LITMIR.BIZ

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were going to let her live. “Ja,” she breathed.

      “Good.” Kosov climbed out of the old taxi. “Misha, a reminder.”

      With an expert flick of his stiletto, the young KGB agent opened a two-inch gash along Eva’s left cheek. Eva shrieked in pain. Misha grinned, watching her struggle in vain to reach the wound and stop the bleeding. As the young Russian backed out of the taxi, Kosov’s hard face appeared in the front window.

      “Free her hands,” he ordered.

      Cursing quietly, Misha slashed the stockings over Eva’s head. But instead of getting out of the car, he thrust his hand viciously beneath Eva’s skirt and clenched her pubic mound in a clawlike fist. With flashing eyes he leaned close so that Kosov couldn’t hear. “When I find your little friend,” he snarled, “the pretty one—she’s going to bleed, old woman. Everywhere.” He wrenched his hand away, tearing hair and skin as he backed out of the taxi.

      Shaking like an epileptic, Eva turned away and tried to stanch the flow of blood from her lacerated face. She heard Kosov’s BMW skid around and speed down the Lietzensee-Ufer in the direction of the Seehof Hotel. “Screw you,” she spat. “Swine. You’ll never find her.” Slowly she leaned forward and put her bloody hand to the old cabbie’s forehead. “Ernst, are you all right? Poor darling, you fought well for an old soldier. Wake up for Eva.”

      The old man didn’t move.

      If only some of my old friends were here, Eva lamented. That young pig’s balls would be meat for the dogs.

      Ernst groaned and jerked forward in his seat. “Wo sind sie!” he cried, flailing his arms.

      “They’re gone,” Eva said, soothing his forehead with a knowing hand. “All gone. You can take me home now, my brave knight. We’ll mend our scratches together.”

      10:33 P.M. South African Airspace: 100 km Northeast of Pretoria

      The JetRanger helicopter stormed northward beneath a moonless African sky, startling flocks of black heron, spooking herds of impala and zebra gathered around the waterholes on the veld below. Inside the chopper’s luxurious cabin, Alfred Horn sat gripping the arms of his wheelchair, which was bolted to the carpeted deck by specially designed fittings. Pieter Smuts, Horn’s Afrikaner security chief, leaned closer to his master and spoke above the low beating drone of the rotor blades.

      “I wanted to wait until we were airborne to tell you, sir.”

      The old man nodded slowly. “What is so important that you don’t even trust your own security?”

      “We’ve received the new figures from Britain, sir. The American figures. They were delivered by courier just an hour ago.”

      “The Bikini figures?”

      “More than that. Sixty-five percent of American test data from Eniwetok Atoll in ’fifty-two up to the test ban in ’sixty-three.” The Afrikaner shook his head. “Sir, you can’t imagine what a one megaton surface blast will actually do.”

      “Yes, I can, Pieter.”

      “It leaves a crater one mile across and sixteen stories deep. Christ, we’ve got the design, the plants … If we had six months, we could probably divert—”

      “I’ll be dead in six months!” Horn snapped. “What do these figures tell you about our current resources?”

      “The blast effects will be greater than we predicted. Using round figures, a forty-kiloton air burst should vaporize everything within three kilometers of ground-zero. Intense heat will incinerate anything for a five-kilometer radius beyond that. And the resulting winds and fires will wreak havoc for a considerable distance beyond those already mentioned.”

      “And the fallout?” Horn asked.

      “Twenty percent higher than we predicted.”

      Horn digested this without emotion. “And these figures … you believe they are more reliable than our own?”

      “Sir, except for the secret Indian Ocean test, all South African figures are purely theoretical. By definition they are predictions. The American figures represent verified data.”

      Horn nodded thoughtfully. “Apply them to our scenario.”

      “Everything depends on the target, sir. Obviously, ground-zero at the center of Tel Aviv or Jerusalem would obliterate either city. But if the weapon were used at the right time, its effects could be greatly enhanced, possibly even doubled, by a collateral factor: the weather.”

      “How?”

      “By the wind, sir. At this time of year the prevailing winds in Israel blow southeast. If the weapon were detonated in Jerusalem, the fallout would probably dissipate over Jordan. But if it were detonated in Tel Aviv, not only would it obliterate the city, but it might well spread a lethal blanket of strontium-90 over Jerusalem within one or two hours.”

      Horn closed his eyes and sighed with satisfaction. “And if we get the cobalt-seeded bomb case in time?”

      The Afrikaner turned his palms upward. “We won’t, sir. Not sooner than twenty days. The technical problems are formidable.”

      “But if we did get it?”

      Smuts pursed his lips. “With a cobalt-seeded bomb case and the revised yield figures, I’d say … sixty percent of the Israeli population would be dead within fourteen days, and Palestine would be rendered uninhabitable for at least a decade.”

      Horn let out a long sigh. “Increase the bounty, Pieter. Five million rand in gold to the team that delivers a cobalt bomb case within seven days.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Do we have any further information on the Israeli doctrinal response?”

      Smuts shook his head. “Our London source dried up after we requested the American satellite photos. Frankly, I don’t even trust his initial reports on that subject.”

      “Why?”

      “Do you really think Israel would target Russian cities?”

      Horn smiled. “Of course. It’s the only way the Jews could win a war against a united Arab force. They must be able to prevent Soviet resupply of the Arabs, and the only way they can do that is to blackmail the Soviets. What do they have to lose by doing so?”

      “But the deployment plan for Israel’s nuclear arsenal is the most closely guarded secret in the world. How could our London source know what he claims to know?”

      Horn smiled. “Not the most closely guarded secret, Pieter. No one has yet proved that South Africa’s nuclear arsenal even exists.”

      “Thanks in no small part to us,” Smuts observed. The Afrikaner began cracking his knuckles. “The Russian matter aside, I think we can safely assume that if Tel Aviv or Jerusalem were destroyed, Israel would go beyond a measured response. If they knew the source of the attack, they would respond with a significant portion of their ‘black’ bomber and missile forces.”

      “They will know the source of the attack,” Horn rasped.

      “There is one unpredictable factor,” Smuts said carefully. “If our clients were to detonate the weapon at Dimona, Israel’s weapons-production plant, there is a slight chance that the rest of the world might believe the explosion to be a genuine Israeli accident. The Americans might coerce the Jews into waiting until an outside investigation was completed. By that time cooler heads might prevail.”

      Horn made a dismissive gesture with his skeletal arm. “Don’t worry. I’m relying on Arab impatience, not stupidity. Hussein, Assad, these men might have the self-control to wait and try to develop a cohesive plan.

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