The Fist of God

It does not look like much, but it is out of this cluster of buildings that a group of scientists monitor the spread of nuclear technology across the Third World.

Jim Jacobs turned out to be little older than Terry Martin, just under forty, a Ph.D., and a nuclear physicist. He welcomed Martin into his paper-strewn office.

“Cold morning. Bet you thought California was going to be hot. Everyone does. Not up here, though.

Coffee?”

“Love some.”

“Sugar, cream?”

“No, black, please.”

Dr. Jacobs pressed an intercom button.

“Sandy, could we have two coffees? Mine you know. And one black.”

He smiled across the desk at his visitor. He did not bother to mention that he had talked with Washington to confirm the English visitor’s name and that he really was a member of the Medusa Committee. Someone on the American end of the committee, whom he knew, had checked a list and confirmed the claim. Jacobs was impressed. The visitor might look young, but he must be pretty high-powered over in England. The Deputy Director knew all about Medusa because he and his colleagues had been consulted for weeks about Iraq and had handed over everything they had, every detail of the story of foolishness and neglect on the part of the West that had damn nearly given Saddam Hussein a nuclear option.

“So how can I help?” he asked.

“I know it’s a long shot,” said Martin, reaching into his attaché case. “But I suppose you have seen this already?”

He laid a copy of one of the dozen pictures of the Tarmiya factory on the desk, the one Paxman had disobediently given him. Jacobs glanced at it and nodded.

“Sure, had a dozen of them through from Washington three, four days ago. What can I say? They don’t mean a thing. Can’t say more to you than I said to Washington. Never seen anything like them.”

Sandy came in with a tray of coffee, a bright blond California woman full of self-assurance.

“Hi, there,” she said to Martin.

“Oh, er, hallo. Did the Director see these?”

Jacobs frowned. The implication was that he himself might not be senior enough. “The Director’s skiing in Colorado. But I ran them past some of the best brains we have here, and believe me, they are very, very good.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” said Martin. Another blank wall. Well, it had only been a long shot.

Sandy placed the cups of coffee on the desk. Her eye fell on the photograph.

“Oh, them again,” she said.

“Yes, them again,” said Jacobs, and smiled teasingly. “Dr. Martin here thinks maybe someone ... older should have a look at them.”

“Well,” she said, “show ’em to Daddy Lomax.”

With that she was gone.

“Who’s Daddy Lomax?” asked Martin.

“Oh, take no notice. Used to work here. Retired now, lives alone up in the mountains. Pops in now and then for old times’ sake. The girls adore him, he brings them mountain flowers. Funny old guy.”

They drank their coffee, but there was little more to say. Jacobs had work to do. He apologized once again for not being able to help. Then he showed his visitor out, returned to his sanctum, and closed the door.

Martin waited in the corridor a few seconds, then put his head around the door.

“Where would I find Daddy Lomax?” he asked Sandy.

“I don’t know. Lives way up in the hills. Nobody’s ever been there.”