Pandora's Ark (Vatican Knights)

by Jones, Rick

  He could see al-Ghazi reaching a boiling point.

  “He is Mossad.”

  Al-Ghazi went to the glass partition and placed his palm against the glass. “Can you hear me?” he asked.

  Levine answered with a pain riddled grimace, teeth clenching, his eyes rolling up into slivers of white and on the cusp of passing out before coming back.

  “Can you hear me?” he repeated.

  “I . . . hear you,” he said.

  Al-Ghazi sighed and pressed his forehead against the glass. It was cool to the touch. “Why?”

  Levine shook his head. The agony was too much to bear.

  “I treated you like a brother, loved you as one. I trusted you with my darkest secrets.”

  Levine gripped the armrests, his knuckles going white.

  “Are you Mossad?”

  “What do you think?”

  Al-Ghazi stepped away, angry and saddened at the same time.

  “Do you usually incorporate the enemy into your leagues?” asked al-Sherrod. But al-Ghazi could tell that he was being sarcastic and ignored him. “Perhaps you should apply better methods of recruitment, so as not to bring aboard anyone who can compromise our position.”

  Al-Ghazi closed his eyes and fought for calm. Al-Sherrod was pushing his buttons. He would rather have the man curse him out and be done with it, rather than his constant needling.

  “You are a traitor to the cause,” al-Ghazi said through the glass. “You are a Zionist, you are Mossad, and there can be no other outcome other than death.” And you have broken my heart, Umar.

  Al-Ghazi stepped back and forced upon him the features of indifference, which al-Sherrod immediately saw through.

  “Do what you must,” he told al-Sherrod. “Be done with him.”

  Al-Sherrod nodded. And then over his shoulder: “Bring in the good professor,” he ordered. Then more softly to al-Ghazi: “I think it’s time to see the true nature of the beast, don’t you? I’m curious to see the demons that Doctor Sakharov created at work.” He turned to al-Ghazi who kept his focus on Levine. “As I’m sure you are,” he added with a grin of malicious amusement that was almost as disturbing as his needling, thought al-Ghazi, if not more so.

  Sakharov was roughly escorted to an open seat before a console granting an open view of the chamber, a premiere accommodation for the upcoming event.

  “My good Doctor,” said al-Sherrod, approaching him with his hands placed securely behind the small of his back. “Comfortable?”

  “These apes of yours hurt me. I’m an old man. I can only move so fast.”

  The man bowed in feigned apology. “Then let me be the first to apologize on their behalf,” he said. “But I thought it would be important that you see the fruits of your labor.”

  Sakharov saw Levine inside the chamber; saw the man’s badly broken and swollen ankles. When he was incarcerated in Vladimir Central he had seen the same thing. Often guards would take their truncheons to the kneecaps and ankles, breaking them until the bones became free floating. Nevertheless, the unnatural angles always made him turn away, as he did now.

  “Don’t worry, Doctor,” said al-Sherrod. “We’re going to fix his ailment permanently.”

  Al-Sherrod walked away and took up the area next to al-Ghazi. “Is there anything more you wish to ask the Jew?”

  Al-Ghazi could only stare, not understanding in his own heart why he cared so much for this man. He cared for him deeply, even now as Levine sat there riding out unimaginable pain. It didn’t matter to him that Levine—or Umar—was a Jew or that he was Mossad. All he knew was that his heart ached deeply for the man whom he had come to care for as a brother, and will probably grieve for as well.

  “Do what you must,” he finally answered. “I’ve said all I had to say.”

  Al-Sherrod smiled. “Good, good. Then perhaps you would like to engage the button then. After all, it might do your soul good to be rid of the man who compromised your position. Certainly this wouldn’t look good in the eyes of al-Zawahiri should this man go unpunished by your hand. Perhaps this will be the first step of redemption in the old warrior’s eyes, yes?”

  Al-Ghazi faced him, his eyes and face lit up with anger. Did al-Sherrod have the insight to see what he was truly thinking or feeling regarding Aryeh Levine? Or was his malice simply a part of his makeup in which it was mere sustenance that moved him forward?

