Numbered Account

Until 1992, the installation had been guarded by a division of mechanized infantry. Over five hundred men patrolled the compound and the surrounding woods twenty-four hours a day. Six separate checkpoints had to be cleared before reaching the maze of buildings that made up the laboratory itself. Since that time, however, security had become considerably more lax. Today a single post stood at the compound's entry. A smile and a flash of one's military identification were all that was necessary to gain admittance.

Marchenko scowled, recalling events from the recent past. The Americans had also known about the Lenin Laboratory and the airtight rooms filled with lead canisters holding fissionable materials. Their covert agents had easily penetrated the compound's porous security and had reported back that a paperboy could con his way in, fill his pockets with uranium, and pedal out again. In the summer of 1993, a joint inspection team of CIA and KGB officers landed in Alma-Ata and made directly for the Lenin Atomic Research Laboratory. The operation, code-named Sapphire, had been a complete success. Almost. The interlopers removed over two tons of enriched weapons-grade uranium-235 and plutonium from the Lenin Laboratory and shipped it west. But they had missed a few items.

Marchenko was not a stupid man. He had imagined such an event, if tardily, and had moved with haste on learning of the Americans' plans. He and his colleagues had pinned their hopes on a small weapons manufacturer inside the grounds of the Lenin Laboratory; a factory charged with overseeing the construction of next-generation weapons prototypes. Among the items being developed for introduction into the armed forces was a highly mobile, easily launchable low-yield nuclear device. A battlefield nuclear weapon.

Hours ahead of the Americans, he had stolen his way into the laboratory and removed the existing functional prototypes. Two Kopinskaya IV concussive bombs, each possessing a two-kiloton load. His country's true patrimony.

Marchenko climbed aboard the jeep. The deal is almost done, he said to himself. And though his face retained its veneer of stolid dissatisfaction, inside he was as giddy as a fifteen-year-old. He tapped the driver on the shoulder and ordered him to move out. Up and down the line, motors turned over as the small convoy got under way. It would be an eight-hour drive to their destination. Closing his eyes for a moment, he enjoyed the warm desert wind that tickled his face. Sure that no one could see him, he smiled.

It was time someone else suffered.

CHAPTER 51

The number 10 tram lurched out of the morning mist like an arthritic serpent. Its blunt blue snout and reticulated body rattled through the curtain of dew, groaning and sighing as it drew to a halt. Doors jerked open. Passengers got off. Nick lifted a hand to help a stooped old lady whose slow descent threatened the punctuality of the entire transit system. The witch batted it away with her bent umbrella. He dodged the blow and stepped aboard. So much for starting the day on the right foot.

Nick shuttled down the aisle looking for an empty seat. Gray faces sagging with the burdens of living in the world's wealthiest democracy greeted him. Their unsmiling countenances shoved him with a thump out of Sylvia's bed and back into the real world. The world where he was an accessory to murder, conspirator to fraud, and prisoner of a man who might very well have had a hand in murdering his father.

Nick sat down at the rear of the tram. An elderly man in front of him was reading Blick, the country's daily scandal sheet. He had the paper open to the second page. A photograph of Marco Cerruti slumped in a leather recliner occupied the upper left-hand corner. The headline read "Despondent Banker Takes Life." The text was short, included so to dignify the lurid photograph. Cerruti looked peaceful enough, sleeping except for a small black crater carved into his left temple. His eyes were closed and a fluffy white pillow was propped on his stomach.

Nick waited for the old man to finish reading the paper, then asked if he might have a look. The man eyed him long and hard, as if assessing his creditworthiness. Finally, he handed him the paper. Nick stared at the picture for a while, wondering how much cash the paper had slipped the police photographer, then directed his attention to the brief article.

"Marco Cerruti, 55, vice president of the United Swiss Bank, was found dead at his home in Thalwil early Friday morning. Lt. Dieter Erdin of the Zurich Police classified the death as a suicide and listed the cause as a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Officials at the United Swiss Bank reported that Cerruti had been suffering from nervous exhaustion and had not worked on a daily basis since the beginning of the year. A memorial scholarship in his name will be established by the bank at the University of Zurich."