The idea of a hooker hoping to strike it rich from a lottery ticket intrigued Lincoln. He wondered if her pimp would take half the proceeds if she did win.
Leroy was listening to them also. He reached across the table and tapped Lincoln on the wrist. “The hell language they talking?” he wanted to know.
Lincoln hadn’t realized they were talking a foreign language until Leroy called his attention to it. “Not sure,” he replied, although, to his astonishment, he found that he knew very well. The old lottery vendor and the hooker were talking in Polish, which was the language Martin Odum’s mother had used when she told him bedtime stories in Jonestown, Pennsylvania, a lifetime ago.
At the booth, the girl could be heard asking, “Ile kosztóje bilet?” When the old man told her how much a ticket cost, she carefully counted out coins from a small purse and tore one from the clipboard.
“Sounds foreign to me,” Leroy was saying. “Don’t like foreigners, don’t like the languages they talk. Don’t know why foreigners don’t learn American. Make the world simpler if everyone talked American, is how I see it.”
Lincoln couldn’t resist baiting Leroy. “You want them to talk American with a Texas drawl like you or a clipped Boston accent like John Kennedy?”
Leroy took the question seriously. “Don’t matter none to me. Any American beats out a foreign language, hands down.”
Near midnight, as the girls began to drift over to the bar to settle up what they owed for the rooms they’d used, the fat Arab boy who’d been doing the jigsaw puzzle in Ciudad del Este burst into the bar. He was still wearing the shoulder holster with the plastic grip of a toy gun jutting from it. Spotting the two Americans in the rear booth, he padded over on his Reeboks and thrust out a folded note. Leroy read it and raised his eyes and cried out excitedly, “Bingo, Lincoln. Daoud is waiting for us behind the bar.”
Daoud’s coal black Mercedes was idling in the shadows at the street end of the alley when the two Yankees, the one with the cane limping along behind the short American in cowboy boots, came around the side of the Kit Kat and settled into the backseat. The fat Arab boy slid in next to Daoud in front. “Where are you taking us?” Lincoln asked, but Daoud didn’t bother to reply. He gestured to the driver and the car lurched past the halal butcher shop on the corner into the poorly lit main drag and headed in the direction of the Little Dipper and Polaris, hanging in the night sky over the rooftops. Twenty minutes out of Foz do Iguaçú the paved road abruptly gave way to a rutted dirt track and the driver had to slow down to keep the passengers from hitting their heads against the roof of the car. In the headlights, Indians leading donkeys piled high with burlap sacks could be seen stumbling through the pitch darkness. “In the outback,” Leroy told Lincoln, “lot of smuggling goes on during the night.” After one particularly rough bump Daoud flung an arm over the shoulder of the fat teenager and said something to him in Arabic. The boy said, “Inch’Allah.”
Lincoln leaned forward to ask the Egyptian if the boy were his son. Daoud turned his head only slightly and said, “He is the son of my son.”
“And where is his father?”
“His father, my son, was killed in the attack on the American Marines at Beirut Airport in 1983.”
Lincoln reminded himself he was living deep in a legend; that he ought to be commiserating with the Egyptian. “It must be a source of great sadness to have lost your son—”
“It is a source of great pride to have given a son to the jihad. Along with my son, two hundred and forty one American marines and sailors lost their lives in the Beirut attack, after which your President Reagan lost his nerve and disengaged from Lebanon. Every father should have such a son.”
An hour and twenty minutes out of Foz de Iguaçú, the headlights of the Mercedes picked up the first of two road blocks. Soon after the second one, located beyond a sharp curve in the track, the car slowed to give three armed men with red-and-white checkered kaffiyehs over their faces time to drag open a chain-link gate. One of the guards said something into a walkie-talkie as he waved the Mercedes through. The driver headed downhill toward a group of wooden army barracks set in what looked like a dry river bed and pulled up before a structure that was lower and wider than the other buildings. On a flat rise behind the barracks, in a dirt field illuminated by floodlights powered by a gasoline-driven motor whose put-put was audible in the still night air, a dozen men in khaki fatigues were practicing penalty shots against a goalie outfitted in a yellow Hertz jumpsuit. When one of them scored, Lincoln could make out the other players taunting the guardian.
Daoud’s grandson darted from the Mercedes to pull open a narrow door in the side of the building. The young Pakistani whom Lincoln had seen dancing at the Kit Kat with Leroy’s jailbait hooker stood in the corridor inside the door, an Israeli Uzi with spare clips taped to the folding metal stock tucked under an arm, his finger on the trigger. He tensed when he saw the two Americans and muttered something to Daoud, who translated. “He wants to know if you are armed.” Lincoln, laughing, reached under his shirt behind his back and pulled the small-caliber automatic from the holster worn high on his belt so that it would disappear into the shrapnel wound. The Pakistani took the automatic and waved the party through.
