by Albert Able
The man smiled, and replied sincerely: “Indeed it is.”
“Here, sit down. Coffee?” Igor asked the Dispatcher.
“Thank you but no, coffee’s not so good for the ulcer.” He patted his stomach.
“Sorry to hear that.” Igor shook his head with understanding, aware that the man looked significantly older and paler than on their last meeting. “So tell me just how long is it?”
“Almost ten years, it’s just amazing how time seems to fly away.” The man smiled weakly.
They reminisced for a while before the dispatcher deliberately cleared his throat. “Of course you probably never heard the story about that KGB bastard from the base?”
“No, I often wondered what happened to him,” Igor invited his guest to reply.
“Well, you will remember that tall guy from Moscow, the one you and your boys frightened off? And you will no doubt remember how the KGB bloke shot that tubby gunman when he was already on the floor and unarmed?”
Igor remembered as if it were yesterday: “Yes I certainly do. Did the poor guy survive?”
“Yes he did. But the bullet in his head left him partially paralysed and unable to speak or care for himself in any way,” the Dispatcher snapped angrily.
“Anyway, on the same day that you and your pals left the base with the tanker, the KGB officer and his Commissar pal arrived asking to have their vehicle refuelled. Unfortunately for them, the tall guy from Moscow was there with some of his henchmen, so to cut a long story short, the KGB man and the Commissar ended up dead.”
“My God!” Igor exclaimed.
“Yes I thought you’d be interested but that’s not the reason I’m here. You see, once you’d left the area, the men from Moscow re-established their control of the surplus fuel business. This time, however, they looked after me on the same sort of basis that you had, so inevitably I became friends with them.”
The Dispatcher ran his tongue over his dry lips. “Perhaps a glass of water?”
“Of course, how silly of me.” Igor pressed a button on the telephone. “Bring a jug of water and two glasses, please.”
“It seems the KGB officer and the Commissar had found some cases at the base before they left. We found them in their vehicle after the shooting. Well...”
The door opened and Igor’s secretary entered carrying a tray with a jug of water and glasses. “Here we are.” She said politely and left the office.
Igor poured two glasses. The Dispatcher sipped his water, initially savouring the flavour as if he were tasting wine. Then, apparently satisfied, he swallowed the remainder.
“Here,” Igor refilled the glass.
“That’s better,” the Dispatcher agreed. “Anyway, Mecha (that’s the tall man from Moscow’s name) took the cases in his car. Later, he apparently tried to open them but only two would oblige, and they each contained the same electronic device attached to what he said looked like a battery. He assumed the others must be exactly the same and of little value. Eventually, and as no one else had shown any interest, they ended up on a shelf in his garage.
“You have to understand that although Mecha had been quite curious about these cases, he was also acutely aware that even though it had little or no value, to have kept the booty without approval from his masters was probably a terminal offence. So there they remained, undisturbed and eventually forgotten for several years.”
The Dispatcher sipped at his glass of water again then whispered. “About two years ago Mecha’s wife died of leukaemia.
“Soon after that he decided to move to a smaller place and I helped him clear everything from the house and garage. That’s when we discovered the cases again.” The Dispatcher gazed towards the window for a moment. “Mecha opened one to show me and sure enough, it looked something like one of those devices electricians use to test for power and amperage, do you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know,” Igor nodded.
“Not knowing what to do with them, I decided to take them home with the intention of dumping them somewhere.” The Dispatcher shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “A few weeks after he moved, Mecha was also diagnosed with leukaemia.” The Dispatcher fell silent for a moment.
Igor noticed just how thin and pale he looked.
“He died three weeks ago,” the Dispatcher looked directly into Igor’s eyes. “And now I have it.” His voice trembled slightly. “They tell me I have twelve to eighteen months left.”
Igor was horrified. He had witnessed death and destruction on the battlefield but never knowingly been face to face with a terminally ill person. Completely lost for words, Igor felt unusually helpless and embarrassed.
“It’s alright,” the Dispatcher placed a friendly hand on Igor’s forearm. “I’ve known for over two months now so have come to terms with it. I wouldn’t have burdened you with my problems except that you were the only person I could think of who would know what to do about the cases.”
“Anything, my old friend,” Igor whispered with a weak smile as he recovered his composure.
“You see I read this article about leukaemia and its probable causes. Radiation from electric pylons is suspected, for example. Then I suddenly wondered if those things in the metal cases could be Geiger counters?” He raised his eyebrows. “So I decided to look into the other cases. It took me ages to open them but finally I did and found that the third contained the same device as the first two cases with the addition of a small canister attached by wires to it. The fourth also had a cylinder about the size of a large can of fruit, also attached with several wires. By then I knew that they were not Geiger counters. Especially as the one with the larger cylinder in it was quite warm.”
He sipped his water again and held on to the glass. “Well, unwittingly I think I have made a terrible mistake. You see, I knew in my heart that I had to risk telling someone. So I called a man whom I knew to have been one of Mecha’s old associates.”
