He opened the steel door, stepped inside, then shut the door tightly behind him.

All extraneous pieces of the original bomb had been removed. What remained was on the stainless steel table. It looked like a giant soup can, four feet long, two feet in diameter. Thick, dark, reddish-green steel. A seam at one end of the cylinder. The other end smooth and rounded and slightly bulbous.

Poldark went to a large red duffel bag against the wall. He opened it and removed a black case. Inside was a set of instruments. After measuring the circumference of the end piece, Poldark attached a series of specialized clamps, then attached a wire to the clamps. This enabled Poldark to pinpoint the precise apex of the seam between the end of the cylinder and the barrel. Once that was done, he removed what looked like a pencil from the case. Placing it at the seam, he hit a small switch, producing a soft hum as a tiny, nearly invisible diamond-tungsten cutting device moved rapidly up and down, etching a minuscule cut into the steel.

It took Poldark six hours to penetrate the seam at the end of the barrel. It took him eight more hours to complete the cut in a manner that would not unintentionally set off the trigger.

Other than bathroom breaks, he didn’t leave the room.

Sometime after eight at night, Poldark left the bomb and went back upstairs. He went directly to his bedroom and climbed into bed. He was so tired that he forgot to remove his suit as well as the breathing unit covering his head.

51

OVAL OFFICE

THE WHITE HOUSE

John Schmidt, the president’s communications director, stepped into the Oval Office. Already gathered were President Dellenbaugh, National Security Advisor Josh Brubaker, and Vice President Daniel Donato.

“Sorry I’m late.”

The mood was tense. Schmidt had called the meeting to discuss a subject that made all of them uncomfortable.

“We have to get the fact that a nuclear bomb is on its way to the United States out there,” said Schmidt, standing just inside the doorway. “It’s going to get out there, so we might as well be in front of it.”

“I disagree,” said Brubaker. “The level of panic that would be created would not only be hard to manage, it would hinder our effort to find the bomb.”

“Josh,” said Schmidt, shaking his head in impatience, “how many times have we had this debate on any number of topics? It’s going to leak. There are too many people at too many agencies, not to mention the terrorist himself.”

The door behind Schmidt abruptly opened. Schmidt’s deputy, Gary Foster, poked his head in.

“They’re breaking the story about Katya Basaeyev,” he said. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Who’s got it?”

“BBC.”

Schmidt opened up what looked like a bookcase. Behind it were six flat-screen plasmas. He took the remote and switched on the BBC.

A female correspondent was on a bridge in Moscow, the lights of the city behind her.

*   *   *

“This is Sarah Rainsford, reporting to you live from Moscow, where a series of incidents tonight have the country rattled and Russian authorities on high alert…”

*   *   *

The television cut to an aerial video taken from a news helicopter showing flames coming from a building.

*   *   *

“What you are looking at is live video from Rublevka, an exclusive Moscow suburb, where, according to several eyewitnesses, a loud explosion occurred just a few hours ago. As you can see, the inferno is still burning as firefighters try to stop the flames from spreading to nearby dachas…”

*   *   *

The TV cut to live video from Saint Petersburg, where a swarm of police lights flashed on a locked-down street near the Four Seasons Lion Palace.

*   *   *

“In addition, in the city of Saint Petersburg, just a few hours from here, an intense manhunt is under way after the apparent abduction of one of Russia’s most famous citizens, the ballerina Katya Basaeyev, taken, according to one source, from her hotel room following a performance at the Kirov Ballet. This photograph, taken by a hotel security camera, shows an unidentified man whom the FSB called its main suspect in the abduction…”

*   *   *

A black-and-white photo of Dewey flashed to the television screen.

Schmidt muted it.

“The story is going to get closer and closer,” he said emphatically.

“We can’t let any aspect of the bomb get out,” said Brubaker, almost yelling. “The American public would panic—”

“You don’t get it, do you?” interrupted Schmidt, shaking his head and taking a step toward Brubaker, then pointing. “It’s not the White House versus America, Josh. It’s America versus the terrorists. We need the public’s help. We need their support. If you lie about stuff like this, you’ll lose them. They’ll blame us for not being up front, and by ‘us’ I mean the president.”

Schmidt turned to leave.

“Mr. President,” said Brubaker, looking at Dellenbaugh. “You need to make the call.”

Dellenbaugh nodded at Schmidt.

“I understand your argument, John,” said Dellenbaugh, “but Josh is right. If America finds out a nuclear device is on its way to our country, there will be widespread chaos. We can’t stop the terrorist and deal with that at the same time. For now, this stays close to the vest.”

52

ELEKTROSTAL

Cloud looked out the window at the low-flung buildings of Elektrostal. Until now, the city meant nothing to him. It was a place to work. A place to remain anonymous, off the radar screens of law enforcement and intelligence agencies. Off the radar of men like Alexei Malnikov. But tonight, Cloud felt hatred for the small, shabby city.

Two forces had guided him to this place and to this moment. The nuclear bomb represented the past. It was the achievement of a life’s work, and the bomb’s detonation on American soil would be the culmination of it all. Then it would end, that life he desperately wanted to step away from, and his new life would start. That new life was Katya. Respectability. Belonging. Above all else, family. A child. Yes, a child. He hadn’t admitted that part to anyone, not even her, but it was what he wanted more than anything else. A little girl. Now it was gone. The dream was gone.

It was the first time he felt outdueled by anyone. In the span of a few hours, the plan he’d carefully constructed was cracking. Andreas had succeeded in taking away the future. All that was left was the past.

So be it, he thought.

“Has Langley discovered the trapdoors?” Cloud asked.

“No,” said Sascha. “They know something is going on. They’re running standard procedures to attempt to block us, but we should be fine.”

“Very well,” he whispered, too softly for no anyone else to hear.

A memory flashed. It was his father. He could hear him speaking. Sitting alone with him, in front of the hearth, playing chess.

“There are some moves in chess that are not understood, even by grand masters,” his papa said. “Moves that are made by some part of the brain that is the part that knows how to win.”

“But you did know,” he whispered. “You knew they would come after her. You exposed Katya. You exposed her the moment you sacrificed Al-Medi. It was inevitable.”

Cloud had hired the best three men money could purchase to guard Katya. Perhaps he could’ve somehow gotten her to cancel her performance, but he knew it ran the risk of alerting the Americans. The entire night had been based on subterfuge, on the Americans believing one reality while in fact another one lurked beneath.

Now, when he should have been on his way to Saint Petersburg to surprise his fiancée, he stood staring into the pitch-black oblivion of his own eyes reflected in the glass.

Had he misread his opponent? Had America been deceiving him all along?