The Merchant’s War полностью

back towards the door at the rear of the first-class cabin. Rather than a cramped galley or a toilet, it opened onto a compact boardroom. As the only passenger on the luxury jet she had it all to herself except for the cabin attendants, but she still preferred to have a locked door between herself and any flapping ears. "Okay, Olga. What ails you?" "Are you secure?"

Brill yawned, then sat down. Beyond the windows, twilight had settled over the plains. It was stubbornly refusing to lift, despite the jet's westward dash. "I'm on the BBJ, arriving at SFO in about three hours. I was trying to get some sleep. Yes, I'm secure."

"I've got to report to Angbard, so I'd better keep this brief. I went to see Fleming today. You know what that little shit Matthias did? He convinced the DEA, this new FTO outfit, everybody who matters, that he'd planted a gadget in downtown Boston. Then he managed to get himself killed before he could tell them where it was. So now they're blaming us, and they want it handed over."

"He what?" Brill blinked and tried to rub her eyes, one-handed.

"I'm not kidding. Fleming wasn't kidding either-at least, he believed what he'd been told. I played dumb with him, pretending not to know what he was talking about, but afterwards I went and told Manfred and he ran an audit. The little shit was telling the truth. One of our nukes is missing."

"God on a stick! If the Council finds out-" "It gets worse. Turns out it's one of our FADMs. Long-term storable, in other words, and there's a long-life detonation controller that's also turned up missing. The implosion charges were remanufactured eighteen months ago, so it's probably nearing a service interval, but those charges were modified to survive storage under adverse conditions for up to a decade. If we don't find it, we're in a world of hurt-what do you think they'll do if Boston or Cambridge goes up?-and if we do find it and hand it over as a sign of our commitment to negotiate, it'll take

them all of about ten seconds to figure out where it came from."

Brilliana closed her eyes and swore, silently for a few seconds. She'd known about the Clan's nuclear capability; she and Olga were among the handful of agents whose job would be to emplace the weapons, if and when the shit ever truly hit the fan. But the nukes weren't supposed to go walkies. They were supposed to sit on their shelves in the anonymous warehouse, maintained regularly by the engineers from Pantex while U.S. Marine Corps guards patrolled the site overhead.

Based on a modified W54 warhead pattern, the FADMs were a highly classified derivative of the MADM atomic demolition device. They'd been built during the mid-1970s as backup for the CIA's Operation Gladio, to equip NATO's "stay behind" forces in Europe-after a Soviet invasion-with a storable, compact, tactical nuclear weapon. Most nukes required regular servicing to replace their neutron-emitting initiators and the plastic explosive implosion charges. The FADM had been tweaked to have a reasonable chance of detonation even after several years of unmaintained storage; the designers had replaced the usual polonium initiator with an electrically powered neutron source, and adding shields to protect the explosive lenses from radiation-induced degradation. The wisdom of supplying underground cells with what was basically a U.S. inventory-derived terrorist nuke had been revisited during the Reagan administration, and the weapons returned to the continental USA for storage-but they'd been retained long after the other man-portable demolition nukes had been destroyed, because the advantages they offered had been too good for certain spook agencies to ignore. More recently, the current administration-pathologically secretive and dealing with the aftermath of 9/11-had wanted every available arrow in their quiver, even if they were broken by design.

And they were. Because the Clan, with their ability to get into places that were flat-out impossible for homegrown intruders, had been treating them as their own personal nuclear stockpile for the past two decades.

"Listen, why are you telling me this? Why haven't you briefed Uncle A? It's his headache-"