by Jones, Rick
In gesture, al-Ghazi rubbed a nervous hand over his face and chin.
When the Jeep came to a stop at the cave’s entrance, both al-Ghazi and Levine took note of the machine-gun nest situated in the rocks above the cave’s maw. Levine also took quick note of the .50 caliber machine gun pointing in their general direction. Sakharov, either in blissful ignorance or he simply didn’t care, maintained a preamble of a smile.
Now what?
The Quds driver said something in Farsi, which al-Ghazi apparently understood, and gave the driver a faux-pas salute the moment the driver sped away.
It was at that juncture that the vault’s door, which held a mirror polish to its metal and about twenty-feet within the mountain’s recess, began to open outward. When the aperture was wide enough, a dozen Quds’ troops sprinted toward the three men with assault weapons well within their grasps but not pointed at them, but more to the ground at their feet.
Taking up the rear but walking as a man of leisure, a forged smile on his face, was a small and delicate man, hardly a soldier, but someone al-Ghazi and Levine immediately recognized.
His name is Hakim al-Sherrod. And in the circles of intelligence it was believed that he was the most trusted of Ahmadinejad’s aides. In fact, some believe that al-Sherrod was the true voice of Ahmadinejad, persuading the president on most decisions, earning him the nickname “The Devil’s Companion.”
With his arms held out in greeting, al-Sherrod pulled al-Ghazi into an embrace. And Levine saw al-Ghazi tense for moment as al-Sherrod corralled him in.
“Ah, Allah has blessed you, I see.” The man’s smile widened, showing small, yellow teeth resembling kernels of corn.
“And why is there a Quds Force here?” al-Ghazi asked in a measured tone.
“For protection. Why else? You must remember, my good friend, that this facility is unchartered. Should the Israeli’s learn of its position, then they may see fit to hand down retribution should they prove the true meaning of what we are about to achieve here, yes?” He then released al-Ghazi to square off with Sakharov, the man still smiling as his hatchet-thin face moved up and down the old man in appraisal. “And this is the esteemed wizard, yes? The man who will change everything?”
He then turned to Levine, the smile vacating him quickly as the man sized him up. And Levine could feel his scrotum crawl, wondering if this man had the uncanny insight to see him for who he really was, Mossad.
“And you would be?” he asked.
“Umar al-Sarmad,” he answered evenly.
“He is my most trusted aide,” al-Ghazi intervened. “And he will act as my proxy when I am not available. During my absence he will act as the good doctor’s aide.”
“Aide?” Al-Sherrod faced al-Ghazi with his hands clasped behind the small of his back and looked at him questioningly. “It was my understanding that we have already provided Doctor Sakharov with the required aides.”
“It was also the understanding that the good doctor would have an aide of my choosing, should my presence be needed elsewhere.”
The man stared at him for a long moment, and then he beamed a smile. “Of course,” he said jovially. “Of course!” And then he gestured to the open vault. “Please, come and settle in,” he added. “We’ve much work to do, yes?”
Al-Ghazi, Sakharov and Levine entered the facility in front of the suspect eyes of the Quds’ troops, the door closing behind them, and then the massive bolts sliding into their circular sockets, locking them in.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Alborz Mountain Range, Inside The Facility
Levine’s first assumption was that the facility was an unchartered station within the Alborz initially created to engage in nuclear or biological weaponry manufacturing. But as they walked by the glass-encased laboratory he barely recognized some of the hardware involved. In fact, he recognized none of it.
In a two-tiered lab that was massive and well lit, the bright lighting gave it somewhat of an antiseptic white-wash glow to the point where the area seemed to hold an ethereal glow. Technicians were completely in white, the color of their skin the only contrast to anything around them, as they tendered to electromechanical components and hardware. To the left was a tube-like structure Levine would come to learn as the molecular assembler. There were infrasonic equipment and probe microscopes, vacuum environments to avoid the scattering of bots, and the most advanced Electron Optical System available. And by Sakharov’s expression he could tell that the old man was salivating internally.
