by Tom Avito
“The remains of the ancient village are only a few kilometers West of here, beyond those rocky dunes. I can take you there if you like, we’re digging up some interesting stuff,” Gordon added, nodding in the direction he was talking about.
“I’m very busy these days, James. I suppose you can imagine that.”
“Yes, no doubt! Let’s get to the point: have you managed to see him yet?” the archaeologist continued.
“No, unfortunately. Yet, I was sure it was him the other time. He exited the refinery’s dining hall, cursing and ranting in German, then was dragged inside again.”
“We aren’t aware of any moves, the kid is still here, under strict surveillance in the villa, but this week the professor skipped his usual visits to his son. Not a good sign,” Gordon stated.
“Let’s keep our fingers crossed. I’ll try to spend as much time as possible around the offices in the northern building, it’s the only place where I’ve seen him so far and I think I might have greater chances of meeting him there.”
“There must be an access point to the underground lab there, and it’s surely not the only one. There’s a risk that we, like rookies, might miss his relocation,” the English man replied.
“I am a rookie!” Nino reacted.
“Bollocks! You know what you’re doing, my friend. The simple fact that you’re here indicates skill and preparation. They’d never have given you a task like this if they’d doubted you could take it on,” Gordon comforted him.
“I’ll do what I can to get the confirmations we need as soon as possible, I’ll keep you posted,” Nino replied confidently.
“Always keep the house posted, and I’ll be informed by extension. Anyhow, if you need me, I’ll be here by the pool every night at nine.”
The British man stood up, rubbed his chilled hands and added:
“I’ll go now, happy new year Nino, enjoy your New Year’s Eve.”
“Like hell I’ll enjoy it! I’m alone, in a shithole place, and I don’t even have a bottle of real champagne.”
Gordon laughed and turned around. Nino stopped him, grabbing him by the arm, and asked:
“Wait, tell me something: why Usque ad finem?”
“Another time, Nino, when things are calmer… another time.”
He stepped back into the small apartment, picked up the green bottle from the table and checked the time. A handful of seconds set him apart from the new year. Coordinating his moves with the passing of time, he removed the metallic net protecting the cork and thought intently of the best thing he could wish for. He closed his eyes and felt the love flow through his veins and limbs, as his fingers slowly pushed the cork out of the bottle’s neck. He opened them and in exact unison, as the clock on his smartphone turned to mark the end of 2011, he heard the loud pop of the cork.
A year was over. A life was changing, his own. Another one was about to be born.
CHAPTER 11
Andimeshk (Iran) , 01/04/2012 2:00 P.M.
-“Contact” –
He grabbed a metal tray and a few paper napkins a headed towards the counter, where a wide variety of dishes and a number of servers wearing spotless white aprons and toques awaited the guests. Out of the corner of his eye he’d been able to see that the man was sitting alone at one of the tables in the right wing of the hall. He asked for a plate of chicken in koresh [8] sauce with black rice and an apple, then turned to approach a table. The man, who had straight blond hair and was wearing a white coat, sat with his back to him; he finished his meal and stood up, turning around. When their eyes met Nino’s heartbeat exploded violently in his chest and he tried in vain to steady it. Thin rimmed glasses, a few days’ old stubble, uncertain and bewildered blue eyes, his face with its angular features - there was no room for error, it seemed as if the pictures Mc Gown had shown him in Milan had been taken just minutes before. In that glance that only lasted seconds were many unspoken words and questions. The most important piece of information had been doubtlessly acquired: it was Alexander Wharz.
Two soldiers flanked the scientist and led him to the opposite side of the hall, where the walls created a corner that acted as a barrier, obstructing the view of the passageway that led to the restrooms. He truly enjoyed his meal, fulfilled by the result of having acquired his target, of having reached and jumped over the first small obstacle. It was just the first of many, but the feeling of energy and courage that pervaded him made him feel more confident that he’d be able to achieve his final task. He ate his lunch slowly, waiting for Wharz to come back. It would be reckless to act immediately, all he had to do was watch, observe, understand any possible spaces and chances to establish direct contact.
