In essence, it meant two bombs could be created from one. At a time when the Soviet Union and the United States were at war, a Cold War, racing to amass nuclear weapons, Vargarin’s idea was revolutionary. A country could double its existing stockpile of nukes without the need for more radioactive material. It was an idea big enough for America to kill for.

When the Americans killed Anuslav Vargarin and stole the formula, they also killed Poldark’s hope of a scientific career as celebrated as Vargarin’s. He would have been part of the team that designed it. In the Soviet Union, such accomplishments were handsomely rewarded, its scientists treated like rock stars. America had robbed him of his future.

Nearly thirty years later, Vargarin’s Theorem was no longer innovative or, for that matter, used.

But all that was secondary to Poldark. All that mattered to him was that it worked.

*   *   *

After carefully removing the bomb’s component parts, Poldark took two of the eight uranium rings and placed them in a steel case beneath the table. He reassembled the original physics package. He drilled a small hole through its cap and then welded the cap back on.

Next he went to the duffel and removed a shiny steel cylinder that was longer and wider than the original. Over the next several hours, he replicated the design of the original bomb. Once the gun assembly was done, he welded a similar end cap to it, though this one had a slight modification. At the center was a small threaded hole.

Poldark went to the duffel and removed what was the most important part of the process. It was a large thermos, filled with a liquid, radiogenic isotope of bismuth. It looked like water. Using a plastic funnel, he poured the contents of the thermos into the second device.

From the black tool case, he removed two specially designed copper bolts. At the head of each bolt, three small screws stuck out like small antennae. He screwed a bolt into each of the caps, threading them tightly into the holes at the end of each bomb.

Poldark removed two small, similar-looking devices from the duffel bag. They resembled cell phones except that both had wires dangling out. These were the triggers. He attached the wires from each trigger to the copper bolts atop the two bombs, wrapping them around the screws, then fastening them tight. He wrapped several strips of duct tape over the end of each bomb.

Finally, he removed two detonators from the tool case. These were thin, square boxes the size of television remotes, made of white plastic. On one side of each detonator was a square blue cap that stuck out. Poldark placed each detonator on the table, then lifted up the caps. Beneath were switches, like light switches. They glowed dull red. He closed the covers and wrapped duct tape around them, ensuring no one accidentally flipped either of them before they were in place and ready to be detonated. He marked each detonator with a number so that the right detonator went with the bomb it had been programmed to.

Poldark stepped back from the table. He placed his hands behind his back, leaned against the wall, and slowly slid down and sat on the floor. He pulled the SCBA, self contained breathing apparatus, from over his head. Beneath, he was wet with perspiration, his skin a pale, ashen gray. Poldark crossed his legs. He sat and stared at the two bombs for more than ten minutes.

He looked up at a clock on the wall. He’d been working for twelve hours. His eyes returned to the bombs.

Would Anuslav be proud of him now? he wondered. Would he be proud of him for implementing his vision? For helping his son exact vengeance on those who’d killed his mother and father as he watched, an innocent five-year-old, sentenced to life as an orphan, crippled by a memory that could not be erased? Would Anuslav share the sense of justice when the bombs tore through life and limb of countrymen who’d taken his very life? Who’d stolen his life’s work, sacrificing one of the Soviet Union’s greatest scientific minds, all for a few sheets of paper filled with letters and numbers? Would the great professor be proud of him now?

Poldark knew the answer.

56

GRAMERCY PARK HOTEL

NEW YORK CITY

Igor heard his phone beeping through a fog of Patrón and extremely expensive marijuana, grown in a laboratory in Oregon and designed for a mild prep school high intermingled with a Viagra-like sexual potency. The beeping was accompanied by a nudge from the foot that was approximately half an inch from his face, a foot that was tan and smooth, with red toenail polish and a heel that looked as if it had never done a hard day’s work in its life, despite the fact that it belonged to a runway model, at least, that’s what Igor thought she’d said. His left eye opened. He was now staring at the foot. It was a beautiful foot, he thought.

What the hell is her name? Alice? Allison?

The phone beeped for a fifth time.

At the other end of the bed, he felt a girl kissing his ankle, then his knee, then his thigh, and then a little higher.

Whoever’s calling, well, they’re just going to have to wait.

Suddenly, he felt a hand wrap around his chest. His eyes darted down. It was a small hand, brown, with white fingernail polish. Then he remembered the black girl. She was Alice. Now it was coming back to him. La Piscine. Hotel Americano. A shared joint. A limo ride back to the Gramercy. The shower.

Igor was worth more than $100 million. It wasn’t as much as Sergey Brin, one of his classmates at Stanford, but it was better than a sharp stick in the eye.

He was the best programmer in his class. If others had made more money, it didn’t seem to bother him.

Igor had made his fortune working for an American energy company, KKB. With little help or fanfare, he had designed, built, and then managed a technology colossus that controlled, in real time, all aspects of exploration, production, storage, and distribution for the largest energy company in North America and the second largest in the world.

Igor not only built it all alone, he managed it with a staff of only twelve people. The company’s executives and traders knew precisely what was occurring in all parts of the company’s massive supply chain, at all times.

Most impressive was the complex algorithm Igor had written that enabled KKB to optimize how it priced its products—electricity, oil, coal—in real time, against location. It was a mathematical piece of software genius. It helped deliver the highest profit margins of any other energy company, large or small, in the world.

KKB, in turn, had rewarded Igor handsomely. The year before, he’d made $25 million. And on New Year’s Day, Igor had walked out of KKB for the last time, retiring with enough money to live a life of pleasure and, occasionally, debauchery. Of course, all that was irrelevant at this particular moment. Money, KKB, computers, the world—none of that crossed his mind, as Alice said something in French that he didn’t understand.

The beeping started again, and this time it didn’t stop. Reluctantly, Igor pushed Alice off and reached for his cell phone.

“Who is it?” Igor asked.

“It’s Hector Calibrisi.”

Igor sat up. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to expel the hangover and dizziness from his head.

“What time is it?”

“Two o’clock,” said Calibrisi.

“Day or night?”

Calibrisi ignored the question.

“We need your help, Igor.”

“Call Geek Squad,” said Igor.

“I’m not fucking around.”

“I’m not either. I retired, Hector.”

“This concerns your adopted homeland, the United States of America. I’m assuming you still like it here?”

“Oh, man. What do you need my help with?”

“Catching a hacker.”

Igor swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. He walked toward the bathroom as the two girls curled up together and started kissing.