The Dispatcher’s hand trembled slightly as he replaced the glass on the tray.
“Can I get you anything else?” Igor suggested.
“No I’m fine, thank you.” He raised his hand and continued. “Anyway a person I had never seen before appeared the next day. When I showed him the boxes it was just as if I’d given him an electric shock, because when I opened the ones with the cylinders, he jumped back with a look of horror and immediately ran out of the garage and into the street, instructing me not to tell anyone, but that he would organise collection of the cases that evening.”
The Dispatcher leaned forward. “It was just as he was leaving that he said: “Where the hell did you get that bomb and how long have you been living with it in the garage?”
“Bomb!” I replied, “what kind of bomb?”
“That’s a nuclear device and red hot with radiation,” the man snapped at me as he retreated down the driveway.
“That evening after dark a van appeared and a couple of men dressed in radiation suits sneaked into the garage and took the cases away. I thought at first they must be government officials but no one had officially called; then I recognised the driver of the vehicle as another one of Mecha’s old associates.
‘Which means, I’m afraid, that the mob have almost certainly just taken possession of a couple of nuclear bombs!”
“Are you absolutely sure you recognised this driver?” Igor stood up from his chair.
“No doubt about it.”
Igor walked to the window and looked down to where several of his giant articulated lorries were manoeuvring. “Just what the hell are they going to do with two nuclear bombs?” he said aloud.
A shiver trembled through his body as he visualised the possibilities.
“So,” Igor paused, “what is your name, by the way? I can’t keep calling you ‘the Dispatcher’?”
“Moiterof, Ernst Moiterof.�
�� The Dispatcher looked up at Igor, “but most people know me as the Dispatcher,” he replied with a faint smile.
Igor returned the smile. “Well, Ernst, why did you come to me with this?” Igor turned back to the window. “It has to be a matter of major State importance?”
“Yes I know, but I also know how corrupt those bastards are and I’ve seen how you do things, so I thought you would know what to do best.”
“Well thanks for all of that Ernst. It’s just what I needed to brighten up my day.”
Sporting a generous grin, Igor stood in front of the pale-faced Dispatcher. “Tell me, how did you get from Moscow to St Petersburg?”
“I flew; the mid-day flight was the most economical.” Ernst replied.
Noticing the wince of pain as Ernst rose slowly from his chair, Igor realised just how frail the dispatcher had become.
“First we must get you into a hotel.” Igor picked up the telephone and spoke to his secretary.
“Then, with your approval Ernst, I will arrange for you to be looked over at our clinic; they are very good and it won’t cost you a single Rouble.”
Igor placed a friendly arm around Ernst’s sagging shoulders. He tried to protest but Igor raised a cautioning hand. “No promises, but I am confident, that if anyone can help you, these people will, agreed?” He led the dispatcher to the door. “Anya, my secretary, will tell you where to go and whom you have to see.”
They shook hands. “Here’s my card, if you need anything, anything at all, call me, any time, agreed?”
Igor returned to his desk; picking up the telephone as he flipped open his confidential list. He selected Chief of Police St Petersburg and punched in the direct line number. “Hey, Yuri, have I got something to brighten up your day,” Igor announced cheerfully to the voice at the other end of the line.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to make an honest woman of her?” the Chief encouraged bluntly.
He was, of course, referring to Sophie, the eldest granddaughter of his friend, Sir Adrian Jordan. She had chosen to study Russian at school and university and was now in St Petersburg as his ward.
When asked by her parents why she had opted for that particular language, she would lift her head defiantly and haughtily challenge: “I don’t know why; perhaps because when the Russians overrun the world, at least I’ll be able to talk to them! Is that a good enough reason?”
Sophie’s parents despaired but her beloved grandfather had always supported her. “Being different is what makes leaders and survivors,” he encouraged her. “Don’t worry about mum and dad. They don’t mean to be so insular, they can’t quite understand why you are taking such a gamble with your life, and they just don’t want you to make any unnecessary painful mistakes. Anyway, when you’re ready and if you’re still serious about perfecting the language, I still have a few friends in Moscow, so I may be able to you to find you some working experience there.”
Not long after that Sir Adrian organised, through his old colleague, Yuri Drumenco, St Petersburg’s Chief of Police, for Sophie to work with what he described as ‘a trusted friend’ in that famous city.
‘Pulaski Transport International’ now Russia’s most rapidly expanding trucking operation, was trading extensively with most of the European Union countries and the commercial language for this trade is English. Igor Pulaski’s modest knowledge of the language had been developed mostly during his time in Afghanistan, where the common communication language was also English. Igor, however was a perfectionist, and wanted to have full command of the language. Sophie Jordan came into his life at precisely the right moment.
After about six months when it became obvious that Igor and Sophie had become an ‘item’, Yuri Drumenco called at Igor’s office.
“May I say what it’s about, Sir?” the receptionist formally enquired, following standard procedure.
“Just for a private chat,” Yuri Drumenco had replied with a wink and was waved straight into Igor’s office.
