The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

the plutonium produced at Greifswald and elsewhere. Manfred Fromm knew as much
about nuclear bomb design as any Russian or American, even if he'd never quite
been able to put his expertise into play. The plutonium stockpile secretly
accumulated over ten years had been turned over to the Russians as a final
gesture of Marxist fealty, lest the Federal German government get it. That last
honorable act had resulted in angry recriminations – angry enough that one other
cache of material had never been turned over. What connections Fromm and his
colleagues had once had with the Soviets were completely gone.
'Oh, I have a fine offer.' Fromm lifted a manila envelope on his cluttered desk.
'They want me to go to Argentina. My counterparts in the West have been there
for years, along with most of the chaps I worked with.'
'What do they offer?'
Fromm snorted. 'One million D-Mark per year until the project is completed. No
difficulties with taxes, numbered account, all the normal enticements,' Fromm
said with an emotionless voice. And that, of course, was quite impossible. Fromm
could no more work for Fascists than he could breathe water. His grandfather,
one of the original Spartacists, had died in one of the first labor camps soon
after Hitler's accession to power. His father had been part of the Communist
underground and a player in a spy ring, had somehow survived the war despite the
systematic hunting of the Gestapo and the Sicherheitsdienst, and been an honored
local Party member to the day of his death. Fromm had learned Marxism-Leninism
while he'd learned to walk, and the elimination of his profession had not
enamored him of the new political system which he'd been educated to despise.
He'd lost his job, had never fulfilled his prime ambition, and was now being
treated like an office boy by some pink-cheeked engineer's assistant from
Göttingen. Worst of all, his wife wanted him to take the job in Argentina and
was making a further hell of his life so long as he refused to consider it.
Finally he had to ask his question. 'Why are you here, Günther? The entire
country is looking for you, and despite that fine disguise, you are in danger
here.'
Bock smiled confidently. 'Isn't it amazing what new hair and glasses can do for
you?'
'That does not answer my question.'
'I have friends who need your skills.'
'What friends might those be?' Fromm asked dubiously.
'They are politically acceptable to me and to you. I have not forgotten Petra,'
Bock replied.
'That was a good plan we put together, wasn't it? What went wrong?'
'We had a spy among us. Because of her, they changed the security arrangements
at the plant three days before we were supposed to go in.'
'A Green?'
Günther allowed himself a bitter smile. 'Ja, she had second thoughts about
possible civilian casualties and damage to the environment. Well, she is now
part of the environment.' Petra had done the shooting, her husband remembered.
There was nothing worse than a spy, and it was fitting that Petra should have
done the execution.
'Part of the environment, you say? How poetic.' It was Fromm's first attempt at