  “You will push the button, won’t you?” al-Sherrod pressed.

  “He is a traitor, what do you think?”

  The diminutive man’s smile flourished. “Then let’s see what the good doctor’s discoveries have brought us, shall we?” He turned to Sakharov, his enthusiasm unbridled. “Good Doctor,” he said, pointing to Levine. “I want you to take a good long look at the beginning of the end.”

  With a quick flick of his hand, a technician began to type in the required codes. When he was done, he fell back in his seat and rolled his chair away from the console. In al-Ghazi’s eyes the ENTER button was starkly larger than all the rest when, in fact, the button was no larger than any other on the keyboard.

  “Go ahead,” said al-Sherrod, placing a hand on al-Ghazi’s shoulder and directing toward the console. “Seek revenge against the Zionist. Make yourself whole in the eyes of al-Zawahiri.”

  Al-Ghazi stood over the panel and stared at the ENTER button.

  His heart thrummed. Never had he hesitated when granted such an opportunity.

  “Adham, the good doctor is waiting.”

  Al-Ghazi faced Sakharov and saw that the man appeared as lost as he was, perhaps realizing that his ambitions had taken him beyond something he could live with on a conscience and moral level, the pain of his guilt growing exponentially. Al-Ghazi, on the other hand, despite his extremist position and Zionist prejudices, felt the same climatic guilt for what he was about to do. In their gaze they connected, one man sensing the wrongful deed of the other, but had no choice in the matter. It was what it was.

  “I’m not getting younger, Adham.”

  Al-Ghazi turned away from Sakharov and faced Levine. The man was in such agony that al-Ghazi prayed that he would lose consciousness. But he didn’t. The fault to maintain his awareness was a noble trait, but also a foolish one.

  He pressed the button.

  Within fifteen seconds a waspy hum sounded out over the loudspeakers, the press of the button activating the sound waves to stimulate the nanobots.

  Levine’s eyes opened to the size of saucers, his body going erect and statuesque as the bots, creatures so small that a hundred thousand could fit on the head of a pin, began to dissolve the man by the inches. Levine screamed, his hands going to his face that dissolved and liquefied under the onslaught; his eyes popping, then sliding within his orbital sockets, disappearing; the flesh around his mouth paring back before disappearing, showing the horrific smile of a skeletal grin. The fabric of his clothes began to turn red, his blood from gaping wounds beneath his shirt and garments ripping apart as flesh was rented and torn asunder, the imprint of his ribs now showing through his shirt. His legs seemed to dissolve beneath his pants, the material of his camouflage suit deflating until his legs appeared no thicker than broomsticks. And then he was gone, leaving skeletal remains draped in bloody fabric.

  Al-Ghazi looked at the remains and noted that the skull was turned right at him, its smile a grim reflection that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Oddly enough, Levine had the presence of mind to point a bony finger in al-Ghazi’s direction, as well. Or perhaps, he thought, it was by mere coincidence that the accusing talon was directed his way during the throes of writhing agony.

  “Outstanding,” said al-Sherrod, moving closer to the window. “Absolutely amazing.”

  The waspy hum decreased over time, the nano mass deteriorating by the half-life code embedded into them by Sakharov, making them less critical. Within fifteen minutes their lifespan was diluted to the point where their existence had zero effect. More so, they only attacked the organic matter. Eve
rything had been a resounding success.

  “You see, Doctor! You see what you’ve brought us? The ultimate solution in changing the world,” said al-Sherrod. His happiness could hardly be contained. “A controlled weapon of mass destruction.”

  Whereas al-Sherrod saw it as a way for Iran to bully their way into a position as a world power, al-Ghazi saw it as a device to rid the world of Zionists and infidels, two totally separate agendas. Sakharov, however, with his scientific mind saw this as End Times. Such a weapon in the minds of corrupted officials tend to lose reason and foresight as their ambitions become too great to control, thereby creating the eventual aftermath of complete and total destruction.

