by Jones, Rick
“I can’t, Louie. I’m not like that anymore.”
“J.J., I can tell that you were a fighter at one time, a warrior even. The scars are all over you. But don’t ever forget that you can never truly walk away from what you really are. A fighter will always be a fighter. A loser will always be a loser. And a dreamer will always be a dreamer. If you think for one minute this is only temporary, then you’re sadly mistaken.” He pointed at Tyrone. “Take a look at your future, J.J. I hope it ain’t so, but take a good, long look.”
Kimball did, seeing more than just the tired assemblage of a man who once dreamed that his life held so much promise, but eventually lost that potential over time, his dreams fading. When Kimball turned to say something to Louie, the man was gone.
He had finally given up on Kimball.
The fight was obviously off.
And Tyrone was aging by leaps and bounds.
#
While in Vegas, Kimball had become a creature of habit. The moment he clocked out of work he bought his $1.99 parfait glass of shrimp, watched the overhead show of the Freemont Experience, and then went home. There were no back-alley surprises, no meth whores looking for a quick buck or gangbangers sizing him up as he passed them by. Unlike most nights, tonight was uneventful.
He sat in his apartment with the lights and TV off, nothing but dark shadows.
Nor did he shower—the stink of garbage all over him.
Louie had provided him with an opportunity. He also told Kimball the truth about himself, even though he tried to turn a blind eye to what he truly was: a warrior, a fighter, a killer. Not a man who was elbow deep in trash.
But Kimball was a man convicted to make a change.
But it was hard, if not impossibly difficult, since the blood of a soldier still coursed through his veins.
The moment the Vatican Knights were disbanded by Pope Gregory XVII, Kimball wondered what lie in his future. Honest jobs with meager wages? Little hope of anything else other than to believe that one lousy job was just a setback? And that every job would be something ‘temporary’ until something better came along. What he learned was that life beyond the auspices of the Vatican was far more difficult than he had imagined.
Kimball stood up and parted the drapes, allowing a ray of gray light to filter in. In the distance he could see the flashing lights along Boulder Highway. And to the west the dazzling lights that the Las Vegas Strip was known for.
Change was not easy, he told himself. And Louie’s words were beginning to strike him hard.
He was growing older, like Tyrone. And whether or not he wanted to admit it, he was becoming just as jaded. ‘Temporary’ was becoming ‘permanent.’
He then went to the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels, and rather than grab a glass to drink from, he returned to the window and drank directly from the bottle.
And then reality struck him like a hammer blow: I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at.
This had always been his mantra.
It was also a fact that those who contested him had also breathed their last breath.
“I kill people” he whispered. “It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at.”
Kimball closed his eyes, letting the effects of a buzz overwhelm him. And in his mind’s eye he could visualize the disappointment in Louie’s face, could hear the admonishment in his voice: “A fighter will always be a fighter. A loser will always be a loser. And a dreamer will always be a dreamer. If you think for one minute this is only temporary, then you’re sadly mistaken.”
Kimball brought the bottle to his lips and took a long swig.
And then in a whisper only he could hear, he said: “I . . . am . . . a warrior.”
He took another long pull from the bottle and closed the drapes, immersing him in gloom that was equal to his mood.
Within the hour the self-proclaimed warrior passed out from too much drink, his bladder loosening as he lay in mock crucifixion across his bed, only to awake six hours later totally humiliated by what he had become.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Leonid Sakharov had always been afraid of flying, which was actually an excuse to imbibe a few shots before boarding his flight to take away the edge. He also knew it would be the last time he’d be allowed to partake.
By mid-afternoon he boarded an Aeroflot Russian Airliner. And though he found the economy class cramped with the hanging odors of unwashed passengers sitting around him, he at least found marginal comfort knowing it was a straight route to Tehran.