“Now look here, Igor. I trusted you with this young lady. I gave my word to her grandfather that no harm would come to her. Now it seems that she’s moved in with you. Just what am I going to tell him?” Yuri was genuinely exasperated.
“You can tell him that for the first time in Igor Pulaski’s life,” he pronounced unusually seriously, “he has found someone whom he can totally respect and trust.”
He added with a cheeky grin, at the same time miming the drawing of an imaginary sword, “and I will use all my powers to protect her!”
That had been over a year ago and in that time Yuri and his wife, Sacha, had become regular social friends with Igor and Sophie. So when Ernst, the ailing dispatcher revealed the alarming suggestion that the Mob might be in possession of a nuclear device, Igor’s immediate response was to call his friend, the Chief of Police of St Petersburg.
“Are you quite certain about all of this, Igor?” the startled Chief of Police responded cautiously.
“I can’t see why a dying man should tell me anything but the truth!”
“Alright” Yuri puffed his lips and exhaled noisily, “but listen to me, we must be very careful because if I go rushing headfirst into this, our military and secret service people will start an almighty witch hunt - and not just for the weapons, but for someone to blame for it all. You know as well as I do just how paranoid they all are all up there in the Kremlin?”
“So what do you suggest?” Igor asked with understanding. He’d had dealings with several of the local politicians and bureaucrats in the past and understood the potential problems their fear and tunnel vision presented.
“Well for God’s sake don’t say anything to Sophie either yet. I’ll start by running it past her grandfather. I expect you’ll know that he was involved in that cloak and dagger stuff over in the UK, so hopefully he may still have some contacts to help us sort it out quietly. I’ll get back to you.”
***
To the uninitiated, the computer in Rudi Peterson’s studio appeared to do nothing more than whirr and bleep continuously. The electronic brain, however, was dispassionately monitoring the numerous signals it had been programmed to flag up and log.
Rudi sat, casually scanning the daily report, when suddenly two new signals were flagged as high priority.
When the Syndicate ceased to operate, Carl Peterson, in his ever-resourceful way, had ensured that all the remaining operational members - or controllers, as he called them - were generously paid off and that several of their former reporting channels remained active. Even at that time Peterson had visualised his return to power and knew the value of his small army of associates.
So the detection of that chance signal by Rudi’s computer had given the Syndicate’s revival plans its first constructive leap forward. The second was a recorded message on one of the old Syndicate Reporting numbers.
The massage had been short and simple. “R6. Have information on access to ‘Tactical Nuclear Weapon’. Is it of interest?”
Rudi jubilantly relayed the information from this former contact to his father.
R6 was the code name of a former operative of the Syndicate who was also the man sent to identify the strange metal cases in Ernst’s garage. He instantly recognised them as the same those he had seen at the ‘Experimental Weapons’ base during his military service there.
Now the cases were sitting in the secret laboratory used by his current drug dealer boss but in spite of the horrific potential the weapons represented, his inherent greed also recognised their possible value to his old employer and, of course, to him.
The second massage that day had been from the automatic security sensors at ‘SKY-SEC Sales and Marketing’ just outside San Francisco, California, reporting a communication with a certain Alex Scott.
When Carl Peterson, in the guise of Mr Black, had made the deal with Mustafa to produce a nu
clear device, he did not yet have a clear idea of how he was going to achieve such an audacious plan. So when the perfect solution simply dropped into his lap he was understandably excited.
The message referring to Alex Scott’s visit SKY-SEC’s offices, however, dramatically deflated his elevated mood.
Sitting in front of the video link phone in his luxury suite aboard Le Monde, Carl Peterson took a couple of deep breaths to control his temper before replying to Rudi’s messages.
“OK Rudi, first I want to know where those two nuclear weapon specialists are that we pulled out of Iraq just before the invasion.” He paused taking another controlled breath. “Then I want a full report on what Alex Scott was doing at SKY-SEC.”
“Those specialists were secretly moved to a development laboratory in Bombay but I’ll check where they are now. As for Scott, I’ve already asked for more details. I’ll get back as soon as I have anything.” Rudy closed the video link.
Within three days the four metal cases had been collected and were under close security at a secret location in India, where they were being carefully examined by the two experienced Iraqi scientists who had been of service to Carl Peterson in the past and were still working in Bombay.
Their secret brief on this occasion was initially to verify that the contents of the cases contained the components from which to construct the weapons for Carl Peterson’s ‘special mission’.
Within twenty-four hours the scientists reported directly to Carl Peterson who listened without interruption as one of the men delivered their findings.
Peterson sat in silence for a few moments and then issued his detailed instructions, finally asking. “How long will it take to complete?”
“No more than two days at the most, Sir.”
“Excellent, and then as before, you and your colleague will be generously rewarded for your efficiency - and, of course, discretion.”
The devices were subsequently assembled according to the precise specification and despatched to another secret location just outside Tirana in Albania, on time and precisely as instructed.
