Pandora's Ark

CHAPTER FIVE

The man was in his late sixties but moved with the alacrity of somebody much older. With a cane in one hand and a small bundle of bread and eggs in the other, the old man walked along the cold streets of Moscow. Above him the sky was gray; the sky was always gray as the man shuffled along in a laboring gait to his apartment on the third level of the complex. Every day the journey up the stairs were beginning to prove too much for his increasingly feeble legs.

Someday, he considered, when his legs finally gave, so would he.

He would sit by the window with a bottle of vodka and drink himself into a stupor with the last thought on his mind of the Cold War, when he was someone of purpose. Now that the walls have crumbled and communism nothing but an afterthought, the old man had become a societal burden surviving on a meager stipend equal to four hundred American dollars per month. Often he would go days without heat during a Russian winter because he didn’t have enough rubles to pay the bill.

Yet the old man eventually adapted, finding warmth with booze and aged memories.

Climbing the stairway only to take a time-out on every fourth or fifth step to catch his breath, the old man worked his way to his apartment that was approximately 350 square feet of living space.

Once inside he placed the eggs in the refrigerator and the bread on the counter, then leaned against the badly stained kitchen sink to regain his strength.

“You’re getting old, Leonid,” he told himself. “It’s getting close to putting this old dog down.”

The old man removed his scarf, his jacket, and draped them over the kitchen table that wobbled on weak legs. And then he made his way to a time-worn lounge chair situated before a small casement window that gave him a view of Red Square. This was his comfort zone. Just him, his memories, and the cheapest bottle of vodka he could afford.

Yet the chair was moved away from the window and the drapes were drawn, pinching out the drab light of an overcast day.

The old man stopped, his heart fluttering irregularly in his chest. “Who’s in here?”

From the depths of the shadows a man sat in the old man’s chair, which to the old man was sacred property. He was cast in obscurity as a silhouette bearing no contour or shape, just a mass of darkness.

“I’ve come to give you back your respect,” the shadow simply stated. “To give you back all those years of glory and achievement.”

The old man recognized the voice immediately, clicked his tongue in disgust and waved his hand dismissively. The Middle East accent and the steady lilt in the man’s voice told Leonid that it was Adham al-Ghazi, not a man he expected or wanted to see under any circumstances.

“You come into my home unannounced and scare an old man half to death! What’s the matter with you?”

Al-Ghazi said nothing.

“Say what you have to say, and then leave.”

Al-Ghazi sat unmoving, a shade of deep black. And then, “My bathroom in Iran is bigger than this place,” he said. “And it smells better, too. It’s a shame that a man of your talent is forced to live in such conditions.”

“If you’ve come all this way to tell me that your crap doesn’t stink, then you’re wasting your time.”

“Still full of spitfire, I see. That’s good.”

“What do you want, Ghazi?”

The Arab stood and moved into the light. He was impeccably dressed in an expensive suit bearing pinstripes and a matching silk tie. His beard was perfectly trimmed, not a single hair was misplaced or out of proportion from any other hair on his chin. To Leonid, it appeared perfectly sculptured.

“I want to give you back your glory days,” he said, placing his hands behind the small of his back. “I can give you back what Russia cannot.”

The old man waved his hand dismissively for a second time. “Impossible,” he said. “That ship has already sailed and Mother Russia is gone.”

“Perhaps. But a new ship has arrived.” Al-Ghazi reached into his jacket pocket, produced a thick envelope, and placed it on the kitchen counter. Leonid Sakharov didn’t have to be told of its contents. “That’s just a beginning, my friend. When you’re finished, then you’ll be able to live out your life in luxury. I guarantee it.”

Leonid Sakharov stared at the envelope, refusing to make any type of commitment by picking it up.

“Whereas Russia has turned a blind eye to you,” added al-Ghazi, “my people have not.”

“Your people are al-Qaeda.”

“My people, Leonid, can make you whole again. No more pining away in that rat trap of a chair of yours looking over Red Square and reminiscing of old times while drinking rotgut. Unless, of course, that’s the way you want to go out. As a seething old drunk who has nothing to look forward to besides a cheap bottle of vodka every morning.”

“And what’s it to you? Maybe I like being ‘a seething old drunk who has nothing to look forward to besides a cheap bottle of vodka every morning,’” he mimicked.

