by Jack Du Brul
Southern Russia
Poli Feines had been behind the wheel of the Russian jeep for twenty straight hours, yet the predatory gleam in his single eye hadn’t faded. His drive from the mine to the Black Sea had been over tortuous back roads and old smuggling routes, and it was only when he reached the M-27 motorway near the port city of Novorossiysk that he encountered asphalt.
While this part of the Black Sea was famous for its resort beaches, his destination was a small working-class fishing village on the other side of the Bay of Zemess called Kabardinka.
Blind rage had erased any memory of the first part of his journey. First Africa, then New Jersey, and Niagara Falls, and now this. Though he hadn’t seen him, Feines was positive that Philip Mercer was behind the attack at the mine, just as the helicopter pilot had described him as the man on the barge in upstate New York. Even after twenty hours of thinking about his losses, acid jetted from his stomach and scalded the back of his throat. He’d served with Gavrail Skoda for more than a decade in the Bulgarian Army and had partnered with him numerous times when he’d gone freelance. Feines had five brothers, one of them an identical twin, but he’d loved none more than Gavrail and now Skoda was dead, killed by Philip Mercer on a barge on the Niagara River.
Feines admitted that they hadn’t had enough time to plan that mission properly, but he and Skoda had pulled off far more elaborate capers with less time than they’d had. And the men with him were combat-hardened veterans of Afghanistan and Iraq. That they were willing to martyr themselves for the cause only made success more certain.
And now Mercer shows up again. Poli’s hands tightened on the wheel until his knuckles went white and the bones threatened to erupt from the skin. He welcomed the pain, for it reminded him what he would do with Mercer when their paths crossed again. Feines was a professional. He never let his contracts affect his personal life. But this was different. When he’d discharged his obligation to his client, he would hunt Mercer down, kill everyone close to him, then torture Mercer so slowly that he’d beg for death.
The lights of Poli’s vehicle showed the sign for his turnoff. He exited the deserted highway and drove slowly through the fishing town. The smell of the sea, which tinged the air, was overwhelmed by the stench of rotted fish and diesel fuel. North of the town a road ran parallel to the sea. He could see the bright lights of Novorossiysk across the bay. There were several supertankers lined up to load oil transported on the new pipeline from Kazakhstan. And out on the still waters of the Black Sea, more ships could be seen headed into or out of the port. The laden tankers would need to transit the full length of the Black Sea and pass through the Bosporus Strait at Istanbul, one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world, where on average there is an accident every three days. Before reaching the Mediterranean, they also faced the navigational nightmare of crossing the Aegean Sea.
The headlights revealed a small fish processing plant built on pilings over the water. The parking lot was deserted but for two cars, a luxurious Audi A8 W12 and a limousine. The lights were on in the office trailer at the edge of the parking lot. Alongside the plant was a long wooden jetty where an eighty-foot commercial fishing boat was moored. Poli could see the glow of navigation equipment through the broad bridge windscreen.
He parked the UAZ jeep next to the black Audi. He reached over his shoulder to touch one of the barrels. It was warm but not yet hot. The heat was a by-product of the exchange of subatomic particles from one barrel to the next. By themselves there wasn’t enough ore in any one of the containers to start such a chain reaction, but two in close proximity created a critical mass. In the mine the barrels had been stored well away from one another, but in the confines of the truck it was almost as if they were calling to one another in a deadly siren song. Left unchecked, the plutonium would eventually explode in a shower of deadly dust that would contaminate several city blocks or more, depending on the wind.
Two men emerged from the office trailer and he sensed movement on the fishing boat.
The older of the two walked up to Feines and hugged him while the other held back at a distance. Poli didn’t return the embrace. The man released him. He was of average height, with thick salt-and-pepper hair. His mustache was tell tended, and below his arched brows were arresting blue eyes that even in the dim light of the parking lot possessed a devilish charm. “First of all,” he said in Russian, “are you okay?”
“I’m fine. But I think all the Arabs sent to help me were killed.”
