Assassin (John Stratton) by Duncan Falconer

men were doing just fine and what they believed they should be doing. There were four of them around the box, enough to carry it safely.
    He took a calming breath. ‘Bring it into the house,’ he said. ‘Carefully.’
    The men eased it off the truck. It dipped a little in their hands, heavier than they had anticipated. They carried it in through the front door, along the short corridor and into the main room. Mahuba kept ahead of them and went to the sturdy table and removed his laptop.
    ‘On here,’ he said.
    The men shuffled over with the crate and placed it clumsily onto the table, eager to be rid of the weight.
    ‘Careful,’ Mahuba said angrily.
    They pushed it so that it was in the middle.
    ‘Leave it alone,’ he ordered. He didn’t want them doing anything more to it. ‘Go.’
    The four men let go of the crate and left the room.
    Mahuba’s servant arrived with the tea and placed it on the table by the crate.
    ‘Get me a large screwdriver or crowbar, or something to remove the wood,’ Mahuba said, taking the small glasscup of tea. He sipped it. The tea was hot and sweet. It felt good. He put it down and drew the curtains across the window that directly overlooked the table.
    The servant returned holding a steel pry bar.
    ‘Go,’ Mahuba said, and the servant handed him the bar and walked out, closing the door behind him.
    Mahuba took a mobile phone from his pocket, selected a number from the contacts list and hit the send key. He waited patiently with the phone to his ear. It beeped, signalling his call had been answered.
    ‘I have arrived,’ he said.
    A voice on the other end acknowledged him.
    ‘Do the timings remain the same?’
    ’Yes,’ the voice replied.
    Mahuba disconnected the phone and put it back in his pocket. He picked up the tea and stared into space as he put the cup to his lips and drank the rest of it. After a time, he put down the empty cup and regarded the crate.
    He picked up the pry bar and jammed the end into the side of the wood. Levered it. Wiggled it in further. Levered it again. The gap widened. He repeated the process around the top of the crate until the lid came up. He pushed it up, separating it from the rest of the crate.
    He removed the lid and placed it on the floor. The sides came away a lot more easily with the top gone. Within a few minutes he’d exposed a black plastic moulded box. It had a hinged lid. He unclipped three latches along one side, gripped the lid and raised it up on its hinges. He let it down the other side. All of his actions had been conductedwith a kind of reverence. Respect for what was inside the box.
    He looked at the object. It was the shape and size of a keg of beer.
    It was the first time he’d ever seen an atomic bomb. He’d studied a pamphlet on this particular kind and knew it well. It was an impact device, designed to fit into a ground-to-ground rocket, or it could be dropped from an aircraft. With a little modification, it could be detonated in a static location. To actually see it live for the first time. To be able to touch it. Such a weapon of destruction. That was remarkable.
    A portion of the box was taken up by a power source. A battery. Leads connected it to the device. Essential power to keep the bomb primed. Without it the device would die in time and become inoperable.
    Mahuba placed the flat of his hand on it, his fingers outstretched. He didn’t need to enter the US base to destroy it. He could do that from where he was. The bomb would destroy everything within a radius of six kilometres. The radiation would reach much further. The fallout even further still, depending on the weather. Everyone in the base would die. And of course, those in Bagram Town and the outlying villages would also perish. A small price to pay.
    He remembered once mentioning to one of his ISI colleagues about his disappointment at not being able to see the outcome of the attack. He’d be able to see it from the other side of life, his colleague had