The corridor gave onto a square room with a low ceiling. It took a moment for Lincoln’s eyes to become accustomed to the dimness. About thirty or so men sat around the room on straw matting, their backs against thin cushions attached to the walls. Daoud motioned Lincoln and Leroy to a spot along the near wall, then crossed the room and took a free place against the opposite wall near the figure who was clearly presiding. Lincoln set his cane on the cement floor and settled down, his bad leg stretched out in front of him, the other ankle tucked under his thigh. Next to him, Leroy sank into an awkward cross-legged position. Lincoln reached for his tin of Schimelpenicks, but a lean young Arab posed a hand gently but firmly on his wrist. Lincoln noticed that nobody in the room was smoking. He nodded and grinned at the young Arab, who turned away, expressionless.
Lincoln tried to distinguish the features of the figure across from him. The man, who looked to be in mid-thirties, was ruggedly handsome, with a stringy ash-colored beard and dark thoughtful eyes exuding an inner calm that could have easily been taken for arrogance. He was extremely tall and dressed in a collarless coarse off-white ankle-length robe with what Lincoln took to be a thick Afghan goat-hair vest over it. Bareheaded, with socks and heavy walking sandals on his feet, he sat crosslegged on the mat with a supple elegance, his back off the wall and hunched slightly forward as he read something from a sheet of paper to those within earshot, occasionally tapping the long forefinger of his right hand on a word to emphasize its importance. All Lincoln could make out was the honeyed undertone of someone who didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.
There appeared to be some sort of queue because the two men sitting between Daoud and the figure Lincoln identified as the Saudi spoke next, raising problems that needed to be solved or providing information that needed to be weighed against what was already known. Finally Daoud’s turn came. Leaning forward, talking quietly, he spoke to the Saudi for several minutes. Once he tossed his head to indicate the two Americans sitting across the room. Only then did the Saudi’s gaze settle on the visitors. He scratched at his chest with several fingers and uttered a single word. Daoud looked over and motioned for Lincoln to approach. Leroy assumed the gesture included him and started to get up, but Daoud wagged a finger and he collapsed back into his cramped position. Leaning on his cane, Lincoln pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the Saudi and sank onto his haunches facing him. The Saudi saluted him with a palm to his heart and Lincoln mimicked the gesture. A thin man with greasy hair parted down the middle and thick spectacles slipping along his nose was sitting next to the Saudi with a lined notebook open on his lap; Lincoln took him for a secretary. The Saudi murmured something and the secretary repeated it in a loud voice. Instantly all the men sitting around the walls sprang
to their feet and headed for the door. Across the room, only Leroy remained, squirming uncomfortably in a position he would never grow accustomed to. Lincoln looked from Daoud to his host and back as Daoud delivered a short speech in Arabic. The Saudi listened intently, nodding from time to time in apparent agreement, his eyes darting occasionally to Lincoln and, once, to Leroy across the room. Finally the Saudi, scratching again at his chest, started to put questions. The secretary with the greasy hair translated them into English.
“He welcomes you to Boa Vista. He asks how you arrived to here from Croatia.”
“I flew Lufthansa from Zagreb to Munich to Paris, then Air France to New York, then PanAm to São Paolo. I chartered a small plane that flew me into Foz do Iguaçú.”
When the secretary had translated this, the Saudi, never lifting his eyes from Lincoln, put another question. The secretary said, “He asks how the struggle is going in Bosnia? He asks whether the Bosnians, in the event of war, will be able to defend Sarajevo if the Serbs capture the hills overlooking the city.”
“The Serb military is by all accounts a great deal stronger than anything the Bosnians can field,” Lincoln said. “What will strengthen the Bosnians in the event of war is that they have no place to go; their backs are against Croatia, and the Croats hate them as much as the Serbs.”
“He agrees with your analysis. He tells the story of the Greek general who warned his officers not to attack a weaker force trapped in a canyon without a line of retreat available, because the weaker force would then conquer the stronger force.”
The Saudi spoke again; again the secretary translated. “He asks how you plan to accumulate large quantities of ammonium nitrate without attracting the attention of the police.”
Almost against his will Lincoln felt himself falling under the spell of the Saudi. He saw, now that he was close to him, that the skin on the Saudi’s face and neck appeared yellowish, but he assumed it was due to the low wattage of the bulbs burning in the room. He couldn’t help but like his style—no wonder young men were flocking to join his al-Qa’ida cells in Afghanistan and Yemen. Watching his unflinching eyes, Lincoln could feel the magnetic pull of his personality; the Saudi spoke softly but he carried a big stick. Seeing how uncomfortable his visitor was, the Saudi reached out to offer him a cushion. Lincoln sat on it, his game leg thrust forward, and provided an explanation that had been prepared back at Langley: His several associates would spread out across America and, pretending to represent farmers’ cooperatives in various southern and eastern states, would buy up whatever ammonium nitrate was available and truck it to New Jersey, where it would all be loaded onto a moving van. At a site to be designated, Leroy Streeter would take possession of the ammonium nitrate and pay the fee in cash.
“He asks if you are curious to know what Mr. Streeter plans to do with the ammonium nitrate.”
“I suppose he plans to explode it someplace. Tell you the truth, I couldn’t care less.”
“He asks why you could not care less.”
