"They should be. Most of them are in their own backyard."

"Yeah, well anyway...I've had some interesting conversations with one of my counterparts over in the motherland. All off the record...all unofficial. I sent him the particulars on the nuclear material, and he agrees that it's one of theirs."

"Interesting. Does he have any idea how al-Qaeda got their hands on it?"

"He's looking into it, but he has a theory that sounds plausible to me."

"Let's hear it."

"First of all, he confirmed as best he could without actually seeing the nuclear material, and conducting the tests himself, that the material is in fact one of their prototype atomic demolition munitions that they tested at the Kazakh range in the late sixties. Without looking up the numbers he seemed to remember that approximately twenty of these weapons were tested during that time. Now here's where things get interesting. The Soviets don't advertise this little fact and neither do we." Reimer took on a more serious tone. "Not all of the tests that we conducted worked."

"That doesn't shock me," said Rapp. "Isn't that why they're called tests?"

"Yes, but it's the next part that will shock you. When I say they didn't work, that means that some of them reached critical mass, but didn't obtain their maximum yield, and that there were also others that simply didn't work properly in another way."

"You mean they didn't blow up?"

"Not exactly. The duds, as we so scientifically refer to them, often did blow up. They just never reached critical mass."

"In English, please."

"The physics involved in these weapons is very precise. If," Reimer made a ball with his hands, "the explosive charge that is placed around the nuclear material fails to detonate perfectly, critical mass cannot be obtained. Does that make sense?"

McMahon and Rapp nodded.

"Well, on occasion, the conventional explosive would misfire. We wouldn't reach critical mass, and we'd move on to the next test. If it wasn't too much work, we'd try and retrieve the nuclear material from the hole, but more often than not we simply left it buried down there. Now, knowing how the Soviets operate, my guess is they never even thought of retrieving the material from their failed tests."

"Why not?" asked a surprised McMahon.

"In the fifties and sixties we were churning out so much of this stuff that it was a lot easier to start with a fresh batch than go down into a collapsed, radioactive hot hole to salvage a hunk of junk that was extremely dangerous and that might or might not have been cost effective to reprocess."

"So," Rapp was starting to piece things together, "this Kazakh test site is littered with how many duds?"

"We're not sure," Reimer answered.

"Take a guess?"

"Maybe a dozen. Maybe more."

Rapp's mouth opened in disbelief. "Why the hell have I never heard of this threat before?"

"Because it wasn't actually deemed a threat. This Kazakh test site is a radioactive wasteland. The idea of someone trying to dig one of these things up is ludicrous. If you don't have the proper equipment, you're going to die. And even if you do have the proper equipment, you'd better be quick about it."

Rapp buried his face in his hands. "Or you could just promise a bunch of young Islamic radical fundamentalists an express ticket to paradise." Rapp stood and looked at his phone.

"Is this test site still in operation?" McMahon asked.

"No."

"Is it guarded?"

"It's over two hundred thousand square miles."

"So it's not guarded?" asked a disappointed McMahon.

"No."

"Oh, this is bad," said Rapp.

"Maybe...maybe not." Reimer tried to keep an upbeat attitude. "The Russians are looking into it. My counterpart is on his way down there right now with a team to investigate."

"Who else have you told?" Rapp asked.

"Just you two. Considering the circus we went through earlier in the week, I didn't want to get people too riled up."

Rapp nodded. "I don't blame you. Skip, what do you think?"

"Did you find anything on that raid that would point to a second bomb?"

Rapp thought about it for a moment. "No."

McMahon contemplated the manhunt that was already underway. "Virtually every law enforcement officer in the country has seen the sketch of al-Yamani and the photograph of Zubair. Thanks to the info you got over in Afghanistan, we've got a good lead on the terror cells here in America. We're going to be serving a batch of arrest warrants this afternoon from here to Atlanta and beyond. I say we wait to hear back from the Russians, and see if we catch any breaks on the home front."

"I agree," replied Rapp. "Let's keep this between the three of us until we know more. I don't need any more lawyers from Justice telling me what the rules are, and the president and his people are busy enough getting ready for tomorrow's dedication."

RICHMOND

They got to the rendezvous point early, and al-Yamani had Hasan drop him off. He gave them instructions not to wait for him. If he did not call them back by 12:30, they were to leave for Washington without him and do their best. Al-Yamani honestly didn't know what to expect. His faith told him one thing, but his practical experience told him something else. The Americans had penetrated his organization, but how far he did not know. So far it appeared that only one cell had been compromised. If his old friend had been discovered, al-Yamani was confident he would have held up under torture and warned him by passing along the prearranged signal. That was of course if he knew he'd been discovered. These Americans were tricksters, and his ally from the early days in Afghanistan was much older now. He might not even know the Americans were on to him.

Despite his deteriorating health, the walk through the park was strangely refreshing. Just being out of the confined space of the vehicle and away from the nervous chatter of the Pakistani scientist did wonders. Al-Yamani found the bench next to the cannon. He'd seen photos of it and recognized it instantly. The historical significance of the artillery piece meant nothing to the Saudi. There was a bronze plaque near the cannon. He thought about going over to read it and decided not to. Instead he would use these last few minutes alone to center himself. To pray to Allah for the strength to make it through the next twenty-four hours. That's all he asked for. That and some luck.

A short while later he heard a car pull up and the door slam. Al-Yamani looked over his shoulder and saw a man get out of the green-and-white cab and begin walking toward him. He was not a passenger. He was the driver, and thankfully he was alone. Al-Yamani should have gotten up, but suddenly he didn't feel so good, so he sat there conserving energy and waited for his old comrade to come to him.

The cabdriver stopped about ten feet away and looked disbelievingly at the man sitting on the bench. "Mustafa?"

Al-Yamani took his sunglasses off. Hopefully his eyes would bring a spark of recognition. "It is me, Mohammed."

"You have changed so much." The man's voice was laced with concern.

"And so have you my friend." Al-Yamani's voice was weaker than he would have liked. "Your beard no longer has any pepper. Only salt."

"It has been a long time. More than a decade."

Al-Yamani nodded. They had last seen each other in Afghanistan in 1987. Mohammed, one of the bravest warriors al-Yamani had ever seen, had almost died in a fierce battle with the Soviets. A CIA man who they had been working with for nearly two years saw to it that Mohammed got evacuated to Germany where real doctors could work on him. After nearly a full year of convalescence the CIA man then helped him immigrate to the United States. He had settled in Richmond, Virginia, and had been driving a cab ever since. Al-Yamani had corresponded with him over the years, and sensed that his fellow warrior had kept his fervor.