The Zero Hour

He took a small cellular phone from his breast pocket, opened it, and dialed a number. As soon as he had done so, he looked at his watch. Baumann did the same.

The two men waited in silence.

Forty-five seconds later the barn echoed with the sound of a gunshot. The blasting caps that dangled from the fusing mechanism had detonated, giving off fragments that were contained by the steel barrel.

“A long delay,” Baumann observed.

“It varies.”

“Yes.” The detonator that set off the blasting caps had been armed by a circuit that closed when the built-in pager received a signal sent by satellite. Depending on how much satellite traffic there was at any given moment, the page signal could be received in a few seconds or a few minutes. “What about the microwave sensor?”

“Certainly.” Charreyron walked across the barn to the steel barrel and attached a fresh set of blasting caps to the fusing mechanism. He rearmed it and pushed a button to activate a time-delay switch.

“As soon as the timer runs down, the microwave sensor is armed. You can set the time delay for as short as ten seconds.”

“And as long as-?”

“Seventy-two hours. But if you need a longer delay, I can easily replace it.”

“No, that’ll do.”

“Good. I’ve set this for ten seconds. And now, the microwave-yes.” From across the dim expanse, Baumann could see a red light wink on. “It’s armed now. Would you like to…?”

“Distance?”

“Twenty-five feet, but that too can be adjusted.”

Baumann walked slowly toward the steel drum, then stopped approximately thirty feet from it. Then he approached step by step, until he was startled by the loud explosion of the blasting caps.

“Very precise,” he said.

“It’s top-quality,” Charreyron said, permitting himself a proud smile.

“You do good work. But what about the signature, as we discussed?”

“That took me quite some time to research. But I came up with a rather convincing Libyan signature.”

Most explosive devices leave “signatures” that permit an investigator to determine who originated them. They might be how the knots are tied, how connections are soldered, how wires are cut.

The Provisional Irish Republican Army, for instance, makes its bomb fuses in lots of a hundred or so. A number of PIRA technicians get together in a warehouse or barn and work without stop for a few days, making identical fuses, which are then parceled out. This has been confirmed both by intelligence and by inspecting the fusing mechanisms of unexploded PIRA bombs: one can tell from the identical, if minuscule, markings that every wire has been cut with the same pair of wirecutters. Some terrorist groups leave a signature unintentionally, out of sloppiness, because they have always constructed a bomb in a certain way. Some, however, do so deliberately, as a subtle way to claim credit.

“Now, as for shipping,” the Belgian said. “You’re certainly welcome to take them with you, but I assume you don’t want to take that risk.”

Baumann gave a small snort of derision.

“I didn’t think so. The entire assembly can be broken down into its components, which all clip rather neatly into place. I’ll go over it with you. That makes it easy to ship.”

“But you won’t ship them from Liège.”

“That would not be discreet,” Charreyron said, “given what Liège is known for. No, I will send them from Brussels. Concealed, let’s say, in some harmless electronic thing like a radio. Overnight express, if you like. You simply give me an address.”

“Fine.”

“And-uh-there’s the matter of payment. The pagers cost a bit more than I calculated.”

Baumann removed an envelope of bills and counted out the amount Charreyron asked for. It was a reasonable sum-about 30 percent more than his original estimate. The Belgian was not trying to pull a fast one.

“Excellent,” Charreyron said, as he pocketed the money.

“Well, then,” Baumann said heartily, “please give my best to your lovely wife, Marie. Isn’t she a curator at the Curtius Museum?”

Charreyron stared dully.

“And little Berthe-six years old and a student at the école normale, is that right? You must be proud.”

“What the hell are you hinting at?”

“Just this, my friend. I know the address of your apartment on Rue Saint-Gilles. I know where your daughter is at this very moment, where your wife is. Remember what I said: if the slightest detail of our dealings is made known to anyone, the consequences for you and your family will be unimaginable. I will stop at nothing.”

“Oh, please, not another word,” said the Belgian, ashen-faced. “That is understood.”

As they strolled out of the barn and into the blindingly bright afternoon daylight, Baumann considered whether to kill the man. There was a mild, cool breeze and the pleasant smell of newly mown grass.

Life is a series of gambles, Baumann reflected. Charreyron would not benefit in any way from turning in a South African mercenary whose name he didn’t even know, and would certainly not wish to let the authorities know of his own past involvement in Luanda. And the threat to his family’s well-being would be persuasive.