Alim’s technician knew this. What he didn’t know was the proper order of assembly to make the weapon field ready. He had tried on several occasions to coax this information from Nitikin. But Yakov had given him sufficiently vague and confusing responses, further muddled by the need for translation between Russian, Spanish, and Farsi, that the man finally threw up his hands and said something to Alim. They gave up. Nitikin had, for the moment at least, remained indispensable. He decided that the time had come to play his hand.
Through the interpreter he told Alim that he had two demands. They were not requests. If Alim wanted his bomb, he would have to comply with both.
As the words were translated into Farsi, Yakov watched as Alim’s eyes transformed to two tiny slits and the cords in his neck protruded like steel cable.
First, for the final assembly of the device he, Yakov, would use none of Alim’s men, or his technician. In fact, they were barred from the hut where the work would take place.
Alim didn’t like it. He was furious, arguing with the translator. At one point he reached for a pistol, seemingly ready to kill the messenger.
Before Alim could calm down, Yakov delivered the second demand. Maricela, Nitikin’s daughter, was to be delivered home to her house in Costa Rica by men of the FARC whom Nitikin trusted, with assurances guaranteed by the FARC that neither she nor her family would be harmed in any way.
Alim’s face flushed with anger.
But for Nitikin, both points were nonnegotiable. The reason for not using Alim’s men was the language barrier. At least that’s what he told Alim. It was a dangerous process. One mistake, if the two portions of subcritical uranium came in contact or even close proximity, they could get a full-yield nuclear explosion, or at a minimum irradiate a good piece of the jungle. Yakov didn’t want any confusion in the room and no bystanders to get in the way.
He would do the assembly alone, with the assistance of a single FARC rebel.
Without Alim’s knowledge, Nitikin had already selected the man. He was in his early twenties and seemed to have the best hands in the camp, long, nimble fingers and what appeared to be excellent hand-to-eye coordination. Both Nitikin and the rebel spoke Spanish, the common tongue. If Alim wanted his bomb, this was the price. He left little for the Persian to bargain with.
As Alim talked furiously with his technician, Yakov slipped in a few final choice words to the translator. He told the man that he and his FARC assistant would be “tickling the tail of the dragon.”
Then he watched as the translator conveyed the message. He wasn’t looking at Alim. He was checking the expression on the technician’s face as the man’s shifting eyeballs suddenly shot in the direction of the Russian.
Yakov was not a good gambler, but if he had to take odds, he would have been willing to bet that the day they assembled the bomb, Alim’s technician would find some good reason to be in Medellín, a few hundred miles away.
TWENTY-FIVE
Harry and I had to wonder why, if the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court is so secret, the minions who pull its levers would want to show up in a state court judge’s chambers to tell us about it. The answer is that levels of government often like to piss on one another. It’s a bureaucratic pastime.
The first thing we did when we got back to the office was to have it swept for electronic devices. When the detection equipment was turned on, it lit up like a Christmas tree. When they were finished, we stepped outside and they asked Harry and me if we wanted it removed. We conferred for a moment and agreed that the answer was no. Better the devil you know than the one you don’t. Remove it, and they’d just find another better way.
So this morning Harry pitches one of the heavy volumes from our code books in the library. It lands with a thud on the table in front of me.
“Check it out,” he says. “Fifty, U.S.C. 1803. It’s the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act. According to this it was passed in 1978, and amended under the Patriot Act a few years ago.” Harry is reading from a stapled sheet of papers, something he printed off the Internet.
“The most recent figures that are public are four years old. There were more than eighteen thousand warrants granted in that year alone and only four or five applications that were denied. Who could have guessed there were that many spies?” says Harry. “Or that many rubber stamps, for that matter.
“Listen to this. ‘Because of the sensitive nature of its business, the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court is a secret court: its hearings are closed to the public, and, while records of the proceedings are kept, those records are also not available to the public. Due to the classified nature of its proceedings, only government attorneys are usually permitted to appear before the FISC.’ What does that sound like to you?” says Harry.
“I don’t know. A star chamber?” I say.
“A federal grand jury,” says Harry. “It’s the same thing.”
“In the meantime they have the photographs, and we can’t see them. They know two people have been murdered, probably over these same photos, but they don’t care because this is outside the purview of their law enforcement union card.”
“At least you have the satisfaction of knowing that if the look on his face means anything,” says Harry, “Templeton knows less than we do about what’s happening.”
“You mean with the feds?”
“Exactly,” says Harry. “When you dropped Nitikin’s name, Rhytag went supernova. He damn near melted the Dwarf, but Templeton didn’t have a clue. Which makes you wonder, if all this stuff is so secret, why did Rhytag and company show up in Quinn’s chambers to tell us anything at all?”
“The reason’s obvious,” I tell him. “Once we filed the Brady motion, they didn’t have much choice. It was either that or have Templeton tell the judge that the federal government had seized the photos from the evidence files. Either way, Rhytag’s operation would have been smoked out. This way at least they got to talk to us, fish for information, like where the pictures were taken.”
“True. They could have sent the FBI here to the office to ask questions but they know that’s a dead end. Privileged information,” says Harry. “Anything Katia’s told us is covered by the attorney-client privilege, and there’s no way they can get around it.”
“Right. They could drag you and me behind closed doors in front of a federal grand jury, but they know they’d get the same answer.”
“That’s true. No federal judge is going to issue a contempt citation and jail two lawyers in a capital case because they refuse to violate privileged communications with their client.”
“That’s why Rhytag mentioned use immunity for Katia,” I say. “He was testing the waters.”
“If they gave her use immunity and agreed that nothing she said before the grand jury could be used against her in any criminal proceedings, she couldn’t take the Fifth and remain silent,” says Harry.
“And if they built a Chinese wall around the state murder charges and declined to share anything with Templeton, the immunity wouldn’t apply there. So for that she’d still be on the hook,” I say.
“Of course, if they tried to take Katia before a federal grand jury, they’d have to allow her access to her attorneys before they did it,” says Harry. “We can’t go inside with her, but she’s certainly entitled to legal advice and the right to confer with her lawyers.”