industries involving static electricity control and ionizing air. Alpha radiation is easily shielded and therefore easier to handle safely. A thin layer of aluminum foil is enough to safeguard its handling. Polonium must be eaten or inhaled to cause harm.
The Swedes had hit upon a way to finely divide and pulverize the polonium into particulate matter for explosive dispersal. The bomb, if detonated, could have killed hundreds. A few breaths were all that was necessary to sicken a victim, perhaps fatally. And the long-term psychological damage to a region such as Manhattan—Times Square was allegedly the Swedes’ intended ground zero—would have been sociologically crippling.
Most first responders, including those in and around New York City, carried only gamma radiation detectors, suitable for dirty bomb fallout, but unable to detect alphas. Pending federal legislation aimed to remedy that.
Fisk looked around at the drinkers filling Pence, people filing in after work, singles, couples. A few breaths of smoky radioactive debris. Ten seconds. An ugly death or a lifetime of illness.
“And how you faring?” asked Link, after the barmaid left their drinks. He had handed her a credit card this time, and she frowned, now needing to make an extra trip back to the table, and tucked the card into her cleavage for safekeeping.
“Good,” said Fisk. “Medically cleared.”
The Swedes had apparently overestimated just how “safe” it was to handle polonium. Fisk had taken the stainless steel container, which was apparently somehow not airtight. About an hour after seeing his prisoner booked into custody, Fisk began throwing up. He had tremors and some localized burns on his hand and hip. His long-term diagnosis was uncertain, depending on the amount of cellular and genetic damage he had suffered. His relatively quick recovery boded well, according to the doctors, but ultimately only time would tell.
Bengtson/Muhammad had not been so lucky. After losing three fingers to frostbite, he started hemorrhaging a few weeks after his arrest due to radiological poisoning and suffered a disabling stroke. He was currently on life support, and his trial had been postponed indefinitely.
Fisk held out his hand. Fairly steady. The tremors had continued long after the exposure, and his therapist, Dr. Flaherty, helped him see that the lingering effects were at least partly psychological. He had come back to Intel two months before but hadn’t yet been returned to full duty, working special projects and generally riding a desk until he was cleared psychologically.
But some days—even in the late-summer heat—Fisk still found himself shivering.
“Thank you,” said Link to the barmaid, who winked and hustled away to the next customer. Link held his credit card to his nose for a moment before returning it to his wallet. “Ambrosia,” he said, with a sigh. Then he ribbed Fisk with his elbow. “Kidding. Sweat and maybe moisturizer. I’ve never been jealous of a credit card before.”
Fisk drank the top inch or more of his Peroni, the Italian beer a nice change of pace after the Jack Daniel’s. “This is the longest sales pitch in history,” he said to Link.
Link shook his head, drinking his own beer, unoffended. “Not a pitch at all. Just an offer. And this isn’t just me, this is a bunch of guys, we think we can pull this off. We like your style, Fisk. We know you’ve been through hell. We’re doing this for you.”
Fisk was skeptical. “Who do I have to kill?” he said.
Link laughed, nodding. “Kill another swig of that beer, and I’ll tell you.”
Fisk did as he was told.
“Jenssen moves to Florence, Colorado, in two days. He’ll be in the supermax there, total isolation, a deep, dark hole from which he will never emerge. Nor will anyone except maybe his lawyer be able to reach him.”
“And?”
“Tomorrow night, there’s a window of time. Maybe as much as an hour. We can put you together with him. One on
The Swedes had hit upon a way to finely divide and pulverize the polonium into particulate matter for explosive dispersal. The bomb, if detonated, could have killed hundreds. A few breaths were all that was necessary to sicken a victim, perhaps fatally. And the long-term psychological damage to a region such as Manhattan—Times Square was allegedly the Swedes’ intended ground zero—would have been sociologically crippling.
Most first responders, including those in and around New York City, carried only gamma radiation detectors, suitable for dirty bomb fallout, but unable to detect alphas. Pending federal legislation aimed to remedy that.
Fisk looked around at the drinkers filling Pence, people filing in after work, singles, couples. A few breaths of smoky radioactive debris. Ten seconds. An ugly death or a lifetime of illness.
“And how you faring?” asked Link, after the barmaid left their drinks. He had handed her a credit card this time, and she frowned, now needing to make an extra trip back to the table, and tucked the card into her cleavage for safekeeping.
“Good,” said Fisk. “Medically cleared.”
The Swedes had apparently overestimated just how “safe” it was to handle polonium. Fisk had taken the stainless steel container, which was apparently somehow not airtight. About an hour after seeing his prisoner booked into custody, Fisk began throwing up. He had tremors and some localized burns on his hand and hip. His long-term diagnosis was uncertain, depending on the amount of cellular and genetic damage he had suffered. His relatively quick recovery boded well, according to the doctors, but ultimately only time would tell.
Bengtson/Muhammad had not been so lucky. After losing three fingers to frostbite, he started hemorrhaging a few weeks after his arrest due to radiological poisoning and suffered a disabling stroke. He was currently on life support, and his trial had been postponed indefinitely.
Fisk held out his hand. Fairly steady. The tremors had continued long after the exposure, and his therapist, Dr. Flaherty, helped him see that the lingering effects were at least partly psychological. He had come back to Intel two months before but hadn’t yet been returned to full duty, working special projects and generally riding a desk until he was cleared psychologically.
But some days—even in the late-summer heat—Fisk still found himself shivering.
“Thank you,” said Link to the barmaid, who winked and hustled away to the next customer. Link held his credit card to his nose for a moment before returning it to his wallet. “Ambrosia,” he said, with a sigh. Then he ribbed Fisk with his elbow. “Kidding. Sweat and maybe moisturizer. I’ve never been jealous of a credit card before.”
Fisk drank the top inch or more of his Peroni, the Italian beer a nice change of pace after the Jack Daniel’s. “This is the longest sales pitch in history,” he said to Link.
Link shook his head, drinking his own beer, unoffended. “Not a pitch at all. Just an offer. And this isn’t just me, this is a bunch of guys, we think we can pull this off. We like your style, Fisk. We know you’ve been through hell. We’re doing this for you.”
Fisk was skeptical. “Who do I have to kill?” he said.
Link laughed, nodding. “Kill another swig of that beer, and I’ll tell you.”
Fisk did as he was told.
“Jenssen moves to Florence, Colorado, in two days. He’ll be in the supermax there, total isolation, a deep, dark hole from which he will never emerge. Nor will anyone except maybe his lawyer be able to reach him.”
“And?”
“Tomorrow night, there’s a window of time. Maybe as much as an hour. We can put you together with him. One on
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