Performance Anomalies (25 page)

13

The temperature dropped as he climbed deeper into the heart of Timur’s hideout, and Cono became aware of a faint, unpleasant smell. Something metallic, perhaps. Or something rotting. When his feet hit the ground, he turned to see the dim outlines of a chamber as big as a modest living room, but with a ceiling of granite so low that it would graze his head if he stood all the way up.

Bolted into one of the rock walls were two chains ending in steel cuffs. Next to the chains was a military cot with a blanket heaped on it, and beside the cot a pile of decaying melon rinds, gnawed mutton ribs, crumpled wax paper, and empty bottles of Moskovskaya vodka. Lying on the ground near the bottles was a trophy. Cono picked it up. It was heavy, with the figure of a man delivering a karate kick atop a block of beveled marble. Cono read the Russian words engraved on it: “Timur Betov. Champion. High School Middleweight Division, Karate. Soviet Republic of Kazakhstan.” When he looked again at the kicking figure, he noticed that it was encrusted with dried blood. He let the prize drop onto the hard dirt at his feet.

There was a pile of clothes in a corner on the other side of the chamber. Cono probed it with his foot. Women’s clothes: summer dresses, bras, panties. A few bracelets partly buried in the dust.

A wave of revulsion coursed through Cono. He shook it off.

Against the wall were layers of heavy canvas draped over a stack of suitcases. Cono tugged at the fabric, gradually exposing the four cases of money Zheng had delivered and at least a dozen others. Timur must have brought Zheng’s cases down from the shed earlier in the day, despite his injuries from the car wreck. Cono lifted three of the other cases. They were all heavy.

From a corner of the chamber a tunnel telescoped away into the shadows. Cono entered it, reaching into the blackness until he found a string and switched on a light. Three yards in, a military-issue tarp with bricks on top of it covered a row of circular shapes. Cono tossed the bricks aside and pulled up the tarp. Six canisters were lined up along the jagged wall. Each was about three feet high, resembling a small oil drum painted yellow, and had protruding circular ribs around the midsection for added strength. With a closer look, Cono could see on several of the canisters the faint outlines of triangular radiation symbols that had been painted over.

He crouched forward and lifted the nearest one. Holding it in his arms, he backed out of the tunnel and eased it onto the floor of the main chamber, running his finger around the top rim and wiping away a layer of fine dust. The rim was encircled by a metal band secured by a hinged clamp. The clamp had a loop of narrow-gauge wire running through it, the ends of which were pressed into a lead seal. Cono pulled on the clamp, severing the wire. He pried away the metal band and started to lift away the top. But he stopped. Closing his eyes, he tried to reassemble the information from his recent Internet searches:

HEU poses no immediate radiation threat to the handler, but inhaled or ingested particles of metal or metal oxide, depending on quantity and purity, can be lethal.

He took off his shirt and tied it around his head so his mouth and nose were covered, then pulled a canvas off the stack of money cases and wrapped it around his right hand, like a mitt. With his left hand he slowly raised the lid of the canister. Under it was a disk of fiberboard. Beneath the fiberboard, wood shavings.
Very high tech
. Cono slowly massaged the shavings with his mitted hand and pressed downward. One fingertip hit something solid. Gradually he felt the contours of the object and got his hand around it. He was panting as it emerged. The ingot was surprisingly heavy, like a barbell that weighed twice what he’d guess based on size. It was about a foot long and hexagonal in cross-section; it wasn’t painted, yet it didn’t look like metal—there was no shine to it. It had the color of an old bruise.

HEU as a metal or metal alloy, when exposed to air over time, forms a skin of oxidation that has a black or purple appearance.

Cono put the ingot back in the canister. He looked at his watch: 5:40. He replaced the fiberboard, put the circular band around the lid, and clamped it shut. Then he lifted the canister, resting it against his hip. He guessed it weighed about 50 pounds, at least half of it due to the ingot. Six ingots at about 30 pounds each: 180 pounds of HEU.

