Patriot by M.A. Rothman (summer reading list TXT) 📗

him and then began his incessant yammering about what he was doing. He is such a—”

“I know. We need to encourage him to speed up his work. We cannot afford to let a thing like bad weather set us back. We’re on a tight timeline.”

“You’ve already made the calls, then?”

“I have. Everything will be prepared for us. Allah will guide our path. Come.” Mohammad motioned for Ramzi to follow. “Let’s go encourage our friend to make haste.”

Mohammad led Ramzi into the bowels of the ship, to the enclosed cargo bay just below the main deck. A work area had been set up in the center of the large space, lit by floodlights on stands positioned around the perimeter. The remains of the old American bomb lay scattered across the deck.

Doctor Vladimir Rusakov stood hunched over a long table topped with complicated equipment, computers, schematics, and printouts. His long black hair was matted and unkempt, and he hadn’t shaved since before he’d arrived. His white lab coat was draped over the back of the lone chair at the end of the table, and he’d rolled the sleeves of his blue button-up shirt to just below the elbow. Whereas that shirt had been nicely tucked in and pressed when he’d arrived, it was now hanging free and sweat-stained.

Rusakov had been working almost nonstop since they’d delivered the old bomb to him, painstakingly taking the weapon casing apart and removing the plutonium core.

As Mohammad and Ramzi approached, the scientist looked up from his work and pushed his horn-rimmed glasses higher up the bridge of his nose. Dark circles hung beneath his bloodshot eyes. He regarded the two men for only a moment before returning to his work without saying a word.

Mohammad stopped at the end of the table. “How does the project progress, Doctor?”

“I tolding you,” Rusakov said without looking up, “I’m busy here.”

Mohammad pursed his lips and inhaled deeply through his nose. It took everything he had not to smack the disrespect out of the impertinent scientist right where he stood. But he refrained. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he needed this infidel.

“Of course,” he said. “My apologies.”

“I don’t needing apologies. What I needing is peace and quiet. I said no interruptions. This is necessary.” The Russian’s broken English was thickly accented, but Mohammad understood him well enough.

Ramzi put a hand on Mohammad’s shoulder, and he wondered if his friend had gleaned what he was thinking. It galled him beyond measure to have to indulge this infidel, regardless of how useful he was. Mohammad had all but decided that he would kill the man when his work was finished. Not to preserve the secrecy of his plan, but for Mohammad’s own selfish pride. Allah would forgive him that.

“And you shall have it,” Mohammad said, taking care to keep his tone free of his increasing rage. “But I must know where we stand and if you are on schedule. Much depends on whether or not you can do what you say you can.”

Rusakov stopped what he was doing and stiffly raised himself to his full height, which was just barely over five and a half feet. He looked at Mohammad over the top of his glasses. “If I can? Do you having idea how to rewiring and prepping device? Do you having someone else knowing with nuclear physics? No? Then leaving me to my work.”

Mohammad leaned forward, putting his palms on the table. “Do not misunderstand me, my friend. You are in no position to make demands here. Or have you forgotten who is responsible for your wife and daughter’s safety?”

The man’s eyes widened slightly. “You said they not being harmed.”

“I did, and they won’t be.” Mohammad pointed to the steel framework surrounding the circular core. “As long as the work is done to my satisfaction.”

“I have said, work will be finished.” Rusakov again pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “But is no good stopping and talking about progress now. I telling you is done or is not done. Yes?”

The scientist had a point. Ultimately the only thing Mohammad cared about was whether or not the device would function as prescribed.

“Is close,” Rusakov said after a moment. “Will be finishing in time.”

“And it will function properly?”

“Yes.”

Mohammad nodded. That was all he needed to hear.

Chapter Thirteen

Connor’s phone beeped as he climbed out of his Honda SUV in the back lot of his apartment building. When he checked the name of the sender, he felt an unexpected pang of regret. He didn’t want to read the message. In fact, he wanted to delete the text and never consider the fact that he’d been on the verge of committing treason. At the same time, he still felt it was the only logical decision to make.

He sighed and scanned the parking lot, ensuring there was no one within sight, then unlocked his phone and read the message.

Let’s meet in person.

The message was from Beverly Cooper, a reporter with the Washington Herald. She was responding to his anonymous text about a pending national crisis that he had inside information on. He’d had almost an entire day to consider the ramifications, and now that his initial anger had subsided, he was having second thoughts.

His fingers hovered above the keys, his intent alternating between telling her where to meet him and telling her thanks but no thanks. Both sides of this coin held merit in his mind, and both sides generated serious consequences. Not saying anything could result in untold thousands, maybe millions, of deaths. And saying something meant almost certain jail time if he was ever discovered.

Images of Robert Hannsen being paraded into the Virginia District court flashed through his mind. The famous Russian spy and traitor had earned fifteen consecutive life sentences for his troubles, locked in a supermax prison in Colorado, spending twenty-three hours a day on lockdown. Of course, Hannsen’s motivations had been purely financial. Over his twenty-two years of working for the Russians, he’d been paid