by Jones, Rick
During the nights in his quarters when he froze and his bones seemed to be as fragile as glass, when not-so-alien screams sounded pained and distant, he kept his mind active and his eyes closed, drawing mental pictures of buckyballs and formulas in his mind before committing them to memory.
Often in the mud-laden yards, whenever possible, he would draw diagrams and formulas with the tip of his finger, finding it easier to actually see what his mind was conceiving, and then filing it away in his memory, if the concept was scientifically feasible.
The buckyballs, the formulations, everything was an escape in a world that was brutally harsh and unyielding. Cellmates came and went, always a different and interchangeable face on a seeming rotation to fill the gaps left behind by those who died by raging disease, torture or suicide. But Sakharov hung on while his body slowly caved to alternative sicknesses stemming anywhere from lung ailments to fever. And whereas his body began to regress, his mind continued to remain sharp.
On the climatic cusp of weather change, when the conditions were about to become abysmally cold due to the onset of fall and winter months, when the tines of his nerve endings began to ache in concert, redemption came to him in the form of a man he had never met before.
It began on a damp morning, the old man huddled beneath a threadbare blanket on his bunk, his knees drawn up in acute angles in a feeble attempt to keep himself warm. In the early morning light he could see the cold, wintry vapor of his own breath, causing him to pull the blanket tightly around him as though it were a second skin.
And when he heard the footfalls of the coming guards he closed his eyes, feigning sleep.
The door of his cell slid back, the un-oiled squeal of metal against metal as brutal as life inside Vladimir Central, and then the hard nudges against the old man’s side with the tip of one the guard’s baton.
“Get up and come with us,” he said in typical clipped Russian.
The old man learned long ago never to question a guard or to look him in the eyes. Laboring to his feet, shedding the blanket to one side, Sakharov stood and simply waited for the next command with his head submissively lowered so that his eyes were cast to the floor.
One of the guards pressed the baton across his backside and used it to usher the Old Man out of his cell. “Out and to the right,” he ordered.
Sakharov closed his eyes. ‘Out and to the right’ normally meant one of two things: either he was about to be beaten unmercifully with a truncheon, or he would be forced to act on behalf of the guards and beat another prisoner as they watched. He hoped it was the latter.
As they reached the far end of the right quadrant, the guard shoved the old man with the stick to drive him in another direction, towards the yard where inmates were allowed one hour of ‘outside’ time.
Once there, the old man was shoved into the yard and the door closed behind him. He was not alone. In a frozen muddied lot surrounded by twenty-foot concrete walls and a chain-link fence serving as a ceiling of sorts to prevent escape attempts, he stared at a man who was tall, dark and well dressed. His beard was perfectly trimmed, framing a thin face marked with the color and features of a man from the Middle East.
The man held his ground, appraising Sakharov with his hands deep inside the pockets of his jacket. His vapored breath came in equal measures. “Doctor Leonid Sakharov?” he asked in perfect Russian.
Sakharov looked immediately away, the man having been institutionalized long enough to be submissive at every encounter.
“Come, come, Doctor,” he said, taking a step toward the old man, “I’m a friend. There’s no need here to look away since we are equals, yes?”
Sakharov looked into the man’s eyes. “Why am I here?”
The well-dressed man circled Sakharov as if sizing him up, his hands remaining inside his jacket pockets. “You don’t look so well, Doctor. You look—what? Twenty, maybe thirty years older than when you first came here a few years ago?”
“What do you want?”
“I think the question should be, Doctor, is what we want from each other.”
The old man appeared small, the upper half of his body folding like the curve of a question mark, as he remained silent.
“You want what only I can give you,” the man added. “And in recompense, you give me what only you can give me.”
“And that would be?”
“Your skills, Doctor. What I want is your wonderful skills.”
“As you can see, I’m a broken old man. I have no skills.”
“I’m not talking about your body or soul. I’m talking about your mind.”
Now it was Sakharov’s turn to appraise the man, to size him up. “Who are you? What’s your name?”
The man smiled handsomely. “My name is Adham al-Ghazi.”
“And why would a man from the Middle East want with my mind, as you so pleasantly put it?”
“It is said that you possess the theories of a certain technology we are most interested in.”
“We?”
“The group I work for,” he answered.
“And what group would that be?”
The man’s smile diminished, but slightly. “A group that is willing to fund your way out of Vladimir Central Prison.”
Sakharov straightened up at this the same way the ears of a dog would perk up at something interesting.
“From the looks of things, Doctor, it appears that you won’t live another four months and we both know it. Now I can give you back the freedom and comforts of life, or I can leave you here to rot in this facility.”
“You want to know about nanotechnology.”
“I want to know certain applications of it, yes.”
Sakharov squinted in examination of the man and moved closer. “You know why I’m here, don’t you? You know that I was impatient and foolish, which cost the lives of two good people my government dismissed as collateral damage.”
“I won’t deny that.”
“Then you also know that I foolishly destroyed the subsequent tests because of the nature of the program—that it’s too powerful to manage.”
