that might attract such scrutiny. I know how we can deal with this.”
“How?” Botros asked.
“You cannot give the authorities information you do not possess,” bin Osman told Botros. “Just have faith that I will handle the problem. Unlike the way your men failed to handle our problem in Qatar last week.”
Bin Osman hit a sore spot with the Saudi. The Malaysian had been enraged when the American gasoline peddler had escaped from the boat, but Botros had managed to calm him somewhat by reminding him that they still had the plutonium.
Getting the plutonium into the United States had been ridiculously easy. Team Free Flow had smuggled it into the country with all its other racing equipment. No customs inspector could ever hope to understand the esoteric collection of hardware and data-acquisitions electronic equipment used by a modern MotoGP racing team. It had been relatively simple to disguise the components needed to make a nuclear weapon among the racing equipment, even the Type B container used to transport the plutonium.
“When do you want us to move the material to the lab?” Botros asked, changing the subject.
“We’ll be ready for it on Saturday, so plan to move it tomorrow night. But at the moment don’t you have an appointment with the American?”
“Yes, he should be here soon. Do you want us to take care of him?”
“Like you took care of him last week? I think not. You and your men are to take no more risks, especially at the racetrack. I will take care of Mr. Cooper. Besides, I wish to meet a person who could dispatch five of your best men with such ease. Arrange for him to meet with me when I get to San Francisco tonight.”
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