Back at his desk, Martin organized his thoughts for the upcoming phone call. He even made some notes, planning the conversation in detail. None of this ‘see what happens.’ He liked to be prepared. He set out the business card and the book of matches George had given him. He thought about what he would say and how he would use the information he had. When he felt ready, he dialed the number.

“Good afternoon, Ultimate Diecasting.”

“Hello, may I speak to Tom, please?”

“Just a moment, please.”

“Thanks.” Martin tapped his pen on the pad of paper in front of him while he waited.

“Hello, Tom Peterson.”

“Hello, Mr. Peterson. My name is Martin Porchnik. I am an underwriter with the insurance company that is handling a claim for Ultimate Diecasting.”

“What’s an ‘underwriter?’”

“It’s a kind of company investigator.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I’ve already talked to one of your investigators, so don’t bother. I don’t have anything else to say.”

“We know you set it all up, Mr. Peterson.” Martin held his breath.

“What?”

“It was you. You set it up.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t have time for this kind of bullshit. I'm hanging up n—”

“We know you told them about the contract and where to find the plans.”

“What a load of crap. If you don’t stop harassing me, I’m going to call the police. I’ve had about as much as I’m going to take.”

“Go ahead. We’re working in conjunction with the police on this matter. It’s not you that we’re after. We want the big fish. If you help us catch them, the police don’t have to know about your involvement.”

“There is no involvement. I wasn’t involved in anything. Except answering stupid questions.”

“Mr. Peterson. It’s all going to come out. They’re going to be caught, and the whole story will come out. I don’t think your wife wants to see your name in the paper.”

Silence.

“You want to see your kids only on visiting days? Introduce them to your new friends in the slammer?”

Martin paused. Maybe ‘slammer’ was too old-fashioned. It was the term that Mickey Spillane used, and those books were pretty old. Oh, well. He’d get the gist of it.

“I don’t know anything about this. I’ll be calling my lawyer.”

“Tom, we know about you and Mr. Smith.”

Silence. Martin prayed he’d got it right. He could feel the pulsing of blood in his temples as he pressed the phone to his ear. Then he heard a sigh on the line like the wind slowly going out of a balloon.

“Oh, my god. I should’ve known it would come out. It was all going so well. But when I saw those FBI guys here yesterday, I knew the shit would hit the fan.”

“FBI?”

“Yeah, on account of the nuclear contract with the DOD. This is news to you?”

“No, of course not.”

Martin panicked. FBI? DOD? Nuclear? It didn’t matter. Just focus, push on through and think about it later. “Anyway, it doesn’t have to come out, if you co-operate.”

“Shit. What choice do I have? Okay, let’s hear it.”

“It’s very simple. Do you have a piece of paper?”

“Just a second. Okay. Go ahead.”

“You’re going to call this number.” Martin picked up the book of matches from the Holiday Inn and read it off to him. “And ask for room number 725. Seven-Two-Five. You will be talking to one of the men who broke in.”

“Jesus, you know where they’re staying?”

“We know a lot more than that.”

“Okay, I’ve got it. What do I say?”

“You’re going to say that the new contract just came in and then tell them exactly where the plans can be found. Tell them they’re locked up tighter than a drum. They’ll scoff at that.”

“Where should I tell them they’ll be?”

“I don’t care. Make it up. They’re going to be caught before they’ve had a chance to figure it out.”

“And that’s it? What if they ask how I got their number? You don’t think they’re going to be curious?”

“Tell them Mr. Smith gave you the number.”

“What if he tells them he didn’t?”

Good point. Martin improvised. “He’s not around right now to tell them.”

“Okay. When do you want me to call?”

“Tonight. We can’t waste any more time. These guys are itching to get out of town.”

“All right. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I do.”

“And my part in this will never come out?”

“You have my word.”

“All right.”

“Oh,by the way, Mr. Peterson.”

“Yeah?”

“Use a fake name. I don’t think these two know who you are, and they don’t need to know.”

“Good idea.”

