Target Omega

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dmitri Chernin sat glumly at the black metal desk in his office, a large glass of Smirnoff and a fully loaded Tokarev before him. Although it was only nine A.M., he was on his second glass of vodka. The Tokarev, which had formerly belonged to his father, was prominently displayed to deter anyone who might express disapproval of the alcohol.

Chernin sometimes imagined himself a beleaguered character in a Chekhov play. It seemed his life consisted only of work, responsibility, discomfort, and disappointment. Any moments of joy were confined to childhood memories and, even then, were fleeting. And there was little prospect of joy in his present station in life.

Chernin’s office was a small box with a linoleum floor and concrete walls painted a ghastly shade of green. Beneath an overhead fluorescent light, two metal cabinets stood in the corner near his desk, which faced the door leading to a catwalk above the floor of the main facility forty feet below. The floor-to-ceiling window adjacent to the door permitted him to see much of the enormous work space.

In addition to the vodka and gun, a secure phone and computer sat on the desk. The computer screen displayed data indecipherable to almost anyone but Chernin and told him that the work taking place outside his office was slightly ahead of schedule, an impressive achievement given the numerous setbacks the project had endured. Chernin was effectively in charge of the facility. Although he had no formal title, all operational authority ultimately rested with him.

Chernin, however, took no satisfaction in the project, in part due to his boss, Aleksandr Stetchkin, head of the Twelfth Chief Directorate of the Ministry of Defense and second only to President Mikhailov as the most feared man in all of Russia.

Stetchkin was perpetually displeased with anything and everything related to the project. When work was temporarily halted because the centrifuge operations at Natanz had been sabotaged with faulty parts, Stetchkin accused Chernin of indolence. After Chernin patiently explained that nothing could proceed without the enriched uranium, he was charged by Stetchkin with insubordination and docked a month’s pay. When a minor earthquake again required a cessation in operations until the structural integrity of the supply tunnels could be verified, Stetchkin blamed Chernin for lack of foresight. Chernin declined to ask how he was supposed to forecast earthquakes.

By any other measure, Chernin had performed brilliantly. But Stetchkin was a man for whom no performance was adequate until the objective was successfully met.

Chernin wondered what his boss would do to him if he knew how he really felt about the project. Chernin saw no benefit to Russia in helping the Iranians. On the contrary, he saw only problems down the road. The mullahs’ wrath was directed at Israel and the West today, but Chernin believed it was only a matter of time before they trained their sights on Russia, too. After all, it wasn’t as if Iranians and Chechens had no common purpose. These fanatics believed they were destined to dominate the world. The project was a major step toward fulfilling that destiny, and the mullahs maintained that they were divinely inspired to build it. Indeed, they took enormous pride in its construction.

Except, the Iranians didn’t build it. The critical parts came from Germany, Belgium, and France. The technicians came from North Korea. And the design, management, and even some of the uranium came from Russia.

Moreover, Chernin had nothing against the Israelis. The tiny state never threatened to annihilate anyone. They weren’t out to take over the world. When he looked into the eyes of an Israeli, he didn’t see the seething hatred he often saw in the eyes of the lunatics here.

Not that Chernin disliked the Iranian people generally. He found most of them to be little different from people everywhere — friendly, industrious, and concerned about their families. He had made several friends here, including one of his closest — Mansur, with whom he shared a fondness for premium cigars, Smirnoff, and Iranian caviar.

The mullahs and their followers were another matter. They didn’t even attempt to hide their contempt when he interacted with them. His presence was tolerated only because they needed him; without him they couldn’t achieve their goal. Once it was achieved, he would be seen as just another infidel, with little to distinguish him from the apes and pigs that inhabited Israel and the other countries in the West.

Chernin had abandoned most pretenses by now. At first, he hid his drinking, in large part because Stetchkin had forbade it as offensive to the Iranians. But as his antipathy toward the hard-liners grew, Chernin made a show of drinking openly, daring anyone to say anything to him. The Tokarev was an additional touch, an affect in which he secretly found great humor.

Soon the project would be completed. Most of the essential work was already done. He estimated that they were only days away from being fully functional. Then he would go home, stroll down Nevsky Prospekt, and look at women who weren’t covered from head to toe in burlap bags.

The phone buzzed. Chernin picked up the receiver with his right hand, took a swallow of vodka from the glass in his left, and prepared to listen to an inventory of his infirmities. To his surprise the call was brief and Stetchkin was not unpleasant, probably because the project was under budget and all but complete. Stetchkin even encouraged him to take the day off, one of only a handful over the last year. Chernin was going to do just that. He grabbed the Smirnoff and headed over to Mansur’s for an afternoon of palatable food, strong tobacco, and mild inebriation.