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one reprocessing plant, so she also had the capability of producing weapons-grade material. The question was, of course, had Israel actually taken the next step? Had she constructed a nuclear weapon or weapons? The NPT wanted to know.
    God only knew, she thought to herself as their driver brought them over the crest of a hill, the En Gedi plant off in the distance, they had the reason to build such weapons … their survival.
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    The En Gedi Nuclear Research Station was about average for a facility of its nature. The reactor itself was housed beneath a four-story fiberglass dome inside a slightly larger reinforced concrete containment building. To the east was a small venturi-shaped cooling tower. On the north side of the installation, which was enclosed behind a double line of tall electrified fences, were the various research laboratories and the main
administration center. To the west were a small dispensary, dining hall, and housing units for the science and technical staff and the squadron of military guards. Syria, after all, wasn’t very far away. Security here was, of necessity, very tight.
    They were met at the front gate by a husky, good-looking Army officer in a major’s uniform, a hard hat on his head.
    â€œLev Potok,” he introduced himself. “I’m the Crises Management Team Supervisor. Welcome to En Gedi, Dr. Abbott, Mr. Hayes.”
    They shook hands.
    â€œWe understand you had a little trouble the other night,” Lorraine said. There was no use beating around the bush. In that, at least, she agreed with Hayes.
    Potok managed a tight smile. “It was nothing, actually. But I expect you’ll want to see for yourself.”
    â€œNaturally,” Hayes said sharply, and Lorraine shot him a warning glance which he ignored.
    â€œIf you will come along, then, our facility director and chief engineer are waiting to meet you,” Potok said.
    They had gotten out of the Mercedes. The heat at this hour of the afternoon was intense. Potok gave them hard hats, radiation badges, and visitor tags, and they climbed into his waiting jeep and were whisked across the facility to the three-story administration building.
    Inside they were ushered into a conference room where two men looked up from a set of blueprints they’d been studying. One was a much older man with longish white hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and the bemused look of a college professor. He was the facility’s director, Dr. Moshe Ben Avral. Lorraine had heard of him. He’d done a number of papers on the development of nuclear power sources for the third world.
    â€œPleased to meet you, Dr. Avral,” she said, shaking hands.
    The other, much stockier, much younger man, was Samuel Rosen, the facility’s chief engineer. “A Brooklyn transplant,” he said with a smile and a thick New York accent.
    â€œA report has been sent along to Washington, Dr. Abbott, so we’re just a little surprised that you’re here,” Dr. Avral said gently.
    Although Israel had never signed the Nuclear Non-Proliferation
Treaty of 1969 (of course at that time they had had no immediate plans for entering the nuclear race), they had come to an informal agreement with the United States to inform her ally what she was doing, and to submit to NPT inspections.
    â€œI haven’t seen that report,” Lorraine said.
    â€œNor have I,” Hayes added.
    Dr. Avral nodded patiently. “No, of course you would not have seen the report. By the time it was sent, you were unfortunately already in transit.”
    Rosen was looking at Lorraine, an odd, almost anxious expression on his face. He was hiding something, she decided. She turned to him.
    â€œYou didn’t experience much of a problem, then?” she asked.
    â€œNot really,” Rosen said. “It was a nonradioactive steam leak.”
    â€œThere was an alarm,” Hayes said.
    â€œYes. You can’t believe the safety networks and backups