by Jones, Rick
“Good morning, Doctor,” said Al-Sherrod, his voice coming through the mike system. His face appeared humorless with no lines of his ugly Cheshire teeth showing. Beside him stood al-Ghazi, who shared the same flat appearance, the same emotionless expression. “You’ve been out for most of the day. Welcome back.”
Sakharov measured his surroundings. Did he expect anything less?
“I hardly thought that you’d make such an attempt, Doctor. My mistake for letting my guard down. I didn’t believe you had it in you.”
Sakharov looked at the diminutive man and at al-Ghazi, who stood much taller. “So now you’re going to kill me the same way you killed Umar?”
“Umar was not his real name. He was a Zionist.”
“Does it matter?
Al-Sherrod deflected him with another direction of answering. “I had plans for you, Doctor Sakharov. Huge plans.”
“Not interested.”
“I gathered that since your little escapade early this morning. But there’s good news, I suppose. The only damage you inflicted was a broken monitor, nothing more. So you failed in your attempt to annihilate your findings, which I assume was the purpose of your action?”
When Sakharov didn’t answer, al-Sherrod paced back and forth in front the glass like a caged feline, to and fro, looking and studying Sakharov who watched his every move.
“Big plans,” he finally commented. “President Ahmadinejad presumed to move you and your findings to a different locale, so that you could further your studies.”
Studies? Is that what you call it?
“I have resigned to my fate,” he answered. “I will not lift another finger to help you or your regime. I was foolish to do so in the first place.”
“So you said, Doctor. I believe the term you used was ‘In the pursuit of my own progress, I have abandoned my humanity.’”
“And should there be a Devil,” he added, “then I have surely nailed my soul to the Devil’s Altar.”
“Foolishly poetic,” said al-Sherrod, “but your so-called lack of humanity is actually a state in which ‘true’ evil will be eradicated, and the infidels laden impotent once and for all.” Then, as if imploring his line of thought: “Don’t you see, Doctor, your technology will evolve the world into a much better place.”
“My technology will destroy this planet because of people like you who do not bear the insight or foresight of its true capacity. You only see what you want to see without realizing the destructive potential of what I created. You are misled to believe that a simple program can put you in a position of control when, in fact, you fail to see your own short fallings in the same way I was unable to foresee my own . . . And in the end, I lost. The same will happen to you.”
“Hardly,” was his response. “You are a foolish old man who could not control his passions. But your ideas will live on, Doctor. And they will do so under the Iranian banner.”
Sakharov’s jaw clenched.
“Unfortunately for you, Doctor, I presume that your action early this morning means that you refuse to further the program with extensive studies to add, or perhaps modify, your findings?”
“Piss off,” he said.
Al-Sherrod turned to al-Ghazi for clarification. “Piss off?”
“It’s a derogatory remark telling you to back off. It’s a crude expression.”
“I see.” He turned back to Sakharov. “Is that your final answer, Doctor? To tell me to ‘piss off’?”
Sakharov did not respond, the man obviously resigning himself.
“Then you leave me no choice,” said al-Sherrod. With a motion of his hand al-Sherrod proffered an order to the tech manning the console.
The tech that Sakharov had beaten with the clipboard tapped a command into the keyboard, then waited for further instructions from al-Sherrod, who stretched the moment out as long as he could as the gazes between he and Sakharov remained steady.
And then: “Do it.”
The tech pressed the ENTER button, initiating the sound waves.
Sakharov then closed his eyes and braced himself, his hands clutching at the armrests of his chair as the waspy hum began to advance on him.
Within less than two minutes it was over.
And Leonid Sakharov, a man with a brilliant mind, had succumbed to the creations of his own ambitions.
#
As al-Ghazi and al-Sherrod watched the Quds soldiers remove the remains of Sakharov from the chamber, al-Ghazi turned to the diminutive man with pressing questions.
“It won’t be long until the Zionists retaliate,” he said simply.
“The Americans will stall them,” he returned. “So we have time.”
“We don’t know this for sure.”
“The Americans are intent to keep their economy in check. Such a violation against Iranian sovereignty only provokes to cripple an already hurting economy by escalating gas prices, which is a major concern for the Americans. He who holds the oil, my friend, also holds the scepter of rule. And the Americans know this. They will talk the Zionists to stave off their attack and let the sanctions work.”
“But Israel will not hold off forever.”
“Of course not,” he said. “Past history has shown that. But past history has also shown that they will wait long enough to placate the United States, as well.” Then: “We still have time. We simply need to be careful with our applications and not rush into this with any chance of failure.”
“How long?”
Al-Sherrod mused over this for a long moment before answering. “A week,” he finally answered. “Perhaps two.”
“Two weeks may be too long,” he replied.
“Your impatience is showing, Adham. I thought it was a conviction of your people to exhibit the virtue of patience.”
“We are not without reality, either,” he told him. “The gamble is too great should the Israeli’s decide to strike. The optimum thing to do is to act accordingly to the situation. And the situation dictates that the location of the facility has been compromised and the nature of our findings made clear to the enemy.”
