Rapp didn't make it far. Skip McMahon caught his attention from across the sea of desks and waved him over to his office. Rapp walked around the perimeter and joined the FBI man. McMahon didn't say anything, he just turned around and went back into his office with Rapp following. Paul Reimer was sitting in one of the two chairs in front of McMahon's desk. McMahon closed the door and walked around behind his desk.
"What's up?" asked Rapp. "You guys comparing notes on the cushy jobs you've been offered?"
"Yeah, we're talking about taking a celebratory cruise together," snarled McMahon.
"Hey...don't get defensive. I think it's great. In fact I might join you guys in the private sector."
"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Reimer.
"Let's just say, I'm getting a little burnt-out."
"You're too young to quit," McMahon said, dropping down in his chair.
"Age has nothing to do with it. It's all the bullshit."
The former Navy SEAL and the FBI special agent shared a worried look. Reimer said, "You're not really serious, are you?"
"Yep."
"You can't. Someone's got to hang around and tell them how it is."
Rapp tilted his head and asked, "Weren't you at the White House yesterday?"
"I'll never forget it."
"Well, I don't know if you noticed, but they don't seem to be listening to me."
"Don't let this turn you sour, Mitch," McMahon said. "You're better than that. You did some great work this week. Without you, I'd hate to think what could have happened."
"I'll be honest. Things were a hell of a lot easier when I worked in the shadows."
McMahon, never one to listen to anyone complain for more than a second or two said, "Yeah, well you're not anymore, so suck it up. You're too damn young to go quitting on us, and besides, what in the hell would you do?"
"Have babies, play golf...I don't know. I'll find something."
"You'd be bored out of your mind in two months," said Reimer. "The only reason I'm leaving is because I'm tapped out after putting three kids through college. I need to make some serious money before my wife and I sail off into the sunset."
Rapp eyed Reimer disbelievingly. "You're not sick of all the B.S. with Homeland Security?"
"Of course I am, but I'm fifty-six. You're only in your mid-thirties. You've got a long way to go before you can say you're burnt-out."
McMahon looked at his watch impatiently. "All right...now that we've got all the career counseling out of the way, and we've decided you're staying, can we get down to business?"
"Sure." Rapp smiled.
"Paul's got some interesting information. Stuff he doesn't want disseminated through official channels, and after you hear it, I don't think you're going to be quitting."
McMahon had his attention. Rapp turned to Reimer. "What's up?"
"The Russians have been quietly helpful. The truth is they are every bit as concerned by these Islamic radical fundamentalists as we are. In some ways they're more concerned."
"They should be. Most of them are in their own backyard."
"Yeah, well anyway...I've had some interesting conversations with one of my counterparts over in the motherland. All off the record...all unofficial. I sent him the particulars on the nuclear material, and he agrees that it's one of theirs."
"Interesting. Does he have any idea how al-Qaeda got their hands on it?"
"He's looking into it, but he has a theory that sounds plausible to me."
"Let's hear it."
"First of all, he confirmed as best he could without actually seeing the nuclear material, and conducting the tests himself, that the material is in fact one of their prototype atomic demolition munitions that they tested at the Kazakh range in the late sixties. Without looking up the numbers he seemed to remember that approximately twenty of these weapons were tested during that time. Now here's where things get interesting. The Soviets don't advertise this little fact and neither do we." Reimer took on a more serious tone. "Not all of the tests that we conducted worked."
"That doesn't shock me," said Rapp. "Isn't that why they're called tests?"
"Yes, but it's the next part that will shock you. When I say they didn't work, that means that some of them reached critical mass, but didn't obtain their maximum yield, and that there were also others that simply didn't work properly in another way."
"You mean they didn't blow up?"
"Not exactly. The duds, as we so scientifically refer to them, often did blow up. They just never reached critical mass."
"In English, please."
"The physics involved in these weapons is very precise. If," Reimer made a ball with his hands, "the explosive charge that is placed around the nuclear material fails to detonate perfectly, critical mass cannot be obtained. Does that make sense?"
McMahon and Rapp nodded.
"Well, on occasion, the conventional explosive would misfire. We wouldn't reach critical mass, and we'd move on to the next test. If it wasn't too much work, we'd try and retrieve the nuclear material from the hole, but more often than not we simply left it buried down there. Now, knowing how the Soviets operate, my guess is they never even thought of retrieving the material from their failed tests."
"Why not?" asked a surprised McMahon.
"In the fifties and sixties we were churning out so much of this stuff that it was a lot easier to start with a fresh batch than go down into a collapsed, radioactive hot hole to salvage a hunk of junk that was extremely dangerous and that might or might not have been cost effective to reprocess."
"So," Rapp was starting to piece things together, "this Kazakh test site is littered with how many duds?"
"We're not sure," Reimer answered.
"Take a guess?"
"Maybe a dozen. Maybe more."
Rapp's mouth opened in disbelief. "Why the hell have I never heard of this threat before?"
"Because it wasn't actually deemed a threat. This Kazakh test site is a radioactive wasteland. The idea of someone trying to dig one of these things up is ludicrous. If you don't have the proper equipment, you're going to die. And even if you do have the proper equipment, you'd better be quick about it."
Rapp buried his face in his hands. "Or you could just promise a bunch of young Islamic radical fundamentalists an express ticket to paradise." Rapp stood and looked at his phone.
"Is this test site still in operation?" McMahon asked.
"No."
"Is it guarded?"
"It's over two hundred thousand square miles."
"So it's not guarded?" asked a disappointed McMahon.
"No."
"Oh, this is bad," said Rapp.
"Maybe...maybe not." Reimer tried to keep an upbeat attitude. "The Russians are looking into it. My counterpart is on his way down there right now with a team to investigate."
"Who else have you told?" Rapp asked.
"Just you two. Considering the circus we went through earlier in the week, I didn't want to get people too riled up."
Rapp nodded. "I don't blame you. Skip, what do you think?"
"Did you find anything on that raid that would point to a second bomb?"
Rapp thought about it for a moment. "No."
McMahon contemplated the manhunt that was already underway. "Virtually every law enforcement officer in the country has seen the sketch of al-Yamani and the photograph of Zubair. Thanks to the info you got over in Afghanistan, we've got a good lead on the terror cells here in America. We're going to be serving a batch of arrest warrants this afternoon from here to Atlanta and beyond. I say we wait to hear back from the Russians, and see if we catch any breaks on the home front."
"I agree," replied Rapp. "Let's keep this between the three of us until we know more. I don't need any more lawyers from Justice telling me what the rules are, and the president and his people are busy enough getting ready for tomorrow's dedication."