"I have that already. I've passed it on to Mr. Achison. I'm sure he'll make good use of it. Your Mr. Reynolds was an invaluable source of information. I congratulate you on finding him."
Parsons was momentarily speechless. Things were totally beyond his control. "I seem to be expendable," he said.
"Not at all. We need you very much, Mr. Parsons. That should be apparent. You will give us the media exposure we want. Your presence will ensure that people pay attention to what we say rather than to what we do."
"What do you mean? What's the difference?"
"All in good time. We have to hurry. We have things to do. We are to meet Peter in two hours. Inside Thunder Mountain."
"But..."
"First, come with me."
Glinkov walked toward the back of the house. Parsons meekly followed. There was nothing else he could do. Entering the kitchen, Glinkov opened a wooden door that hid behind a flight of stairs. Glinkov motioned for Parsons to follow him downstairs. The basement was illuminated by a single overhead bulb. In one corner, two figures lay huddled against the wall.
Alan Reynolds moaned as the two men approached. The other figure, a woman, was lying facedown.
"What happened? What's going on here?" Parsons demanded.
"Mr. Reynolds has served his purpose, Malcolm. It wouldn't do for anyone to learn just how helpful he's been, would it?"
"But what..."
"That favor I mentioned? It's time to deliver. I want you to dispose of Mr. Reynolds. Now." Glinkov reached into his pocket and withdrew a small automatic pistol. The blue steel of the .22 caliber Walther PPK glittered in his palm. "I trust you know how to use this?"
"I won't do it. I'm not a murderer. I can't shoot a man in cold blood like this. What the hell do you think I am?"
"That's a question you might more appropriately ask yourself, Mr. Parsons. What the hell do you think you are? It will only require one shot." Glinkov extended the gun.
"No, I won't. I can't," he argued even as he snatched the gun from Glinkov's hand. He was beginning to sweat. "Don't ask me to do it. There's no point, no reason."
"Of course there is. He's seen me. He can identify me. We can't have that, can we?"
Parsons slowly raised the gun, pointing it at Reynolds and then at Glinkov. "I could shoot you, you know. I could do that!"
Glinkov said nothing.
He stared unwaveringly at Parsons. He had seen the man squirm earlier. He would do it again now.
He was broken. Parsons's last vestiges of self-respect had been stripped away. He would do what he was told.
Slowly, the gun was shifted away from Glinkov toward the whimpering man. Reynolds wouldn't feel anything; he was too far gone. Parsons knew that if he didn't shoot him, Glinkov would. And then the Russian would shoot the antinuke leader.
Parsons closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger. The report bounced off the basement walls. Parsons opened his eyes and looked at Reynolds. The bullet had hit him in the left temple. Blood pooled on the canvas beneath the dead man's head. The wound was raw and ugly. A thin trickle of blood oozed from Reynolds's open mouth.
Parsons turned away. Throwing the gun across the cellar, he bent over at the waist and threw up.
A series of dry, racking heaves twisted his gut into knots.
"Well done, Mr. Parsons. You have more backbone than I thought. Perhaps we shall enjoy working together, eh? Who would have thought it?"
"You cold, murdering bastard," Parsons whispered. "There was no need for that."
"No? Then why did you do it? It was you, after all, who pulled the trigger."
"You made me do it."
"Did I?" Glinkov retrieved the pistol and handed it back to Parsons. "Keep it. You'll need it before the night is over."
"What do we do with the woman?" Parsons didn't want to know the answer, but he had to ask.
"We'll take her with us. We will have use for her at Thunder Mountain. Give me a hand." Glinkov rolled the unconscious woman into a second canvas, then pulled her forward. "Take the other end. We'll take her out to the car."
Parsons bent to grab hold of the other end of the roll. The woman was heavier than he had expected. She had seemed so frail lying next to Reynolds.
The two men struggled up the narrow stairwell.
Back in the kitchen, they lowered their unconscious package to the floor. Glinkov reached back to turn off the cellar light.
"What about Reynolds?" Parsons asked.
"We needn't concern ourselves with him any longer. There is nothing to connect us with this place. It will be weeks before anyone finds him, if then. And by that time we will long since have accomplished our purpose. Let's go."
They hoisted the canvas roll again, Parsons grunting under the unaccustomed exertion. They dumped the woman in the trunk, but as Parsons moved to close the lid Glinkov stopped him.
"I think we better make sure she can breathe. Our cargo is rather valuable."
"Why..."
"I'll explain while we drive." Glinkov tugged at the canvas, pulling it down and away from the woman's face.
"Christ. It's Rachel!" Parsons rasped.
Glinkov laughed. "You must miss her on these cold winter nights."
18
Thunder Mountain was the largest reactor complex in the American northeast. Three nuclear reactors, each capable of generating two thousand megawatts, were nestled in the woods high above the Hudson River. Right from the beginning, the plant had drawn opposition, both from local residents and environmentalists. Construction of the project had been marked by riots and sit-ins. The first day the plant had gone on line, three hundred people had been arrested during a riot. Police records proved that few of those arrested lived in New York State. Thunder Mountain was a national concern.
Security measures at the plant were strict.
The entire complex was fenced in. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter twenty-four hours a day.
But things had been relatively quiet until Three Mile Island had had its accident.
Hordes of media people had descended on the plant, and the news reports had been full of footage showing the earlier unrest. Unlike many of the nuclear installations around the country, Thunder Mountain was located relatively close to a major urban center. Its public relations problems were tricky, and its attention to safety more scrupulous than most.
It had been cited by the NRC for its exemplary conduct in dealing with potential accidents on three separate occasions. That was about to change.
In the heavily wooded area behind the plant, Peter Achison went over his plans one final time. Timing, he kept reminding his small assault team, was everything. The first attempt might be the only attempt. If they failed to breach security and gain entrance to the grounds, the ball game would be over before it began.
The twenty-five members of the team had been divided into squads of three to five, each with a specific task. The greatest burden would fall on the initial attack team. All were heavily armed.
Each man carried a Kalashnikov assault rifle. Several of them also carried grenades stolen from a U.S. Army depot two years before.
"Any questions?" Achison asked as he looked from one member of the team to another. He had been drilling them for weeks and didn't expect any questions. He wasn't disappointed. "Everybody should be in position in twenty minutes. The first team should be inside ten minutes later. We'll open the rear gate and let the rest of you in."
Achison felt a rush of excitement. He hadn't felt like this since Vietnam. An Australian by birth, and trained in the Australian military, he had been assigned to U.S. forces for three different tours. Each time he had kept his eyes open and his mouth shut. But much of what he'd learned had been wasted. Until now.