Numbered Account

Nick read through the contents of the activity reports for October, November, and December 1979. There was no further mention of Allen Soufi or Goldluxe. Nothing. He closed the dossier and reread his father's entries for the last days of 1979.

December 20: "A. Soufi in office. 3:00 P.M."

December 21: "Christmas party, Trader Vics, Beverly Hilton."

December 27: "Move out. 602 Stone Canyon Rd."

December 31: "New Year's Eve. Next year will be better. It has to!"

When Sylvia excused herself to go to the loo, Nick closed the book and traced the golden numbers on its cover with his fingernail. His stomach felt hollow. He was beyond exhausted. He fell into a kind of reverie, where his past, his present, and what might be his future all mingled together. "Burki," he whispered to himself, recalling the name of the USB executive who had referred Soufi to his father. "The key to this game is Burki."

Nick laid his head on the cool wooden surface. He shut his eyes. "Burki," he said. "Caspar Burki." Over and over he repeated the name, as if during the night he might forget it. He thought of his father and of his mother. He remembered Johnny Burke and Gunny Ortiga. He recalled the awe he felt as he mounted the steps of the United Swiss Bank eight weeks ago. He replayed his first meeting with Peter Sprecher and he laughed. Then his thoughts melted into one another and the world around him darkened. Peace was what he sought. And soon he had it.

CHAPTER 50

Two hundred miles due east of Beirut at a remote military air base deep in the Syrian desert, a Tupolev-154 cargo jet touched down and taxied the length of the runway before laboring to a halt. The flight had lasted only three hours, yet all eight engines were overheated. Fresh oil had not been added for two hundred flying hours- twice the maximum allowable period. The turbine coolers responsible for maintaining a stable running temperature had worked only intermittently. In fact, somewhere over the Caucasus Mountains one engine had failed for fifteen minutes and the pilot had insisted on returning the plane to Alma-Ata. General Dimitri Sergeivitch Marchenko had been firm in his instructions to continue to the Syrian air base. The cargo could not be delayed.

The Tupolev cut its engines and lowered its rear cargo hatch. Four vehicles rumbled down the loading ramp and onto the warm concrete tarmac. Marchenko followed them, greeting the Syrian commander who waited nearby.

"Colonel Hammid, I presume."

"General Marchenko. It is an honor. As ordered, I am happy to provide you with a platoon of our finest infantrymen for the trip to Lebanon. I understand the shipment is highly sensitive."

"Classified electronics for the regional headquarters of the Hamas. Surveillance gear." Marchenko had never thought highly of his Arab allies. As soldiers, they were impostors. They'd lost every war they'd fought. They should, however, pass muster as escorts for his small convoy into Lebanon. They were fearless supporters of other men's battles.

Marchenko walked to the six-ton truck carrying his precious cargo. He was a short man, stout and heavyset around his jaw and neck. He carried his weight well, using it to add extra swagger to his step. He lifted the canvas canopy and climbed aboard, inviting his Syrian counterpart to join him. Together, they checked that straps securing the crates had been properly tightened. The crates were filled with obsolete radio transmitters, polished up and triple wrapped in plastic to make them look new. The Kopinskaya IV was packed in a reinforced steel container welded to the truck's flatbed. A sophisticated antitampering switch had been attached to the container. If someone attempted to remove the container from the truck, or to forcibly open it, a small packet of Semtex explosive would be ignited and the bomb would be destroyed. No one would steal Little Joe.

Marchenko flopped his rump on the tail of the truck, then jumped to the ground and made his way forward to the command jeep. The idea to sell a small percentage of his nation's conventional armaments had not been his own. The Kazakh government had embraced it early on, believing it was acting no differently than the former Soviet government. From there, talk moved naturally to another of the republic's salable assets: her nuclear arsenal. No one had ever considered selling off one of the big birds, the SS-19s or SS-20s- missiles equipped with a twenty-megaton warhead and a six-thousand-mile flight span. At least, not seriously. The Kazakhs were a moral people. Besides, the logistics were overwhelming.

Attention had focused on how to profitably dispose of the stockpile of enriched plutonium kept in the vaults of the Lenin Atomic Research Laboratory, one of the former Soviet Union's most secret installations, located forty kilometers outside Alma-Ata.