Al-Sherrod considered this.
“We have the technology,” said al-Ghazi. “We have the capability to manufacture enough nanobots to achieve the means of an initial strike against the Vatican. We cannot wait on the assumptions of what the United States and Israel might do.”
Al-Sherrod looked at al-Ghazi squarely in the eyes and noted his fiery determination. “One week,” he finally said. “I believe we can produce enough of the quantity necessary to achieve the means. But will that give you enough time to set everything in motion?”
“I have replaced Umar with others,” he told him. “They have decided to martyr themselves.”
“Are they capable?”
“They are skilled to initiate the program,” he said. “It’s just a matter of introducing the Ark in a timely fashion.”
“And how will you do this?”
“I will contact a leading religious principle with the condition that the true Ark will be an offering to be shared by all religions, with its opening to be commenced at the Vatican with all leading principles and political states of head present. When the lid is opened to reveal the tablets, then the canisters inside will be activated. Everything made of organic matter within Vatican City will be destroyed within minutes.”
Al-Sherrod suppressed his smile. The leading political principals, as well as leading religious leaders and other spiritual dignitaries who pray to false gods, will be neutralized. But his goal was not borne of religious extremism, but out of political radicalism.
“Should this succeed,” he told al-Ghazi, “then we will plant such canisters in New York, Washington D.C., Tel Aviv, London, to whatever locations that will propel Iran as an international power.”
“You do whatever your agenda requires,” said al-Ghazi. “If yours is strictly political, so be it. Ours is for religious purposes only. We do this for the sake of Allah.”
“I see.”
Al-Sherrod nodded. “Then the Ark is yours,” he said. “Do with it what you will and set forth the precedence of changing the balance.”
Al-Ghazi, at least for the moment, shared his enthusiasm. “Then with the will of Allah,” he said, “let us set forth Pandora’s Ark.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Vatican City
When the plane finally landed in Rome, Kimball felt something he hadn’t felt in a very long time: elation, purpose and true belonging.
When he arrived at the Vatican he was shelled with old memories. The wonderful imagery when he was a Vatican Knight when things were at their worst but he was at his best, making a difference in the lives of others rather than taking them away.
He had finally come home.
When he entered the dormitory housing of the Vatican Knights he felt a very real belonging, an indescribable gravitation. Above the door to his quarters was the acid-etched stencil of the Knights’ coat of arms, the symbol of faith, loyalty, honor, courage and strength. Reaching up, he brushed his fingers over the engraving.
Opening the door he found the room the way he left it six months before. To the left was his bed and nightstand. To the right the small votive rack, kneeling rail and podium which held a Bible, its cover dust laden. His first action was to go to the Bible where he drew a breath and blew the dust away in a plume. He did not open the book. Instead, he put the aluminum case beside the nightstand and headed for the mirror.
In the past six months he had aged little. In fact, the only process he noted was that his crow’s feet had deepened, the lines stretching closer toward the temples. Other than that there was nothing to show that he had become hardened over the past six months with constant drink and the feeling of self-loathing and failure.
Although he wanted to smile, he did not.
After donning his uniform as a Vatican Knight, he returned to the mirror and contorted the beret to specs, the embroidered symbol of the team, the powder blue shield and silver Pattée, stood front and center. His clerical collar was pristine, his shirt and pants pressed.
Kimball was now in his element.
After cleaning his quarters a knock came at the door, a few sharp raps.
It was Leviticus. And the two men embraced.
“The pontiff wishes to speak with you,” Leviticus finally told him.
“Our first mission?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. But it’s not what you think, Kimball.”
“How so?”
“Bonasero’s life may be in jeopardy.”
#
Kimball sat before the papal desk with Leviticus sitting beside him. Bonasero Vessucci could not have been happier, his expression a genuine model that this gathering was an overwhelmingly joyous affair.
“You have no idea how good it is to see you again,” he said. “To see the both of you together.”
Kimball nodded. “And you, Your Holiness.”
“Kimball,” he spoke to him in a rare but subtle tone nearing admonishment, almost childlike in its inflection. “To you I’m Bonasero. We have been through too much together to bandy about titles, yes?”
Kimball smiled. “Then it’s Bonasero.”
“Good.” The pontiff sat back in his chair. “But the issues I propose to you both will be hard to accept, I’m afraid. Leviticus already knows, but I believe that an attempt on my life will be committed very shortly.”
“By whom?”
Bonasero sighed. “I believe by the good Cardinal Angullo.”
“Angullo?” Kimball sounded incredulous. He knew the man and envisioned him as someone incapable of lifting a hand against somebody, let alone as someone capable of driving a stake through another man’s heart. Again, he said: “Angullo?”
“He is not the same man, Kimball. He’s been a man driven by his own ambitions rather than seeking the true nature of God. He’s lost his way and I truly believe that he murdered Pope Gregory.”
