Mazaar thought for a minute.
“That’s impossible. He must have been only a boy during the war.”
“Well, sometimes the younger ones are more radical than their predecessors,” said Ferdash.
“He may have been a boy when he began, but he came out as the blood-stained murderer.”
“Something here doesn’t make sense…How can a flogger in a jail cell become a scientist? Mazaar asked.
“Well, according to his file, because he was so aggressive in his duties at Újlipótváros, he was transferred to a concentration camp in Oranienburg to manage it. When the Soviets liberated the area and arrested a few of his kind, they realized he came from a family of chemists. When he bargained for his freedom over schematics plans related to a particular bomb, they gave him the cover from the Americans.
“Is that why he’s being taken to the Hague to face trial?”
“No,” said Ferdash.
“There is another reason.”
Ferdash took his time lighting his cigarette, relishing Mazaar’s impatience.
“Well….?”
“Surely, you understand this goes both ways,” said a smiling Ferdash.
“Ok, I deserved that. Take your time,” he said.
“In 1955, in what was then East Germany, the Soviets arranged Heidricht, his alias number 121, to leave the country as other intelligence agencies were closing in on similar targets. They would have handed him over without considering him an “offshore asset.” You may have heard this term before, but the idea here is to use a resource outside your borders to help achieve your global geostrategic aims. So, when the Americans —through the Baghdad Pact—brought in an alliance of five countries, the Soviets wanted options. They sent #121 to Damascus as part of a project to build a network of 'destructive bombs' intended for the west. Of course, none of these so-called ‘destructive bombs’ were ever used, but research to have them operation ready continued.”
“So, we’re taking him to the Hague because he researched bombs that were never used?” asked Mazaar.
“Not exactly…Aphroditus believes that his association with certain foreign groups goes deep. To the point of managing enrichment programs in research, maintenance, and testing nuclear reactors; 121 not just facilitated these operations but was their point man. After 1991, he began to sell to other rogue terrorist groups.”
“But that’s impossible. No terrorist groups have nuclear weapons.”
“We hope. But can they build one like they build homemade bombs?” asked Ferdash.
“Because that’s the concern…121 has collaborated with others at his hometown laboratory. We know this because Aphroditus provided evidence that records of centrifuges and nuclear research connected with weapon-grade uranium are all part of the packages that have been sold to various networks.”
“But that would require a huge volume of transport—we’re talking ships, planes, trucks that have to go through inspections…there are simply too many hurdles to jump over.”
“This is true, but what if all those channels and networks can bypass these hurdles for a valid price….the fact is, Commander, we don’t know how many of these packages have been sold and, worse still…how many are active.”
“But wait,” asked Mazaar,
“what has this got to do with taking him to the Hague?”
“Taking him to the Hague is part of a larger operation to have him isolated from all his vendors and clients but, most importantly, from his right-hand man who sells his designs for the nuclear devices, calculations, and eventual weapons testing operational plans. Having him at the Hague will paralyze all his programs related to electromagnetic isotope separation, which is a key part of his activities across the world. The same would happen for his first-generation centrifuge program, the most crucial of his services, which some groups have paid huge sums for but haven’t yet received final mobilization and dispatch documents.”
“Ok, but we’re only five hours from the Hague. Can’t we hand him over to the local government here?”
A smiling Ferdash gulped down the rest of his glass.
“Well, to do that would mean giving a stranger a lot of money and hoping he would honor an agreement. You and I both know he won’t,” answered Ferdash.
“I’m not sure I understand,” said Mazaar.
“Well, let me put it differently. Our new Ambassador needs to make this happen.”
“Is that wise? I mean, getting a fresh-faced Ambassador with little experience to do this?”
“Oh, he’s not going to know.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mazaar.
“I thought you said the Ambassador needs to make way for this to happen.”