“You became a drunk who fought with and lost a battle with his own personal demons, Doctor. Don’t kid yourself. There’s nothing altruistic about your nature. You do what you do because you know that you can do what no other man on this planet can. This technology is too valuable to waste. If your government refuses to see that, then there are those who will value you for who and what you are . . . I can give you peace of mind, Doctor. Or as I said, leave you here to rot. It’s your choice. But if I walk away from this prison, then I walk away for good.”
Sakharov slowly bent back into position, his mind mulling over the proposition. He was a man dying by the inches, a man who often watched his cellmates come and go in a crafted box of cheap wood.
For years he formulated theories in his mind and stowed it away, only to get the chance to one day utilize it once again. For years he romanced and fantasized the idea of once again being in the lab to correct the errors of his past and to learn due diligence. It was the only thing that kept him alive over the past few years. Without it, he would have given up long ago like so many others who died without hope.
“Who are your people?”
“Is it important?”
“If I do this, then I need to know who I’m working with.”
“First of all, Doctor, you won’t be working with anyone. You’ll be working for me and the constituency I represent.”
Sakharov cocked his head studiously. “You’re from the Middle East?”
“I am.”
“Then why would I work for you? A man from the Middle East?”
“If you want your freedom, Doctor, then ask me no more questions and leave it at that.”
“Are you al-Qaeda? Do you want to use my technology for weaponry? Is that it? At least give me the courtesy of knowing the people I may work for.”
“Al-Qaeda is a strong word, so we’ll leave it at that, Doctor. And you’
re running out of time. So give me your answer.”
The old man pulled in a breath of cold air, and his lungs rattled with an awful wetness. “What must I do?” he asked flatly.
“Simple: stay alive while my people negotiate a sum for your release. It may take awhile. It all depends upon the greed of these people. It could take a month, a year, who knows.”
“And if you can’t settle upon a sum?”
“Then you will die. But their greed is paramount, so I wouldn’t worry. The moment we attempt to back off, then they’ll give in. In the meantime, the guards will be paid to see that your accommodations are better, the meals more plentiful, and that you stay alive, if possible.”
“And if I’m released?”
“There are other hurdles my constituency is trying to solve at this moment in order to acquire the necessary accouterments and location to serve your needs. Once done, then I will locate you and request that you fulfill your half of the agreement.”
And once I’m free and disagree to fulfill my obligation to them? The answer was obviously clear to Sakharov: Then they will kill you in a manner far worse than Vladimir Central ever could.
“Your answer, Doctor.”
“If you could expedite the matter, then that would be greatly appreciated. It isn’t exactly the Ritz in here.”
Al-Ghazi gave a quick perusal of the area. “That’s quite apparent,” he said.
The man from the Middle East began to walk to the door and without looking back, he said, “In time I will find you, Doctor. Do not forget our agreement should the sum of your release be agreed upon.”
And that was the last time the old man saw al-Ghazi until the moment when the Arab showed up in his apartment to cash in his chips.
From that point after the meeting he was then ushered to a different cell that was larger, yet still cramped with the bodies of other prisoners, who were obviously told that Sakharov was a man walking with a ‘hands off’ policy. If anyone so much as lay a menacing touch on the old man, then not only would they fall victim to a guard’s truncheon, but most likely end up as pulp inside a pauper’s coffin. The gruel was plentiful by Vladimir Central’s standards, and a heater provided as promised. The greatest luxury, however, was not the warmth or the additional gruel, but the wafer-thin mattress. Instead of lying on a cold wooden surface, he slept in marginal comfort.
So here he was, in Tehran, on a mattress reminiscent of his time in a Russian prison, a mere luxury.
And until the moment the old man fell asleep, Sakharov was caressing his fingers over the mattress.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Vatican City
Standing before an open window in the Domus Sanctæ Marthæ, Cardinal Angullo stood looking out at the Basilica, musing over the fact that the conclave was just under two weeks away and that he, along with three others including Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci, were part of the Preferiti, those who were the most preferred to succeed the papal throne by the College of the Cardinals.
Politicking was a way to promote and nothing more. But it was the individual’s choosing as to who would actually succeed that was kept close to the vest. Those who divulged their candidate while entering the conclave stood the chance of excommunication. Therefore, to build camps and alliances, and to share with them the strengths and ideologies of a Preferiti brought to the table beforehand, was paramount.
But Angullo’s camp had weakened over the past six months, his ideologies not coinciding with the pontiff’s, and therefore enacted unwarranted challenges toward the pope with subsequent discussions that often became heated between them. By exhibiting more power than was granted, with his personal management sometimes uncontrollable by the way he acted before the pope, caused his members to disassociate from his camp, the one-time respect for the cardinal now lost.
And this did not go unnoticed before his eyes.
By the inches he was losing his foothold to be the next in line for the papal throne, yet his camp remained strong. But as time moved forward his power diminished. And so was the opportunity to sit upon the papal throne and rule a constituency of more than a billion people.
So he acted accordingly and provided his opportunity.
On the eve of the pontiff’s death, he spiced Gregory’s meal with a poison that made him sick and feverish and somewhat disoriented. As the hours passed, as the blue shadows traipsed slowly across Vatican grounds’ with the trajectory of the moon, he waited in the shadows of the pontiff’s chamber with saintly patience.
