Wild Fire by Nelson DeMille Page B

shake his hand.” Madox asked, “What’s his name?”
    “I couldn’t tell you his name, even if he was actually dead.”
    “Well, if you ever see him—alive—and if he was my guardian angel on this project, then thank him for me.”
    “I will.”
    Madox indicated the door. “Let’s continue the meeting.”
    As Landsdale walked toward the door, Madox nodded, happy in the knowledge that this mystery man was so well thought of. In fact, the man in question had not died on September 11, as Madox knew, but was actually on his way to the Custer Hill Club. In fact, Mr. Ted Nash, an old friend of Bain Madox’s, had called right before the meeting of the Executive Board to see if John Corey was in Madox’s custody. When Madox said they had a Mr. Harry Muller in the net instead, Nash seemed disappointed and said, “Wrong fish,” but he was optimistic, adding, “I’ll see what I can do to get Corey to the Custer Hill Club . . . You’d like him, Bain. He’s an egotistical prick, and nearly as smart as we are.”
    Bain Madox followed Landsdale into the room, walked to the head of the table, and began, “The meeting will come to order.” He pointed to the black suitcase in the middle of the floor and said, “That thing, which you are seeing for the first time, is a Soviet-made RA-155, weight about seventy-five pounds, containing about twenty-five pounds of very high-grade plutonium, plus a detonating device.”
    Harry stared at the suitcase. When he’d worked with NEST, they’d never told him what to look for—small atomic devices came in different shapes and sizes, and as the instructor had said, “There won’t be an atomic symbol on the device, or a skull and crossbones, or anything. Just rely on your gamma-ray and neutron detectors.”
    Madox continued, “That little thing will yield about five kilotons, about half the explosive power of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. Because these devices are old, and need constant maintenance, the explosion could be smaller. But that’s not a lot of consolation if you happen to be sitting next to one.” He chuckled.
    Landsdale pointed out, “Actually, we
are
sitting next to one.” He joked, “Maybe you shouldn’t smoke, Bain.”
    Madox ignored him. “For your information, gentlemen, that little thing would level Midtown Manhattan and cause about half a million instant deaths, followed by as many as another half million in the aftermath.”
    Madox walked over to the big suitcase and put his hand on it. “Incredible technology. You have to wonder what God was thinking when He created atoms that could be split or fused by mortal men to release such supernatural energy.”
    Harry Muller, with great difficulty, took his eyes off the nuclear bomb. He seemed to notice the bottled water in front of him for the first time, and with an unsteady hand, he drank from it.
    Madox said to him, “You’re not looking well.”
    “None of you are looking too good yourselves, and where the hell did you get that bomb?”
    “Actually, that was the easy part. It was just a matter of money, like everything else in life, plus my private jets to fly these here from one of the former Soviet republics. I paid—out of my own pocket—ten million dollars, if you’re interested. That was for all four bombs—not each. You can imagine how many suitcase bombs people like bin Laden have already bought.”
    Harry finished his water, then took Landsdale’s bottle along with Landsdale’s ballpoint pen, which he put in his pocket. No one noticed as Madox continued speaking.
    Madox turned to Harry and said, “We’re not monsters, Mr. Muller. We’re decent men who are going to save Western Civilization, save our families, our nation, and our God.”
    Harry, against his better judgment, asked, “By killing millions of Americans?”
    “The Islamic terrorists are going to kill them anyway, Harry. It’s just a matter of time. It’s better if we do it sooner. And
we
get to pick the