“Yes, as he takes on his task to complete ‘his’ nuclear deal with the Republique government, underneath it, we will conduct our own activities. If he gets in the way, Aphroditus will make sure our military firmly pushes him to stay on course with what he is supposed to do; get his nuclear deal approved. Plus, with the refugee crisis across Europe, this is the perfect opportunity for two top covers to do what we need to do…at the very least, we have to figure out some way to get Ule to the Hague undetected.”
A hard bang on the door rang out across the room. Mazaar rushed across the room to beside the sealed window, his revolver poised and ready.
"Who's there?" he asked.
"It's me, Mazaar. Open up!" said a voice outside.
Mazaar hissed and undid all the bolts and locks on the door. It was Berzad, a man the others jokingly called “The Odd One.” His fellow operatives didn’t know him too well, but little did they care. Berzad was a former lieutenant in the army, but before that, he was a competitive sprinter in the 2006 Olympics in Turin. Still in his twenties, he knew all the 40 square miles of Paris as if he had built it himself.
"Can you just knock once?" warned Mazaar.
Berzad remained silent as he dropped his backpack on the floor and rushed over to the old man hanging upside down.
"Damn! What's that smell?" Mazaar asked.
"Urine. The old man wet his pants," Berzad laughed.
Mazaar shook his head and approached the unconscious man.
"Wake him up," Mazaar instructed Berzad, keeping his eyes focused on the old man.
Berzad looked at the man, checked his pulse, touched his cheeks, and then checked his temperature.
"Wake him," Mazaar ordered again.
“Okay," Berzad said as he injected the syringe into the man’s neck.
"At that age, he’s good as dead anyway," Mazaar murmured as he walked around to the man’s backside.
Within three seconds, the old man inhaled strongly and coughed loudly. He wept, his face reddening more as sweat began dripping from his cheeks.
"Wakie, wakie," Berzad said.
Mazaaar jumped in full force, shouting,
"Give us what we need."
Ule, barely up from his state, couldn’t compose his words together. Berzad gave him a gentle shake. Then the man began to speak.
"I've told you —I don't know what you are talking about," the old man cried.
Mazaar found it odd that someone could cry immediately upon waking. Something wasn’t right, he thought. He turned around.
“Ferdash, what aren’t you telling me?”
“Oh?” said Berzad, realizing something hadn’t been communicated to Mazaar.
“He sold one part of the five-package group to some group who then sold it to a company vendor who then sold it to our government. We need that code of one of five since we have the other four of the remaining design,” answered Berzad.
Mazaar was not happy with this new development.
“Why didn’t you tell me this, Ferdash?”
“Well, it’s not that simple.”
“Try me,” demanded Mazaar.
Stepping back, Ferdash began,
“It’s kind of difficult to explain. Our finance ministry has entertained the idea to buy low and sell high Nuclear schemati
c designs for some time. These are plans to house and maintain a large arsenal of stockpile missiles with nuclear warheads. It became a convenient practice to ensure of the books money coming in. I’m sure they didn’t anticipate that on the other side, similar practices were happening among rogue networks in the black market.”
“So, we are missing one, and that is held by 121?” asked Mazaar.
“We have the nuclear codes for four of the five schematic designs. We fear 121’s right-hand man took the fifth and may use it for his own purposes.”
Mazaar sat down on the floor and covered his head. This was not what he had in mind for the conclusion of Operation Dionysus. He had hoped to take a break and already had plans to be in Valletta. It would be his much-needed getaway after logging more than four hundred hours in back-to-back operations planning. Mazaar had hoped to hang out with friends and take it easy for once, but this recent debacle made it seem that Operation Dionysus would remain incomplete and drag on. Then, a spear of light shined in front of him. The morning sun reflected off of Berzad’s knife blade as he twisted it around on his finger and then thrust it into the table.
“Don’t worry,” said Berzad.
“We’ll fix this.”
Folding his sleeves, he retrieved a glass of water. Mazaar then aggressively pulled the old man down from his hanging position and forced him into a chair, where he splashed the glass of water on him.
“What are you doing?” warned Ferdash.
