ahmad of the Most Exalted Sultan’s Janissary Corps, tasked with being the last guardians of the Alembic of Skenderbeg.”

Mercer lowered his pistol.

“This is Devrin Egemen.” Ahmad introduced the young man next to him. “One of my star pupils and a trusted lieutenant.”

Egemen bobbed his head.

Ahmad looked around the deserted mine, noting the bodies covered in tarps. “We knew the Russians returned to Africa to mine Alexander’s adamantine ore but we believed they used it all up building their early bombs. How much was here and how much did they get away with?”

“I don’t know for sure. We stopped the train. Cali and I could see dozens of barrels in the wreckage but there’s probably more. Poli Feines escaped with two barrels, probably a thousand pounds’ worth, in a truck.”

“More than enough for their plans,” Ahmad said thoughtfully. He moved away, forcing Cali and Mercer to follow, so they could have some privacy. Then in one graceful movement he sat on the ground with his legs crossed. He patted the earth. “Please sit. This story will take some time.”

Mercer had seen his capacity for violence but he sensed that Ahmad’s true strength came from his intellect. It was in the way he spoke, confident and assured and eager to teach. Mercer thankfully lowered himself and set aside his makeshift crutch.

“Like all Janissaries Gjergi Kastrioti was trained in Istanbul at the finest military college of his day. He was an excellent student who intuitively grasped strategy and tactics. So when he decided that the sultanate had become corrupt and revolted against Murad II, it was little wonder his men followed him.”

“He went to Albania and held off the sultan’s army for twenty-five years,” Mercer said.

Ahmad cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve done some research. Very good.”

“It was rumored he had a talisman that once belonged to Alexander the Great,” Mercer went on. “I assume it’s the alembic.”

“Correct. The last credible report concerning the alembic came from a Syrian scribe who said that the generals who took over Alexander’s army following his death were squabbling over who should carry it. Because there was no consensus, they decided to return it to Egypt, where it would be buried with Alexander. Along the way a contingent of soldiers decided to steal the alembic for themselves and escaped with it into the desert.

“I can only speculate what happened from then. Suffice it to say the alembic was worth a fortune in the right hands and it must have passed from potentate to sheik to king over the next several hundred years. It eventually ended up in the hands of the most powerful rulers in the region, the Byzantines, and then when their civilization collapsed and the Ottoman Empire flourished, the Alembic of Skenderbeg was in their treasury. By then, however, no one knew what it was because it had sat forgotten for more than a millennium.”

“But Skenderbeg figured it out?”

“That he did. The story is that as punishment for staying out past curfew, at the bedroom of a nobleman’s daughter if the tale is true, he was sent to one of the army’s massive storehouses and ordered to catalogue every item inside. The story says it took a month but during that time he became fascinated with a large bronze urn and the strange writing on its side. He found someone who could translate it for him and that’s when he learned that it was Alexander’s secret weapon. It must have seemed like fate to him, for already some of his men were calling him Skenderbeg, or Alexander the Great.

“When he planned his revolt against Murad II, he made certain he took the alembic with him.”

Cali summed up, saying, “And having the alembic allowed him to hold off Murad’s army for so long?”

“I don’t get something,” Mercer interrupted. “If Alexander used it for so long and Skenderbeg used it too, how much plutonium ore can there still be in it? It might be big but it isn’t bottomless.”

“There is very little,” Ahmad said, “but it doesn’t matter. The alembic isn’t used to disperse the radioactive dust.”

“Then how does it work?”

“There are two chambers within the alembic. When the mechanism is turned on, the shield separating them is moved and the two samples of ore are allowed to interact. Unlike the raw plutonium found in Africa and the barrels of it here, Alexander’s alchemists had refined it somehow, changed it in such a way that rather than emit weak gamma particles that are unable to penetrate human skin, the alembic belches deadly swarms of alpha and beta particles that sicken in seconds and kill in minutes.

“It was an insidious weapon that Skenderbeg employed only when absolutely necessary but Alexander used to wipe out entire armies. There are accounts of fifty thousand enemy soldiers killed in a single night when his spies activated the alembic in their encampment. When the siege of an ancient city called Qumfar wasn’t going as planned, Alexander opened the alembic outside the city walls and left it there for a week. When he returned, every man, woman, child, and animal within the walls was dead. A scribe wrote that their skin had blackened and peeled off their bodies, that some were so covered in blisters that they weren’t recognizable as human. He said many mothers had slit their own children’s throats to ease their suffering before turning the blades on themselves.”

Cali said, “When something is so heavily irradiated it would remain radioactive for weeks, months even.”

Ahmad shook his head. “I am an historian, not a nuclear engineer. I can only tell you what I know of the alembic. Perhaps Alexander’s scientists did something else to the ore so that the effects were short-lived. I do not know.”

“Or perhaps the town was severely nuked,” Mercer said. “And that is why today there is no such place as Qumfar.”

“Could also explain why Alexander died so young,” Cali added.

“All I know for certain,” Ahmad said, “is that in the wrong hands the alembic is much more dangerous than the ore Feines made off with today.”

“What happened to the alembic?”

“Upon his death Skenderbeg’s generals knew that they would eventually lose to Murad’s army. Even with the device, the driving force of their revolt was dead and it was only a matter of time before the soldiers lost their will to fight. Rather than risk the alembic falling into Ottoman hands they decided to honor both their leader and his namesake and do what Alexander’s men had wanted. That is, return the alembic to his tomb.”

“And did they?”

Ludmilla approached with plates of powdered egg and coffee from what little supplies survived the helicopter crash. It was the first food Mercer had seen since the flight from Germany to Samara, and while surplus Russian rations were far from Cordon Bleu, he and Cali attacked it with relish.