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Authors: Francesca Salerno
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threat. Al-Zawahiri with the bomb at his disposal. What can we do to chase this down? Think about it.”
Kate took the folder with her back to her cubicle. She had always thought there was a non-zero risk that Al Qaeda would succeed in getting access to loose nukes, or materials to make nukes, but she didn’t think it would happen in Pakistan. Her experience was that the Paks were almost as security conscious as Americans, obsessive about it, notwithstanding all the bad hype about A. Q. Khan selling secret plans and even the weapons themselves. The nuclear devices within the control of the Pakistan Army were probably not breachable, in Kate’s view.
No, if Ayman al-Zawahiri and his crew succeeded in getting a bomb, Kate mused, it would be somewhere else. Probably in Russia.
Chapter 7 — Paris, France
The rue Saint-Phillipe du Roule runs off the Faubourg Saint-Honoré about a block east of the Avenue Franklin Delano Roosevelt in the 8th arrondissement. It is a tranquil street of shops, restaurants, and an exquisite small hotel, the Bradford, which caters mainly to English tourists.
At No. 3 Saint-Phillipe du Roule is a dark and quiet restaurant that provides an excellent luncheon— pâté de foie gras with Madagascar vanilla, sea bass or a rumsteak. There is an expansive wine list. The tables are spaced with sufficient privacy that conversations cannot be overheard.
The restaurant is not inexpensive, but that rarely dissuaded Jacques LeClerc from dining there. After returning from Moscow, LeClerc invited Simon Wantree to lunch to discuss a technical evaluation of the special item Colonel Marchenko had offered for sale. LeClerc arrived early, a few minutes before noon, dressed in a blue pinstripe suit, a flowered maroon tie from Hermès with a matching pocket silk, and onyx cufflinks set in gold. He looked like a prosperous Chamber of Commerce official.
When Simon Wantree entered the restaurant, he waved him over to his table and laid out his proposition over an apéritif.
“You’ve been bloody had, Jack, and by a KGB colonel no less!” Simon Wantree kept his voice down with difficulty. A corpulent man with thinning red hair and the delicate hands of a musician, which he was, he was also a bon vivant who loved his food and drink. His mood was animated at the prospect of a well-paying job from his arms merchant patron. He had flown in from his cottage in the south of England just for this meeting.
In an earlier life, Wantree had worked for the British military’s Atomic Weapons Establishment (AWE) at Aldermaston, until he was dismissed for failing a drug test. Before being cashiered, Wantree had been responsible, as a junior tech, for the manufacture and support of UK nuclear warheads.
“I don’t think I’ve been ‘had,’ as you so indelicately put it, mon ami ,” LeClerc said. “I have a nose for these things. This is the genuine article.”
“I hope you haven’t parted with the contents of your pocketbook.”
“I have paid a reasonable price for an option on the device, which secures the time necessary for—well, for you to do a bit of research on my behalf.”
“This wouldn’t be the first time a bloody Bolshy had tried to peddle a phony atomic bomb,” Wantree said. He almost added “to an unwary arms merchant unsophisticated in nuclear matters” but he held his tongue. No use biting the hand that fed you.
“That will not happen my friend. I am in no hurry. I have worked with Marchenko’s patron for years. We have done business, as you are well aware. He knows that I do my homework.”
“What precisely is it that you expect of me?”
LeClerc took a folded sheet of paper from inside his jacket and handed it to Wantree.
“First, I want you to check all the electrical circuits. You’re familiar with the Soviet RA-211 tactical weapon?”
“No, not really,” Wantree said. “The Russkies were not keen to share the
Kate took the folder with her back to her cubicle. She had always thought there was a non-zero risk that Al Qaeda would succeed in getting access to loose nukes, or materials to make nukes, but she didn’t think it would happen in Pakistan. Her experience was that the Paks were almost as security conscious as Americans, obsessive about it, notwithstanding all the bad hype about A. Q. Khan selling secret plans and even the weapons themselves. The nuclear devices within the control of the Pakistan Army were probably not breachable, in Kate’s view.
No, if Ayman al-Zawahiri and his crew succeeded in getting a bomb, Kate mused, it would be somewhere else. Probably in Russia.
Chapter 7 — Paris, France
The rue Saint-Phillipe du Roule runs off the Faubourg Saint-Honoré about a block east of the Avenue Franklin Delano Roosevelt in the 8th arrondissement. It is a tranquil street of shops, restaurants, and an exquisite small hotel, the Bradford, which caters mainly to English tourists.
At No. 3 Saint-Phillipe du Roule is a dark and quiet restaurant that provides an excellent luncheon— pâté de foie gras with Madagascar vanilla, sea bass or a rumsteak. There is an expansive wine list. The tables are spaced with sufficient privacy that conversations cannot be overheard.
The restaurant is not inexpensive, but that rarely dissuaded Jacques LeClerc from dining there. After returning from Moscow, LeClerc invited Simon Wantree to lunch to discuss a technical evaluation of the special item Colonel Marchenko had offered for sale. LeClerc arrived early, a few minutes before noon, dressed in a blue pinstripe suit, a flowered maroon tie from Hermès with a matching pocket silk, and onyx cufflinks set in gold. He looked like a prosperous Chamber of Commerce official.
When Simon Wantree entered the restaurant, he waved him over to his table and laid out his proposition over an apéritif.
“You’ve been bloody had, Jack, and by a KGB colonel no less!” Simon Wantree kept his voice down with difficulty. A corpulent man with thinning red hair and the delicate hands of a musician, which he was, he was also a bon vivant who loved his food and drink. His mood was animated at the prospect of a well-paying job from his arms merchant patron. He had flown in from his cottage in the south of England just for this meeting.
In an earlier life, Wantree had worked for the British military’s Atomic Weapons Establishment (AWE) at Aldermaston, until he was dismissed for failing a drug test. Before being cashiered, Wantree had been responsible, as a junior tech, for the manufacture and support of UK nuclear warheads.
“I don’t think I’ve been ‘had,’ as you so indelicately put it, mon ami ,” LeClerc said. “I have a nose for these things. This is the genuine article.”
“I hope you haven’t parted with the contents of your pocketbook.”
“I have paid a reasonable price for an option on the device, which secures the time necessary for—well, for you to do a bit of research on my behalf.”
“This wouldn’t be the first time a bloody Bolshy had tried to peddle a phony atomic bomb,” Wantree said. He almost added “to an unwary arms merchant unsophisticated in nuclear matters” but he held his tongue. No use biting the hand that fed you.
“That will not happen my friend. I am in no hurry. I have worked with Marchenko’s patron for years. We have done business, as you are well aware. He knows that I do my homework.”
“What precisely is it that you expect of me?”
LeClerc took a folded sheet of paper from inside his jacket and handed it to Wantree.
“First, I want you to check all the electrical circuits. You’re familiar with the Soviet RA-211 tactical weapon?”
“No, not really,” Wantree said. “The Russkies were not keen to share the
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