“He’ll croak.”
Mazaar disregarded Ferdash’s warning and shook the man.
"Ule, I don't have the time, answer my questions,” said Mazaar.
“Berzad get me phone number sixteen,” Mazaar requested.
Berzad was skeptical.
“Not good,” he stated as he pleaded for Ferdash to do something.
“He’ll kill the old man,” Berzad warned.
Ferdash gestured that he knew something would come out of this.
“Give the Commander what he asks,” he said.
Berzad retrieved the cellphone from his backpack and then took a glass out of the cabinet, filled it with tap water, and gave it to the old man in kindness.
“Drink some water,” said Berzad.
Mazaar knocked the glass from Ule’s shaking hands.
“I’m going to show you something, and you tell me what you see.”
He grabbed the phone from Berzad and thrust it in Ule’s face. On the screen was a photo of the old man with a young woman, a man, and a little child between them.
"I am sure you know these people," Mazaar pressed.
Ule looked intensely at the photo, blinking relentlessly as if he could not see clearly. Mazaar handed him his reading glasses and a paper towel. Ule gazed at the photo with a smile of endearment.
“Ah, recognize them, do you?” said Mazaar.
Ule did not speak.
“Who are they?” asked Mazaar.
The old man hesitated to speak up.
“Well, let me remind you that this is your granddaughter, Celine,” he said, pointing to the woman, “her husband Matheus and their cute baby boy Oscar.”
Fear covered Ule’s face as Mazaar started pacing back and forth in front of him.
“Now do you recognize them?”
Ule slowly nodded.
"Ok, I'll show you another."
Mazaar swiped right on the phone, revealing the face of a middle-aged woman, Bavarian and distinguished. Ule couldn’t hide his shock, and Mazaar noticed.
"It's always the unexpected that will break a fucked-up man. She takes good care of you, doesn’t she?" Mazaar closed the phone and tossed it to Berzad.
“Ule, I have twenty men under me, and all it takes is a text message from me for them to round up your lady Christina.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Berzad indicated to Ferdash to do something, but Ferdash remained out of Mazaar’s way. Ule began to cough and then cough harder.
“Wait,” Ule said in a broken voice.
“If you want to hand me over to the authorities, fine, but please don’t harm the children or Christina.”
Mazaar smirked.
“I don’t care about feeding you to the authorities. I want the schematics codes!.”
Ule, confusion written all over his face, replied,
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Mazaar took a lighter out of his pocket and played with the lid, opening, and closing, the flame flickering on and off.
“I knew you were going to play dumb with us, so I have a game for you.”
Mazaar’s voice was eerily calm. It sent a shiver down Berzad’s spine. Mazaar walked to the nearest drawer and took out a blue NextGen cordless power drill. He put on the first drill bit and showed it to Ule.
“Ule, each time you act like you don’t know, I’m going to drill this through one of your fingers,” said Mazaar.
Berzad pressed Ferdash to do something urgently, but his superior both seemed completely unhinged. Mazaar moved a small side table to the place where Ule sat. He then turned the cordless power drill on and left it to vibrate on the table. Ule clenched his eyes and jaw. Mazaar waited to see the effect the sound would have on Ule; he watched the old man’s fear grow with suspense. Then, forcibly, he snatched Ule’s trembling left hand and slammed it on the table. He timed the moment—one second per phase of the height from the air to Ule’s fingers. The slamming sound of the hand, for some reason, echoed loudly in the small room. It was inherently loud, but it felt to have become louder as it echoed at length. Perhaps the gravity was awaiting the sound of pain to become inevitable. Ferdash looked on; Berzad couldn’t. Just a few seconds away from getting his index finger pierced, Ule kicked Mazaar’s right leg. A cry of agony filled the air, along with a buzzing cordless power drill being dropped on the floor. As Mazaar limped, Ule, one hand tied to the chair and the other free, rammed the chair into Mazaar. Mazaar went down. Ule ran to the door, dragging the chair behind him. Ferdash calmly tossed his drinking glass at Ule’s legs, tripping him. He stayed down on the floor, clutching an injured ankle.
