Pandora's Ark (12 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Tehran, Iran

For the past two
days Old Man Sakharov sat by the window watching children play in the dust of
an infertile land. The air held a wonderful dryness to it, and the sun blazed
whitely overhead. As the children played on in the heat of a mid-afternoon sun
without a care or worry of the atrocities brewing around them, he wondered if these
kids would fall victim to the fundamentalist guiles of people like al-Ghazi,
who were far more determined to put a gun in their hands in the name of Allah,
rather than to teach them the ways of proffering an olive branch to their
enemies.

But
were they any different than his government who routinely embedded the seeded
hatred against the United States during the Cold War?
No
, he answered
loudly.
There was no difference, whatsoever.

For
two days the old man waited patiently, often daydreaming by creating buckyballs
within his mind, often taking on a detached look by staring at nothing in
particular and smiling dreamily at the thought of a second chance.

But
when al-Ghazi walked into the room Sakharov didn’t dare tip his hand that he
wielded all the excitement of a child gearing up for the holiday season, as if gifts
were mounting under the tree or placed next to the Menorah.

He
was ready.

“About
time,” he said curtly. And then he noticed that al-Ghazi was not alone. “And
whose little boy is this?”

Al-Ghazi
was dressed in fatigues and wore the traditional black turban of war. Beside
him stood Levine, just a measure shorter than al-Ghazi, but beefier and broader
along the shoulders. He too was wearing fatigues and a turban similar to
al-Ghazi’s.

“His
name is
Umar al-Sarmad,” he told him.

“Is Sarmad going to be my babysitter? I’m not a child, you
know. I thought we had this discussion.”

“We discussed the matter of your
scientific
aides
bearing the knowledge and skills to assist you in the lab. Umar will be
standing in as my proxy, since I will not be there as much as I would like to
be. Since I have cabals to direct, he will act as my eyes and ears when I’m
gone.”

“In other words, he’s my babysitter?”

“No, Doctor. He’s like I said—my eyes and ears.” He stepped
deeper into the room, his hands clasped behind the small of his back. “In order
for you to work uninterrupted, we were only able to secure this lab in
collusion with Ahmadinejad’s blessing, as long as your work is shared with his
regime.”

Levine’s ears prickled at this.

“However,” he continued, “Ahmadinejad is not entirely a man
of integrity. But a man who often says something to those who wish to hear
something positive, but does something else entirely different to promote his
own self interests. Umar al-Sarmad will make sure that
my
interests will
be protected when I’m not there.”

“Is that how you look at me, as an interest?”

“I look at you, Doctor, as an asset to me, to my people,
and to Allah. And I made that quite clear to you on the day I visited you in
the courtyard at Vladimir Central Prison, did I not?”

Sakharov remained silent. 

“Umar will make sure that your progress will be recorded,
and then forwarded to our sources for our safekeeping, should Ahmadinejad fall
back on his promises to unite our findings.”

Sakharov raised a hand. “Wait a minute,” he said. “If
Ahmadinejad falls back on his promise, then what will happen to me?”

“Do you want me to lie, Doctor, and tell you that nothing
will happen once the testing is completed? That there is no risk involved? Or
do you want the truth as I believe it to be?”

“What do you think?”

“Ahmadinejad has given me his promise that no harm will
come to you or to anybody as long as we share a mutual interest in your work.
But I cannot ultimately control the man’s actions should he fall back on his
word.”

“I’m not so sure I want to take that risk,” he returned.

Al-Ghazi feigned a half smile and leaned forward so that
his lips were inches away from Sakharov’s ear. “If you do not do this, Doctor,
then be assured when I tell you that if you do not go forward with my wish from
this point on, then I will have you diced into cubes of human flesh by my
people starting from the feet up. And be doubly assured when I tell you that I
will make sure that you live long enough to see the pieces of your body placed
beside you before they are fed to the dogs. Now, do you have any further
questions for me?”

Sakharov tried to square his feeble shoulders in defiance.
But it didn’t work, the old man looking comical in his attempt, which turned
al-Ghazi’s false smile into a real one.

“Good,” said al-Ghazi, stepping back. “Then we are in full
agreement.” Al-Ghazi turned his back on Sakharov and started for the door.
“Gather your things,” he told him over his shoulder. “We’ll be flying off to
the Alborz very shortly.”

“How shortly?”

“Fifteen minutes.” And then he was gone, leaving Levine in
the room with Sakharov.

The old man squared off with the al-Qaeda operative,
looking intently into the man’s steely eyes and seeing nothing but resolve.

“Just to let you know that I’m a grown man who’s not about
to stand by and let someone like you intimidate me,” he told him. “I’ve been
around the block a few times and dealt with people much tougher than you.”

Levine stood idle, saying nothing.

“I’ve been to Vladimir Central, you know. There isn’t a
tougher place in the world than Vladimir Central. And I survived that.”

The operative took a step forward. “Now you have fourteen
minutes.”

Sakharov began to pack.

#

Tehran, Iran,
Imam Khomeini International
Airport
 

The chopper lifted off
accordingly with al-Ghazi, Old Man Sakharov and Levine, who sat in the
helicopter’s bay, as the groundscape of Tehran passed quickly beneath them,
they headed north toward the Alborz mountain range.

