Pandora's Ark

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In the eyes of the Islamic Revolutionary Front, Umar al-Sarmad, although not a leader, possessed the qualities to become one. He was twenty-eight, brash, and full of bravado, the young warrior always romancing the idea that fighting in the name of Allah was a prestigious one.

For the past four years he held the front lines along the Afghan mountain range, always the first into battle, the last to leave. Often he would pray alongside his fellow combatants in the complex cave system as bombs hurtled over their heads, with the tremors beneath his knees or the cascades of dust falling from the cave tops affecting him little.

But in reality Umar al-Sarmad had constantly prayed to a god that was not his own and fought alongside the revolutionists with bravado that was nothing more than veneer.

For Umar al-Sarmad was not as he seemed.

His true name was Aryeh Levine, a Hebrew growing up outside the city of Jerusalem.

And he was Mossad.

At the age of twenty-four and having served three years in the Israeli Army and then an additional three years as a commando, Aryeh Levine caught the eye of one of the most recognized, if not the most legendary, intelligence agency in the world.

He was smart with the ability to make snap judgments hinging on instinct rather than the timely process of deductive reasoning. His judgments were usually correct in the most difficult situations — his leadership recognized and never questioned. So he was recruited for the welfare of the state of Israel.

From day one he was “processed” as if he was a prisoner, going through rigorous interrogation techniques to withstand any punishments meted out should his role as an infiltrator be compromised. He learned the enemy’s language and dialect, their culture and prayers. And the transformation from Aryeh Levine to Umar al-Sarmad was a successful one that culminated in a final makeover as an Islamic terrorist.

His commencement began in Yemen, at the Zaydi Great Mosque, where his anti-sentiment rants against the United States and Israel caught the attention of radical fundamentalists. Within months his seemingly sound reasoning earned him prestige within the Circle, which subsequently became a call of duty to serve Allah on the battlefield alongside his al-Qaeda brothers. Within a span of three months, from the time he entered the mosque to the moment he first set foot on the battlefield, Aryeh Levine had successfully infiltrated the Islamic Revolutionary Front.

It wasn’t, however, too long thereafter when he caught the eye of his leader, Adham al-Ghazi. On a frigid day deep in the mountain terrain, al-Ghazi’s team happened upon a counterforce of a dozen troops who were killed in an ambush, their bodies scattered, bloodied and unmoving. In the event, however, two survived the skirmish, both wounded, one holding his bullet-ridden arm, the other weak with a badly rented shoulder.

When they were forced to their knees before al-Ghazi, their eyes resigned to the fact that their lives were about to come to a horrible and violent end, the same way that a cat plays with its prize before the kill.

And al-Ghazi was that cat, his quiet demeanor as powerful as a feline’s paw swiping at them, his dark eyes serving as the talons that drove deep beneath their skins by peeling back the layers to reveal their inward secrets until he knew who and what they were without even questioning them. Without a second thought or consideration, he simply knew they were Mossad.

They had stumbled upon a recon mission.

In his manner of questioning them they gave little, most likely false data in the form of red herrings, as they were trained to do under such circumstances. To make his point, however, al-Ghazi shot the man with the badly wounded shoulder dead, the black-edged bullet hole emitting a ribbon of smoke from the man’s forehead as he knelt a brief moment before falling dead beside his aide.

“The truth,” al-Ghazi said, his voice cold and flat and naturally uncaring to the surviving Mossad. “I want… the truth.”

But the truth never came. Instead, al-Ghazi was met with silence.

“Very well, then.” And at that point he handed his pistol to Umar al-Sarmad, to Aryeh Levine, and without looking at him said, “You know what to do.”

The moment he hefted the pistol and regarded its weight in his hand, he turned to the agent. At the same time the agent turned his oily and soiled face to the mouth of the weapon, then to the eyes of Levine. In an instant his eyes started, recognizing Levine, even with the growth of beard. It was a fatal mistake. Within a measure of a heartbeat Levine pulled the trigger, the bullet dicing the man’s brain and killing him instantly.

In al-Ghazi’s eyes Levine knew he had made an impression. But deep down he agonized over the trigger pull, having been forced to kill one of his own in order to maintain his cover.

In the aftermath he notified Mossad, telling them it was an unfortunate necessity. And in the end Mossad chalked it up to collateral damage that could not be avoided.

