Requiem for an Assassin

one hand, and heroin and cocaine, on the other. But people wanted them all, and what right did the government have to interfere with that? Or with a man’s right to profit so handsomely from the government’s hypocrisy?
    The problem, Boezeman had explained to Demeere, was access. Only the head of security had the authority, official and perceived, to move an unauthorized person around the way the Belgian wanted. Didn’t the head of security take vacation? Demeere had asked. Boezeman had laughed at that, pointing out that Henk Jannick hadn’t taken a vacation in more than two years. Well, we can wait, Demeere had assured him. Maybe something will come up, and you’ll find yourself in a position where you can help me.
    The phone rang twice on the other end, then three times. It was six in the morning in Amsterdam. Maybe Boezeman turned his mobile off at night, although most Europeans Hilger knew never did.
    Then a voice cut in: “Hoi.”
    “Hello, Mister Boezeman?” Hilger said.
    “Yes, speaking,” the man said, switching to English.
    “My name is James Hillman, and I’m a friend of William Detts. He told you I might be calling, right?”
    “Uh, yes, he did.”
    “Well, unfortunately, William can’t make it to Amsterdam as he was hoping. But perhaps you could hold open that rental property he discussed for me? The one with the western view and the sunsets?”
    The reference to rental property and the rest was a prearranged signal that would establish Hilger’s bona fides. He waited for the prearranged response.
    “Yes,” Boezeman said. “It’s a good property, and the sunrises are even better than the sunsets. I can hold it for you.”
    “Wonderful. I expect to travel to Amsterdam in the next two days. Perhaps you could show me the property then?”
    “I’d be happy to. Just let me know your itinerary.”
    “I’ll call again as soon as I have the details. I assume you take cash?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Perfect. I’ll make the arrangements, and call you again shortly.”
    He hung up, relieved that it had gone smoothly. It wouldn’t have been the first time an asset forgot his fallback instructions, but Demeere had clearly drilled the man well. Damn, he would be hard to replace. He’d reeled in Boezeman so efficiently after Accinelli had introduced them at that conference in New York, and then managed him perfectly afterward.
    It had taken a while to get everything else in place. First, they’d needed the material. Accinelli had come through there. Cesium 137 was a radioactive element and therefore highly regulated, but Accinelli was willing to fudge the paperwork at Global Pyrochemical Industries and provide it to a fellow Gulf War veteran he trusted, who he believed was still with the Agency. Hilger had hinted that the cesium was being used to develop a new kind of ion propulsion engine for the military, a black program, totally off the books, everything acquired from private sources without any official government funding. Accinelli was a patriot, and was pleased to be able to leverage his success in the private sector in the interests of national security.
    The only problem was that Accinelli knew of the Hilger–Demeere–Boezeman link. When the operation was completed at Rotterdam, it would be worldwide news. The initial explosion would be trivial—only a hundred pounds of TNT—and, with a little luck, wouldn’t even produce casualties. It was the fallout, literal and figurative, that would get all the attention.
    Cesium 137 emitted gamma rays. Less toxic than the alpha rays emitted by, say, uranium, but prone to travel farther. Even better, cesium was hugely reactive, and combined eagerly with other elements. Roofing materials, concrete, soil…none of it could be cleaned afterward.
    Thankfully, the people exposed to the radiation would be at minimal risk. The body could process half a cesium exposure in less than a hundred days. Strontium 90, another ingredient they had considered, would have been absorbed by bone, and the body would need thirty years to excrete half a dose of that. Overall, a one-mile swath—not coincidentally, the heart of Rotterdam’s refinery facilities—would see an increase of cancer rates to one in ten thousand. Only a .05 percent jump, and that would only be for anyone stupid enough to stick around afterward, but it would be enough to turn the area into a no-go zone for decades. Very low casualties, but a very high fear factor. No wonder people