Eves of Destruction

by Roy Berelowitz

  Upon his return to Paris, the attacks in Madrid and London inspired him and helped him keep the faith and, the ongoing violence against the Americans in Iraq made him even more certain of the cause but, as the time passed he felt increasingly disconnected from the fight. His trips to England and America had proven to him how vulnerable they were and he wished he could act on what he had learned. He yearned to visit a mosque, talk with like-minded people, and share with them his faith and his passion.

  At one point he briefly considered going to Syria and then finding a way into Iraq to participate in the battle against the American occupation but he quickly dismissed the idea. He had been given his assignment and faithfully carried it out all these years. But he continued to pray to be called upon.

  “Send me,” he intoned to himself repeatedly. It became his mantra, a soothing thought that briefly cooled his passion and desire for action.

  Now as he sat alone at the café, his ardor had not cooled, his faith undiminished but the pain of his martyrdom denied weighed ever heavier on his mind. He was lost in thought when an unfamiliar middle-aged man dressed in a neat double breasted suit seated at the next table leaned over and handed him a small package.

  “Monsieur, I believe you dropped this package,” said the elegant stranger.

  Al Rahman glanced at the man and then at the package, shaking his head he said, “No, that is not mine.”

  The elegant man stared hard at Abd Al Rahman, paused for a moment before leaning closer to him and whispering in Arabic, “The Prophet says otherwise.”

  Abd Al Rahman’s eyes widened briefly and then he quickly replied in French, “Oh yes, thank you. It must have fallen from my coat.”

  The man just smiled but said nothing and then tossed a few Euros onto his table and walked off not looking back.

  Abd Al Rahman remained in his seat watching the stranger walk away until he could no longer see him among the other pedestrians on the broad sidewalk. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching him and not seeing anyone, stared at the brown manila envelope in his lap. It had a large bulge in the bottom and he thought for a moment it might be a letter bomb but he felt no fear. He had faced death so many times he had complete control of his emotions as he picked up the package and sniffed it briefly. If it contained cordite, he might be able to smell it but there was no identifying odor. He was anxious to open and examine the contents of the package, but he counseled himself to wait a little while before returning to his apartment.

  Verifying first that the door to his apartment had not been opened since his departure earlier in the day, Al Rahman locked the door behind him as he stepped into the small and sparsely furnished apartment and placed the package on the kitchen table and just stared at it for a few moments. Then very deliberately, he felt around the edges looking for a trip wire or some indication it might be dangerous, but felt nothing. Reaching for a sharp kitchen knife he carefully sliced open the package and peered inside. Wrapped in layers of plastic wrap were a single DVD disk and a small clamshell shaped cell phone. He pulled them out with some difficulty because of the limited capacity of his right hand, and unwrapped the plastic until both items were completely exposed. He picked up the cell phone and turned it over in his hands for a moment and then set it back down on the table; he had never used one and was not sure what to do with it. Looking at the disk, he observed that other than the manufacturer’s label, it was unmarked. He reexamined the package and found no note or instructions. He inserted the disk into the cheap DVD player and pushed play. He stood back from the television as the images came to the screen and then sat down on the worn-out couch opposite the small television.

  The video camera was filming from a fixed point, probably a tripod. He heard sounds and voices, distant but still quite clear.

  “Is it on?” an unseen figure asked in Arabic.

  “Yes, yes it’s on. We are ready,” another unseen figure replied, louder and much closer to the camera.

  “Bring her out.” The voice was commanding and authoritative. “Stand her in front of the camera. Is she too close? Can you see her clearly?”

  The camera angle widened so three individuals came in to clear view in the middle of the screen. There were two armed men, both in long flowing robes and jackets typical of the Afghan Taliban, with their faces entirely covered, only their eyes showing through narrow slits. Between them and supported under each arm by both men stood a figure completely covered from head to toe in a dirty blue burqa, a full body veil commonly worn by women in Afghanistan and required dress before the collapse of the Taliban. The figure under the burqa seemed to sway uncertainly on her feet.

  Another large man stepped into the picture with his back to the camera and roughly pulled the burqa up and over the woman’s head and then he stepped out of the frame.

  Abd Al Rahman drew in a short sharp breath and his eyes widened as he stared at the nearly naked woman. It was immediately obvious she was neither an Afghan nor Arab woman; her skin color was very pale like a northern or eastern European. Her breasts were exposed but she had on a pair of dirty underpants. She was quite tall and thin but he could not guess her age. Her head hung forward as if she lacked the energy to hold it up and her disheveled blond hair hung over her eyes. Her mouth was agape and Abd Al Rahman could see a trace of blood on her lips, but her body seemed unmarked.

  “Take her over to the post,” the first voice barked again.

  The two men walked or rather dragged the semi conscious woman over the dusty courtyard to a large wooden post. One man held her while the other looped a rope around one of her wrists and then ran the rope through a metal ring attached high on the post. He tied the end of the rope to her other wrist so she hung uncomfortably by her wrists, feet barely touching the bare ground.

