The larger container passed inspection. He words were barely above a breath. “So far, so good.”
Another engineer would transport and store the radioactive material to another location and record a small loss, but nothing from the ordinary.
Moments later, his co-workers returned from their work hiatus with the smell of burnt tobacco clinging to their clothes. Isaac watched them carefully to detect any suspicion in their eyes. He saw none. They went about their jobs, either unaware or uncaring. For once, he was glad they paid him no notice.
There was always one exception to the rule. Leonid, the plant clown, approached him. “Hey, Isaac, ah, you don’t look so good. What’re you nervous about? Been fooling around with my old lady again?”
Isaac looked around the room when the other workers turned toward him. He managed a nervous smile. “No, I’m okay, I just...I just need to, well. Excuse me.” He raced to the restroom, hearing them laugh while he ran.
“Stop teasing him. Why don’t you leave the poor bastard alone?”
Leonid scoffed. “Fuck that!”
Isaac found the restroom empty. He made an effort to choke the impulse, but couldn’t and cranked on a faucet before vomiting into a sink. Clinging onto the basin, immobile, Isaac watched while the water and bile drained. He rinsed the foul taste from his mouth.
Eventually, he went to his locker and retrieved his lead-painted lunch pail. He opened it and put the thermos inside. Isaac secured both in his locker, his crime tucked away until the end of the day. He went back to work.
At the end of the day, Isaac did something unusual: he went out of his way to avoid the hypersensitive radiation detector in the locker room.
No one noticed the shift in behavior; with no Leonid nearby to taunt him or draw attention to him, he was invisible once again.
Isaac left the plant unhindered. At the checkpoint, guards were responsible for checking personnel. When he passed by, they recognized him and waved him through.
Sokol, fingers tapping to Gretchaninov’s piano trio number one in C minor, lowered the volume before picking up his ringing cell phone. “I must admit a bit of a surprise that you’d call me so soon. You have our product, Leonid?”
“No, Sokol. Security here is beyond tight, and some of the guards...I don’t think they trust me.”
“Good for them. Perhaps I should hire such perceptive men. So why call me Leonid, to report failure? I don’t appreciate people wasting my time.”
“No sir, not a failure. An opportunity.”
“I’m listening.”
“There is a man here, Isaac Papinov. He’s worked here forever. I observed him several times now stealing the product.”
Sokol let the piano music roll through his mind for a bit. “Interesting. So he’s doing your job for you. How much has he collected?”
“Not enough to be useful, not enough at once. Isaac’s been careful, but consistent. He steals every day. He’ll need months to accumulate a meaningful amount.”
Sokol thought of his sleeper cell slowly forming in the United States. “I have months.”
“He will eventually try to sell it, I’m sure of it.”
“Of course he will, Leonid. And I will be there when he does. Thank you. Continue to observe and provide cover if needed.”
“Yes, Sokol.”
Once inside his apartment, Isaac walked to his back porch where he kept a cleverly designed ceramic planter that he found at the Izmaylovskiy Park Market. The base contained an ideal place to conceal something.
He put a thick stainless steel container inside the hidden cubbyhole. He used an unusual combination of Barium Sulfate, lead, and tungsten powder as soil surrounding the cubbyhole. In conjunction with the thick stainless steel, he prayed it would provide enough protection.
He put on an army hazmat suit he bought off a Russian military officer who needed a bottle more than his career. It covered all exposed skin. He lifted the top part of the planter and set the small plastic fern to the side. Hidden inside the planter’s steel container were two special transport containers he borrowed from the plant.
He took one of the containers from the base and poured uranium into it. Careful. Satisfied with the amount, he tightened the lid. He put the container on the bottom and the plant back in place. He coughed up phlegm and said to no one, “Good, very good. This thing’s getting heavy.”
Satisfied, he relaxed a little after taking off the hazmat suit. He rinsed the suit and scrubbed himself in the shower.
