by L. Todd Wood
Connor tried to think of enough Russian words to carry on a conversation about nothing. Then his phone rang. His adrenaline shot up. It must be the terrorists. How am I going to talk here? He jumped off the top bunk and quickly opened the cabin door and entered the hallway outside in an attempt to find a little bit of privacy. The countryside flew by outside the train window in the pink soft glow of the early sunlight. Connor didn’t notice, he was too worried about who was calling.
“Yes?” he answered firmly but softly, as many people were still not fully awake and he didn’t want them to hear the conversation anyway.
“Connor! It’s Peter.”
Chapter Ten
President Chahine sat in the Oval Office, alone. He was angry but he didn’t quite know why. He shouldn’t be angry. Things were going his way. But he was angry all the same.
He sat at the Resolute desk and looked out the window, trying to collect his thoughts. He tried to tamp down the anger and think clearly. Keep the goal in mind, he thought to himself. It is God’s will. Nothing can stop the final outcome. It’s just a bump in the road.
The rain was coming down hard now into the White House grounds, slamming against the window. He enjoyed the rain. It brought him a depressing clarity that he loved. Slowly, his anger began to subside.
It was that damned Jewish Prime Minister. He really gets under my fucking skin for some Goddamned reason. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself in the silence. He sees right through me. I wonder what he knows. I’m sure he is aware of my agenda but he may not know the scope of what we are doing to ensure Israel comes out with the short end of the stick in all this; hopefully it won’t come out of this at all. He smiled to himself at that last statement. It really doesn’t matter what he knows. He cannot change the final outcome. Things cannot go on as they exist today. It is in Allah’s hands now.
His mind drifted back to when he was a child in Egypt and he closed his eyes. Instantly the smells of the market were everywhere like they had never left. Visions of being with his family and visiting the mosque with his father floated across his memory. The Muslim call to prayer drifting over the city was such a sweet sound.
He had left the Middle East as a child and immigrated to America. It had been hard on him. Those memories were not pleasant. How I wish I could go back to when I was happy, when I was with my parents and at peace. Slowly the responsibilities of his title and position came back to him and soon he was back in reality. The weight of his role in the world grinded on his psyche. Being president was easy enough. No, he was thinking of his real, secret role, as Sultan, savior of Islam, destroyer of the Jews. He still had much yet to do and accomplish.
The President had been busy after the events of the last year in Israel. The Shin Bet diffusing the tactical nuclear weapons he planted to destroy the Jewish State was a setback, for sure. The establishment of the caliphate from the Levant to Tehran was paramount for Islam to regain its rightful place of power in the world, and the destruction of Israel was a must to achieve that goal. But I can’t think about that now. It is water under the bridge. I have to think of the process at hand. The ‘peace process.’ He smiled again at the obvious subterfuge in that statement. We will force Israel economically, and shame them, into giving back land to return to the ‘67 borders. The country will then be indefensible. Then the final battle can begin. The Sultan pulled out his rug, turned to Mecca, and knelt to pray.
Connor didn’t understand what was going on. “Peter, what the fuck. Why are you on this phone. Don’t say anything for God’s sake. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay? Why shouldn’t I say anything? Are you okay? Connor, what the Hell is going on?”
“Don’t...say anymore. Stay out of this. For your own good. It’s like high yield again, Peter. Goodbye.” Connor hung up.
The phone immediately rang afterwards. “Who was that?” the terrorist asked. “Tell me exactly who that was and how they got your number or I will kill you right now. And, I would enjoy doing it.”
The tension once again arose inside of Connor. I can’t take much more of this!
“It was an old friend from inside Israel. I don’t know how he got the number. That is the truth.” There was a silence on the phone for several seconds and then the line went dead, the caller apparently somewhat satisfied.
Peter racked his brain after the line had disconnected. What did Connor mean was like high yield? Peter was an energy analyst on Wall Street when he and Connor met. Connor had been running the fixed income trading operations of the firm while Peter had been digging up juicy high yield bonds for his traders to score big profits from. High yield was almost like trading a stock, the securities moved more with the fundamentals of the company rather than with macroeconomic rates like normal bonds. It had been a very profitable time for the two of them; that is until the housing crisis in the latter part of the first decade of the 21st century.
Then Peter remembered. The two of them had been discussing moving their operations to another firm for a big check. They were far down the road on this idea, in negotiations with another large investment bank, when the crisis happened, so the move never materialized. However, they did not communicate over landlines about this move for the obvious reasons. They used an obscure set of emails that no one else knew about to bounce ideas back and forth about how to move the business. That’s what Connor is talking about. He wants to communicate the same way. Now, if I can just remember the damn email address.
The Russian general walked into the conference room at the Kremlin in Moscow and smiled as he saw his guest sitting at the long, ornate table. He strolled up to the man and embraced him in a tight, bear hug. Then turned to sit across from him and waited for the man to start the negotiations.