  Sakharov knew that Russia would have exercised the same set of ambitions to recertify their egotistic and divine power over the United States, even with the Cold War over. Number one was everything. Number two was insignificant.

  “So now I must express to you, my good Doctor, the gratitude of my countryman, the gratitude of President Ahmadinejad and, of course, my appreciation, for what you have given us.”

  Sakharov sat back in his seat. And when he spoke he didn’t speak in his usual hardened manner. It was a side of him he never revealed to any of them before, the side of a man possessed with calm intellect. “In the pursuit of progress,” he said, “I have abandoned my humanity. And should there be a Devil, then I have surely nailed my soul to the Devil’s Altar.”

  Al-Sherrod stared at him.

  “Now I know how J. Robert Oppenheimer felt after he developed the bomb,” he added, “after he realized its horrific potential.”

  “Regrets, Doctor?”

  “You just heard what I said, didn’t you? Anything of this magnitude can be controlled for so long before human nature finally takes over by someone who thinks he can manage the power. Ultimately, that war is lost and so will all of humanity . . . eventually.”

  “You’re wrong, Doctor. In the right hands, under the right minds, nothing can go wrong.”

  The old Doctor Sakharov returned. “Then you’re as ignorant as you look.”

  The smile washed away from al-Sherrod’s face. “See the good doctor back to his chamber,” he said. “And do be as rough with him as you were getting him here.”

  Two Quds soldiers hoisted Sakharov roughly to his feet and escorted him away.

  “Hey! Careful! I’m an old man!”

  He then turned to al-Ghazi, who appeared mesmerized by the remains of Levine. “He deserved what he got, yes?”

  Al-Ghazi remained quiet.

  “If I didn’t know better, Adham, I’d say you were mourning the loss of the Zionist. Surely this isn’t so?”

  He flashed the man a hard gaze. “I’m tired of your little innuendos, al-Sherrod. If you’ve got something to say, then say it.”

  “I’m merely proposing my thoughts of what I believe to see.”

  “Then you’re blind,” he returned.

  “Am I?”

  AL-Sherrod confronted al-Ghazi by standing between him and the body of Levine, their eyes steely and intent. “We do have another pressing issue at hand here,” he said.

  Al-Ghazi nodded in agreement.

  “The operative which you solely placed into our facility has compromised the very location of this facility to Mossad; therefore, we must consider the probability of a possible strike. If that is the case, then we must abandon this area immediately. We are now put into a position of denying culpability when we were never in such a position before.”

  “Then we have no other choice,” he said. “We wipe away all prints that this facility ever existed.”

  Al-Sherrod lifted a hand to al-Ghazi’s shoulder. “None of this will matter anyway,” he told him. “We have what we want, so this facility has become irrelevant. We are now in a position to fear no one.”

  “No doubt Mossad is deciding what to do.”

  “No doubt. We were able to decipher some of the encrypted contents sent. They know the location and specific agenda of Sakharov’s findings. So I assume they’ll send their concerns up the Zionist chain of command to justify a prompt strike. And, of course, they’ll notify the United States and its allies of their intentions. And, of course, the United States will try to stall them, which will aid us with the necessary time to move our assets.”

  “How long?”

  “Two, maybe three days,” he answered. “Ahmadinejad is being notified as we speak.”

  Al-Ghazi had his own data files locked away in his satellite office in Tehran, so he was safe. What happened to the facility, its wares, or its people was beyond his concern. In fact, he didn’t really care what happened to them, as long as he was in Tehran. But he did have a singular concern regarding the timeline of their conspiracy against the Vatican. “Does that give us enough time to get things in motion?”

  “It’ll be tight,” he said. “But doable.”

  “And Doctor Sakharov?”

  Al-Sherrod shot off another one of his malicious and annoying smiles. “Now that, Ahmad, is another matter. His mind is too valuable an asset, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Which means that he’s staying with your organization?”

  Al-Sherrod did little to hide his zeal, his smile widening to a Cheshire grin. “Did you really believe otherwise?”

