by Jones, Rick
They had stumbled upon a recon mission.
In his manner of questioning them they gave little, most likely false data in the form of red herrings, as they were trained to do under such circumstances. To make his point, however, al-Ghazi shot the man with the badly wounded shoulder dead, the black-edged bullet hole emitting a ribbon of smoke from the man’s forehead as he knelt a brief moment before falling dead beside his aide.
“The truth,” al-Ghazi said, his voice cold and flat and naturally uncaring to the surviving Mossad. “I want . . . the truth.”
But the truth never came. Instead, al-Ghazi was met with silence.
“Very well, then.” And at that point he handed his pistol to Umar al-Sarmad, to Aryeh Levine, and without looking at him said, “You know what to do.”
The moment he hefted the pistol and regarded its weight in his hand, he turned to the agent. At the same time the agent turned his oily and soiled face to the mouth of the weapon, then to the eyes of Levine. In an instant his eyes started, recognizing Levine, even with the growth of beard. It was a fatal mistake. Within a measure of a heartbeat Levine pulled the trigger, the bullet dicing the man’s brain and killing him instantly.
In al-Ghazi’s eyes Levine knew he had made an impression. But deep down he agonized over the trigger pull, having been forced to kill one of his own in order to maintain his cover.
In the aftermath he notified Mossad, telling them it was an unfortunate necessity. And in the end Mossad chalked it up to collateral damage that could not be avoided.
It was also the move that put Aryeh Levine under al-Ghazi’s wing as his trusted trigger man who killed anyone at al-Ghazi’s say without impunity. And by doing so, Al-Ghazi had elevated himself as a man with ultimate power by having others kill for him. Anyone can take the life of a man, he always said. But to get others to do it for you is absolute power. And it was this idea alone that he relished.
And Aryeh Levine was all too happy to oblige him, as long as he maintained his cover. Soon, he thought, he would kill al-Ghazi as a courtesy of Israel and its allies with the gun he had been handed.
Over time he had become stellar in his duties, promoting himself as a trusted officer within the ranks, but more so in the eyes of al-Ghazi, which prompted a call from the high-ranking official to serve as his aide in an impromptu mission.
In al-Ghazi’s office in Islamabad, Umar al-Sarmad—and whenever he heard that name he inwardly cringed—sat before al-Ghazi’s ornate desk with the black marble top. Despite the notion of al-Qaeda living in abject poverty within caves and landscapes that were harsh and brutal, they were obviously not without their luxuries, either. His office was spacious with top-of-the-line furniture surrounded by Arabic wares, vases and tapestries that proved costly. And scarlet drapery with scalloped hems that adorned the windows overlooked the stunningly beautiful city.
Like always al-Ghazi was impeccably dressed as he sat in a chair made of Corinthian leather, one leg crossed over the other in leisure. With his elbows on the armrests and his fingers tented with the tips resting beneath his chin, the Arab smiled at Umar, at Levine, showing off the fine rows of bleached-white teeth. “How are you, my friend?” he asked.
“I’m fine, Adham. Yourself?”
“As well as could be,” he said, leaning forward. The Arab then reached into a draw and removed a manila envelope. Inside was a photo which he removed and placed on the marble top of his desk. “I need your services,” he told him.
Levine sat there, waiting.
“I need you to serve as an aide for this man” He slid the photo across the desktop, a black-and-white glossy of Leonid Sakharov. “He is a scientist working on behalf of our organization,” he said. “But I need someone who will watch him since I have other projects in the making and cannot be there as I would like.”
“You want me to serve as his bodyguard?”
“Not so much as I want you to serve as my eyes and ears when I’m not there,” he said.
“There?”
“Tomorrow, you and I will be escorting the good doctor to Mount Damavand in Northern Iran.”
Levine’s mind reeled. Iran? The country was not exactly open to al-Qaeda operatives, he thought. But since he was programmed not to question al-Ghazi’s judgment, who thought he was acting on behalf of Allah—and that the sin of not “possessing faith” in everything Allah warranted was usually meted out with a good old-fashioned beheading if questioned—thought it best to remain silent.
“Where we will take part in creating a glorious history,” he added dreamily.
Levine realized he had to get a message out to his sources immediately. With al-Qaeda making a pact with the Iranian leadership, their alliance would galvanize Israeli and western agencies to take the required action in the form of sanctions or military strikes. His first inclination was that it had something to do with the development of Iran’s nuclear program, and that Sakharov the key to put it all together.
But Levine was wrong. His inclination was way off base because it was something far worse than the advancement of nuclear weaponry.
“I would be honored,” he finally told him.
“Good. Then we leave for Mount Damavand first thing in the morning with the good professor along. But I must warn you now, Umar, the man is very difficult to get along with.”
“I’ll cope.”
“Get a good night’s sleep, then. Tomorrow we begin to make history and shine in Allah’s eyes once again.”
Whatever. “Then I must assume, Adham, that this will be a lengthy mission?”
“That will depend on Sakharov.”
“Then may I leave the compound for a moment of leisure.”
Al-Ghazi stared at him long enough for Levine to think that he may have triggered suspicion.
But then: “Not tonight, Umar. I cannot allow anything to happen to you. This opportunity is so dire that I must insist on your lockdown.”
Levine conceded by nodding. He would have to figure a way to contact his sources once at Mount Damavand—a terrible risk to be sure, but a necessity nonetheless.
Levine got his feet and bowed his head in respect of al-Ghazi’s leadership. “Allahu Akbar,” he said softly. Allah is the greatest.
Al-Ghazi smiled in return. “Allahu Akbar, my friend. Allahu Akbar.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tehran, Iran
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 S
armad 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.
#
Tehran, Iran, Imam Khomeini International Airport
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.
#
Mount Damavand, Iran, The Alborz Mountain Range
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.