He put the small empty vial into a radioactive material containment bag and put it away. Tomorrow he would take the plastic bag back to the plant as he did every day and toss it in the waste pile to burn.
Time for a drink. A few moments later, bitter vodka washed down his throat. He’d become not only sick of the whole process, but didn’t feel well. Headaches, fatigue, and weakness were his constant companions.
Isaac set down his glass and surveyed his small apartment. I have enough. It’s time to find a buyer.
The next day was Saturday. Isaac got on the train and rode to the massive two-story Kursky Station. He’d always admired the elegant design of the building with its inlaid marble flooring and columns.
He knew how the baggage lockers at the station were rented and that the timing devices on the lockers were good for up to seven days. He would rent one, and after seven days were up, drop more rubles into the locker and alter the combination. The amount of foot traffic in the Kursky Station provided excellent concealment.
Sokol tugged one black glove tight over his hand, and then the other, before knocking on Leonid’s door. “Visitor.”
A heavy set man with the muscles of an office worker and pale green eyes opened the door. “Come in.”
Sokol had never been physically impressed by Leonid, and despite the younger man’s larger size, made Leonid shuffle backward when he stepped into his apartment. “So you called to say you have news that you cannot share over the phone. Do not skip details.”
“Papinov left work early every day this week. I called in sick yesterday and followed him. I took this photograph of him outside Bosco’s bar at the train station. He entered the bar and just sat there, looking at people.”
Sokol took the photograph. “Foreigners frequent that station. He’s canvassing the crowd for a buyer, or has one and hasn’t managed to meet him yet, for whatever reason. Thank you. Excellent work, Leonid.”
The words touched Leonid’s ears an instant after a silenced bullet from Sokol’s match-grade Strizh pistol disappeared in a bright red hole between Leonid’s eyes.
“To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.”
Sokol glanced up to see a middle-aged woman holding a silver tray with tea service. Her dress showed ample cleavage.
He shot her in the forehead, the tray and service crashing to the ground with a disharmonious metallic melody.
He stepped over Leonid’s body and rummaged through the apartment. He stole a few things of value, ripped open the top of the women’s dress to shape the murders into an assault and robbery, then left.
The next day, disguised as an American, hair dyed dark brown and wearing brown-colored contacts, Sokol blended into a crowd while he stalked Isaac, who shuffled toward the GUM shopping center. He doesn’t look healthy.
Sokol seethed at the American billboards touting its women, cigarettes, and booze. Sony, Panasonic, and Canon had high-profile headquarters located nearby. Moscow was a city under siege by foreign-owned jackhammers. This will change soon.
The three-story shopping center mixed medieval architecture and an elegant steel framework supporting a glass roof, reminiscent of a turn-of-the-century Paris train station. Foreign stores and designer boutiques fill the arcades.
Sokol watched Isaac head toward Bosco’s Bar. Bosco’s was a regular haunt of the rich and famous of Moscow and a destination for foreigners.
He suddenly froze, unbelieving, when Isaac took great care evaluating the attire of several
nearby Americans. You’re a stupid man. They’re attracted to the stench of money, like flies to fecal matter, but they want other things, Mr. Papinov, not the state’s uranium. No one would be stupid enough to buy that here.
Bosco’s, in its vivid red, orange, and yellow colors, assaulted visitors upon entering. Its large central chandelier qualified as one of Red Square’s sights. Seats littered the ceiling, and the idiosyncratic seventies kitsch décor was festive.
A wondrous view of the Seven Towers, the Kremlin Wall, and its majestic Savior Tower stretched across its glass walls. The Roman numerals on Savoir Tower’s golden clock marked the time for Bosco’s guests. People murmur and laughed, the smell of garlic and simmering tomato sauce hung in the air.
Sokol watched Isaac beeline to the outside terrace. He noticed Isaac’s forehead glisten with sweat.
He waited until Isaac lowered himself into a chair before approaching. Sokol knew Isaac would have no trouble attracting attention.