It was also the move that put Aryeh Levine under al-Ghazi’s wing as his trusted trigger man who killed anyone at al-Ghazi’s say without impunity. And by doing so, Al-Ghazi had elevated himself as a man with ultimate power by having others kill for him. Anyone can take the life of a man, he always said. But to get others to do it for you is absolute power. And it was this idea alone that he relished.

And Aryeh Levine was all too happy to oblige him, as long as he maintained his cover. Soon, he thought, he would kill al-Ghazi as a courtesy of Israel and its allies with the gun he had been handed.

Over time he had become stellar in his duties, promoting himself as a trusted officer within the ranks, but more so in the eyes of al-Ghazi, which prompted a call from the high-ranking official to serve as his aide in an impromptu mission.

In al-Ghazi’s office in Islamabad, Umar al-Sarmad — and whenever he heard that name he inwardly cringed — sat before al-Ghazi’s ornate desk with the black marble top. Despite the notion of al-Qaeda living in abject poverty within caves and landscapes that were harsh and brutal, they were obviously not without their luxuries, either. His office was spacious with top-of-the-line furniture surrounded by Arabic wares, vases and tapestries that proved costly. And scarlet drapery with scalloped hems that adorned the windows overlooked the stunningly beautiful city.

Like always al-Ghazi was impeccably dressed as he sat in a chair made of Corinthian leather, one leg crossed over the other in leisure. With his elbows on the armrests and his fingers tented with the tips resting beneath his chin, the Arab smiled at Umar, at Levine, showing off the fine rows of bleached-white teeth. “How are you, my friend?” he asked.

“I’m fine, Adham. Yourself?”

“As well as could be,” he said, leaning forward. The Arab then reached into a draw and removed a manila envelope. Inside was a photo which he removed and placed on the marble top of his desk. “I need your services,” he told him.

Levine sat there, waiting.

“I need you to serve as an aide for this man” He slid the photo across the desktop, a black-and-white glossy of Leonid Sakharov. “He is a scientist working on behalf of our organization,” he said. “But I need someone who will watch him since I have other projects in the making and cannot be there as I would like.”

“You want me to serve as his bodyguard?”

“Not so much as I want you to serve as my eyes and ears when I’m not there,” he said.

“There?”

“Tomorrow, you and I will be escorting the good doctor to Mount Damavand in Northern Iran.”

Levine’s mind reeled. Iran? The country was not exactly open to al-Qaeda operatives, he thought. But since he was programmed not to question al-Ghazi’s judgment, who thought he was acting on behalf of Allah — and that the sin of not “possessing faith” in everything Allah warranted was usually meted out with a good old-fashioned beheading if questioned — thought it best to remain silent.

“Where we will take part in creating a glorious history,” he added dreamily.

Levine realized he had to get a message out to his sources immediately. With al-Qaeda making a pact with the Iranian leadership, their alliance would galvanize Israeli and western agencies to take the required action in the form of sanctions or military strikes. His first inclination was that it had something to do with the development of Iran’s nuclear program, and that Sakharov the key to put it all together.

But Levine was wrong. His inclination was way off base because it was something far worse than the advancement of nuclear weaponry.

“I would be honored,” he finally told him.

“Good. Then we leave for Mount Damavand first thing in the morning with the good professor along. But I must warn you now, Umar, the man is very difficult to get along with.”

“I’ll cope.”

“Get a good night’s sleep, then. Tomorrow we begin to make history and shine in Allah’s eyes once again.”

Whatever. “Then I must assume, Adham, that this will be a lengthy mission?”

“That will depend on Sakharov.”

“Then may I leave the compound for a moment of leisure.”

Al-Ghazi stared at him long enough for Levine to think that he may have triggered suspicion.

But then: “Not tonight, Umar. I cannot allow anything to happen to you. This opportunity is so dire that I must insist on your lockdown.”

Levine conceded by nodding. He would have to figure a way to contact his sources once at Mount Damavand — a terrible risk to be sure, but a necessity nonetheless.

Levine got his feet and bowed his head in respect of al-Ghazi’s leadership. “Allahu Akbar,” he said softly. Allah is the greatest.

Al-Ghazi smiled in return. “Allahu Akbar, my friend. Allahu Akbar.”