Al-Ghazi smiled. “You’re so much better than that,” he told him. “In fact, Leonid, I know you don’t believe that yourself. Or you wouldn’t get up every day just to reminisce about times that used be. You want to be there again, don’t you? To ply your trade and be someone who is needed.”

The old man cast his eyes to the floor. Al-Ghazi hit the head of the nail straight on. A tired Old Man he may be, but al-Ghazi was correct to presume that he lived everyday in a drunken haze just to make his world more bearable. “What is it that you want?” he finally asked.

“Your services, of course.”

“It’s been more than ten years,” he said.

“I’m sure it’s like riding a bicycle.”

The old man hobbled his way to a stained sofa, the foam of the cushions bleeding out through tears in the fabric, and fell into the seat. “Why?”

Al-Ghazi’s smile never wavered. “Do you know what truly resides within the Ark of the Covenant?” he asked.

“I couldn’t give a rat’s ass.”

“Not a religious man, I see.”

“Not too many people in Russia are,” he said curtly. “It kind of went to the wayside when Stalin came aboard.”

“Yes, of course.”

“So again: Why?”

“The Ark,” he began, “is said to contain five items: the two tablets of the Ten Commandments, a pot of gold Manna, the rod of Aaron, and one other item that cannot be seen or heard until it’s too late.”

There was a lapse of time as the two men stared at each other.

And then: “If you haven’t noticed,” said Leonid, “I’m an old man who doesn’t have much time. So get on with it!”

“It is said that once the lid of the Ark is opened, then those who are not selected by the God of the Covenant will die by the demons who reside within.”

Sakharov sighed. And al-Ghazi could see that the old man was becoming taxed.

“All I want you to do, Leonid, is to do what you do best.”

“Right now, it’s getting drunk.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Actually, I don’t.”

Al-Ghazi leaned forward. “A few days ago my group came in possession of the Ark of the Covenant and the lid was opened.”

“You’re saying you found the Ark?”

“The true Ark, yes.”

“And let me guess. There were no demons, right?”

“No demons,” he confirmed. “Another fallacy, I believe.”

“And what do you propose to do?” he asked. “Sell it to the highest bidder? Maybe to the Catholics or the Jews or the Muslims, whoever has the deepest pockets so that you can go on and continue to fund your terrorist campaigns?”

Al-Ghazi’s smile diminished. The old man was starting to get to him. “Nothing of the sort,” he answered tautly. “I have another purpose for it.”

“And that would be?”

“To fulfill a biblical prophecy that so many richly believe in,” he said.

“And what would that be? Not that I care, mind you.”

“Their prophecy states that the Ark of the Covenant serves as a preamble to World War Three. That the religious factions are willing to war over this box made of acacia wood and gold, simply for the history it possesses.”

“Doesn’t it bear the same historical nostalgia for you? You’re Muslim?”

“What Allah wants first and foremost is for the infidels to be annihilated. This Ark can serve as the catalyst to get this done.”

Leonid cocked his head and squinted. “You want to start a war?”

“Maybe not a war,” he said, “but a means to destroy all those who do not support the teachings of Allah. If a war starts, then it would be by Allah’s will.”

The old man reared his head back, just a little. “You’re friggin’ nuts,” he finally said.

“Religion is a hot-button issue,” al-Ghazi returned. “People are so devoted to the concept of their god that when someone dares to speak against their god or religion, they then become easily angered. But what would it be like, Leonid, if they cannot attain what they believe belongs to them rightfully? Animosities rise, tempers flare, and battles begin. And for what? A golden box?” Al-Ghazi studied the old man momentarily before speaking again. “People die every day in the name of religion,” he added. “And for a lot less.”

In fluid motion al-Ghazi parted the drapes, giving the old man a view of Moscow.

Leonid nibbled softly on his lower lip, and then looked out at Red Square, at the wide streets and at the domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral. He missed his life — missed what he had. And al-Ghazi picked up on this.

“Come with me,” he goaded. “Take back what Russia took away. Be someone who can make a difference.”

Make a difference. This simple statement affected the old man greatly, the words playing continuously in his mind the entire time he remained silent, obviously debating.

And then, after looking at al-Ghazi with a sidelong glance, he asked, “What is it that you want me to do?”

Al-Ghazi’s smile flourished as he leaned forward to draw Leonid into close counsel. “What I want from you, Leonid, is one thing.”

“And what would that be?”

“I want you to put the demons back inside the box.”

The old man knew exactly what he was talking about.