They had been marching for six hours, with a respite every sixty minutes. From base camp at 4,500 meters, the trail had assumed a gentle grade across a firm snowfield. The first test came at the three-kilometer marker, where the snowfield abutted a massive icefall. Emma stopped the team to rope up and attach crampons and to say that if she saw anyone treading on the rope, she’d personally throw him off the nearest ledge. After that, all conversation died and the climb began in earnest.
The icefall resembled a gargantuan, fractured marble staircase and rose 250 meters over a couple of kilometers. The abject fear that comes when jumping over a crevasse or hearing the loud, godlike groaning of ice shifting below your feet sharpened everyone’s concentration. Thankfully, all managed to make it up without incident. From there the route led across the flank of the mountain, as if following the hem of a skirt, the snow once again firm beneath their crampons.
At noon they stopped for a lunch of lamb jerky, rice, and beans. Emma had forgotten the tedium of cooking at altitude. It took water thirty minutes to boil. Minute rice also needed half an hour. It was then that the complaints had started. The stocky engineer had blisters. She lanced them and put on antifriction salve and moleskin. The other engineer complained of a persistent leg cramp, which Emma massaged away by pressing her thumbs so deep into his calf muscles that she brought tears to the man’s eyes.
The engineers weren’t the only ones with issues. The guide began to make noises about stopping unless he was paid the remainder of his fee. Emma had a solution for that kind of problem, too. Leading him out of earshot, she grabbed him by the unmentionables and squeezed very hard.
“You’ll take us to the missile directly,” she said, ignoring his gasps and bulging eyes. “You will not tarry. You will not pretend to be lost. Because if you don’t, not only will I see to it that Balfour doesn’t pay you”-and here she released her grip, drew her pistol, and pressed it against his forehead in a single quicksilver motion-“I will personally put a bullet into your greedy little skull.”
She replaced the pistol in her holster and patted his cheek with a little mustard. “Balfour didn’t put me in charge of this expedition because he likes my tits and ass. Are we clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Emma freed her ice ax and motioned toward the line of climbers. “Even the porters are getting tired,” she said. “I can keep everyone going for another two hours, three maximum.”
“We are close,” said the guide, one hand placed protectively in front of his family jewels. “Over this crest there is a small valley. The object is at the far side.”
“Can we reach it before dark?”
“If we hurry.”
“What about shelter?”
“There are caves nearby.”
Emma grabbed a fistful of his parka. “And you do know precisely where we are going, yes?”
The guide nodded vigorously.
“Off with you, then,” said Emma, releasing him.
She stared at the darkening sky and the snow, heavier now, and wetter. Three hours was an eternity when you were fatigued. The whole expedition was much too ambitious. Two days was hardly enough time to plan a day hike, let alone an eight-man trek at altitude. Then again, she hadn’t had a choice. Balfour had insisted on moving the weapon immediately and she was eager to share in his urgency. Connor’s betrayal was still foremost in her mind. Recovering the warhead was the only means to ensure her survival beyond the next few days.
She stood a moment longer, observing the team’s slow ascent. At lunch she had laced their tea with a mild amphetamine, but soon the extra zip would wear off. She checked her watch, then set off.
Three hours.
Nearly impossible.
The skinny engineer petered out first. Emma allowed him an extra ten minutes’ rest. She removed his boots and massaged his feet. She brewed more of her special tea and forced him to drink a cup. None of it made a whit of difference. He was done. His eyes had the forlorn, faraway look she knew too well. She gazed at the high mountain valley, a vast bowl of white, unadorned by rock or tree. The flanks of Tirich Mir rose defiantly from the distant side, disappearing into the cloud.
Emma looked back at the engineer and the others, waiting patiently, the porters not bothering to remove their packs. They had just reached the crest, and anything resembling a route had disappeared beneath the new-fallen snow, leaving them all to make their own paths. Wind slapped at their faces. Emma tightened her jaw. The storm was worsening.
The guide lifted an arm and pointed at an outcropping of rock shaped like a horn in the distance. “Five kilometers,” he said.
Emma handed her pack to the strongest porter, then told the ailing engineer to stand up. Kneeling, she ordered him to climb onto her back. She stood, adjusting her arms beneath his spindly legs. She guessed he weighed about sixty-four kilos. The team looked at her oddly.
“Last one there’s a rotten egg,” she said. Then, to the guide, “Go!”
It was 4:50 and night was descending when they reached the horn-shaped rock. She put down the engineer and collapsed onto her back. She allowed herself two minutes to rest, then stood. Her vision faltered, and she realized that she was perilously close to exhaustion. In response, she ordered herself to move faster and checked on each of the team members, telling them to hydrate, helping find energy bars in poorly packed rucksacks, offering words of encouragement. When she saw that everyone had a snack, she dug out some trail mix for herself and drank a liter of water.
After ordering the porters to make a fire in a cave, she gathered the engineers and the guide together. “It will be dark soon,” she said. “But I want our friends here from Dr. Khan’s workshop to have a look at the prize before the light goes.”
“One hundred meters,” said the guide. “I will show you.”
– -
It was larger than she’d imagined. She’d downloaded the specs from the Net, but she hadn’t expected it to be so imposing, so martial. Its full name was a Boeing AGM-86 Conventional Air-Launched Cruise Missile. It measured twenty-one feet in length and four feet in diameter and weighed 3,250 pounds.
The guide brushed away a layer of snow and removed the tarpaulin he and his brother had brought to protect it. The missile was a shark’s gray and had an angular snout that resembled that of a commercial jetliner. The long, thin wings that aided it in flight had not deployed and were tucked beneath its body. A circular air intake valve sat at the base of its tail fin. The words “U.S. Air Force” were painted on its skin, as were the serial number and other operating information. But all eyes were glued to the yellow-and-black radiation symbol stenciled at three places along its long body, and the words “Danger: Radioactive material contained inside. Failure to follow instructions may result in physical injury or death.”
There was an understatement, thought Emma.
The heavier engineer produced a Geiger counter from his pack and held it to the center of the missile, where the payload section was located. The needle danced wildly before coming to rest in the red.
“Uranium-235,” he said, studying the isotope chromatograph. “Hasn’t degraded a bit.”
“What about the tritium?” asked his colleague, referring to the concentrated gas necessary to produce the chain reaction.
“Ninety percent.”
“My God.”
“What is it?” asked Emma.
“The bomb is still live. It can be detonated at any moment.”
35
Swiss International Airways Flight 275, originating in Jerusalem, landed at Geneva’s Cointrin Airport on schedule at 1645 local time. The weather was gray and leaden, with ground temperature measuring thirty-three degrees Fahrenheit, or one degree Celsius, and humidity at 80 percent. Jonathan walked the long corridor to baggage claim alone, feeling more anxious than he would have liked or would ever admit. Danni was somewhere ahead. She’d traveled business class while he sat in the last row of economy. The separation was intentional. Training was over. The operation had begun. Nothing made it clearer than the American passport he carried in his left hand, issued in the name of John Robertson of Austin, Texas. Jonathan had been granted his first alias. It was official. He was a spy.