Even with primitive engineering capabilities a simple gun-and-target configuration like that in Hiroshima’s Little Boy can be constructed with as few as 70 pounds of 90% enriched uranium-235.

Cono was sweating under the weight as his struggling brain did the division.
Enough for two and a half devices. How much was Timur planning to trade to the jihadis?
He saw Katerina’s angry face as she smashed her hand against the water, the child divers playing in the far end of the pool.

He held onto the ladder with his free hand, squeezing upward through the hole. At the top he readjusted the load and carried it out of the pit toward the door next to the stairs to the cockpit. Only then did he let it drop. As he sucked for air through the shirt protecting his nose and mouth, he realized he didn’t need it anymore. He put the shirt back on and climbed the stairs to the control room.

Soon the belts were whining again, and the engine of the main crusher was humming. Cono returned to ground level, hoisted the canister, and carried it through the door leading to the rock-filled receiving bin. At the edge of the great tilted funnel he raised the container over his head and looked up at the fading punctures in the heavens that were the stars. With a loud grunt he heaved the canister into the curtain of chains guarding the mouth of the crusher.

The gobbling sound was different this time. First a series of clunks, then a searing train of screams accompanied by sparks dancing behind the chains. The screams became shorter and shorter until the steady hungry hum resumed. In less than a minute, more screams came from the subsidiary crushers, but at a higher pitch, and they ended almost as soon as Cono heard them.

He went back up to the cockpit and pressed the feed lever until the crusher was chewing furiously on hunks of ancient earth that would join and mix with distributed bits of the uranium that had been so painstakingly extracted and refined. “Dust to dust,” Cono said out loud.

Enough. He shut off the crusher feed, keeping the other machinery running, and went back down to the hole to get another canister.

He could see his task clearly now, and with any luck he’d be well out of the quarry before any of the other party guests arrived. Let them thrash it out among themselves, fight over who betrayed whom or didn’t come through. He was done with corrupt Almaty. Done with Timur and his deadly machinations, done with Katerina working on behalf of the greedy Americans, done with Zheng working on behalf of the greedy Chinese. He was done. Thirty more minutes and he’d be out of here forever.

He had just climbed out of the pit with his second load when he saw a shadow at the door leading to the crusher. He shifted the canister to hold it in front of him with both hands, his fingers gripping the raised ribs in the middle. Then, eyes steady on the door, he crabbed sideways until the suspended armature of the drilling machine allowed him some protection from whoever might be outside.

“Welcome to the palace, brother.” Timur strode through the doorway with a pistol in hand.

Cono held the canister like a shield, uncomfortably aware of the weight taxing his arms and back. “The last time I saw you, my friend,” he said, moving farther to the left, “I had just saved your life. So you’ve come to thank me?”

“Enough of your bullshit, Cono.” Timur swept his arm from one side of the hanging armature to the other, searching for a clear shot. “Now you’re working for the jihadis? Who the fuck
are
you working for? The Americans? Ah, yes, for the Americans.”

“Brother, there are times when one must work for charity, harvest some karma. You could use some yourself.” Cono managed a smile despite the tension throughout his body from holding the canister.

“Fuck the karma. The tart was just a trick, right? An excuse to get you here, get you into my pants, fuck up my plans.”

“I came to help her. That’s all. It’s you who made me stay.” Cono adjusted his stance to each slight angling of the gun barrel. The container was leaden in his arms.

Timur registered his former friend’s exhaustion. He’d seen Cono in only two modes over the years since they’d met: focused, speedy, and lethal; and laughing, boisterous, joking around. This was a new mode: tired. Tired, uncertain, and off his game.

Timur smiled.
Welcome to the real world.

“Put it down, swifty. No need to fight anymore. The tart is finished. Your Ukrainian bitch turned her over to the Kitai, along with some other local girl. We’ve been listening in. The deal’s been brewing for a few days. The bitch must have been very happy when you sprung your whore; you finally gave her something to trade. The Kitai made her big promises. Protection, family, yeah, yeah. She must be desperate. Like you right about now.”