The German wasn’t coming back, Nino became impatient and decided to check. He headed towards the restroom, went inside and washed his hands, as he looked around carefully. To his astoundment, the room, paved in white marble and grey granite, framed by mirrors all around its perimeter, was completely empty. The only alternative path that the three men might have taken led to the space right outside the restrooms. A service door that looked as if it might have belonged to a closet, a utility room or a small locker room. He decided against making any risky moves, gave up and left.
That afternoon he spent a few hours in the office, which was only a few steps away from the dining hall; it was discrete, cozy and conveniently located, on the second floor of the building destined to the executive staff. Khatibi had assigned him this space during his first visit, and he was free to use it as he wished. His thoughts wandered to the fleeting encounter, to the look he had exchanged with the man, and to how he could approach him and talk to him. He tried hard to find a solution, considering even the most imaginative methods, but his initial optimism kept crashing into an insurmountable barrier and crumbling against the obvious difficulties. Nonetheless he had to take action, prudently, without raising suspicion in the soldiers, or in Bagheli who was at his side for whole days at a time. He had to come up with a safe way to communicate with the scientist.
The Iranian walked in, violently pushing the door open as he was picking up the last few sheets of paper on which he’d made some notes, getting ready to return to the residence. The Minotaur’s grim look was a symptom of the fact that the day that was coming to an end hadn’t been a good one.
“Good evening, Bagheli,” Nino greeted him.
“Did you see anything interesting today?” the Iranian replied, with a hint of slyness and no room for pleasantries.
The question shattered his tranquillity, making way to dangerous insinuations. Anxiety suddenly flared up inside him, keeping him from breathing normally. He handled the moment with difficulty, somehow managing to retain those small movements of the face that often give away an ill-concealed misdeed, and answered placidly, leading the conversation in the only possible direction.
“I saw that the reinstatement works on the containment tanks in basin 4 have started. That’s good! However, on a negative note, two valves of the 28-inch collector are seriously damaged, you’ll have to replace them. The setbacks caused by the two attacks will entail significant delays, we’ll have to reconsider our agreements. Swiss Exploration can’t…”
“Who ever mentioned attacks! No attacks have ever happened, and none will happen, not as long as I’m in charge of the security of this place,” Bagheli angrily interrupted him.
“Ok, ok, I used the wrong words, let’s talk about accidents then. The damage caused entails significant delays in beginning to exploit the oil reserve.”
Someone from the higher ranks must have given Bagheli an earful. He’d been able to verify the state of basin 4 and the Dokhtar pipeline in person; the blasts had clearly been caused by several explosive devices, placed by skilled hands in such a way as to provoke the greatest amount of damage. After all, he wasn’t interested in the true cause of the explosions; the real problem here was the delay in the exploitation of the oil reserve, which he’d have to report to Helson as soon as possible in order to safeguar
d the interests of Swiss Exploration. His duties and goals were crossing and intersecting, he couldn’t leave anything out because one duty covered for the other, justifying his stay in Andimeshk.
He didn’t know whether Bagheli’s question had been posed maliciously, to put him to the test and make him reveal his secret interests, or if it simply revealed the Minotaur’s great anger and concern over what had recently happened with the two undeniable sabotages. He felt that he’d been able to sufficiently master his anxiety, to keep calm, at least calm enough to not let his sense of unease and apprehension through. The last thing he wanted was to draw the attention of the security services. He worried that his behavior in the dining hall might have given away his interest towards Wharz and made someone suspicious.
“As for the reinstatement works and any requested changes to the plant structure, I’ll have to go over it with Khatibi,” Bagheli added, as he nervously paced the room. Then he stopped and looked him straight in the eye:
“I can only assure you that there won’t be any other setbacks and that the work will continue, nonstop, 24 hours a day, with maximum surveillance and security.”
“I’ll have the chance to report my remarks regarding the state of the facilities to Mr. Khatibi. Those parts need to be replaced, they are essential,” Nino continued.
