Pandora's Ark

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

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.

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.

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.

In gesture, al-Ghazi rubbed a nervous hand over his face and chin.

When the Jeep came to a stop at the cave’s entrance, both al-Ghazi and Levine took note of the machine-gun nest situated in the rocks above the cave’s maw. Levine also took quick note of the .50 caliber machine gun pointing in their general direction. Sakharov, either in blissful ignorance or he simply didn’t care, maintained a preamble of a smile.

Now what?

The Quds driver said something in Farsi, which al-Ghazi apparently understood, and gave the driver a faux-pas salute the moment the driver sped away.

It was at that juncture that the vault’s door, which held a mirror polish to its metal and about twenty-feet within the mountain’s recess, began to open outward. When the aperture was wide enough, a dozen Quds’ troops sprinted toward the three men with assault weapons well within their grasps but not pointed at them, but more to the ground at their feet.

Taking up the rear but walking as a man of leisure, a forged smile on his face, was a small and delicate man, hardly a soldier, but someone al-Ghazi and Levine immediately recognized.

His name is Hakim al-Sherrod. And in the circles of intelligence it was believed that he was the most trusted of Ahmadinejad’s aides. In fact, some believe that al-Sherrod was the true voice of Ahmadinejad, persuading the president on most decisions, earning him the nickname “The Devil’s Companion.”

With his arms held out in greeting, al-Sherrod pulled al-Ghazi into an embrace. And Levine saw al-Ghazi tense for moment as al-Sherrod corralled him in.

“Ah, Allah has blessed you, I see.” The man’s smile widened, showing small, yellow teeth resembling kernels of corn.

“And why is there a Quds Force here?” al-Ghazi asked in a measured tone.

“For protection. Why else? You must remember, my good friend, that this facility is unchartered. Should the Israeli’s learn of its position, then they may see fit to hand down retribution should they prove the true meaning of what we are about to achieve here, yes?” He then released al-Ghazi to square off with Sakharov, the man still smiling as his hatchet-thin face moved up and down the old man in appraisal. “And this is the esteemed wizard, yes? The man who will change everything?”

He then turned to Levine, the smile vacating him quickly as the man sized him up. And Levine could feel his scrotum crawl, wondering if this man had the uncanny insight to see him for who he really was, Mossad.

“And you would be?” he asked.

“Umar al-Sarmad,” he answered evenly.

“He is my most trusted aide,” al-Ghazi intervened. “And he will act as my proxy when I am not available. During my absence he will act as the good doctor’s aide.”

“Aide?” Al-Sherrod faced al-Ghazi with his hands clasped behind the small of his back and looked at him questioningly. “It was my understanding that we have already provided Doctor Sakharov with the required aides.”

“It was also the understanding that the good doctor would have an aide of my choosing, should my presence be needed elsewhere.”

The man stared at him for a long moment, and then he beamed a smile. “Of course,” he said jovially. “Of course!” And then he gestured to the open vault. “Please, come and settle in,” he added. “We’ve much work to do, yes?”

Al-Ghazi, Sakharov and Levine entered the facility in front of the suspect eyes of the Quds’ troops, the door closing behind them, and then the massive bolts sliding into their circular sockets, locking them in.