An awkward moment fell between them as Kimball digested this, hearing for the first time that Pope Gregory’s death was no accident as the press had indicated. Murdered? “You think Cardinal Angullo killed Gregory?”
“I’ve no proof, but yes.”
“And why would you think that?”
“Cardinal Angullo knew that I was part of the Preferiti and engineered my removal as Vatican secretary of state, as soon as Pope Gregory entered office. Promises were made to ensure Gregory’s station as the pope with certain favors granted to Angullo should his camp join Gregory’s to ascertain the votes necessary. Once I was removed, then he set himself up in a position to succeed the throne upon Gregory’s passing.”
“And because of that you think he murdered the pope?”
“I say that because I know it’s true in my heart, Kimball. Cardinal Angullo has conspired to the papal throne for some time, often making deals for favors to promote his own best interests, which is not the way of God or the Church.”
“Yeah, but, Bonasero . . .” He let his words falter. For one supreme clergyman to take the life of another, it was incomprehensible.
“Despite what you may think, Kimball, murder has always been an unfortunate undermining within the Church. Satan has his reaches everywhere by turning good souls into dispassionate ones by corrupting them with power.”
Kimball was still having a hard time buying it.
So when the pope saw this, he continued on. “Cardinal Angullo has already been told that he is being reassigned, which means that his power within the Church is crumbling as we speak. With the limited time he has left, I believe he will make a well, thought-out attempt on my life.”
Kimball looked at Leviticus and saw that he was a believer. And though he had no reason to disbelieve the man whom he had grown to love as a father, he still found it difficult to swallow. “Angullo couldn’t fight off a fly,” he finally said.
“The man has guile and ambition, the two tools necessary for an assault.” The pope leaned forward in his chair, placing his arms and tenting his fingers on the desktop before him. “Kimball, maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think so. I set the gears in motion. If Angullo is going to strike, then it will be soon. I need the two of you to keep this from happening.”
“Of course,” he said. “When is he being transferred?”
“I’ve put word out that he is to leave within the next three days.”
“So you think he may act by when? Tomorrow?”
The pontiff hesitated before answering. “If he is a man of true desperation,” he began, “then I believe that he may act as early as tonight.”
Kimball sat there gnawing on his lower lip, wondering how he was supposed to raise a hand against a leading clergyman. Nothing like coming back to the Vatican and walking into a dilemma, he thought.
He continued to nibble on his lower lip.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Tel Aviv, Israel, Mossad Headquarters
Yitzhak Paled moved up the chain-of-command as required. First beginning with the Israeli Defense Minister, and then ending up with the Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. Talk was plentiful, to say the least, the inevitable outcome being that Israel’s sovereignty must be protected at all costs regardless of the United States’ input, which would be to stand by with guarded patience and let the sanctions take hold, crippling Iran further. Israel’s stance on the matter was that Iran’s sanctioned position was pushing the Arab state into a corner, forcing them to fight their way back into contention.
Now, with the United States taking the position of playing both sides of the fence by supporting Israel, but not entirely, left Israel to act accordingly to the situation growing at hand. Iran was in possession of a WMD in an unchartered facility in the Alborz region, the coordinates given to the US command so that they could hone their satellites to the targeted position. Secondly, Aryeh Levine was off the grid, the man presumed dead, which means that the Iranian political constituenc
y knew that they had been compromised and was most likely forming a plan of evacuation.
If Israel needed to act, then the time was now, before the WMD was removed from the facility.
There was a three-way conversation going on the speaker phone. A live feed was also being dispatched on wall monitors so that all three men—the Defense Minister, Prime Minister and Yitzhak Paled—could see each other in high-definition quality.
In a small conference room that was paneled with light wood tones, Yitzhak Paled sat at the end of the table, facing the wall screens. On the left was Netanyahu. On the right screen was Defense Minister Ehud Barak.
“What is your final analysis?” asked Netanyahu.
Yitzhak spoke freely. “I believe, Mr. Prime Minister, that if we follow the advice of the United States, then it will be too late,” he said. “I further believe that our man has been dispatched, since he has fallen off the grid. And it appears that a trace has been placed on the encrypted message sent to us from the same coordinates it originated from.”
“From the Alborz facility?” asked Barak.
Paled nodded. “They now know it went to Headquarters, which means that they also know that their position has been compromised. And as we sit here, gentlemen, they are getting into position to respond accordingly.”
“And this weapon,” began Netanyahu, his face registering deep concern, “what do you know about it?”
“We believe that it was engineered by a Doctor Leonid Sakharov, a one-time leading scientist in Russia. His technology was quite advanced in its time, years ahead of other nations studying the same science of nanotechnology. A few weeks ago we believe he met with a known terrorist, Ahmad al-Ghazi, and then he subsequently left for Tehran.” Yitzhak leaned forward, his elbows fanning out across the tabletop, his fingers interlocking. “From what we gathered, Sakharov’s technology is devastating. We believe that he has created, fashioned, and programmed a science that is capable of destroying anything organic—flesh, bone, sinew, anything that was once alive, while leaving the infrastructure intact.”