With his meal tray down, Sakharov had his notes out, little pieces of paper with drawing representations of molecular buckyballs and corresponding formulas. From his memory he had mined the information he created mentally while serving in Vladimir Central, the sketches derived strictly from recall as he doodled spherical molecular formations of the Buckminsterfullerene, the Carbon 60 molecule necessary for the structure of the nanobot.
Buckminsterfullerene is the smallest fullerene molecule in which no two pentagons share an edge. The structure of C60 is a truncated icosahedron, which resembles a soccer ball made of twenty hexagons and twelve pentagons with a carbon atom at the vertices of each polygon and a bond along each of its edge. This special molecule was discovered in 1985 at Rice University and deemed very adaptable, smart, and able to contemplate its own existence. A year later, Leonid Sakharov embarked on his scientific journey thousands of miles away by programming a chain of commands into the structure, the molecule then carrying the codes over to replicated molecules until the commands became a collective whole. And though the commands worked in previous testing, the matter to slow the process to duplicate itself exponentially had fatal consequences. And this was the problem—to somehow give it a smaller lifespan half the length of the original, and then a half-life for every subsequent molecule thereafter until it fades itself out completely.
He examined his notes carefully, then made additional sketches and drew formulas with numerical designs that looked more like Greek lettering.
And he did this all the way to Tehran.
Once the plane touched down, Sakharov disembarked with the aid of airline personnel, who wheeled him across the terminal in a wheelchair, and released him to al-Ghazi, who was waiting by the terminal doors.
Al-Ghazi, as always, was impeccably dressed from top to bottom. “And how was your trip, Doctor? I assume it was a pleasant journey.”
“Pleasant? It smelled like ass all the way over,” he said.
As crotchety as ever, al-Ghazi thought.
Once the doors opened, a plume of heat blasted into the doorway.
“It’s hot as hell out there,” said Sakharov.
“But it’s a dry heat.”
“I’ll make sure to tell that to the ambulance driver as he’s loading me into the back of the van. I’ll just say to him: ‘No rush. It’s just a dry heat, so don’t worry about the oncoming heat stroke.’”
Al-Ghazi rolled his eyes. Working with Sakharov was going to be difficult, he could tell.
Moments later they were in the back of a limousine cruising away from the airport. Sakharov had his full attention set to the passing landscape, marveling at the architecture.
Al-Ghazi smiled, intuiting the old man’s thoughts. “It’s not the mud huts and stone structures you thought it would be, is it?”
The old man looked out the window, noting the complexity and wide arrangements of design and culture taken into consideration of their planning. The buildings were stunning, elegant. But such praise of amazement was beyond Sakharov’s makeup.
He waved his hand dismissively and sat back. “I’ve seen better,” he finally answered. And then: “So now what?”
“Now, you will go to a safe house and rest. Tomorrow you will be taken to a facility in the Alborz Mountain Range, courtesy of President Ahmadinejad.”
“Ahmadinejad? What the hell does he have to do with this?”
“He’s providing a safe haven that neither Ir
aq nor Afghanistan can provide at the moment,” he told him. “You will always be safe, Doctor. And you’ll be able to work knowing that you will not be disturbed.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Those are conditions I can work with.”
“But, Doctor, you will not be alone, either.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you will have three aides of my choosing to help you with your research.”
“Aides! I don’t need any aides! There was never any discussion of assistants.”
“The choice is not yours to make.”
Sakharov nodded, “I see. Now that you have me where you want me, I’m now at your mercy. Is that it?”
“Doctor, I’m providing you with the best equipment, the best of everything, so that you can simply provide me with the best results. You will be pampered beyond your wildest dreams. And believe me, this lab will be something you’ve never seen before and something Russia could never duplicate. It’ll be your playground. And these aides are there only to be at the mercy of your beck and whim, nothing more.”
“Nothing more, huh? Well, I don’t want any rookies, you hear me? I want somebody who knows their way around the lab and to do things without me watching over their shoulder every waking minute.”
“Your three assistants, Doctor, are tops in their field of nanotechnology. Two were educated at the most prestigious schools in the United States, the other in the United Kingdom.”
