"I wish," said Seitz.
Puggy was relieved when the car finally stopped moving. It had been jerking back and forth, and, crowded by the suitcase in the hot trunk, he was getting carsick. He was glad when the trunk opened, although he was less than thrilled to see Snake again.
"You see this, punk?" Snake asked, showing Puggy the gun.
Puggy nodded, thinking, this guy really likes showing people his gun.
"I'm gonna have it right under here," said Snake, draping Eddie's sweatshirt over his gun hand. "It's gonna be pointin' right at you. You don't do like I say, you know what's gonna happen to you, right?"
Puggy nodded again.
"What's gonna happen, punk? Say it. Say what's gonna happen."
"You're gonna shoot me," said Puggy.
"That's right, punk," said Snake, enjoying the sound of it. "I'm gonna shoot you. Now get the fuck outta there and pick up the suitcase."
In the front of the Kia, Matt had his eyes closed completely. In the back, Eliot had his arm around Anna, hugging her tight; Nina was looking down at her hands and praying.
They were now heading northbound in the southbound lanes of Le Jeune. This was not unheard of in Miami, but it was irregular, and the southbound motorists were not happy about it. Monica, her face rigid with concentration, was yanking the wheel left and right to avoid the oncoming, horn-blaring cars. Just past the crumpled corpses of the pickup truck and the taxi, where the two drivers were screaming curses at each other in two different languages, Monica spun the wheel hard right, jouncing the Kia over a low median barrier and screeching across three lanes of traffic into the airport entrance road.
"Don't ever tell anybody I did that," said Monica.
"I didn't see a thing," said Matt, truthfully.
"I don't believe this," said Henry, slapping the steering wheel. Ahead of the car, and now behind it, traffic on Le Jeune had congealed into a nonmoving mass.
"You see what the problem is?" asked Leonard, peering ahead through the windshield.
"Looks like it's jammed up way past those lights," said Henry. "Some kinda commotion up there. Maybe they got something about it on the radio." He punched the power knob.
… not hearing what I'm saying. What I'm saying is, when they lose — not now, tonight, but when they play a game and LOSE — then I don't hear a peep from Gator fans.
Well, you 're not hearing what I'M saying. I'm saying that I'M a Gator fan, and I'm calling you now, OK? I'm talking on the phone right…
Sighing, Henry punched the power knob again.
Behind them, horns were honking. Ahead, they heard shouting. Suddenly, a low, dark shape scooted past their car.
"Please tell me I did not see that," said Leonard. "Please tell me that I did not just see a fucking goat."
"OK, Mr. Herk," said Walter. "We gotta work together here. We're gonna carry this thing around the house to the street, OK? So we can get some help. OK? Mr. Herk?"
Arthur slowly turned his gaze from Roger to Walter. Arthur's eyes were black voids; his chin was covered with foam.
'Tell her to leave me alone," he said.
"Listen to me," said Walter. "You have to listen to me. That's a dog, OK? A dog. And we're gonna be here all night if you don't…»
"Make her leave me alone," said Arthur.
"Look," said Walter, "we need to…»
'TELL HER TO LEAVE ME ALONE!" screamed Arthur.
Walter began to realize that his only hope of getting Arthur's cooperation was to play along. He sighed, then shook a finger at Roger and said, "Leave him alone."
Roger perked up, in case Walter was talking about food.
"You have to call her by her name," said Arthur.
"Jesus," said Walter.
"BY HER NAME!" said Arthur.
Walter sighed again, then said to Roger, "Leave him alone, Mrs. Dole!"
Roger, thrilled at the attention, trotted over to Walter and jumped up, putting his front paws on Walter's chest.
"SHE WANTS YOUR SOUL!" screamed Arthur.
"Down!" said Walter. "Get down, Mrs. Dole!"
"A nuclear bomb in a suitcase?" said Harvey Baker.
"Yup," said Greer.
"I thought nuclear bombs were big," said Baker. He recalled an old newsreel showing the Hiroshima bomb, which looked like a small submarine.
"Not all of 'em," said Greer.
"Jesus," said Baker. "Where'd it come from? What the hell is it doing here?"
"Long story," said Greer. "Which I will try to make short. In what now passes for Russia, they got nuclear missiles left over from the Cold War, OK? A lot of missiles. Under a treaty, which I won't go into the details, the Russians are supposed to take a lot of these missiles out of service, which is called decommissioning. Problem is, a lot of the parts on these missiles — things like gyroscopes, position indicators, accelerators…»
"Accelerometers," interrupted Seitz.
"Excuse me, Wemher Fucking von Braun," said Greer. "Anyway, these parts are exactly what you need if you are a low-level international asshole like Saddam Hussein looking to get hold of some serious missiles and rise to the position of high-level international asshole. These missiles are new Corvettes in a bad neighborhood. Lotta people want 'em for parts."
"Doesn't the Russian government have, like, controls on this stuff?" asked Baker.
"Sure they do," said Greer. "Same as the city of Miami has controls to keep building inspectors from taking bribes."
"That's different," said Baker. "That's just bullshit graft. You're talking about nuclear weapons here."
Seitz snorted. "Only difference," he said, "is how much money."
"So anyway," continued Greer, "the really scary part of the missile, obviously, is the warhead, the part that goes bang. And the Russians actually have been pretty good about keeping track of those."
"Pretty good?" asked Baker.
"Right," said Greer. "In other words, not good enough. About two years ago, somebody got two warheads, we still don't exactly know how, out of a missile dismantlement facility in a place called, um…»
"Sergeyev Posad," said Seitz. "Not far from Moscow. Used to be named Zagorsk. Very beautiful churches there."
"Thank you, Mr. Michelin," said Greer. "So anyway, this person gets these warheads, which disappear for a while, nobody in the world can find 'em. And then one of them shows up — guess where — the Middle East, Jordan to be exact."
"Jesus," said Baker.
"Exactly," said Greer. "Only now, the warhead's been modified, by somebody who knows his shit. Now it's in a metal suitcase. One strong man can carry it. You put it somewhere, set the detonation timer, walk away. Timer goes off, boom, wipes out your whole downtown. Makes Oklahoma City look like a cherry bomb."
"From something the size of a suitcase?" asked Baker.
"The actual warhead part is a lot smaller than the suitcase," said Greer. "It looks kind of like a garbage disposal. The real weight of the suitcase is a big wad of conventional explosive that sets off the warhead. The explosive is set off by a detonator with a timer, which is no big deal, like something you could get at Radio Shack. But forget about the size. This thing will blow away all your big buildings, bucko. This thing will fry your eyeballs at ten miles."
"And you're saying the other suitcase is here in Miami," said Baker.
"What I'm saying," said Greet, "is that when they found the one warhead, in the suitcase, it was in the hands of some people who are not real big fans of the United States. These people were taken into custody."
"By whom?" asked Baker.
"That I definitely can't tell you," said Greer, "except to say that they don't waste a lot of time advising suspects of their Miranda rights."
"The Israelis," said Baker.
Greer nodded. "Like I say, I can't tell you," he said. "Alls I can tell you is, they are very good at getting information from people who don't feel like talking. And the information they got is that the other suitcase was supposed to go to New York City, where it was gonna be picked up by a True Believer, who was gonna express his beliefs by turning Times Square and the surrounding area into radioactive grit."