  Someone barked out an order that Abd Al Rahman could not hear but two men quickly ran into his view and wrapped two flack jackets around the lower part of the wooden post. Then all the men stepped out of the frame. The cameraman opened the angle of the shot so the woman appeared in the distance but he could still see her quite clearly as she hung almost limp from the post.

  “Is the camera ready?” he heard a muffled voice asked.

  “Yes, it is ready. I am filming right now.”

  There was some shouting in the background that was hard to make out but it sounded as if people were being admonished to stand back. Then a moment of silence followed by a flash as the woman’s body exploded. Abd Al Rahman jumped slightly in reflex to the explosion and then squinted at the image as he tried to make out what had happened. As the smoke cleared, he could see the lower half of woman’s mangled body lying on the ground in front of the post while her shattered upper body swung slowly from the post. For another moment the camera held steady on the woman’s upper body as it swung slightly from side to side and then abruptly the filming ended the recording faded to black.

  The sound of the cell phone ringing on the table jerked him out of his reverie. He picked it up and for a moment was unsure how to answer it but then opened it and placed it to his ear saying nothing. Then he heard the familiar voice of the man who had handed him the package.

  “Did you watch it?” he was asked in French.

  “Yes,” Abd Al Rahman answered. He started to ask a question but the caller quickly cut him off.

  “Listen to me carefully. Go back to the café where we met and take the phone with you. In about one hour the phone will ring and a man will give you a location nearby to meet him. Go there and watch what he does. Do you understand?”

  “Who are you?” Abd Al Rahman demanded. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  There was a pause before the caller responded.

  “I will explain later. But there is one more thing.” The caller paused briefly. “When you meet this man, you will recognize him from the old days at Pul-e-Charkhi.” At the mention of the notorious Afghan prison located outside Kabul, Al Rahman tensed, momentarily flashing back to the pain and horror he had endu
red there.

  “You will recognize him not as a friend but an enemy. Do not act on your impulse. He is expecting you.” The stranger’s voice was strong and emphatic. “This man, this Russian, is a gift to us from Allah. When the thing is done go to the park nearby where the children play on the carousel. Do you know the one I mean?”

  “Yes,” Al Rahman replied.

  “Good, I will see you there.” The phone was disconnected.

  Abd Al Rahman slowly closed the phone shut and stared at it absentmindedly for a moment, his eyes narrowed, brow furrowed. Then, casting aside a few lingering doubts, he quickly threw on his jacket, scooped up the phone and put it in his pocket and walked out of his apartment to await the call.

  CHAPTER 3

  MICHAEL DEVSKOY SAT in the dark bar slowly nursing his drink. He longed to drain the glass and quickly order another to quell the discomfort in his stomach and calm his nerves, but not today. Today he was doing his best to temper his behavior because he knew they would be meeting soon and if he was drunk, there would be repercussions. He shuddered involuntarily at the thought.

  Today was the big day, the day of days, the day on which his goals, his dreams, his aspirations would all finally come true. He chuckled briefly to himself and in a moment of weakness reached for the half empty glass in front of him and drained it. It hit his stomach with a sharp burning sensation and then quickly dissolved into his system giving him the momentary calm he craved. He slowly wiped his mouth on his sleeve and then, muttering under his breath, admonished himself to stop. Not today, today there could be no mistakes.

  He giggled into his empty glass at the anticipation of what would happen and at the extraordinary good luck that had literally dropped this incredible opportunity into his lap. Eight months earlier he had been one of the old guard, a former KGB agent with skills more suited to the Cold War between the Soviet Union and the United States, barely hanging on to his job in the new Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, commonly referred to as the FSB.

  He needed to survive for six more months to qualify for his full pension, not that it was much money, but for a man with very little, it was important. He watched as other colleagues found high paying jobs with private security firms or big corporations needing experienced field agents, but he doubted anyone would call him. Once a successful operative, today he was essentially a broken man, an alcoholic just filling space, retained only because of his past service. Earlier in his career he had earned a measure of respect from his colleagues for his tenacity on assignments but he had been told, quite bluntly, if it was not for his heroic service in Lebanon many years prior, he would have been thrown out of the service long ago.

  Officially he was assigned to an analyst’s position, monitoring internal threat levels from Muslim agitators within Russia, but his boss had not spoken with him for four months and really did not expect him to produce anything. He actually found him quite repugnant and preferred not to have any contact with him.

  He had been assigned a small cubicle in a section of the building that was mostly unused. There was no-one sitting near him although there were a few other men on the floor in similar circumstances to himself also whiling away their time to retirement. Mostly he just sat at his desk surfing the internet. Conversant in French, English and fluent in Arabic, he had plenty of websites and blogs to visit, but he had spent most of his time looking at pornography until a colleague warned him they were tracking internet usage and firing people who accessed pornographic websites. That left him with little or nothing to do.

  One day as he sat at his desk in a stupor from too many vodkas consumed at lunch, a young delivery clerk stopped by with a small cart on wheels carrying a number of boxes and mail items. The clerk was loudly chewing on gum and silently mouthing some song he was hearing from the headphones he was wearing, which were connected to an MP3 player on his belt. He picked up one of the dusty boxes off the cart and without saying anything, handed it to Devskoy.