“Americans and a Brit?”
“Hardly,” he answered with a hint of venom. “They are like me. They are Arab.”
“You mean they’re al-Qaeda?”
“Not particularly. No,” he returned. “Let’s say that they had no choice in the matter since their family members are at the mercy of my organization.”
“I see,” said the old man. “Recruitment by intimidation, is that it?”
“Ultimately in the end, the decision is theirs to make.”
“And if their answer is ‘no,’ then a good ol’ fashion beheading is in order for their family members. Am I right?”
Al-Ghazi held his hands out in surrender. “What can I say,” he said. “Business is business.”
The old man looked out the window noting that the landscape was getting visibly downgraded as if war torn, the buildings old and in disrepair. “Obviously you’re not taking me to a five-star hotel.”
“Where I’m taking you, Doctor, is still better than that rat-infested apartment I took you out of.”
“There were no rats in that apartment,” he insisted harshly. Then in a more subdued tone, “They were just big-ass mice.”
The vehicle turned onto a dust-laden driveway between buildings that were cramped with just enough space for single-lane driving, until they came to a lot in front of a two-story rise with barred windows.
“This is it, Doctor.”
Sakharov remained silent, but just for a brief moment. “Are you kidding me?” he finally said. “A bunch of fleas wouldn’t live here. I think I’m entitled to a little luxury for what I’m about to do for you, don’t you think? I want to stay in one of those fancy hotels we passed a while back with caviar and an all-you-can-drink bar. That’s what I want.”
“What you want is of no concern to me, Doctor. This is just a place to lay your hat for a moment while I’m in Islamabad finishing up business. And then off to greater comforts come the day after tomorrow.”
Sakharov could do nothing but relinquish his bull-headed stance.
#
“Why does everything in this country smell like ass?” said the old man.
Al-Ghazi clenched his jaw, fighting for calm. The old man continued to test his patience.
The moment the old man opened the door he clearly noted that the room was small with horrible ventilation, the air so hot and stale that it hung like a pall. On the floor was a thin mattress with a blanket that had seen better days, its edges tattered like the ends of a flag that had waved itself ragged with the course of an unyielding wind. And the walls were cracked enough to reveal the mud bricks underneath. Even the roof bowed downward in threatening manner.
“You do take me to the nicest places,” Sakharov commented, shaking his head disapprovingly.
Al-Ghazi dropped Sakharov’s bag to the floor with a loud bang. Apparently he’d had enough of the old man’s ravings of discontent.
“Regardless, Doctor,” his tone held an edge of its own to it, “here you will stay and here you will rest. Come tomorrow and everyday thereafter, there will be no time for leisure. This is it.”
The old man chortled. “I had better accommodations in Vladimir Central.”
Al-Ghazi closed his eyes and clenched his jaw once again; the muscles in the back working like cords. And then calm overtook him, his facial semblance taking on the features of gentle repose.
“I see it’ll take patience to deal with you,” he told him.
“Whatever.” The old man shuffled his way across the floor and to the window, looking through the bars at a dirt lot. Children played with sticks and a ball, kicking up dust in their wake. And the old man now had regrets. What have I done?
“Doctor Sakharov?”
The voice sounded thin and tinny, as if spoken from a great distance.
“Doctor?”
“What.”
“Perhaps you could go over your notes to better acquaint yourself with the technology you have been away from for so long.”
“The science is up here,” he said, tapping the tip of his forefinger against his temple. “It never went away. It never goes away.”
“Then you can replicate your findings of what you did in Russia in the Alborz?”
Sakharov turned on al-Ghazi. “I can do this with my eyes shut,” he answered. “From the first day I started my sentence in Vladimir to the day you showed up at my apartment, I have thought nothing other than nanotechnology or how I could make it better.” He took an awkward gait closer to the Arab. “All those years you reached me in Vladimir Central with letters and messages kept my hopes alive that someday I would be granted the opportunity to ply my trade once again. And for that I thank you. But don’t you ever question or interpret the validity of my skills as a nanotechnologist again. Duplicate it I will, as promised for my early release.”