Sokol approached Isaac and spoke to him in his best broken, American-accented, Russian. “Sir, do you mind if I sit next to you?”
Isaac brows furled as if in thought. A second later, his expression became friendly and bid Sokol to sit in a nearby chair. “Pogalusta.”
Sokol murdered the Russian language. “Thank you. My name is Doctor Morgan, and yours?”
Isaac annunciated his words with care. “Boris Pasternak pleased to meet you.”
Sokol’s lips curved upward. The amusement of Isaac assuming the name of the Russian Author of Doktor Zhivago tickled. He proffered his hand.
Isaac clutched the table and shook his head no. “Pardon, but I’m not feeling well.” He gestured again for Sokol to be seated, then surprised Sokol. “We can continue in English. I learned English in grad school. I’m a little rusty, but it’s better than your Russian. Besides, I need the practice, I plan to visit your country soon.”
Sokol softened his words. “Thanks. He smiled and ordered drinks for them both to alleviate the awkwardness.”
After several shots of vodka splashed with Amaretto, they ordered dinner. The conversation was light.
Sokol felt a single-sided friendship blossom. Their differences stood out; Doctor Morgan chose the Lamb Carre with a side of black caviar while Isaac ordered Beef Stroganoff in a pot.
Sokol made the dining experience pleasant considering the likelihood Isaac was enjoying his last meal. In a friendly and patient manner, Sokol’s Dr. Morgan character explained his purpose in Russia. “Another vodka, Mr. Pasternak?”
Isaac brushed sweat from his forehead. “Ah yes, thank you.”
Time to sink a hook into this water. Sokol wove a tale about doing medical research with a renowned Russian Scientist. The research was successful in fighting bone marrow cancer, but he needed enriched uranium to continue. He tells Isaac the researcher found an innovative way to destroy the deadly cancer cells but complained that the United States and Russia would not procure it for his project. Red tape would be responsible for killing the project. If the project died, thousands of people would receive a death sentence along with it.
Sokol explained how the governments fear the material might find its way into the wrong hands. He laughed, and soon they both were laughing at their government’s stupidity.
Isaac’s dull eyes twinkled. “It is an interesting story, Dr. Morgan.”
Sokol counted three vodka glasses next to Isaac. His own first glass was barely touched. “I would do anything to alleviate the suffering of my patients. If only there was a way. If only. It is heartbreaking.” He turned toward Isaac with his eyes downcast. “Have you ever seen anyone die of cancer?”
“You are not going to believe this, but be aware the solution is at hand. I have what you need. It’s insane but true.”
“What do you mean, my friend?”
“You are a wealthy doctor with funding, right? I can come up with fifteen kilograms of uranium for your research.”
“No way. You’re pulling my leg!”
“No leg pulling. Can we deal? Please let me contribute to your research.” Isaac pleaded. “I need to help. My life needs meaning.”
“You’re serious?” Sokol paused for a few seconds, pretending to weigh the implications. “Hmm... I see you’re serious. I promise you this, your contribution to my project will change many lives. More than you can imagine my friend.”
“I’m so grateful to you. I’ll be back with the sample in one hour, please wait here.”
Savior Tower’s golden hands pointed at 5:10 pm. Isaac stood up, turned, and started to amble away.
Sokol heard Isaac mutter in Russian.
“My dream is coming true. I can’t believe my luck. I’m saving lives, not destroying them.” He reached into his shirt and kissed a medallion. “Thank God.” Isaac made the sign of the cross.
God, my friend would not have anything to do with this business. Sokol shook his head no. “One hour!”
He lit a Marlboro and leaned back in the cushioned red chair. He savored the moment. He pondered Isaac’s fate as he smirked. I said change lives, not save, you are an idiot. It’s a pity I’ll kill you. I almost feel sorry for you.
One hour and twenty minutes later, Isaac returned tired and out of breath. Isaac looked like hell, and Sokol wondered if he would live long enough to be murdered.
