The Bomb

Hearing Skinner’s grunt as Melnikova deposited him on the grass, the three men who had been scanning the night sky with infra-red-equipped binoculars turned to see the new arrivals.

Skinner stood, brushing grass off his orange prison coveralls.

“I am Massoud,” one of the men said. Even in the dark, Melnikova could see he was far smaller than the other two, portly, dark-complexioned, and he wore glasses, an open-necked white shirt and dark trousers.

“You are Melnikova?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “You are Skinner? The maker of the bomb?”

Skinner nodded, his eyes on the other two, large, dark, bearded men, clad in gray uniforms. “Danush and Borzoo,” Massoud said, with a gesture to the two men. “Security. Let us go inside.”