Al-Ghazi nodded, somewhat taken aback by the old man’s power to intimidate. “You do realize that we will be time restricted.”
“If you say you have the equipment as you claim, then time won’t be an issue. I simply need to achieve the methods to program the fullerene molecules to nullify their lifespan by half upon every replication, until they fade out of existence completely.”
Al-Ghazi didn’t have a clue as to what Sakharov was talking about.
“Yeah, well—I can tell by the stupid look on your face that you don’t know what I’m talking about,” said the old man.
If Sakharov had a skill, thought al-Ghazi, it was getting under a man’s skin.
“Rest,” he finally told him. “Food will come momentarily.”
“Food? We ain’t talking baboon eyes or anything like that, are we? No monkey nuts or something that’ll make my stomach crawl.”
Al-Ghazi, for the moment, really had to wonder if it was worth keeping this man alive. As much as he wanted to say “no” and pass a sharp blade across Sakharov’s throat, he had no alternative but keep the old man upright. If nothing else, he considered, keeping him alive was imperative.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Vatican City
The sole distinction of being the smallest country in the world belongs to Vatican City, which is roughly the size of a golf course. It also serves as a sovereign state catering to billions across the globe as the religious hub for Catholicism with its focal point the Basilica, which bears the designed floor plan of a Latin cross. Beneath it lays necropolis, the ancient city of the dead that was pioneered during Rome’s Imperial times, and ultimately discovered by serendipity in 2003 when the earth was li
fted to create a parking lot. Thereafter excavation began, the groundwork opening a few years later to restricted parties who were allowed to venture into the tombs by invitation only.
Those without restriction, however, were few.
Deep within the necropolis was the base command of the Servizio Informazioni del Vaticano, the SIV, or the Vatican Intelligence Service. Since the Church had diplomatic ties with more than ninety percent of the countries worldwide, it was recognized as one of the most esteemed agencies in the world, rivaling Mossad and the CIA.
In a chamber beneath necropolis and south of the Egyptian Tomb, and restricted to all parties with the exception of the SIV and certain religious VIP’s, lay a high-tech room behind walls of reinforced glass. Against the entire opposite wall hung large, high-definition monitors situated before computer consoles on tiered floors. And the lighting was constantly subdued, enabling the LED vision of the screens to be more crystalline in effect.
Those who manned the screens and tendered the consoles were not civilians at all, but Jesuit priests who were given the sole tasks to monitor hotspots across the world, especially the insurgencies that were brewing in North Africa and the Middle East.
On the screen was an aerial image of Jerusalem, most notably the Temple Mount. People milled about, their daily routine nominal beneath the desert sun as the satellite zoomed in with such clarity and proximity that their identities could be discerned with facial recognition software.
“It’s as if nothing ever happened,” said Gino Auciello. The Jesuit was tall, thin and wiry with shock-white hair that was conservatively cut. His face was smooth and unlined, his complexion the color of tanned leather. And though he was pious to the core, he was also a scholar from Harvard University who graduated from the School of Theology, with minors in the sciences of politics and world studies. And it was this combination that suited him well for the role as the assistant director of the SIV.
Beside him stood Father John Essex, a priest who got his foothold of learning in London, and progressed into the SIV for his economical patience regarding his penchant to gather and analyze pertinent data in regards to Vatican interests. He was short, stocky and well conditioned, the Jesuit often serving as a boxing coach for wayward children at the Boys’ Center in Rome. With obsidian hair, ruler straight teeth, a Roman nose and cerulean blue eyes, John always drew the appreciable eye of the female constituency within the administration. “Nothing seems to ever happen,” he finally answered, “because to them, nothing did. It's unlikely the government is going to inform them that the most jeweled treasure of our time was stolen from them beneath their very noses.”