  Devskoy just blinked at him, wondering why anyone would bother to send him anything. He took the box, stared at it for a moment and then placed it on his desk.

  The clerk stuck a clipboard with a single form on it in his face and tapped on it loudly with a pen.

  Devskoy glanced around the sheet for a place to sign and finally just scrawled his name on the sheet and then glanced unhappily at the box assuming it contained work files he would have to review. The idea he would actually have to do real work was disconcerting and he ignored the box for the next two hours until the day was done and he could escape from work.

  The next morning he reluctantly sliced open the tape on the box and peered inside. As he expected the box did contain some old files and three identical objects he could not identify; tubes about five inches long with a thin red wire attached at one end and a red button on the other. A small safety switch was located just below the button. He turned one of the tubes around in his hand wondering what it was, released the safety and pushed the button a few times but nothing happened. He put the tubes back in the box. He pushed the box to the side and played games on the internet until lunch.

  In the afternoon out of shear boredom he pulled one of the folders out of the box and began to read through it. At first he just scanned the pages not really seeing anything interesting until he became across a folder about the 1980 Moscow Olympics.

  That’s when he found gold.

  A set of classified documents staggering in its content had been literally dropped in his lap. At first he did not believe what he was reading, but as he carefully read and re-read the documents he became convinced it was real. He reached into the dusty box again and pulled out one of the tubes. He unscrewed the top and look down the tube realizing there were no batteries. He re-read one of the documents and then sat back in his chair shaking his head in wonder.

  That night he was surprised at his lack of desire to drink. He felt excited and energized for the first time in years and lay in bed in his small drab apartment thinking about what he had found. It was absolute gold he could easily sell to an interested party.

  In a panic he realized he had left everything back in his office. What if someone realized it had been sent to him by mistake, and then it would be lost to him for ever? He lay awake in bed until the dawn feeling both anxious and excited then quickly dressed and went to work early half expecting to find the box and all its contents gone, but it was exactly where he had left it.

  He decided he had to move the documents. Making copies would be too obvious and simply carrying out the box might also attract attention so he had to carry out the contents within his clothes or a small bag. Fortunately, a lot of the documents were background information, the pertinent data limited to the names of the five hundred and four women listed.

  The data provided on each woman was very detailed; date of birth, height, weight, work assignments, special training, even sexual orientation. But as he read through the contact information his heart sunk realizing the list was dated from August of 1992. So many years had passed; it was unlikely the data would be accurate. Without recent and accurate contact information, the information was worthless.

  He sat slumped in his chair crestfallen for a moment but then turned to the computer on his desk. He pulled up the FSB intranet, an internal organizational site just for FSB employees he had used only a couple of times to verify his pension status and official retirement date. He looked at some of the links and nothing seemed promising until he found a link to a registry of employees. He clicked on the link, entered his own name and found himself listed with his current job status, office phone, home phone and home address with an ‘as-of-date’ listed for just one month earlier. Clearly the data in his profile was current.

  He typed in the name of the first woman on the list of five hundred and four names. He held his breath as he pressed enter hoping to get some current data returned. He seemed to be in luck; her status was listed as operational and her contact data also seemed current. He checked the next
name on the list and got the same result. The third and fourth names were more disconcerting. The third name listed status as ‘deceased’ while the fourth name was listed as ‘furloughed’.

  As he continued working down the first twenty names the results seemed to be consistent; most of women were listed as furloughed, a few as operational and a number as deceased. He decided to call one listed as furloughed and briefly considered leaving the building to use a public payphone but he dismissed the idea and dialed the number. The phone rang twice and a woman’s voice answered. He was momentarily unsure what to say and so just asked for the woman by name. She confirmed her identity and he quickly hung up. He tried three more numbers and successfully reached one more woman while other two numbers rang unanswered.

  Sitting alone in his cubicle, Devskoy pondered his options. Not once did he consider the extraordinary act of betrayal he was considering. The only thoughts that came to mind were about feasibility and getting away with it; could he take what had been given to him, by obvious error, and capitalize on it. The risk was huge but the decision ultimately was easy and he had made it quickly.

  Three weeks later, having closed his small bank account and sold practically everything he owned, Devskoy was in Beirut, Lebanon late at night lying on dirty sheets in his cheap hotel room, sleeping off a night of despondent inebriation, drunk to dull his failure to find the former Syrian intelligence agent he had worked with when the Soviet Union and Syria were allies. He had not quit his job or announced his departure; he had just left, guessing it would be some time before someone missed him.

  Now he had spent all his money desperately and unsuccessfully looking for the one man he thought could help him. He passed the word on the streets and in the bars, paying bribes with the little money he had, trying to make a connection, but to no avail. He was met with either dull stares or sometimes angry dismissals; the Syrians were unpopular in Lebanon since their participation in the death of Lebanon’s Prime Minster and much of their security apparatus had been dismantled. He knew it had been a long shot he might actually find his old associate and by the tenth day in Beirut he was completely broke without even enough money to get home. He drank himself into a stupor.