Whatever they were planning to do was definitely on a molecular level. Whether it was nanotechnology as the good doctor professed or nuclear research for warfare as intel believed, he knew he had no other choice but to contact his sources for a probable strike, even at the risk of his life.
And time was critical.
Acting as guide, al-Sherrod led al-Ghazi’s team to their quarters, which was through a tunnel drilled by a cylindrical bore, since the walls were perfectly round and smooth. Overhead tracks of lighting gave off a pearlescent glow. And the smell of baked meats wafted from the mess hall not too far from their quarters, making them yearn for a fine meal.
At the next turn al-Sherrod stopped with his hands clasped before him. His features betrayed no sense of emotion, no sense of what he was thinking. Behind him was a channel that went as far back as thirty meters before hitting a wall, the living quarters. And from Levine’s view point he could tell they were prefab capsules built into the walls.
“Here you will rest,” said al-Sherrod. “Mess call will be at eighteen-hundred hours. If you are late, then you will not eat. Everything here is regimented. So I need you to keep that in mind.”
Nobody said a word; the tense silence an awkward passing between them before al-Ghazi finally stepped forward and bowed his head as a show of marginal respect. “We accept your hospitality,” he told him, “and much gratitude.”
Al-Sherrod nodded. “What I do, I do for Ahmadinejad, as you know. But what we do together, we do so for the sake of Allah, yes?”
Al-Ghazi concurred with a nod and a smile. “Allahu Akbar,” he added. Allah is the greatest.
“Allahu Akbar.” Al-Sherrod then side-stepped al-Ghazi and moved with disciplined economy to the end of the corridor where it came to the T-juncture of the branch before stopping to face off with al-Ghazi and company one again. “One more thing,” he began. “There is a hallway leading from the lab to a special compartment,” he said evenly. “Inside is a great treasure which lays the purpose as to why you are here. Should your curiosity pique, you may enter in the presence of its glory but only under the watchful eye of the Quds.” He hesitated while surveying Old Man Sakharov, internally commenting how this feeble looking troll held the key to success. And then: “Remember, 1800 hours and not a moment later. Allahu Akbar.”
“Allahu Akbar.”
The moment al-Sherrod and his Quds unit left al-Ghazi and his team; al-Ghazi let his tension drip away by letting his shoulders fall slowly into the crookedness of an Indian’s bow, the shape of a man slipping into relief. “I don’t trust him,” he said lowly. “The Devil’s Companion is never without his wiles, no matter how accommodating he may seem.”
“Perhaps he trusts us as much as we trust them. Which isn’t much at all,” said Levine.
“I can see Quds here as a factor to protect the facility since it bears its own uniqueness and would no doubt fall under foreign inquiry should its true purpose be discovered. But al-Sherrod’s presence disturbs me greatly,” he added. “He sees everything, which I’m sure is why Ahmadinejad placed him here to begin with. So be careful, Umar. Don’t let his smiles draw you into a false sense of security.”
Sakharov was taking this all in but said nothing. After seeing the equipment, nothing else seemed to matter. In fact, he appeared to have a passive, almost dreamy appearance about him.
“When he told us of the hidden treasure,” he told Umar, “he was also telling us that Quds will be everywhere.”
Levine picked up the same notion—that al-Sherrod was surreptitiously telling them that as much as he was the eyes of Ahmadinejad; the Quds force would be the eyes of al-Sherrod.
They would be everywhere.
Levine then closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, causing the muscles to work. Doing recon throughout the facility is going to be difficult to achieve, especially under a constant and watchful eye. To get a message out to his sources, to proffer them the correct coordinates, was going to be an accomplishment.
He opened his eyes. Tomorrow, he thought, he would survey his surroundings and mine it for information before breaching the Comm Center and setting forth a series of communications that would likely cost him his life.
