yet.
“Here’s to the light of day,” said Link. “And that piece of shit Jenssen never seeing it again.”
Now Fisk had to drink. And so he did. “Didn’t see you at the sentencing.”
Link winced after the first swallow. “Wasn’t there. Heard you were.”
Fisk nodded.
“It’s a tough damn thing, just sitting there. Watching. Especially for guys like us.”
Spies like us, thought Fisk. Here was the CIA agent trying to flatter him, to sympathize. But for what reason?
“Great work on those other Swedes up north. Tough outcome, but that’s what happens when you poke the hive, huh?”
The surviving would-be terrorist had been born with the name Nils Olaf Bengtson, but had changed it to Khalid Muhammad upon his conversion to Islam. Bengtson had been a model soldier, serving as a first sergeant in the Rapid Reaction Battalion of the Swedish Army, but became embittered after being turned down for promotion to flag sergeant. After becoming Muhammad, he was thrown out of the Swedish army for refusing to keep his beard trimmed to regulation length. His descent from there was swift, apparently hastened by certain psychological issues.
“It should have gone much cleaner,” said Fisk. He knew how people—other Intel cops, especially—looked at him now. Gersten had died, and so had the three agents up near the Canadian border. Good people had gone down around him. Cops are, like baseball players and gamblers, some of the most superstitious people out there.
No one said this to his face, of course. But he was a cop, too: he knew. Though a pure odds player might go the other way, thinking all Fisk’s bad luck had run its course, instead everyone felt he had the mark on him. He was radioactive now.
“And all the shit you had to go through,” Link said. “No witnesses, all that. Reconstructing it. That had to wear you down.”
Fisk took another drink. “Little bit.”
“Gotta stick to your story. I don’t mean it that way. I just mean you gotta tell that same story fifty goddamn times before anyone believes you.”
The CIA agent saw that he had misplayed that. Fisk’s body language was telling him to fuck off.
“Hey,” said Link. “That came out wrong. Look, I got into it myself once. A little dust-up in Fallujah. Took down an insurgent and one of our own translators who flipped on me. Entrenching tool. Saving my own life cost me two months of inquests, affidavits, all that muck. No time for the act of it, the killing, to get digested. That shit sticks to your soul.”
Fisk nodded like maybe Link should change the subject now. The barmaid breezed by, eyes wide in a Want another? expression. Fisk needed to slow down. He ordered a Peroni. Link asked for two.
“On me,” he said, as she went away. “I guess with tits like that she doesn’t have to be friendly.” Link trying to worm his way back into Fisk’s good graces. Fisk wanted to ask him to what he owed this honor, but instead chose to watch Link work for whatever he wanted.
“Bottom line is, you took another major threat off the street. With the added bonus of putting the fear of God in people. Fifty bucks says everybody in this place knows what a smoky bomb is.”
A dirty bomb is a radiological weapon that disperses radioactive material via conventional explosives. The explosive blast would cause moderate short-range lethal damage, and the blast wave carrying radioactive material would sicken a wide radius of innocent persons. At least, that was the theory: in fact, no such device had ever been used as a terror weapon. Two attempts at radiological terror had been made, both in Chechnya, both involving cesium-containing bombs, but neither of which was ever detonated.
“Dirty” isotopes emit penetrating gamma rays, which are difficult to shield and handle safely. A so-called smoky bomb uses alpha radiation instead, produced by the radioactive decay of certain isotopes, such as polonium 210. Polonium is unusually common and is used in
“Here’s to the light of day,” said Link. “And that piece of shit Jenssen never seeing it again.”
Now Fisk had to drink. And so he did. “Didn’t see you at the sentencing.”
Link winced after the first swallow. “Wasn’t there. Heard you were.”
Fisk nodded.
“It’s a tough damn thing, just sitting there. Watching. Especially for guys like us.”
Spies like us, thought Fisk. Here was the CIA agent trying to flatter him, to sympathize. But for what reason?
“Great work on those other Swedes up north. Tough outcome, but that’s what happens when you poke the hive, huh?”
The surviving would-be terrorist had been born with the name Nils Olaf Bengtson, but had changed it to Khalid Muhammad upon his conversion to Islam. Bengtson had been a model soldier, serving as a first sergeant in the Rapid Reaction Battalion of the Swedish Army, but became embittered after being turned down for promotion to flag sergeant. After becoming Muhammad, he was thrown out of the Swedish army for refusing to keep his beard trimmed to regulation length. His descent from there was swift, apparently hastened by certain psychological issues.
“It should have gone much cleaner,” said Fisk. He knew how people—other Intel cops, especially—looked at him now. Gersten had died, and so had the three agents up near the Canadian border. Good people had gone down around him. Cops are, like baseball players and gamblers, some of the most superstitious people out there.
No one said this to his face, of course. But he was a cop, too: he knew. Though a pure odds player might go the other way, thinking all Fisk’s bad luck had run its course, instead everyone felt he had the mark on him. He was radioactive now.
“And all the shit you had to go through,” Link said. “No witnesses, all that. Reconstructing it. That had to wear you down.”
Fisk took another drink. “Little bit.”
“Gotta stick to your story. I don’t mean it that way. I just mean you gotta tell that same story fifty goddamn times before anyone believes you.”
The CIA agent saw that he had misplayed that. Fisk’s body language was telling him to fuck off.
“Hey,” said Link. “That came out wrong. Look, I got into it myself once. A little dust-up in Fallujah. Took down an insurgent and one of our own translators who flipped on me. Entrenching tool. Saving my own life cost me two months of inquests, affidavits, all that muck. No time for the act of it, the killing, to get digested. That shit sticks to your soul.”
Fisk nodded like maybe Link should change the subject now. The barmaid breezed by, eyes wide in a Want another? expression. Fisk needed to slow down. He ordered a Peroni. Link asked for two.
“On me,” he said, as she went away. “I guess with tits like that she doesn’t have to be friendly.” Link trying to worm his way back into Fisk’s good graces. Fisk wanted to ask him to what he owed this honor, but instead chose to watch Link work for whatever he wanted.
“Bottom line is, you took another major threat off the street. With the added bonus of putting the fear of God in people. Fifty bucks says everybody in this place knows what a smoky bomb is.”
A dirty bomb is a radiological weapon that disperses radioactive material via conventional explosives. The explosive blast would cause moderate short-range lethal damage, and the blast wave carrying radioactive material would sicken a wide radius of innocent persons. At least, that was the theory: in fact, no such device had ever been used as a terror weapon. Two attempts at radiological terror had been made, both in Chechnya, both involving cesium-containing bombs, but neither of which was ever detonated.
“Dirty” isotopes emit penetrating gamma rays, which are difficult to shield and handle safely. A so-called smoky bomb uses alpha radiation instead, produced by the radioactive decay of certain isotopes, such as polonium 210. Polonium is unusually common and is used in
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