He laid the BlackBerry down and slid it across the tabletop between the weapons, where it came to a stop centimeters before the edge. “I’ve also made the modifications you requested,” he added.
The Arab glanced at the BlackBerry but did not pick it up.
“In each of these cases there are altimeters to measure atmospheric pressure. Once these weapons reach an altitude of twenty-five thousand feet, then all three units arm themselves with the devices working as a single component on a shared frequency. The moment they reach a descending level of ten thousand feet, then the altimeters recognize the change in atmospheric pressure, and all three units will detonate as a nine-kiloton yield. Separately, if you care to mobilize and deploy them to different locations, then each unit works separately as a three-kiloton yield. You can tool the nukes as a combination of a single major weapon, or divide them into any combination of three separate weapons to support your agenda.”
The Arab picked up the BlackBerry and placed it inside the inner pocket of his jacket. Then in perfect Russian, he said, “What about anchoring the devices, once I have them in position?”
“After you secure the weapons to whatever locations that suit your needs, then you initiate the GPS signal that enables one device to talk to the other. If any one of these devices is moved without programming the authorized code through the BlackBerry, or by someone who has no authority to move the units at all, they will detonate. You can secure their positions from one another for up to a distance of five hundred meters, and as little as one meter without disturbing their umbilical frequency. This will keep anyone not in your authority from attempting to move a unit away from the targeted location.”
The Arab nodded his appreciation.
“Can I ask you a question?” said Perchenko.
The Arab stood with a blank expression.
“Out of my own curiosity, what do you intend to do with these?”
The Arab, however, answered his question with another question. “Are there built-in decoys to block any attempts to defuse them?”
“Top-of-the-line,” Perchenko stated unequivocally with a boastful edge to his tone.
“Then you have done everything I have asked.” The Arab stood back from the table and away from the dim cast of light. “Now, would you be kind enough to have your men load these units into the back of my vehicle?”
Perchenko nodded his head, the gesture galvanizing his team to aid the Arab in his request.
“You haven’t answered my question,” Perchenko insisted. “What do you plan to do with these?”
The Arab stepped aside as Perchenko’s troops lifted the cases from the table and headed for the SUV parked beyond the barn doors, its hatch raised.
“I choose not to say,” he answered flatly. “I would think thirty million dollars grants me that right.”
Perchenko held his hands up in submission. “No harm in asking, my friend. No harm at all, right?”
Without saying a word, the Arab turned and headed for his vehicle.
“So that you know,” Perchenko called after him, “I don’t do business twice in the same place… Or with the same people. I find it much safer that way.”
The Arab didn’t turn around, but raised a hand in acknowledgement as he kept walking. “I’ll have no further need for future services, since I have all that I want,” he returned. And then he exited the barn.
A few moments later the SUV’s engine started and revved evenly until the vehicle faded off into the distance.
Perchenko stood within the feeble cone of light with his lips pressed together in a tight grimace wondering if he used good judgment. He also understood that certain weaponry could cause serious ramifications across the globe, until nothing was left in its wake.
But at seventy-four it was something Perchenko was willing to chance.
But underneath he knew he had tabled common sense for greed. Worse, he realized that he had given a loaded gun to a man with little or no compunction.
Perchenko closed his eyes and shook his head.
What have I put in motion?
CHAPTER TWO
It sounded like a child crying at the edge of her peripheral hearing. The type of sound that was distant and hollow, as if coming from the end of a long tunnel or part of a dream. Or perhaps it was something real on the cusp of waking. Either way, Vittoria Pastore heard it.
Raising her head slightly off the pillow, the mother of three listened.
The room was dark. The shadows still. Outside, a breeze stirred, animating the branches of the trees just beyond the bedroom window.
But nothing sounded.
After laying her head down onto the pillow, she once again heard the softness of voices beyond the bedroom door. The clock on the nightstand read 3:32 a.m.
Vittoria quickly set herself onto her elbows and listened, her eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness. To her left by the window stood the armoire, an exquisitely crafted antique intricately detailed with hand carvings of cherubs alighting above the doors. Directly in front of her sat its matching dresser, its mirror reflecting the image of a woman who appeared vaguely disoriented. As if to parallel her thoughts regarding the uncertainty of the moment, errant locks of hair shaped like question marks curled over the woman’s forehead, giving her a more inquisitive look. Is there somebody out there?
Her answer came swiftly. The voice that called out to her sounded distant and hushed. Immediately she sat upright with her hands fisted and planted against her breasts. “Chi è là?” Who’s there? Her voice was barely above a whisper.
Silence.
She cried out once again, this time louder and more forceful. “Chi è là?”
“Mama? La mama, viene qui.” Mama? Mama, come here.
Although the voice sounded distant, she could not mistake the quality of her fifteen-year-old son, or the tone that was in transition of a boy becoming a man. “Basilio, è tre trenta di mattina. Che cosa è esso?” Basilio, it’s three-thirty in the morning. What is it?
This time Basilio’s cry held urgency to it, like a bemoaning of terror. “Per favore, mama. Per favore!” Please, mama. Please!
Suddenly the door at the opposite end of the hallway slammed shut, the reverberation felt throughout the house.
“Basilio?”
Nothing.
“Basilio?”
Vittoria tossed the covers aside and was standing at her door in less than a half dozen strides. Beyond her door the hallway remained in shadows. “Basilio?” Vittoria homed in blindly in the darkness with her hand and found the switch. Manning the lever, she played the switch — up, down, up, down — but the lights never turned on.
Slowly, she edged her way toward the children’s rooms, her arms stretched outward like a somnambulist, feeling her way.
In the daylight the walls were pastel blue, too bright for the non-European appreciative eye. But it reminded her of the brightly painted chain of houses lining the Venetian canals, her home. However, in the darkness, the color made the walls appear ominously dark.