The trip for the most
part was a silent one with the exception of the rotor blades thrumming
overhead. And it was during this down time of the flight that each man held to
his own thoughts. Al-Ghazi considered the future and the opportune consequences
that Sakharov’s ingenuity would bring to the major cities of the United States
and its allies, most notably Israel. Sakharov on the other hand, resurrected
illustrations of buckyballs within his mind’s eye, seeing with microscopic
clarity the Frankenstein’s monster he was unknowingly creating, due to his lack
of visualizing anything beyond his own colossal arrogance. And
Aryeh
Levine, or Umar
al-Sarmad
, sat there trying to
decipher ways to contact his sources without drawing undue attention and risk his
own unwanted sacrifice, should he be discovered.

So the Israeli’s mind
toiled, always thinking. But until he saw the Comm Center of the facility in
the Alborz, or until he understood what exactly Dr. Sakharov was working on,
only then would he act.  

Levine leaned forward and
yelled over the noise of the rotating blades. “So, Doctor, what is it that’s so
important that you’re working on?”

Sakharov turned to him.
“What’s your name again? Omar, right?”

Levine nodded in a way to
correct the old man. “It’s Umar,” he said.

“Omar?”

Levine spoke louder,
trying to best the sound of the rotors. “U . . . Mar,” he pronounced.

Sakharov shot him a
thumbs-up. “Gotcha, Omar!”

Levine wanted to roll his
eyes and considered that Al-Ghazi was right when he said that Old Man Sakharov
had a way of crawling beneath your skin and staying there.

“So what do you do?” he
asked again.

“Buckyballs,” he
answered.

“What?”

“Nanotechnology.”

Levine fell slowly back
into his seat. He knew nothing of nanotechnology, having only to be a quick
study in regards to nuclear or biological warfare. But nanotechnology, although
not exactly new, was alien to him since its applications were relatively in the
genesis stages since the 1980’s.

“What about it?” he
pressed.

And then al-Ghazi
intervened by raising a hand, a gesture for the discussion to cease and desist
immediately. “What the good doctor does, Umar, is not open for discussion until
we reach the facility. Once you become his aide, only then will you become an
implicit part of the program. As long as we are in the company of others not
privy to the project,” he pointed to the two Iranian pilots sitting in the
cockpit with headgear capable of washing out noise and listening in, “then
there is to be no further discussions. Trust no one at this point.”

How spot-on he was,
thought Levine. Trust no one, especially the man who was sitting beside him
wearing the guise of al-Qaeda when he was actually Mossad.

Playing his part as the
duty-bound soldier, Levine fell all the way back into his seat, closed his
eyes, and for the remainder of the flight let his mind wander, often dreaming
of a safer Israel, while Sakharov dreamt of buckyballs.

#

Mount
Damavand
, Iran
, The Alborz Mountain Range

The
chopper floated effortlessly over the helipad near the top of Mount Damavand. The mount itself was one of the tallest within the range at over 18,000 feet in
elevation, but the facility was located just above the base at roughly 3,000
feet above sea level. Nevertheless, the air was cold. The mountain capped with
a pristine layer of snow. And the anticipation had boiled to a point where Old
Man Sakharov’s heart began to beat with the pace of the swinging blades of the
chopper. As if to placate his condition, the Russian placed a soothing hand
over his chest.

The helicopter hovered above the pad, giving a view of the facility’s
grounds. Above the cave entrance that led to a vault-like door, was a
machine-gun nest manned by two soldiers. Below that entryway, where the gravel
road began to wend its way toward the cave’s mouth, stood a second MG nest, also
manned by two soldiers.

And Levine took it all in, making mental calculations by
noting the landscape, entry-points and manned positions.

When the chopper landed and the blades stilled, the
helicopter’s door was swept open and a soldier stood in silence as if
appraising each man individually.

Levine immediately recognized the man’s uniform. The
soldier was wearing the identifiable attire of a Quds’ operative, the uniform a
tan camouflage with matching tan beret and Quds’ insignia. His beard was
marginal, a stunted growth of hair, and he wore sunglasses to protect his eyes
against the harsh sunlight. With a wave of his hand he motioned for the people
within the helicopter to disembark, and yelled something out in Farsi, which
was taken to be an order to hasten their activity, since patience did not seem
to be a virtue with this man.

Once the three disembarked, they were ushered to a nearby
Jeep and gestured to get in by the soldier who carried an assault weapon.

Levine leaned to within earshot of al-Ghazi. “They’re
Quds,” he whispered.

“I expected no less from Ahmadinejad.”

The Quds Force
is an elite unit of
Iran
's
 
Revolutionary
Guard who once reported directly to the
 
supreme
leader
Ayatollah Ali Khamenei
. However, since the uprising in the
past presidential election in 2009 and its post-election suppression, highly indicated
that the political power of
Ahmadinejad
was
surpassing the power of the Shiite clerical system, leaving
Ahmadinejad
as the supreme ruler. With the
Quds Force now under his rule,
they remained subject to strict, military discipline presumed to be under the
control of the highest levels of Iranian administration.

In hindsight, Levine just
realized that his game had become more difficult by countless times. These guys
were not to be trifled with.

As the Jeep took the road to
the cave’s entrance, Levine noticed the concern on al-Ghazi’s face. Apparently
al-Ghazi’s sudden illumination of the matter was surprising, given the fact
that he formerly mentioned that
Ahmadinejad
was not to be trusted. Obviously, the presence of Quds Forces posed a threat to
his program, or at least that’s what Levine discerned from al-Ghazi’s
expressions.