There were just too many eyes, he considered, too many obstacles to overcome. But since the safety of Israel was paramount, then his life was purely insignificant. This was something every agent was fully imbibed to believe: That the life of Israel as a whole is worth more than the cost of the individual. Should the individual give up his life for the whole, then he shall become heralded to greatness.
Still, Aryeh Levine found little consolation in this.
Suddenly al-Ghazi clapped him on the back, stirring him from thought. “Rest, Umar. Tomorrow we begin to seek the glory of our task, yes?”
The question was obviously rhetorical, so Levine didn’t answer.
Instead his mind wandered, trying to find a viable solution enabling him to contact his sources and enlighten them of the horrible truth within.
#
As fatigued as Umar al-Sarmad was, he could not sleep. The room was in actuality a prefabricated capsule fitted into a recess that was bored into the stone wall. Although it gave enough head clearance, it was still cramped and quite spartan. The bunk bed was riveted to the left side and a small desk to the right. Embedded into the walls were rows of fluorescent lighting. At least in Levine’s mindset, it was nothing more than a glorified holding cell.
As he lay there with one arm crooked behind his head, he had to figure a way to get at the control panel and send a message.
But like any idealist, he knew there was no practical approach to the scenario since there would be guards and personnel manning or protecting the consoles, the situation of making outside contact impossible to achieve. But the word “impossible,” at least for Levine, didn’t mean that something could not be done. It simply measured the degree of difficulty, which in this case, was at a very high degree.
Still, he believed there was a solution for everything. And over the next few days he would seek the measure to accomplish the means after he digested everything he needed to know about the facility. He would watch, he would learn, and he would inform the proper authorities to take action in a series of military sorties.
With his mind constantly working to focus on his game plan, he reached out and turned off the light, the room completely swallowed in darkness.
Lying with sleep hours away if it was to come at all, Aryeh Levine, now Umar al-Sarmad of the Islamic Revolutionary Front, a covert operator for Mossad, prayed not to Allah but to Yahweh, for a resolution where casualties could be kept to a minimum.
Idealistically thinking, he prayed that His answer would be “yes.” Realistically, however, he knew His answer would most likely be “no,” since realism always seemed to triumph over idealism.
Nevertheless, Aryeh Levine continued to pray.
#
On the following morning after Levine awoke from minimal sleep, he learned of al-Ghazi’s departure during the night.
When commandeering cells independently, work was never done.
Levine gathered himself and dressed accordingly, which also meant donning the black turban of war, and headed for the mess where he sat alone at a table under the watchful eyes of Quds soldiers who often tossed derisive, yet out of earshot, remarks in Levine’s direction, the comments drawing laughter from other Quds officers.
But Levine ignored them, thinking how funny it would be if he coordinated a military strike against the bunker ultimately swiping away those cynical smirks right off their proud faces.
A preamble of a smile came to his own lips as he toyed with his food briefly on his plate with his fork, before bringing a morsel to his mouth.
When he completed his meal he placed the plate and utensils at the counter and left the hall. Voices in Farsi called after him, more derisive remarks that went completely ignored.
Walking the facility he made mental notes and filed them away. In his observations he saw Sakharov wasting no time as he busied himself in the lab, the old man moving with more of a bounce to his gait. With him were two lab techs dressed in lab coats—one manning the helm of a keyboard that managed a high-definition wall screen, the other jotting notes on a Plexiglas clipboard as he tarried around Sakharov making notes on everything the Russian did.
Machines came to life, emitting energies Levine could never begin to understand. And then he wondered if even the reinforced windows separating him from the lab were enough to contain any measureable damages, should the so-called failsafe neglect to perform as required. After all, Sakharov was manipulating atoms.
Wherever he went Levine was not alone. Keeping several paces behind him were two Quds soldiers with their sidearms holstered. So Levine meandered, absorbing everything, the two soldiers always behind, not too close but not too far, either. When it came time to contact his sources, he would have to take them out in order to achieve the means. He would do it quickly, quietly, and efficiently. This he was sure of.
