he and his team had recovered existed only because of what most environmental groups considered Russia’s lax attitude toward nuclear material, but Musa knew that was only part of the equation, the others being the Russian government’s love affair with innovative nuclear-power programs and its tendency toward circumspection when it came to telling the world about those programs.
Spread along Russia’s northern shipping routes were some 380 RTG—radioisotope thermoelectric generator—lighthouses, the vast majority of which were powered by strontium 90 cores, a low-level, heat-producing radioisotope with a half-life of twenty-nine years and an output capacity ranging from a few watts to eighty watts. Distributed among the four RTG models— Beta-M, Efir-MA, Gorn, and Gong—were a handful designed to use a core of a wholly different sort: plutonium-238, a material that, unlike strontium, which could at worst be used in the construction of a dirty bomb, was of fissionable quality. However, the amount of salvageable core material alone would not be sufficient for their purposes. A second source was required. This had been Adnan’s task. One for which he and his men had given their lives. The prize they’d recovered from the abandoned icebreaking ship on that godforsaken island had been the final piece of the puzzle: an OK-900A pressurized water reactor core containing 150 kilograms, or some 330 pounds, of enriched uranium-235.
Both elements free for the taking, Musa thought. Nominal security and virtually nonexistent record-keeping. Would the fools even notice the loss, and if so, how long would it take them? he wondered. In any case, it would be too late.
However complex the processes and theories behind the device’s actual function, the construction of it was no more complex than building a four-cylinder automobile engine from scratch, the engineer had told him. The fittings had to, of course, be of exacting standards, down to the micrometer scale, which made the assembly process painstaking, but Musa’s choice of the Dubai warehouse would assure them of privacy and anonymity. The Emir’s timetable would assure them ample time to allow proper assembly.
The engineer emerged from the zippered door of the tent’s work area, stripped off his protective gear in the change room, then stepped out into the warehouse. “Both assemblies were packed correctly,” he announced, accepting a bottle of water from Musa. “Aside from trace residual radiation on the exterior of the containers, there are no leaks. After lunch I will extract the contents. My biggest worry is the second package.”
“Why is that?”
“The fittings where the control-rod drive actuators enter the vessel could be problematic. They were likely sealed off during the original rescue operation, but by what method and how well is the question. Until I see them, there’s no way of telling if they’ve maintained their integrity.”
Musa thought about this, then nodded. “And the yield?”
“Again, once I’ve dismantled them.”
“You understand the minimum output we require, yes?”
“I do, and I suspect we’ll have no trouble reaching that, but I cannot promise anything. This is important: You are certain neither of them came from military platforms, correct?”
“Why does that matter?”
“It matters a great deal. It is everything, my friend. We are, in essence, reverse-engineering the device. To complicate matters, we’re dealing with very different sources, used for very different purposes. How we go about disassembly is almost as important as how we go about assembly. Do you understand?”
“I understand. They were obtained just as we told you. The schematics you have are for these two devices.”
“Good, that’s good. Then I don’t foresee any insurmountable problems.”
“How long will it take?”
“Disassembly another day. Assembly . . . two to three days. Say, four days until it is ready for departure.”
62
THE CONSULATE GENERAL of the Republic of Indonesia sat on Columbus Avenue, a few blocks south of the Embarcadero, flanked by Telegraph Hill and Lombard Street and within sight of Alcatraz Island. Clark found a parking spot on Jones Street, one block south of the consulate, and parked their rented Fort Taurus.
“Ever been to Frisco, Jack?” Chavez asked from the backseat.
“When I was a little kid. All I remember is Fisherman’s Wharf, that museum submarine—”
“USS Pampanito,” Clark said.
“Right. And Treasure Island. As my dad tells it, I cried when he told me it wasn’t the same Treasure Island from the book.”
Clark laughed. “Was that before he broke the news about the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus?”
Jack laughed in return. “Same day, I think.”
Clark pulled out his cell phone, one of three sanitized pay-as-you-go push-to-talk models they’d picked up at the airport. He dialed a number and said