“Now please excuse me, Bagheli, I’m really spent, I’d like to get to my apartment as soon as possible.”
“Follow me, I’ll walk you there,” the Iranian answered, heading towards the door.
He couldn’t wait to get in touch with the mother house, to confirm that he’d seen him, and report the same thing to Gordon, in person.
The message he sent that night was:
Target 1 acquired. Searching for possible form of contact.
He thought that, somewhere in some European office, someone would be heartened by those words, and the ones who’d been most skeptical about his abilities would gain a pinch of trust.
He’d quickly gotten rid of Bagheli and stayed in his apartment just long enough to assemble the satellite phone and send the message. Before leaving again, he stopped to look out the window, staring into the distance, as thoughts of deep love burst in his soul. He’d become a player in a very dangerous game. Above all else, he was upset by the possibility of having to pay for all this in the worst possible way: not being able to ever see his child’s face. That was too high a price and he was not willing to pay it. He had to remain focused and infallible, like a pro, although he was well aware that he wasn’t a pro.
Impatiently, he walked down the tiled road that led to the pool.
Despite the sharp cold of the night, he felt shrouded in a mix of excitement and anxiety that dampened his sensorial perceptions. He was in an unusual psycho-physical state, oddly altered by the fears and anguishes arising from his secret assignment. The archaeologist had been clear; in case of need he’d be at the agreed spot every night at 9 P.M.
He sat at the same table where they’d sat together a few days earlier and waited. A rush of blood went to his head as he felt a hand grab his shoulder from behind.
“Hello my friend, it’s brisk tonight!”
He marvelled at how a man the size of Gordon could have walked up to him so quietly, and guessed he must have been so deep in his ponderings that he hadn’t heard the slightest hint of footsteps.
“Hello James, I have some news.”
“Tell me.”
“I saw him, he was having lunch in the dining hall, escorted by two troopers.”
“Excellent! At least we know he’s still here. Are you sure it’s him?” Gordon asked.
“Yes, no doubt about it. He’s here, it’s Wharz. He ate alone at a table, closely guarded. Then he disappeared with his guardian angels in what I assume is an entrance to the underground laboratory.”
“We must find the right way to contact him,” the British man added, sitting down across the table, satisfied with the news he’d been given.
“Yes… I’m assessing it. It’s tough, the only time I have is restricted to the lunch break and during that time he’s always under strict control. I have no chance of approaching him without his escorts noticing me.”
“The only strategy, then, is to try and get a message to him without any physical contact, delivering it in secret. But how?” Gordon said.
“I have an idea. It’s crazy, but we could give it a try,” Nino replied.
“Fire away,” Gordon invited him, intrigued.
NOTE V
When I first met him at the Laleh hotel, he immediately proved himself to be kind and cordial, which was unusual for a Brit. I was surprised. Tall, athletic, short copper hair and a freckled face, I wouldn’t have guessed him to be over forty, but he told me he’d recently turned fortyseven. There weren’t many Europeans in the hotel - actually he’s the only one I remember. We had dinner together a couple times, he was friendly, introduced himself and invited me to sit with him, the only pleasant presence among that crowd of hostile characters. A person I’d have been glad to spend time with elsewhere and in other circumstances, too.
His scientific and professional knowledge was indisputable, he was the head of an important archaeological expedition made up of researchers coming from several countries such as Russia, Korea and Latin America, many of which were staying in our same hotel. At the museum he proved his knowledge to me without ever sounding conceited, as he pleasantly walked me through the museum, disclosing the secrets of the artefacts on display.
During my days of training with the Special Activity Division, Mc Gown had revealed to me that the only NOC operator on site would get in touch with me shortly after my return to Iran. He was actually wrong. I had already met my contact, under the guise of Professor Gordon. I was never able to understand which came first, the agent or the archaeologist. In reality, he was perfect under any aspect I could consider, a perfect mixture between Indiana Jones and a former special corps trooper.