On the second-tier level overlooking the lab, also fully encased in bomb-proof glass, he observed a room in subdued darkness; the surrounding walls lit up with pinprick beads of light and display monitors.
The Comm Center.
He saw technicians speaking into their lip mikes as the accompanying software translated words in Farsi onto the screen. Other monitors depicted areas outside the bunker, such as the machine gun nests and the helipad, and of mountainous lanes and winding paths. Making an approach to the facility would be all but impossible without being seen.
He then turned. The soldiers were still there, making it quite clear that there was nothing covert about their actions and that Levine would be under their constant scrutiny.
“Taking in the sights, I see.” Al-Sherrod exited from the Comm Center, his yellow teeth as visible as a Cheshire grin in the quasi-darkness. “I thought you’d be with the good professor in the lab. After all, are you not his personal technician?”
“When Dr. Sakharov makes a request for me, then I shall answer.”
“I see.”
The diminutive man stood there for a long moment surveying Levine’s eyes. And Levine wondered if the man had the insight to see the true intentions that lie beneath his façade.
And then: “Yes.” As he said this he did so with a honing eye squinting in a manner of suspicion. “Your presence here is quite specific,” he told him. “You are Dr. Sakharov’s aide and nothing more. Therefore, your movement in this facility is quite minimal.”
Levine bowed his head. “My apologies. I was not told.”
“You are here only because it was agreed upon by al-Ghazi and President Ahmadinejad that, at least for now, we work together for a common goal when, in fact, the truth is that this agreement is between two men who do not trust each other. You watch me. I watch you—except I have more eyes.” He pointed to the soldiers behind him. “Be that as it may, the agreement is that you are allowed to forward all of Sakharov’s findings to al-Ghazi as a failsafe that your faction has all the detailed information to duplicate the doctor’s finding outside the lab. But only under the strictest measures of protocol.”
“Which means?”
“That you will only forward Sakharov’s findings under very watchful eyes—most notably mine. You’re here only to verify that the information sent to al-Ghazi is true. And don’t think for a minute, Umar, that I don’t know that your al-Ghazi’s watchdog in the same manner that I�
�m Ahmadinejad’s. Therefore, you will be restricted to the common areas on the main tier. Everywhere else is off limits. Is that clear?”
“Very.”
The Devil’s Companion smiled in a way that was genuine, which often ingratiated himself to be trusted just before he struck them dead, and then clapped a hand on Levine’s shoulder, turning him away from the Comm Center. “Be as it may,” he began, “Doctor Sakharov’s findings will be glorious. And it will be your people who will destroy the Great Satan and the infidels of Israel. And it will be done with the blessing of Allah.”
“I know not of a specific plan regarding my people.”
“Al-Ghazi did not tell you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then I will tell you this,” he said. “It all begins with the relic below.”
Levine cocked his head questioningly. “Are you talking of the holy relic?”
Al-Sherrod’s smile flourished, showing his irregular rows of teeth, and nodded. “I’ve something to show you,” he told him. And then his face beamed with the pride of a champion.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Tel Aviv, Israel, Mossad Headquarters
Two days after the Lohamah Psichlogit lost communication with their operative working on the terrorist front, Yitzhak Paled sent a covert contingency force to the Afghan region to team up with CIA operatives in order to reevaluate the situation and retrace Levine’s last position, since he was a high asset to both sides.
It was later discovered that Levine did not make his routine connection with his courier as scheduled; therefore, red flags surfaced.
Satellites were immediately set to target over Afghan and its hotspots, but the mountain range was too massive, the satellites failing to pick up anything of significance other than insurgent squads walking mountainous trails. So after three days of searching, after three days of the operative missing his contacts, it became clear to the principles of the Lohamah Psichlogit that Aryeh Levine was missing.