This was a tenuous point in the discussion. The Russian knew very well why the Iranian representative was here. The Iranians wanted more weapons, a lot of them. They wanted even more sophisticated air defense systems, on top of the point defense systems they had already purchased. They wanted tanks. They wanted frontline Russian fighters. They wanted help with their nuclear program. And Iran had a lot of money coming through the door these days, hundreds of billions of dollars. The end of the United Nations sanctions had seen to that. Also, the Iranian oil fields were pumping once again and even though the price of oil was in a historically low range, it still was a boon for the Iranian treasury. So, the Iranians decided to go shopping.
“Good afternoon, General Kursk, my old friend. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
“Of course, Minister Javadi. Russia and Iran are now very good friends. It would be wrong not to meet with you, per your embassy’s request. Russia is always ready to meet with anyone to further the cause of peace in the Middle East. What can I do for you? Would you like some tea? We have a nice British green tea that I am sure you will find delightful!”
“That would be most gracious of you General Kursk.” The Russian signaled for tea to be brought in the room and the Iranian waited until it had been served, and the servant had left before he spoke.
“General Kursk. I think you realize my country has come into a great deal of money in the past year. Due to this good fortune, by the grace of Allah, we now have funds that we can use for certain additional needs that we have.” The Iranian let those word sink in, knowing full well the Russian knew exactly what he meant.
“Go on, Minister,” the Russian said softly, his face growing more sincere as he slowly drank his dark tea and watched the Iranian intensely. Yes, I know what you are here for you Persian bastard, but I want to hear you say it, he thought.
“We need more weapons General. Your country makes the best in the world for our needs, especially since we can’t buy from the Americans or the West. Of course, the price needs to be right. But I think we can do some very good business for both our nations if we work together.” He then took a folder from his briefcase very slowly and slid it across the table to the Russian genera
l for him to review.
General Kursk took the folder, opened it, and didn’t say a word as he viewed the list of weapons desired by the Iranian representative. He smiled to himself, although he didn’t show it, as he mentally did a calculation to add up the sum total of the weapons buy the Iranians were presenting. It was a huge purchase, magnificent actually. It would ensure his family's wealth for the next generation. Of that, he was sure.
An order of this size would also have a marked effect on the Russian treasury, for money was something the Kremlin needed desperately. Russia did not export many things but they made really good armaments. Marketing those arms to needy regimes around the world was a priority for Moscow. Iran becoming a large customer would be a fantastic marketing point. Russia sold them the weapons for top dollar, as they were in high demand for those nations that did not want to buy from the Americans or the Europeans, of which there were many.
He prolonged his examination for a few more minutes just for effect. Then he closed the folder and put it back on the table and spoke. “This can be arranged, Minister. The cost will be competitive; but, we will of course not give them away.”
“As I said, General, we have plenty of money at the moment and will pay you handsomely. We want your technology. We still have this little problem of the Israelis, you understand. They have a very advanced military capability. We want to close this gap as fast as possible and actually surpass the Jews in the very near future. Our goal, as you know, is to eventually destroy the American puppets.”
“We will not talk of such things publicly Minister. You only need to pay for the weapons. What you do with them is none of our business. I will have our technicians contact your government to start the acquisition process. Russia thanks you for your business and we look forward to conducting a great deal more over the coming years.” The General began to stand but the Iranian stayed sitting in an expression of having another topic to discuss.
“There is one more issue I would like to raise with you General, if I may.”
“Of course, Minister,” said General Kursk, regaining his seat.
“We have information that your government has been developing for some time a very special type of, shall we say, capability.” He let those words sink in as he watched the face of the Russian general. Then the Minister, sensing no reaction, continued speaking.
“This capability would of course be considered a weapon of mass destruction. We have heard that you can target certain genetic traits, for lack of a better way to say it, ‘extreme prejudice’. Of course this would be helpful in our great contest with the Zionist state.”
“I do not have any idea what you are speaking of, Minister. Of course we have had experiments in the past but we are not developing such weapons at the current time. We have signed treaties against it.”
“Since when do Russians worry about treaties, General?”
The Russian’s face once again became stern. “We are not developing such weapons, Minister. And, even if we were, we would not sell them to your government. You don’t have the best history with, shall we say, restraint. I don’t think you are to be trusted with such a powerful capability, to be honest.”
The Iranians face became taut with anger. “I thought we had a partnership,” he said curtly.
“Yes, but some things would necessarily be off limits, even if we had them for sale, which we do not.” General Kursk responded.
“Very well. I think we have concluded our business here. We look forward to starting the process to acquire your armaments. Please have your people act without delay. Iran wants to rebuild its military capability as quickly as possible.”
“You have my word, Minister.” The general stood and shook the minister’s hand. The cordiality had grown more frosty once the conversation turned to genocide.