“Good luck.”

Martin hung up the phone. Man, that felt good. His pulse was racing, but it had gone perfectly. Nothing could have gone any smoother. His plan might just work after all. And the contract was with the Department of Defense. Nuclear arms? From a product liability point of view, he was horrified. But as for the rest, it was too much! His own life had become more exciting than the best mystery thriller he’d ever read. No wonder these guys were so determined to get the plans. Someone wanted to build their own nuclear weapons or smart bombs, or whatever.

Turning to his computer, he brought up the Internet browser and switched from the company web page to the Google site. His curiosity was piqued about how a Toronto machine shop got involved in the nuclear industry. Why would the U.S. Government deal with a Canadian manufacturer? Or any manufacturer? Didn't they make that stuff themselves?

First he searched for ‘nuclear weapons canada.’ Much to his surprise, Canada was in the nuclear business right from the start. Britain and Canada both helped the U.S. on the original Manhattan Project. He knew that Canada was a world leader in producing radioactive isotopes for medical purposes, as it had been in the news a while back, but he had thought that was just a by-product of their nuclear energy program. The nuclear industry itself in Canada dated back to 1942, when construction on the first nuclear reactor began. It was the most powerful research reactor in the world when it was completed.

There was a lot of peaceful energy stuff to be found, but what about the bloody bombs? Next he searched for ‘nuclear weapons manufacturing,’ and had to learn the difference between atomic bombs and hydrogen bombs, nuclear fission and nuclear fusion. Nuclei were either splitting apart or bashing into each other, apparently. All the different materials: uranium, plutonium, deuterium, hydrogen, and tritium. He had heard most of these terms before. Pop culture or Dr. Strangelove? He just wasn't finding what he was looking for. Did the Canadian government have the bomb and he'd just never heard about it? What would be happening in Canada that some bad guy or bad government would want to get a hold of?

Finally, something caught his eye under a web page which mentioned manufacturing of nuclear weapons: “Producing highly enriched uranium entails many steps apart from the enrichment process itself and many other installations and capabilities are necessary. Nations wishing to obtain highly enriched uranium without international restrictions prohibiting its use for nuclear explosives, would have to develop enrichment technology independently, or obtain it illegally, since virtually all nuclear exporter states are unwilling to sell nuclear equipment and materials.” The Carnegie Endowment on Nuclear Manufacturing. Dale Carnegie was into nukes? That guy had his finger in every pie.

How to build an atomic bomb was apparently no big secret. He'd just found all the plans he would need. The technology was challenging enough, but the real key was building giant, stable reactors in which to enrich the uranium or plutonium you would need for the fissile material required to produce the explosion. The world leader in giant, stable reactors was Canada. We don't have the bomb, we have the fuel-makers. And someone wanted to make him some fuel and blow somebody up. Well, not on Martin Porchnik's watch, mister. Not while his company was on risk!

This was wicked cool. Who could he call to tell about all this?

What time was it? Maybe he’d try calling George, at least leave a message and tell him how well it had gone. As he reached for the phone, his direct line began to ring. He picked it up by force of habit.

“Hello, Martin Porchnik speaking.”

“Martin, are you some kind of cop?”

“What? No, I’m an underwriter,” he said automatically.

“Oh, yeah? What’s an ‘underwriter?’”

Martin paused. Was this Tom Peterson’s way of checking up on him?

“It’s a kind of company investigator.”

“An investigator, huh? And have you been talking to George about your little investigation there?”

“George? Yeah. How do you know George? Who is this?”

At that point, Big Eddy hung up the phone.

That was odd, thought Martin. How could Peterson know about George? Nobody knew he’d been talking to him about this. Maybe it was someone from the courier service where he’d given his name. He hoped that was all it was. He hoped that it hadn’t spoiled the set-up.

He picked up the phone and dialed George’s number, but got his voice mail. He couldn't just leave all this on a message, so he just told him how things went with Tom and about his plans for the evening. How was he going to be able to wait till evening when he was this excited already?