Cono’s hold on the canister weakened for an instant, but a surge of disgust brought strength back to his arms. “The Chinese man is making promises to many people,” he said, raising his voice above the hum of the crusher. “I’m glad I was able to make him see you as you are, an able puppet.”

Timur smiled, and as he did so Cono saw the final tension of his finger on the trigger. Cono took a step back, preparing to dive to the side, but before he could dodge, a loud clap resounded within the steel-sheeted confines of the building. The force from the canister in front of his chest slammed Cono backward, but he kept his footing and felt no penetration. The bullet must have hit the ingot inside.

There was a flash on the drilling armature as another bullet ricocheted near Cono’s ear. Then another clap and a whizzing sound on the other side of his head. Cono lunged out from behind the drilling machine and hurled the canister at Timur. A shot went off as Timur was hit just below the chin by the container and fell backward.

Timur was down, firing off two wild shots as Cono came toward him. But now, a few steps away, a glance at Timur’s eyes told Cono his aim was confident this time. Cono dove back behind the drilling machine. The shot hit Cono’s shoe, twisting his foot in midair. Cono rolled and hit the base of one of the standing gas cylinders. Timur was on his feet now, walking slowly around the driller.

“You were such a good friend,” Timur said. “All your talk about shutting two eyes. And all the while you were just working for the Americans. Cultivating me, as they say. Here, get your rocks off on this.”

Cono was already scrambling on all fours when the bullet grazed his left thigh. He skittered behind the troop of cylinders before the next two shots pinged off the steel casings; he wedged into a small space between them, near the wall. Hidden behind the cylinders, Cono could make out Timur’s movements through the narrow gaps.

“So, admit it,” Timur barked.

Cono remained silent.

“And your Kitai whore. She sure is good at sucking dick. You hear that, Cono? Even better than Gula and Petra. Remember them, Cono? Yes, sure you do. Back in the good times. You must have been working on me even then. Your American friends spotted me as a star and sent you my way. Such a friendly, fun guy you were.” The gun appeared in another gap between the cylinders as Timur sidestepped slowly.

“Hey, Cono, your tart wasn’t as good as the ones I bring here. You saw the leashes downstairs, I’m sure. They suck better when they know they’re slaves, when they hear the machines.”

Cono heard Timur’s steps advancing around the barrier of cylinders.

“Are you keeping two eyes shut now, Cono? You’re a connoisseur. You should try it that way some time. Chain your favorite tart in a cave. Feed her every three days. Make her hungry for you. Maybe you’ve done it already. Friends. Brothers. Peas in a pod. Fruits in the same crate.”

Timur had almost made it to the edge of the group of cylinders, to the space against the wall that Cono had crawled through.

“Come on out. I’d like to offer a talented friend like you a high position in my kingdom. Minister of Pimps would suit you.”

Cono was on his rump, his feet poised against the two cylinders nearest the wall. A slice of Timur’s face suddenly appeared between the tops of the cylinders. Cono slammed his feet against the heavy steel. The cylinders crashed against Timur, one of them momentarily pinning him to the ground. Cono pounced. His forearm smashed into the downed man’s larynx as the gun in Timur’s hand exploded with a stray shot. Timur tried to twist away, but was trapped on both sides by the cylinders. Cono wrenched the pistol from him, crammed the gun muzzle into his mouth, and pressed hard until Timur was gagging.

“Hear this while you’re alive,” Cono said. “I am a free man. No one owns me. Not the Americans, not the Kitais, not the jihadis, not you.” Timur was writhing, choking on the barrel, trying to breathe. One hand was grasping for Cono’s throat; the other was trying to maneuver so he could extract the gun wedged into his belt.

Cono thought of Zheng and the Makarov he had forced into Cono’s mouth. “Brother, how did it come to this?” He pushed the barrel deeper, until Timur convulsed again and again and passed out, oozing vomit from his mouth. Cono kept the gun planted between Timur’s lips as he reached beneath Timur’s back and withdrew the second gun. In this position Cono’s face was against Timur’s ear, as if they were exchanging intimacies.