“I’m going to kill this fucking Nazi,” yelled Mazaar as he recovered and regained his balance with the help of Berzad.
“Calm down, Commander,” ordered Ferdash.
After making sure Mazaar was ok, he tended to Ule. Ferdash untied him from the chair. Berzad assisted him, placing Ule on a more comfortable chair and checking his injury. Then, Berzad brought Ule a glass of water.
“Don’t give him anything, Berzad. I’m not done with him.” Mazaar picked up the drill and tried to turn it on, but Ferdash snatched it away.
“Commander, I have a question. How did Ule know you had a permanent injury on your right leg?”
Mazaar remained silent.
“Since you don’t know, I’m going to ask Ule myself…So, how did you know?”
Ule looked up. He had a guilty look about him, but he didn’t explain. Tired of waiting, Mazaar bellowed,
"Berzad, get me my phone. I’m going to love delivering him each of their heads, especially the child’s…”
“No!” shouted Ule.
“Please don’t hurt my grandchildren. I’ll give you everything, but I really don’t know what you want.”
Ferdash signaled to Berzad to calm Mazaar. He then crouched so that his gaze was level with Ule’s.
“You don’t know anything about the nuclear schematic codes, the fifth one? The one your handler possesses?” asked Ferdash gently.
“I don’t know…I work in a lab, my lab…” Ule stammered, heartbeat pounding.
“I make designs of schematics—yes, I admit—but that is all sent to my handler and then to suppliers elsewhere, and they do the selling, not me. They just send me a payment and requirements, and I only design, and that is it.”
“Don’t believe him!” screamed Mazaar.
Ferdash took a deep breath. He looked at Mazaar. The former nodded his head. Then Mazaar turned on the speake
r of his cell phone. It was a voice recording.
"No!” Ule cried.
“Please, don't harm her."
Ferdash wanted to be sympathetic, but his curiosity got the better of him. How did Ule know about Mazaar’s foot? Someone within Mazaar’s group of agents must have told him. Did Ule buy one of them off, or was his being here part of a wider plot?
As Ferdash looked at Ule’s eyes, he knew the man was not lying, but he was not speaking the entire truth either. All agents have feuds with other agents. It’s the nature of the job. But sometimes, things can get out of hand. No way Mazaar would allow that to happen, but what if it was one of those things that slipped through the cracks? What if it was about promotions, or, worse still, what if it was about money? Ferdash summoned Berzad and whispered to him. Berzad took the laptop from his backpack. He froze all agents’ access to key shared documents and networks and changed passwords. Just as Ferdash opened his mouth to ask his next question, his phone rang. He glanced at the caller id—an urgent call.
"Yes?"
"Did you do what I asked?" spoke the voice on the phone.
"I did," responded Ferdash.
"We don't have that much time…"
“Don’t worry. He’s not going anywhere. I've already sent you some materials.”
As the voice on the other end gave Ferdash new directions, he stared ahead at the scene in front of him.
"You have ten minutes to give us the whereabouts of the fifth schematic code,” demanded Mazaar.
“He doesn’t know, Commander,” said Ferdash as he hung up his cell phone.
“He really doesn’t know, but his handler does.”
“Oh, he does; he’s just lying,” responded Mazaar.
“No, Commander. That was Aphroditus on the phone.”
“We have something to take care of. The Ambassador might be in bigger trouble than this”.
╔ ——————————————— ╗
CHAPTER
TWO
╚ ——————————————— ╝
“It shows a tremendous lack of wit for us to waste precious time in dialogue with rogue groups on limiting testing, excessive nukes production, and fear-mongering. We should spend our time strengthening our alliances. If we do that, the rogue groups will have no option but to limit their activities to creating more nukes," said Ambassador Francois de Villeroy.
The Secrets We Live In: A Novel Page 2