Isaac explained to Sokol he had a strange lingering cold for the last two months.
Sokol knew radiation poison when he saw it, but kept his mouth shut. “You made it. Russia will benefit too.” Several American cigarettes were dead in the ashtray. Another hoax. Sokol didn’t smoke. “What took so long?”
“Avoiding the police and street gangs is not an easy task. They’re everywhere.”
“Don’t worry. You should see the new cute waitress.” Sokol winked. No response. “You got the sample?”
Isaac shook his head in the affirmative.
“Let me see?”
Sokol felt Isaac’s hands tremble when he transferred the vial under the table. Sokol took the vial and pulled a small Geiger counter out of his suit coat. The electronic needle traveled up the scale, indicating a hot substance. The medical container did a good job of suppressing the radiation to a few hour safe exposure level. “Forty thousand American dollars.”
“It has taken me almost a year of my life to acquire this. Eighty thousand.” Isaac counter.
“Very well, Mr. Pasternak. Eighty thousand. He reached into his pocket and withdrew ten new one-hundred-dollar bills. “Take this as a down payment. Let me keep the sample.”
“Next week, Dr. Morgan, same place, same time. I will bring it all.”
Sokol trailed him to a secluded alley where Isaac chose to relieve himself of the excess vodka before taking the long train ride home. It seemed to have to pee like a Russian racehorse was extremely dangerous this week.
Isaac laid in a pool of blood, his throat slit with medical precision. If anyone happened by they might have heard a man utter. “To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield.”
Not one drop of blood littered Sokol’s suit. The ten one-hundred-dollar bills Sokol gave Isaac were counterfeit, and the police should once again arrive at the wrong conclusion.
Sokol kept his emotions in check contemplating another working vacation in a remote Mongolian mountain range. The main piece had been captured, it was time to make a bomb from the energetic material.
His men visited Isaac’s apartment and scrapped up every gram of the uranium. Getting past Russian airport security would not be a challenge with the support of Sokol’s hard-liner friends paving the way with cash and a private jet.
Peace if nothing else, is the ‘Beast of War’ caged. Sokol planned on unlocking this cage.
CHAPTER 10
Preparation
Two hours west of the outskirts of Irkutsk, Russia, in the Sayan Mountain Range, the new revolutionary Bolsheviks governed with an iron fist. Inside the large underground encampment, secreted away from American spy satellites, gra
duates of the youth training camp Hell’s Hammer continued to train.
Initially, the Russian government created the large atomic bomb shelter for the Russian elite. After the cold war had thawed, their enthusiasm to finish the project waned. Until recently, it was an empty hole. The encampment now served a different purpose. The camp put the chill back in the cold war.
Irkutsk City was north of the massive crystal clear Lake Baykal. It furnished the industrial raw materials required for his top-secret project. The location made perfect sense to the modern day Bolsheviks. Irkutsk’s a city of exiles and misfits.
The Bolsheviks had a secret youth training camp that laid in the shadows of the foothills and replenished the manpower. The boys and girls at the camp were all orphans like Sokol, their existence a secret.
In the last eighteen months, Sokol trained an exceptional group of graduates from the camp, his old alma mater.
The compound sported ten buildings, four barracks, an administration building, classrooms full of high-tech computers, chemistry equipment, armory, and three two-story buildings used to rehearse urban warfare. A sometime-deadly obstacle course mocked the soldiers at the far end of the cave.
Sokol’s rigorous training regimen had been a living purgatory for those who persevered. The trainees had two ways out, success or death. The cold logic simple: dead men tell no tales. With a one-third attrition rate, the price was high but necessary to guarantee secrecy.
The brutal training mirrored the elite Russian Special Force regimen with a technological twist. The language, weapon, technology, and demolition instructors were the best in the known world. Training these killers required four years of planning and a sizeable investment in manpower and money.
Not since the Spartans had a group of warriors been as well trained or primed to die for their cause.
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