The Iranian was led from the room to a waiting car, to return him to the Iranian embassy in Moscow. As he drove along the Moscow River, he enjoyed the scenery of the people out and about and the beautiful boats on the waterway. Gorky Park was alive with activity and bursting with flowers as the landscapers had been busy.
One day my country will be as beautiful as this once again. We will have this weapon. The general so much as confirmed its existence today in what he didn’t say. Yes, it exists. And we will obtain it. We are patient. We have almost achieved all of our goals. All that is left is to annihilate the Jews. The minister smiled as the doors swung open to the Iranian embassy and his car was cleared through the gates.
General Kursk walked down the hall to the Russian president’s office. He was in a quandary. The news of the substantial Iranian weapons buy, larger than anyone had predicted, was very good news and he was sure that the president would reward him and his family handsomely. However, the conversation at the end of the discussion still rang in his ears. We have heard that you can target certain genetic traits for extreme prejudice. How had this Iranian dog heard of Russia’s research in this area? This was an extremely troubling development. The general was not really in the mood to pass this unfortunate news on to the president, at least not yet anyway. No, I will have to think about this news. I will decide how to handle this in due time. For now, I will just bask in the success of the Iranian treasure coming our way. He reached for his phone to call his new mistress. They would enjoy a nice evening together. Svetlana was nothing if not very talented. The thought of this possibility quickened his walk.
Chapter Eleven
The lumbering train slowed to a crawl with a loud groan as they approached the station in the forgotten, Siberian town. The metal-on-metal squeal of the brakes was louder that it should have been as the passenger car came to a violent halt. The large, modern facility seemed out of place with the rest of the industrial landscape. Large smokestacks in the distance belched black particles and gave away the position of one of the armament factories. It was now past sunrise and the sun was beginning to beat down on the concrete wasteland. Any type of artistry or soul seemed to be absent from the downtown area, even the trees seemed gray instead of green as they should be in the middle of summer.
Connor climbed down from the top bunk in the passenger cabin, grabbed his satchel, and stretched his legs and arms to regain feeling after the excruciatingly long ride. The young girl below him, now fully decked out in Prada and Louis Vuitton, waited in line outside the cabin portal for the main door to the passenger car to open and release the riders to the outside world once again.
She turned to Connor and smiled as he joined the line. “Do you speak English?” he asked.
“Yes, a little,” she responded.
“You look out of place here. You look like you belong in Moscow, not out in an industrial town in Siberia.” She smiled a wider smile and Connor couldn’t help but smile back. She was very attractive, with a firm, toned body.
“I’m here for work,” she responded with a heavy accent.
“Well, I have to ask, what do you do for work here in this Godforsaken place?”
“I’m a ballet dancer.”
Connor’s jaw dropped incredulously. “Here?” he asked.
“Well, I dance all over the world. But, when I’m not traveling, I come here to teach Vasilovich’s children. How do you say in English? A governess?”
“Really? Well, I’d love to be one of his sons. Having a very attractive governess would be quite a treat!” She smiled wider with a confident air that she knew she was gorgeous. It was obviously not the first time someone had told her that. It was almost a patronizing smile. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Sofiya.”
“Aaah, beautiful name,” responded Connor. His compliments were genuine. The more he looked at her the more he realized how beautiful she really was.
“And what is you name?” she said in broken English.
“I’m here on business as well.” Connor was hoping to find out a little about the town. At the moment, she was the only person he knew here. He was taking quite a chance and obviously stood out li
ke a sore thumb. He needed to blend in. I think she can help me, he thought.
“What business?” she asked inquisitively.
Connor thought quickly. He instantly realized he should have already anticipated this question and had an answer ready. He said the first thing that popped into his mind. “I’m a journalist.” He immediately regretted his answer as he noticed the concern instantly clouding her face. Connor tried to rectify the situation. “I’m doing a story on the positive impact the defense industry is having on the Russian economy.” Her face brightened somewhat.
Desperate to connect with someone for information, Connor took a chance. “Why don’t we friend each other on Facebook? I’d love to follow your dancing!”
Sofiya blossomed and pulled out her phone. Connor gave her his Facebook page and she sent a friend request. “I did it!” she said as the doors of the train started to open and the passengers began filing out. Connor’s phone pinged in his pocket as the connection was made. She made her way out of the sleeper car and disappeared out into the throng of people milling about the train station. She was gone.
Connor drifted into the crowd embracing their loved ones as they left the train car. He really didn’t have a plan. He was completely winging it now. How am I going to find anyone in this godforsaken Siberian town? Much less Anatoly? He flagged down a taxi and in broken Russia asked to be taken to the nearest gastinitsa, or hotel. Soon he was sitting in his room with no plan, no way forward, at the only hotel in town. I need to reconnect with Sofiya. Connor picked up his phone and opened the messaging app. I guess the terrorists will have to get this. I have no other choice. He typed.