  #

  Doctor Leonid J. Sakharov sat alone in his residence, his sight stretching out for a long moment into the darkness, his eyes unwavering. But his mind churned with the bombarding madness of nonstop memories.

  When he was in Vladimir Central prison he subsisted on his memories, which drove in him the compassion to live, to survive, to keep moving no matter how much the guards broke his body down. With random beatings by their truncheons, and then to see those around him die with their eyes staring at nothing in particular as the spark of life left them when their souls departed, he kept going, afraid to die.

  While in Vladimir Central he dreamed of buckyballs, of his science, the molecular chains becoming the driving sustenance that kept him alive during those wintery nights beneath threadbare blankets and lived by the power of prayer, his science his God.

  Now, with his dreams finally coming to fruition, he realized that his God was a dark one.

  He had seen its intention, to kill without impunity or conscience or remorse. And he was the one to helm and unleash its ferocity into the hands of extremists who bore no intent of purity in its application.

  What have I done?

  His ambitions had corrupted him, he knew that. And he had no justification for what he did because he knew their intent all along. He simply chose to turn a blind eye knowing the power of his creation.

  In the darkness the old man brought his hands up and cradled his head.

  What have I done?

  With his aging eyes he watched his discovery tear a man apart, saw the acid bite of his creation destroy flesh and sinew with quick and ravenous hunger.

  Feeling contrite to the point where his soul had paid a horrible price, though not a religious man, old man Sakharov got to his feet. He was no longer afraid.

  When the door of his residential capsule opened he was greeted by a harsh light coming from the hallway, causing his eyes to squint until they adjusted.

  The hallway was empty.

  He sauntered into the corridor in a gait that spoke volumes—that he was not a threat by any physical means, could hardly raise a hand in defiance let alone in retaliation. But it wasn’t his body they had to worry about. It was his mind.

  Old Man Sakharov made his way to the lab and silently watched a tech at the console typing a program related to his nanotechnology, the data transmitting as scientific cuneiform on the monitor. In a slow curdle deep within the pit of his stomach; Sakharov could feel a slow boil.

  Quietly he made his way behind the tech, and in doing so picked up a metal clipboard on his way. After hefting it he realized that it was too light to cause any real damage. Perhaps striking the man at the temple, a well-placed blow, he considered.
>
  Taking careful aim, the man’s head stationary, a firm and unmoving target, Sakharov swung the clipboard as hard as he could, the corner catching the tech at the thinnest point of his temple, cutting deep, the head wound bleeding out as the tech fell to the side with his hand clutching at the deep incision.

  Sakharov hit the man repeatedly, as if he was a guard at Vladimir Central, never relenting, blow after blow, more cuts, more wounds, more blood.

  The tech tried to crawl away, the damage inflicted minimal, but driving.

  As the tech lay dazed with the collar area of his lab coat saturated with blood, Sakharov labored into the seat and attempted to wipe away the data. But the characters were in Farsi. He looked over the console, a quick perusal. The keyboard he used for his experiments, the one with Russian characters, was gone.

  The data continued to download on the screen before him.

  He tapped the buttons in random.

  Nothing.

  And then he became desperate, almost feral.

  He looked at the tech that had crawled his way to another terminal, saw the blood track he left in his wake upon the floor and the bloody handprint on the silent alarm, which he pressed before passing out.

  Sakharov got to his feet and found an inner strength. He was no longer afraid, but angry, his mind closing out all forms of impending punishments, not caring, his will to succeed in the dismantling of his findings far greater than the retribution he was about to receive.

  He picked up the chair, though his arms found it difficult, and swung it against the console, then against the monitor, causing a star-shaped crack in the glass. Another strike, the blow futile and causing no damage, his arms weakening in the process, the muscles starting to turn to gel.

  And then he heard the sound of coming footsteps, the Quds approaching.

  After another feeble blow Sakharov turned, only to be met with the stock end of a rifle.

  Lights out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The ceiling.

  The walls.

  The lights.

  The glass partition.

  When Sakharov came to he saw that he was inside a vacuum chamber. Immediately, he conceded to his fate.