When the pope exited from the bed with the poison coursing through his veins like magma, and then making his way to the balcony, Angullo could not believe his luck and chalked it up to God’s will. His original intent was to place a pillow over the pontiff's face and snuff the life out of him. And with the aged man dying in his sleep, a way of life in which the world would view as God's will, no questions would be asked. But when the large man stood at the rail of the balcony overlooking Vatican City, it was as if God was allowing him a lasting panoramic view of St. Peter’s Square, a final good-bye with the Basilica, the obelisk, and the Colonnades clearly defined within his mind.
But Gregory’s mind was clearer than he thought, the pontiff calling out in the darkness of his suite, somehow knowing that he was not alone, which caught the cardinal off guard.
Like a wraith that appeared to glide inches above the floor rather than walk across it, he quietly made his way to the balcony with a hand raised, and with a mighty shove sent the pontiff airborne, the big man clearing the railing and falling to the cobblestones below.
From his vantage point he watched the life bleed quickly out of the man and across the stones, the old man raising a clawed hand skyward, towards him, accusing him one last time before it fell the moment he took his last breath.
Angullo closed his eyes at the memory of what he had done so clear in his mind’s eye. But the images of what he did that night never haunted him, his conscience remaining clear and undisturbed. And at that very moment he had come to terms believing that what he had done was truly justifiable—and that upon his succession to the throne he would rule the Church the way Gregory should have.
And then he opened his eyes and raised his hand before him—the murdering hand, he considered, the one willed by God to shove Pope Gregory to his death for the good of the Church.
And since it was against Vatican law to perform an autopsy on the pope, the poison would never be discovered. And the cardinal was convinced that this was all due to the Lord’s wishes. Lowering his hand, his eyes once again returning to the Basilica, Cardinal Angullo realized that another within the Preferiti stood in his way. And should Cardinal Vessucci garner enough steam before the conclave, then God may see fit that Cardinal Vessucci follow the same fate as the late pontiff.
After all, he told himself, it was God’s will.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Islamabad, Pakistan, The Following Day
In the eyes of the Islamic Revolutionary Front, Umar al-Sarmad, although not a leader, possessed the qualities to become one. He was twenty-eight, brash, and full of bravado, the young warrior always romancing the idea that fighting in the name of Allah was a prestigious one.
For the past four years he held the front lines along the Afghan mountain range, always the first into battle, the last to leave. Often he would pray alongside his fellow combatants in the complex cave system as bombs hurtled over their heads, with the tremors beneath his knees or the cascades of dust falling from the cave tops affecting him little.
But in reality Umar al-Sarmad had constantly prayed to a god that was not his own and fought alongside the revolutionists with bravado that was nothing more than veneer.
For Umar al-Sarmad was not as he seemed.
His true name was Aryeh Levine, a Hebrew growing up outside the city of Jerusalem.
And he was Mossad.
At the age of twenty-four and having served three years in the Israeli Army and then an additional three years as a commando, Aryeh
Levine caught the eye of one of the most recognized, if not the most legendary, intelligence agency in the world.
He was smart with the ability to make snap judgments hinging on instinct rather than the timely process of deductive reasoning. His judgments were usually correct in the most difficult situations—his leadership recognized and never questioned. So he was recruited for the welfare of the state of Israel.
From day one he was “processed” as if he was a prisoner, going through rigorous interrogation techniques to withstand any punishments meted out should his role as an infiltrator be compromised. He learned the enemy’s language and dialect, their culture and prayers. And the transformation from Aryeh Levine to Umar al-Sarmad was a successful one that culminated in a final makeover as an Islamic terrorist.
His commencement began in Yemen, at the Zaydi Great Mosque, where his anti-sentiment rants against the United States and Israel caught the attention of radical fundamentalists. Within months his seemingly sound reasoning earned him prestige within the Circle, which subsequently became a call of duty to serve Allah on the battlefield alongside his al-Qaeda brothers. Within a span of three months, from the time he entered the mosque to the moment he first set foot on the battlefield, Aryeh Levine had successfully infiltrated the Islamic Revolutionary Front.
It wasn’t, however, too long thereafter when he caught the eye of his leader, Adham al-Ghazi. On a frigid day deep in the mountain terrain, al-Ghazi’s team happened upon a counterforce of a dozen troops who were killed in an ambush, their bodies scattered, bloodied and unmoving. In the event, however, two survived the skirmish, both wounded, one holding his bullet-ridden arm, the other weak with a badly rented shoulder.
When they were forced to their knees before al-Ghazi, their eyes resigned to the fact that their lives were about to come to a horrible and violent end, the same way that a cat plays with its prize before the kill.
And al-Ghazi was that cat, his quiet demeanor as powerful as a feline’s paw swiping at them, his dark eyes serving as the talons that drove deep beneath their skins by peeling back the layers to reveal their inward secrets until he knew who and what they were without even questioning them. Without a second thought or consideration, he simply knew they were Mossad.