“I believe America has grown too rich and too fat and too insolent and needs to be taken down a peg or two.” It was clear from the secretary’s expression that he didn’t understand the expression “a peg or two.” Lincoln repeated the thought another way. “America needs to be taught a lesson in humility.”
“He asks what kinds of arms you sold in the Balkans.”
“All kinds. My clients would give me a wish list and I did my best to fill it.”
“What is it, a wish list?”
“A list of the arms and munitions that they wished to have.”
“He asks if you have limited your operations to conventional weapons.”
“My operations have been limited to selling what the Soviet military has in its stocks. Up to now I have procured almost all of the weapons and munitions from Soviet army units in East Germany. Many of the Russians I dealt with have returned to the Soviet Union and would be able to supply me with other articles from the Soviet arsenal. Do you have something particular in mind?”
“He asks whether you could supply spent plutonium or enriched uranium.”
Lincoln thought about that for a moment. “Spent plutonium or enriched-uranium waste could be obtained from nuclear power plants like the one in Chernobyl, north of Kiev in the Ukraine—”
The Saudi interrupted Lincoln and the secretary translated what he said. “He is curious why you mention Chernobyl, since its reactor exploded five years ago and the radioactive waste has been sealed under an enormous concrete sheath.”
“It was the plant’s number four reactor that exploded. Two other reactors remain in use. The radioactive waste is trucked to various nuclear disposal sites in the Soviet Union. There is another source of spent plutonium—the Soviet nuclear submarine fleet based in Archangel and Murmansk is known to be decommissioning vessels because of budgetary shortfalls. Plutonium pits are removed from the decommissioned subs and trucked to the same nuclear disposal sites. The bottom line is that there is no shortage of weapons-grade plutonium or uranium for anyone willing to run the risks involved in negotiating the acquisition. It goes without saying, very large sums of money would be required to conclude such a deal.”
The Saudi accepted the translation with a preoccupied nod. He muttered something to the secretary, who said: “He asks how large?”
“How much radioactive waste would be required?”
“He says to you a tenth of a short ton to start with.”
“Where would he want it delivered?”
“At a site to be specified in Afghanistan.”
“I would need to consult my associates before setting a price. Off the top of my head, I should think we are talking about something in the neighborhood of a million dollars U.S., a down payment in cash when I have located the spent pits, the rest to be paid into a numbered account in an offshore bank.”
“He asks is it so that nuclear bombs can be fitted into something the size of a common valise.”
“He’s referring to what the Americans have designated the MK-47. The Soviets are said to have constructed several hundred of these devices. Imagine something shaped like an army canteen, only larger, roughly the size of a bulging valise, with an automobile gas cap on the top and two metal handles on either side. Because of its size and mobility, the nuclear device can be easily smuggled into a target city and exploded by a crude timing mechanism. The MK-47s contain twenty-two pounds of uranium which, when exploded, is equivalent to one thousand tons of conventional TNT, one twentieth the size of the first Hiroshima atomic bomb.”
“He asks about the shelf life of these valise-bombs.”
“The Russians have been miniaturizing their nuclear payloads since the mid 1980s. Whatever they have in their stockpiles could be expected to function for ten to fifteen years.”
“He wants to know if such a valise-bomb can be acquired?”
“For obvious reasons, the Russian military keep these devices under lock and key, with a high degree of command and control accountability. But if someone were to offer an enormous sum of money, plus safe passage out of Russia for the seller, it is conceivable that something might be worked out.”
“He asks how much money is an enormous sum.”
“Again, off the top of my head, I would say something in the neighborhood of three to five million U.S for each valise-bomb.”
The Saudi sank back into the cushion fastened to the wall behind him and scratched absently at his upper arm and his ribs. Lincoln noticed that the Saudi was sweating despite the chill in the room; that the sweat on his brow seemed to crystalize into a fine white powder.
“He says to you that for the time being we will concentrate on the spent plutonium or uranium pits. He says that nobody can say what the future holds. Perhaps one day he will raise the subject of the valise-bomb again with you.”
Lincoln smiled and nodded. “It’s your call.”
There was a large glass bowl filled with fruit, and another overflowing with nuts, near th
e Saudi. He pointed first to one and then the other with a hand turned palm up, offering something to eat to his guest. Lincoln reached out to help himself to some nuts.
“He notes that it turns cold at night out here,” the secretary translated. “He asks if you and your friend would like some herbal tea.”
Lincoln looked at Leroy over his shoulder and said, “He is offering us hot herbal tea.”
“Ask ’em if they got anythin’ slightly more alcoholic,” Leroy said.
“Leroy, these people don’t drink alcohol. It’s against their religion.”
“Goddamn. How can they expect folks to convert to a dry religion?”
The Saudi apparently caught the gist of Leroy’s remark because he replied in Arabic without waiting for the secretary to translate. The secretary said: “He tells the story of the czar who converted Russia to Christianity—it was near the end of the first millennium. Vladimir I of Kiev was tempted by Islam but decided against it because he did not think Russians could get through their cruel winters without something the Arab chemists who developed the technique of distillation called al-kuhl. History might have turned out differently if the Prophet had not abstained from alcohol—the long cold war would have been between Christianity and Islam.”