Checkmate

27

Thirty minutes after receiving Lambert’s terse “Come in” call, Fisher swiped his card through the reader and pushed through the Situation Room’s door. Waiting for him at the conference table were Lambert, Grimsdottir, Redding, and a surprise guest: the CIA’s DDO, or Deputy Director of Operations, Tom Richards. Richards was in charge of one of the CIA’s two main arms: Operations, which put agents and case officers on the ground to collect intelligence. Intelligence then analyzed the collected data.

Richards’s presence wasn’t a good sign. As DDO, he knew about Third Echelon, but for the sake of compartmentalization, the CIA and Third Echelon generally remained distant cousins. Something significant had happened, and Fisher had a good idea what it was.

“Take a seat,” Lambert said. “Tom, this is my top field operative. For simplicity’s sake, let’s call him Fred.”

“Good to meet you, Fred.”

Fisher gave him a nod.

Lambert said to Fisher, “The other shoe has dropped. Tom has come over at the request of the President to brief us. For reasons that you’ll understand shortly, we’re going to be taking the lead on what comes next. Go ahead, Tom.”

Richards opened a folder lying on the table before him. “As you know, the predominant isotope we found in Slipstone’s water supply was cesium 137. It’s a natural byproduct of nuclear fission — whether from the detonation of nuclear weapons, or from the use of uranium fuel rods in nuclear power plants.

“The problem is, cesium 137 is too common. It’s everywhere: in the soil from nuclear weapon testing… in the air from power plant leaks. It’s the vanilla ice cream of nuclear waste — almost. In some cases, the cesium contains imperfections. For example, from where the uranium was mined, or in the case of fuel rods, from the chemical makeup of the water used to cool them.

“Since the 1950s the CIA has kept a database on isotopes — where and when it was found; its likely source… those sorts of things.

“It took a while, but we’ve identified the source of the cesium found at Slipstone. First of all, the material found aboard the Trego and the traces we found at Slipstone are of identical makeup. No surprise there. In this case, the database came up with a hit from twenty-plus years ago.”

“When?” asked Grimsdottir.

“April 26th, 1986.”

Fisher knew the date. “Chernobyl.”

Richards nodded. “You got it. On that date, following a systems test that got out of control, Chernobyl’s Reactor Number Four exploded and spewed tons of cesium 137 into the atmosphere.”

“How sure are you about this?” Lambert asked.

“That it’s Chernobyl cesium we found? Ninety percent.”

“And I assume we’re not talking about trace amounts here, are we?” asked Redding.

“No, it’s pure Chernobyl cesium. In the Trego’s forward ballast tank we found three hundred fifty pounds of debris that we’ve determined came from actual fuel rods.”

“From Chernobyl?” Grimsdottir repeated, incredulous. “The Chernobyl?”

“Yes. We’ve estimated it took upwards of thirty pounds of material to produce the level of contamination we found in Slipstone’s water supply, so we’re talking about a total of almost four hundred pounds. There’s only one place you can get that much.”

“Ukraine or Russia can’t be behind this,” Lambert said.

“Not directly,” Richards replied, “but that’s where the Iranians got it. How we don’t know. That’s what we’re hoping you can answer. We need someone to go into Ukraine — into Chernobyl — and get a sample.”

Someone, Fisher thought. Good old Fred.

“And, if possible, do some sleuthing,” Richards added. “If this stuff is from Chernobyl, we need to know how and who. It had to leave there somehow. As far as we know, only about half of the undamaged fuel rods from Reactor Number Four are still inside the reactor core — in what the Russians call ‘the Sarcophagus.’ The other half were blown outward, into the surrounding country-side.”

Sarcophagus was an apt term, Fisher thought. The morning after the explosion, hundreds of thousands of Russian soldiers and volunteers from all around the Soviet Union began converging on Pripyat, the town nearest the Chernobyl plant, which by then was in the middle of an evacuation that would eventually transport 135,000 residents from the area.

Working with no safety equipment except for goggles and paper masks, soldiers and civilians began shoveling debris back into the crater that had been Reactor Number Four. Radioactive dust and dirt swirled around the site, coating everything and everyone it touched with a layer of deadly cesium. Hastily formed construction brigades began mixing thousands of tons of concrete, which were then transported to the lip of the crater and dumped over the side and onto the shattered roof until finally the open maw was overflowing with concrete.

Richards said, “As best we can determine, debris blown outside the reactor was collected and buried in bunkers somewhere nearby.”

“Have the Ukrainians reported any thefts? Any missing material?” Fisher asked.

“No, but that doesn’t surprise us. Hell, for days after the explosion the Soviet government continued to call it a ‘minor incident.’ Even if they knew about something fishy, we wouldn’t expect them to tell anyone.”

Fisher could see what was coming. Aware of the missing material or not, when this revelation became public, Ukraine — and by proxy, Russia — would be held complicit, a silent partner in Iran’s attack on the United States and the deaths of what could be as many as five thousand people.

In his mind’s eye Fisher imagined a chessboard. What part did this news play? Was this a distraction strategy, the white knight jumping its way toward the black king, or something more — that lone pawn no one is paying attention to? Or was it exactly what it seemed: Iran’s Queen’s Gambit?

“We have some leads?” Fisher asked. “Chernobyl’s Exclusion Zone covers a lot of territory. I assume you’re not asking me to wander around with a Geiger counter waiting to get lucky.”

“No. We’re working to identify the bunkers most likely to contain the debris we’re interested in. We also have some human assets in Ukraine that might point us in the right direction.”

“What’s our timeline?”

“You’ll leave in five days,” Lambert replied.

Richards closed his folder and stood up. “I’ll leave you to it. Fred, good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Once Richards was gone, Lambert said, “Sam, this is a volunteer mission. You can decline with no questions asked.”

“I’ll go. How often do you get a tour of Chernobyl? One question, though: How long can I walk around that place before my hair starts falling out?”

“Longer than you think,” Grimsdottir said. “Don’t worry, we’ve got you covered. I’ll brief you once you’re en route.”

Lambert said, “While the CIA is putting the pieces into place, we’ve got another lead — or maybe a red herring — for you to chase down. Go ahead, Grim.”

“The microfiche you found in Kolobane’s office was a gold mine. There was nothing specific about either the Trego or the Sogon, but there was loads of information on the diesel engines installed aboard the Trego.”

“Another finger pointing at Iran?” Fisher asked.

“Maybe, maybe not. The engines were purchased and transported to Kolobane by a company called Song Woo Limited out of Hong Kong.”

“Another layer of the onion.”

“Unfortunately, I’ve found no trace of the company in cyberspace.”

“Which means a personal visit,” Fisher said.