“What happened, Poli?”
“You didn’t give me enough time,” Feines snapped.
“I couldn’t stall the Americans any longer,” Grigori Popov said. “Ira Lasko was about to go over my head. If that happened there would have been an investigation and it would have been my ass on the line. As it is I’ll have a lot of explaining to do. I can only hope to convince my superiors and the Americans that the timing was a coincidence or perhaps there is a leak within Lasko’s office. Tell me what happened.”
“We were loading the last barrels when the chopper appeared. We were ready for it but somehow the stupid raghead missed. It was a MI-8, for Christ’s sake, as big as a barn, and the damn fool only managed a glancing shot with an RPG. From the amount of fire we got after it crashed, I estimated most of the soldiers survived, so rather than get into a pitched battle I ordered us out.”
“But you decided not to go with the train?” Popov asked slyly.
Poli remained grim. “As was my plan all along, just in case something happened to the train. I wanted to make sure I got some of the plutonium here. I heard the train wreck as I drove out of the valley, and saw the fire. Even if I went back, there’s no way we’re going to recover those barrels.”
“How many did you manage to bring with you?”
“Two.”
Popov nodded. “More than enough for their current operation.”
“Good, because I am done with this operation,” Feines remarked.
“You’re not going after the alembic?”
“This operation has been a lot more than I anticipated,” Poli admitted. “I thought I’d find what I needed in Africa, only to learn your army beat me to it by a half century. Then I thought I had it from the samples the American recovered and shipped home on the Wetherby. I have the pictures I took of the stele, which might reveal the alembic’s location, but your information about the old depot led me to complete the project. I’m out of it now.”
“I don’t blame you,” Popov said. “I’m glad my only part in this thing was giving you information about the cache in Samarsskaya.”
“You mean selling me that information.”
Popov shot him an oily smile. “We’ve known each other for a lot of years, Poli, but business is business and helping you smuggle nuclear matériel out of Russia, well let’s just say my conscience needed a little help accepting it. In truth I wouldn’t have given that information to anyone but you, because I know you couldn’t let these crazy bastards do anything to us.”
It sounded like a question to Poli. In truth he had just a vague notion of what the people paying him were going to do with the plutonium, and given the amount of money he’d receive, he really didn’t care. He doubted the little village in Bulgaria he planned to return to was a terrorist target, so nothing they did would affect him personally. Let them nuke the States and then face her wrath. It wasn’t his problem anymore. “What about Mercer and the other survivors at the mine?” he asked.
“Federov reports directly to me. I am supposed to be there tomorrow when the real train arrives. I will tell the engineer and his crew that Federov needs more time. They’ll be isolated for a few days at least.”
“Good.” Feines considered driving back up there with a sniper rifle and at least killing Philip Mercer, but he didn’t want to rush his hunt. He would make certain he and Mercer met soon enough.
Popov motioned for the other man to join them. “I don’t believe you two have actually been introduced formally. Poli Fei
nes, may I present the deputy oil minister of Saudi Arabia, currently stationed at the United Nations overseeing charitable contributions from the cartel, Mohammad bin Al-Salibi, your employer.”
Al-Salibi shook Feines’s hand but there was a cold reserve behind his handsome face. “I understand that you ran into a setback.” He spoke with a slight British accent from having prepped and gone to university in England.
“Philip Mercer.”
“Not the Janissaries this time.”
“No, it was Mercer.”
“Resourceful man.”
“A man on borrowed time.”
“He’s not a priority to me,” the Saudi ambassador said.
“This is personal,” Poli snarled.
“Let’s go into the office,” Popov suggested. “A little coffee is in order, I think.”
The fish processing plant’s office was as unkempt as the plant itself. It stank of fish oil, and the furniture in the reception area was stained from years of supporting the backsides of dirty fishermen. Popov got the coffee machine brewing and poured when it was ready.
“How much ore do you have?” Al-Salibi asked.