Though I was just getting to know him, I held him in high regard and respected his ability to reconcile apparently incompatible features of his personality.
Anxiety reigned supreme those days, my legs were constantly shaking under the weight of my secrets. I felt as if I was surrounded by a luminous aura that set me apart from the others and flashed: there he is, he’s the spy! In this chaos filled with fears and concerns, knowing that I could count on a man like James Gordon was the lifeline to which I held on in order not to drown.
CHAPTER 12
Andimeshk (Iran) , 01/10/2012, 1:00 P.M.
-“Gehirn” –
Over the next few days he made sure to always have lunch at the same time and noticed that Wharz too was always on time, he always sat at the same table in the right corner of the room. Every day he repeated the same gestures scrupulously, almost like a robot.
He would his hand over the seat before he sat down, lay the cutlery horizontally over the top of the plate, carefully fold the napkin and place it over the glass. An excessive and spasmodic attention to patterns, details, order. Symptoms that gave away what is known as Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD). A limbo, a middle-earth between sane and pathological. A condition in which its subjects become intolerant to disorder and asymmetry, a condition that inevitably forces them to repeat the same patterns as in a ritual. It’s as if they remained caged within repetitive and unavoidable schemes that are vital in order to appease their inexhaustible anxiety. It’s a trait that for reasons unknown is often shared by unique and brilliant minds, such as Wharz’s. He hoped with all his might that this neurosis, which Mc Gown had revealed to him beforehand, wouldn’t cease and that the German man would repeat his gestures again, at least once more, with the same precision.
The scientist walked into the room, escorted by his supervisors. Nino waited. He’d finished his meal and moved towards the bar counter, where he was now pretending to enjoy a nice fresh dough [9][1] .
The two military men stopped by the left wall of the room, apparently le
aving Alexander some privacy. As expected, he saw him pick up a tray and cutlery and head towards the usual table. Nino sighed in relief.
Wharz ran his hand on the seat, sat down, placed the napkin in its usual spot, then suddenly stopped. He remained still, unmoving for a few seconds, knife and fork in a tight grasp, his eyes widening. Bewildered, he looked around for someone who could explain the cause of his agitation. For a moment, their eyes met and they both understood.
The troopers approached the table, puzzled, as if they’d detected the professor’s disquiet. He observed the scene, fearing the worst. In those endless seconds, he begged for a miracle in his mind. He saw Alexander indifferently move the napkin onto the table, before his guardians’ arrival, and he sighed in relief again. One of the two guards asked him something. Nino was distant, he couldn’t make out the words, but the trooper’s arrogant tone was evident. Acting out of instinct, he hit the half-full glass with his hand, making it wobble then fall to the ground, crashing into a myriad of crystal fragments. With an air of displeased surprise, he bent down to pick up the pieces and caught a glimpse of what he’d been hoping for. Wharz’s swift hand had swept under the table, as the guardians, attracted by the the noise of the breaking glass, had turned to look at him.
Another small step had been taken, yet he was still feeling stiff and nervous. The last sip of dough kept swirling in his mouth, paralyzed and unable to swallow. Tension pulled on his tendons and tightened his movements. He apologized to the attendant who rushed towards him to clean up the floor and took advantage of the moment to leave the room and get out.
Now Wharz was informed, he knew that someone was there to help him and his son.
He used the same method for a few days. At lunch, he’d take with him a pencil, a notepad and some gum. The first time, Wharz was astounded. The sight of the small print on the ivory-colored surface of the table: Gehirn, followed by a small arrow pointing downwards, had made his blood run cold. Not many people knew him by his nickname, the one his friends in the environmental movement had jokingly given him several years before. Since then, and to them only, he’d become Gehirn, “the Brain”. A few seconds had been enough for the German to realize that the only other Westerner in the room was the only one who could be aware of its meaning. When his careful hand, sliding under the tabletop, had found the small piece of paper glued to it with gum, he’d realized that he was no longer forgotten and abandoned in that hellhole. Maybe Nicholas could still hope to have his future back.