Steve Martini - Guardian of Lies

“Essentially, yes. With a gun type there are no tricky detonators. My people are working on it but from what we can see, the only thing he might need other than the parts he already has is a little fresh cordite to fire the projectile down the barrel, and that he could probably get almost anywhere.”

Thorpe issued a deep sigh, then leaned back in his chair.

“Okay, so the Soviets tracked him to Mariel. What happened then?”

“Soviet intelligence reports that the Cubans helped him load the van into the hold of a registered Liberian vessel. The ship sailed that night, the twenty-eighth. The Russians thought about sinking it with a sub but they had nothing in position because of the U.S. blockade around the island. They had recalled all their subs out to the mid-Atlantic in an effort to reduce tensions and avoid an accident with the U.S. Bottom line is, the ship, the van, and the man all disappeared.”

“The Liberian vessel,” said Thorpe, “do we have a name? With a name we get shipping records. Even after forty-five years we might see where the vessel landed.”

“I thought about that,” said Llewellyn. “Our intelligence people checked our copies of the old Soviet documents. It looks as if the vessel’s name was in the KGB reports, but for some reason it was inked out, redacted by the Soviets, we don’t know why.”

“And of course without the original document we can’t look behind the ink.”

“Correct,” said Llewellyn.

“So we don’t have a clue as to where this guy went or whether he might still be there today?”

“Until we had access to the KGB reports, he was just an urban legend, one that Emerson Pike was apparently obsessed with. We talked with people Pike worked with before he retired and they all said that he believed the legend to be true. Even after he retired, whenever he traveled, friends said he was always on the lookout. It looks as if perhaps he found him. The Soviet apparatus searched for Nitikin for almost thirty years, until the empire collapsed, and they never found him. So you have to assume the Russian is fairly resourceful,” said Llewellyn.

“And old,” said Thorpe.

“Yes, but that may not be an advantage,” said Llewellyn.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean if he sat on it all these years, why would he use it now? Unless, of course…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless he’s dying and he knows it, in which case it’s either use it or lose it.”

“So he has to restore it before he dies,” said Thorpe.

“My guess is that he’s found help. He would need it. It’s possible but not likely that he’d be able to move it himself.”

“You’re thinking subnational terrorists,” said Thorpe.

“If the plan is to use it, that would be my guess,” said Llewellyn. “No nation I can think of is going to want to have their fingerprints on an event like that. And while a nation-state could take it and put it in their arsenal, without the capacity to maintain it, what good is it? In ten years they’ve got a corroded hunk of junk. No. Unfortunately, there’s only one purpose to be served by a dinosaur like this, and that’s to turn it loose and let it roar-to make a statement that the world will understand.”

Both men knew that when it came to potential helpers, there was no shortage of candidates.

“So you’re pretty sure there’s no chance he goes to use this thing and gets a fizzle?” said Thorpe.

“There’s always the exception in the physical universe,” said Llewellyn, “but I wouldn’t place too much reliance on it in this case. You have to remember, the first one of these we made, gun type, we didn’t even bother to test it. We just shipped it across the Pacific and dropped it. That’s how certain we were that it would work.”

“You’ve convinced me,” said Thorpe. “What are we talking about in terms of size?”

“Are you asking mass, the size of the weapon, or yield?” said Llewellyn.

“All three.”

“The warhead would be bigger than a bread basket. Unfortunately, we don’t have a picture. The only one we know of is a photograph of one of the missiles itself on a ramp aimed at Guantanamo. We know the warhead was situated in the midpart of the fuselage. How large or heavy we can’t be sure,” said Llewellyn. “You’d want to use a truck to move it. I’m guessing a small box truck would be more than adequate.”

“In other words, the kind you can rent anywhere,” said Thorpe.

“Right.”

“And yield?”

“That we do know. Think in terms of Little Boy,” said Llewellyn.

“You’re kidding. I thought you said this thing was field tactical for battlefield use.”

“It is. Back then I guess they thought bigger was better,” said Llewellyn. “No. It’s almost precisely the same. A smaller package no doubt, but it’s the same type, and the same yield as Little Boy, fourteen kilotons, and it would be very reliable. That’s what I was saying. We tested Fat Man, the implosion device, in the New Mexico desert to make sure it would work. But Little Boy, that was a gun type, a sure thing. The first test was the live performance over Hiroshima.”

Larry Templeton’s facial features have always reminded me of those statues of Lenin pulled down by the mobs at the close of the Soviet Union. His bald head and goatee, the forceful jaw and the deep-set eyes, make for a powerful image.

Seated behind his desk, as he is this morning when Harry and I are ushered into his office, we get only a slight sense of Templeton’s diminutive physical stature. This comes from his abbreviated upper body hidden partially behind stacks of case books and files on his desk. He lays down his pen on top of the papers he is working on and beckons us to enter.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please come in, have a seat.” He gestures with a broad sweep of his right arm toward the two client chairs opposite his desk. His other arm appears to be trapped under the desk.

“Looks like a den of iniquity.” Harry is not moving, blocking the way, taking it all in.

There is a thick Persian runner, leading from the door, under our feet. It matches the larger Persian carpet under the desk, which is oak, antique and massive, behind which Templeton sits on a specially built raised chair, like a rajah holding court. All that is missing is the turban.

In the corner near the windows, Larry has erected a carved wooden panel, teak, I would imagine, and very ornate. The framed prints on the walls have the definite exotic influence of the East, sheiks with large headdresses and sickle-shaped Sumerian swords.

Larry’s digs in the DA’s headquarters have never held the appearance of a government office. He has decorated them out of his own pocket since the beginning and has done so lavishly.

“Mr. Hinds, always good to see you. Mr. Madriani. How are you? Linda, you can go. Close the door on your way out.” Templeton dismisses the secretary who has ushered us in.

“Only thing wrong is it smells like Tammany Hall in here,” says Harry.

Templeton brings a finger to his lips to shush him until the door closes. With his secretary outside, Larry smiles, then lifts the smoking offender from under the desk and gives us one of his characteristic looks: devil with a stogie, arched eyebrows, and a polished head. “One in the morning, one in the afternoon, the doctor prescribes them,” he says.

“So that’s what did it,” says Harry.

“I know, don’t say it, stunted my growth. Hinds, you gotta get up earlier in the day if you’re going to try to spring that one on me.”

“How about we go one-on-one, a little basketball?” says Harry. “I’ll give you an edge. Put you on roller skates.”