“There are two barrels in the back of the UAZ. I estimate about a thousand pounds’ worth.”
“For curiosity’s sake how much was at the mine depot?”
“Tons of it. We loaded sixty-eight barrels onto the train before Mercer showed.”
A wistful look crossed the ambassador’s face as he considered what could be done with such a deadly cache.
Even for a stone killer like Poli Feines the look was disquieting. “That fishing boat out there,” he said just to cut the eerie silence, “is that the one they are going to use?”
“Yes. It was stolen a week ago in Albania. Her name’s been changed of course so she’s completely untraceable.”
“And your crew?”
“Are ready to travel to Turkey and are most eager to martyr themselves.”
After the fire had died down some Mercer and Cali checked the wreckage for survivors, first tying strips of cloth over their noses and mouths in case any of the barrels had ruptured. Neither was surprised that no one had survived the crash and subsequent explosion, but both were relieved that the barrels they could see in the twisted pile of railcars remained intact.
They set out for the long walk up the tracks back to the mine, Mercer using a stout branch as a crutch. At dusk they built a fire and slept in its rosy glow, Cali cradled in Mercer’s arm, her silky hair caressing his face. They reached the mine two hours after sunrise. The Russians were camped near the remains of the helicopter. Ludmilla, the heavyset scientist, was cooking rations scavenged from the chopper, while the other scientist and the pilot, who’d run from the gunfight because he had no weapons, tended an injured man. When they got close they could see it was Sasha Federov.
Mercer hobbled up and knelt next to the soldier, grinning. “I was certain that RPG had your number on it.”
“Bah,” Federov dismissed with a pained smile. “Nothing more than a little shrapnel in my shoulder and one hell of a headache. Did you stop the train?”
“Derailed it about twenty miles down the valley. No one got off at their last stop.”
“I’m afraid someone didn’t get on it at this one.”
Mercer’s relief that Federov had survived turned to instant concern. “What are you saying?”
“Yesterday I sent Yuri, the pilot, down to the tracks. One of the UAZs was there, its engine destroyed by gunfire, so we couldn’t use it. The other was gone.”
“Son of a bitch,” Mercer shouted and got to his feet. “Fucking Poli. He took off in the truck knowing I was going after the train.”
“Do you think he had any of the barrels?”
“Yes, goddamn it. There wasn’t enough time to load the last two. I had assumed Poli would have cut his losses and left them behind.”
“What are we going to do?” Cali asked.
“Sasha, how long before your superiors send someone out here when they don’t hear from us?”
“Do not worry, my friend. The real train should arrive sometime today.”
“Thank God.”
“That still gives him a day’s head start,” Cali pointed out. “Those barrels could be anywhere in the world by then.”
Her remark soured Mercer’s mood even further. She was right and he began to understand the stress of her job. Being right ninety-nine percent of the time when dealing with nuclear materials wasn’t good enough. He’d stopped Poli from carrying off tons of the plutonium ore but failed to prevent a couple of barrels from slipping away. How many people would die because he screwed up? In theory that was enough plutonium to irradiate dozens of square miles or the water supply of an entire city.
What would happen when elevated radiation levels were detected in the aquifer feeding Manhattan? Thousands would die just from the rioting and looting that would break out. How many more would perish during the evacuation? And then how many would suffer the devastating effects of ingesting the plutonium dust? It was conceivable that cancer would claim tens or even hundreds of thousands more.
And what would become of New York City with every pipe and conduit potentially contaminated? It would be uninhabitable for years, a ghost town of skyscrapers.
Mercer had been so proud of himself for blowing the train off the tracks, and now he’d never felt worse in his life. It was his fault. All of it. He would feel as responsible for those deaths as if he was the one who released the plutonium.
“We’ll get him,” Cali said, reading the anguish in his eyes.
“And if we don’t?”
“At NEST failure is simply not an option.”
