Guilt By Silence. Taylor Smith
“I think you have to see it as a question of equity. If we insist that the Russians allow snap inspections by outsiders of their nuclear facilities, then they have every right to insist that we do the same. Frankly, we’re not prepared to do that—to give foreigners unrestricted access to American security installations.”
Chaney: “So how do we know that Russian weapons and expertise won’t end up in the pockets of madmen and terrorists in exchange for much-needed dollars?”
Hoskmeyer: “Because Moscow is as committed as we are to nuclear nonproliferation. We’re confident that the agreements on force reduction that we’ve struck with the Russians will be fully respected—both the letter and the spirit. And we’re monitoring closely, of course.”
The scene shifted back to Chaney in front of the State Department building. “Despite Washington’s apparent lack of concern, there is evidence that unstable governments and terrorist groups are scrambling to acquire nuclear weapons—and that whistle-blowers in the IAEA are being silenced. Some of these potential customers can pay top dollar for smuggled nuclear weapons and the specialists to handle them. If they succeed, we may find ourselves looking back fondly on the Cold War—when only Moscow and Washington appeared likely to blow up the planet.
“Paul Chaney—CBN—Washington.”
The news continued, but Mariah wasn’t listening to the television anymore. She snapped off the set, staring numbly at the disappearing glow.
David had been working in Vienna for the International Atomic Energy Agency and had been in the forefront of IAEA officials seeking greater powers to stop the spread of nuclear weapons—and Paul knew it.
But what Chaney couldn’t know was that it was Mariah herself—not David—who had blown the whistle on a suspected nuclear weapons ring. And that if David and Lindsay’s accident in Vienna had been an attempt to silence a whistle-blower, it should have been Mariah—not David—who was the target.
“But it wasn’t,” Mariah whispered. “Dammit, Chaney. I would have been the first to know.”
No one could have guessed that the five men at the corner table were doomed.
They were sitting in the Trinity Bar (“Live Country Music Every Nite!”) just on the outskirts of Taos, New Mexico. Around them, the usual Wednesday-night crowd of ranch hands and laborers, most in jeans and Stetsons, moved through the smoky haze to the rhythm of a steel guitar. At the front of the bar, a singer in a fringed shirt stood under a spotlight, his throaty twang straining to be heard as he begged Ruby not to take her love to town.
Admittedly, the three Russians were a little conspicuous. In the crowd of sweat-soaked Stetsons and dust-lined faces, their crisp Levi’s marked them as dudes. And the new white cowboy hats looked incongruous above round Slavic faces. The two Americans with them seemed drab by comparison: rumpled corduroy pants, casual shirts and down ski jackets. The younger one—thirtyish maybe—wore wire-rimmed glasses patched at the nosepiece with adhesive tape. The other man was in his fifties, white-haired, with a weary countenance.
Five matching black leather briefcases on the floor under the table provided the clue to the brotherhood that united the men. Each case bore a gold-lettered inscription stenciled in the corner: Los Alamos National Laboratory. Their obituaries would note how the five former enemies perished together just at the moment they had joined forces to put their scientific genius to work for the benefit of mankind.
A tired-looking waitress, eyes ringed with black mascara, bleached hair teased and sprayed to defy the law of gravity, balanced a tray on her hip as she deposited another round of drinks on the table and cleared the remains of the last round. Five pairs of eyes were fixed on the low neckline of her ruffled white blouse each time she bent over to put down or pick up a glass or bottle. “That’s five Coors and four vodkas straight up, right, boys?” she said, straining to be heard over the music.
“But Russian vodka, yes?” Blue almond eyes sparkled in a flushed round face, watching the topside of her breasts roll with her up-and-down movements.
The waitress raised her eyes heavenward and nodded without breaking the rhythm of her work. “Yeah, yeah—Smirnoff—good Russian vodka.” The two Americans at the table exchanged amused glances. “That’s twenty-four-fifty, fellas.”
Larry Kingman dropped a twenty and a ten on her tray. Once again, as he had on the last two rounds, he waved away the change she had begun to count out.
“Well, thanks! Thanks a lot,” the waitress said, taking a real good look at him now and smiling warmly. “You just holler if you need anything else, okay?”
Kingman smiled and nodded. The woman lingered a moment, then wandered reluctantly over to a table where some good ol’ boys were calling loudly for refills. Kingman raised one of the shot glasses of vodka and held it out over the center of the table, looking at each of the other four faces in turn. “To the future, gentlemen. To science.”
The Russians lifted the three remaining shot glasses. “Na zhdoroviye,” they said in unison, tossing back the clear liquor, then slapping the glasses down on the stained wooden tabletop and reaching for the beer chasers.
Kingman directed an inquiring eyebrow at the younger American seated next to him. Scott Bowker was frowning, but he grasped one of the beer glasses, touching it briefly to his lips. Kingman shook his white head as he watched the younger man. “What’s up?”
Bowker glanced at the Russians, then around the room. “We shouldn’t be drinking like this.”
Kingman leaned back in his chair and smiled indulgently. “Relax, Scotty. We’ll let you be designated driver, okay?” Bowker’s frown deepened even further. “Re-lax,” Kingman repeated. “Everything is under control. Now, enjoy.”
One of the Russians, at Bowker’s left, grinned and put an arm around his shoulders, squeezing good-naturedly. “Larry is right. Enjoy! We are allies now—comrades in a common struggle. The Cold War is finished and we, my serious friend, have all won. Now,” he added, “we work on the same side.” The Russian raised his glass and nodded above the brim before taking another swallow of beer. The others echoed his nod. Scott Bowker looked pointedly at his watch, then at Kingman.
“Yup,” Kingman acknowledged. “It’s getting late. We should be going, boys. Tomorrow’s a big day.”
The five men drained their glasses, then stood and gathered up their briefcases. Kingman shifted uncomfortably, stretching out knees that were stiff and swollen after three days of playing guide for the Russian visitors. He trailed the others to the door, offering a nod and a warm smile as he limped past the blond waitress.
“’Bye now,” she said, giving him a wistful wave. “You come again, okay?”
They walked out of the beer-and-smoke fog of the tavern and into the cold night air of the New Mexico desert. The parking lot was full: pickups and old beaters, a few motorcycles, gaudy yellow license plates proclaiming New Mexico—Land of Enchantment. Kingman tossed a set of keys to Bowker as the men approached a minivan. Bowker unlocked the doors and the Russians slipped into the back seats. Kingman shut the sliding rear door and climbed into the front passenger seat.
They pulled out of the parking lot and turned south on NM 68, the main highway linking Taos and Los Alamos. The men fell silent, contemplating the landscape eerily lit by a cloud-draped moon over the Sangre de Cristo—the Blood of Christ—Mountains. A powdery snow had been falling while they were inside and it muffled the sound of the tires on the road. The Pueblo Indians believe that the spirits of the dead linger on the mesas of New Mexico, guarding the land. In this spectral glow and eerie silence, it was easy enough to believe that ghosts were hovering nearby. Watching and waiting.
The highway curved along the banks of the Rio Grande, hugging the line of the rushing river. It was past midnight and the road was virtually deserted. As the van sped along toward Española and the Los Alamos turnoff, a single pair of lights could be seen approaching from far off, flashing between the hills.
Kingman rolled down his window, the wispy