Bomb Grade by Brian Freemantle Page B

obscenity of describing the difference as tests of effectiveness.
    â€˜But the smuggling attempts – even what’s actually been seized in transit in the West – aren’t in kilos,’ offered Burton, helpfully. ‘The amounts have been far smaller.’
    â€˜What’s to stop small amounts being stockpiled to make up an amount sufficient for a bomb if they’re all bought by the same person or country?’ demanded Charlie.
    â€˜Nothing at all,’ admitted the man.
    Scott cleared his throat, the prelude to a pronouncement, and said to Charlie; ‘In view of what I understand your posting to be, you’re probably already aware of discussions between countries within the European Union to create a Star Wars protection against some countries in the Middle East?’
    Discerning the tone in the other man’s voice, Charlie said, ‘Which you don’t think necessary, after your investigation here?’
    â€˜For God’s sake man, it would cost £20 billion!’
    As they walked to the entrance of the embassy, Bowyer said, ‘I thought that was interesting, didn’t you?’
    Charlie looked quizzically at the station head. ‘It frightened the shit out of me.’
    Charlie felt instant empathy with Barry Lyneham, guessing at once he wouldn’t have to go through any getting-to-know-you bullshit because he was sure he knew the man already. He put Lyneham around 55, although maybe a little older, because Lyneham had clearly stopped worrying about inflicting personal damage upon himself. His belly bulged over the lost waistband of his trousers, presumably supported by an equally lost belt and the shirt collar was loosened for comfort or even by necessity. Lyneham’s face, particularly around his nose, was reddened from finishing too many bottles before too many evenings had ended and Charlie wasn’t sure if the wheezing was caused by excess weight or asthma: probably a combination of both. The words, when they came, hinted the deep south birth and were never hurried anyway and Charlie was quite sure the pouched eyes saw everything, just like he was sure the man heard everything, even the words that w eren’t spoken, an operational trick instinctive to their craft. Barry Lyneham was an old timer who’d been there and done it and didn’t need telling how to do it again. After the morning with Thomas Bowyer and the technical session that had followed it was refreshing to be with someone with whom he could relax but at the same time take seriously, confident he was on the same wavelength.
    They went comfortably through the low foothill pleasantries of agreeing Russia was a bigger mess now than it had been under communism and would probably take years if not decades to get right and in the meantime it was causing a hell of a lot of people a hell of a lot of worry.
    â€˜Nuclear shit top of the list,’ said Lyneham, starting the ascent to what mattered.
    â€˜I’d welcome whatever steer you can give to me.’ He was in Lyneham’s territory, where it was polite to appear at least to defer, but after what he’d already listened to he wanted some balancing, rational judgment. He was curious at the absence of James Kestler, but that, too, was Lyneham’s decision.
    â€˜Total fucking disaster. Crime’s king here, right? This is Capone country, reincarnated. You want anything, you get it from organized crime. The only way. It was always the way in the old days. Now nobody bothers to pretend any more. Yeltsin and all the others made all the right sounds and let the Bureau come here officially and now they’ve let you come and it doesn’t add up to a row of beans. This country was so fucked up, lying about production norms and meeting quotas, that they don’t even know what nuclear stuff they had in the first place so they sure as hell don’t know what’s gone or going missing.’ Lyneham had to pause,