“Cali, that looks good on the letterhead but it’s just not realistic.” He didn’t want to sound so harsh but his emotions were running at the breaking point. “There is a lunatic out there with a thousand pounds of plutonium and we’re stuck here. By the time Sasha’s train arrives, Paris or London or Rome could be a radioactive wasteland.”
A voice came from the other side of the helicopter. “Or New York or Chicago or Washington, D.C.”
Mercer recognized it immediately.
The Janissary who’d rescued Cali and him in Africa and had warned them off at Mercer’s brownstone stepped from around the helo’s scorched wreckage. He wore the same black suit he had in Washington and with him was the same assistant. “However, I believe Ankara, Istanbul, and Baku are more likely targets.”
Mercer had his pistol out and trained on the Janissary’s head. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you now.”
He smiled. “For a man who’s been calling me for a week, you don’t seem too interested in what I have to tell you.”
It took Mercer a moment to understand. “You’re Professor Ibriham Ahmad. Of the University of Istanbul.”
He made a gracious half bow. “At your service. I am also General Ibriham Ahmad of the Most Exalted Sultan’s Janissary Corps, tasked with being the last guardians of the Alembic of Skenderbeg.”
Mercer lowered his pistol.
“This is Devrin Egemen.” Ahmad introduced the young man next to him. “One of my star pupils and a trusted lieutenant.”
Egemen bobbed his head.
Ahmad looked around the deserted mine, noting the bodies covered in tarps. “We knew the Russians returned to Africa to mine Alexander’s adamantine ore but we believed they used it all up building their early bombs. How much was here and how much did they get away with?”
“I don’t know for sure. We stopped the train. Cali and I could see dozens of barrels in the wreckage but there’s probably more. Poli Feines escaped with two barrels, probably a thousand pounds’ worth, in a truck.”
“More than enough for their plans,” Ahmad said thoughtfully. He moved away, forcing Cali and Mercer to follow, so they could have some privacy. Then in one graceful movement he sat on the ground with his legs crossed. He patted the earth. “Please sit. This story will take some time.”
&nb
sp; Mercer had seen his capacity for violence but he sensed that Ahmad’s true strength came from his intellect. It was in the way he spoke, confident and assured and eager to teach. Mercer thankfully lowered himself and set aside his makeshift crutch.
“Like all Janissaries Gjergi Kastrioti was trained in Istanbul at the finest military college of his day. He was an excellent student who intuitively grasped strategy and tactics. So when he decided that the sultanate had become corrupt and revolted against Murad II, it was little wonder his men followed him.”
“He went to Albania and held off the sultan’s army for twenty-five years,” Mercer said.
Ahmad cocked an eyebrow. “You’ve done some research. Very good.”
“It was rumored he had a talisman that once belonged to Alexander the Great,” Mercer went on. “I assume it’s the alembic.”
“Correct. The last credible report concerning the alembic came from a Syrian scribe who said that the generals who took over Alexander’s army following his death were squabbling over who should carry it. Because there was no consensus, they decided to return it to Egypt, where it would be buried with Alexander. Along the way a contingent of soldiers decided to steal the alembic for themselves and escaped with it into the desert.
“I can only speculate what happened from then. Suffice it to say the alembic was worth a fortune in the right hands and it must have passed from potentate to sheik to king over the next several hundred years. It eventually ended up in the hands of the most powerful rulers in the region, the Byzantines, and then when their civilization collapsed and the Ottoman Empire flourished, the Alembic of Skenderbeg was in their treasury. By then, however, no one knew what it was because it had sat forgotten for more than a millennium.”
“But Skenderbeg figured it out?”
“That he did. The story is that as punishment for staying out past curfew, at the bedroom of a nobleman’s daughter if the tale is true, he was sent to one of the army’s massive storehouses and ordered to catalogue every item inside. The story says it took a month but during that time he became fascinated with a large bronze urn and the strange writing on its side. He found someone who could translate it for him and that’s when he learned that it was Alexander’s secret weapon. It must have seemed like fate to him, for already some of his men were calling him Skenderbeg, or Alexander the Great.
