Levels of Power

by Mike Gilmore

  To facilitate inner-city travel by hundreds of thousands of people every day, London offered one of the world’s most extensive railway and underground systems. Charing Cross Railway Station was located in the center of the magnificent city and was the hub of the transportation system. People could enter or leave the station using the two London Underground tunnel stations located at each end of the huge building housing six sets of railway tracks. Charing Cross and the Embankment Tunnel systems conveyed thousands of people every hour.

  Randy finally reached the entrance to Charing Cross Station. From the sidewalk, he rushed through an opening in a brick-and-wrought-iron fence that separated the street from a driveway access that allowed motorists to pull out of traffic to drop off passengers for the station or the hotel in front of the station.

  He ran into the Guoman Hotel foyer. He had to assume the man would pass through the hotel into the train station to access the extensive transportation system and elude capture. His hard-soled shoes clacked loudly on the marble floor. The interior foyer was round and filled with dozens of men and women. Randy had to stop to get his bearings. He finally located a sign with an accompanying arrow indicating the direction to the railway terminal. He followed the sign down a hallway, past several meeting rooms and public restrooms. He went through several turns and finally came to the large glass doors leading into Charing Cross Station.

  Randy emerged into the huge interior lobby of the train station. Hundreds of people were checking train schedules, purchasing items from the dozens of shops, or having a cup of tea or a bite of food in the restaurants. Natural light flooded through the clear roofing system, creating a blend of light and partial shadows across the lobby floor. The ceiling, forty or fifty feet above his head, was supported by rows of steel I-beams. The top flange of each beam lay against the roof with about a three-foot space between the lower flange, connected by a series of internal webs of V-shaped steel support structures.

  Randy had entered the north end of the rectangular structure; the long axis ran north to south directly ahead of where he stood. The building was longer than an American football field.

  He quickly pivoted in several directions, trying to locate the man. A long row of ticket stations filled most of the outer western wall. A queue of people were working their way through a network of blue polyester tapes stretched between steel poles to keep customers in some sort of organized line.

  Magazine shops, small restaurants, and coffee and teashops advertised their products with bright neon lights, including stores selling cell phones and accessories among other retail outlets. Pedestrians were entering or leaving, mixing with the general traffic inside. Many looked above their heads toward the master clock to compare the time with wristwatches or cell phones. Other people stood near the ticket counters, looking at the electrical boards showing the schedules of the trains leaving or arriving at the station. Nobody was yelling, but the natural noise level inside the station was loud and added to the confusion.

  Randy felt his heart beating in his chest. He was in good physical shape; the chase from the restaurant, across Trafalgar Square, and into the train station had not worn him out. But he was extremely apprehensive. He had lost his man, perhaps hiding in one of the dozens of shops, the many exits back to the streets, or the escalators with large illuminated numbers helping travelers locate their correct train one floor down to the tracks below. There were too many ways and places for a man to hide and escape discovery.

  Chapter 11

  London

  Saturday, November 28, 2015

  1:15 p.m.

  (مادر مقدس محمد (ص

  Holy mother of Muhammad. Shir Mohammad Moez Ardalan silently muttered a curse as he considered his escape options from the man who had been chasing him. If he could kill him, then the problem would be resolved. He felt no hesitation about killing the United States senator. In fact, he had dreamed of the day when he would slice the man’s throat and watch the life bleed from his enemy’s body—the man who was responsible for killing his twin brother.

  Shir was thirty-five years old, a few minutes younger than Ali Nik Moez Ardalan, who had nearly accomplished the ultimate goal: smuggling a nuclear device into the United States and delivering a crippling blow to the one country that continued to exploit all of the Muslim countries in the Middle East. The United States would use whatever excuse was necessary to continue the flow of oil to their country while denying the Muslim countries the right to take their own place as the rightful leader.

  Shir Mohammad Moez Ardalan and his brother had been born in Yazd, Iran, to a family that could trace their linage back to when Marco Polo visited the city during the thirteenth century. Yazd, the capital city of the Yazd Province in Iran, was 306 miles southeast of Tehran, home to almost 450,000 people and known for its unique architecture, sweet shops, and high-quality handicrafts, like silk weavings. In his diary, the famous Italian explorer wrote about the Iranian city located almost in the center of Iran.

  Yasdi also is properly in Persia; it is a good and noble city, and has a great amount of trade. They weave there quantities of a certain silk tissue known as Yasdi, which merchants carry into many quarters to dispose of. The people are worshipers of Mohammad the holy prophet of Islam.

  When you leave this city to travel further, you ride for seven days over great plains, finding harbor to receive you at three places only. There are many fine woods [producing dates] upon the way, such as one can easily ride through; and in them there is great sport to be had in hunting and hawking, there being partridges and quails and abundance of other game, so that the merchants who pass that way have plenty of diversion. There are also wild asses, handsome creatures. At the end of those seven marches over the plain you come to a fine kingdom which is called Kerman (The Travels of Marco Polo, translated by Henry Yule).

  Their father was a medical doctor and very respected within the city. Many times when they were young boys, he would take Shir and Ali to the famous Marco Polo Restaurant in the city. They would laugh and enjoy themselves as their father told made-up stories about the explorer. Life had been very good for Shir and his brother until their father’s death while he was in America.

  When the brothers were still in their early teens, their father had obtained a hard-to-get visa to travel to the United States to attend several medical conferences in New York City and to visit the Medical University of South Carolina (MUSC), a teaching hospital in Charleston, South Carolina. He was to be away from his family for almost a month. He promised to write letters to his sons to reduce their loneliness during his extended absence. The first letter took almost three weeks to arrive from the United States. He faithfully mailed additional letters almost every other day. They were still receiving letters for over a week after the local government officials had called upon their mother. With her two sons, she had learned the news about their father’s murder in his hotel room in Charleston during a robbery. It seemed bad news could travel faster than the letters filled with love and humor. Each one received after the news of his death would end with the number of days before he would return to his loving family. The postmark on the last letter they received from their father was on the same day he had died.

  Local village elders took over their education. One man in particular would visit each day with the brothers. He talked how great a doctor their father had been and the terrible loss to their family and the community. He would tell stories about living in the United States and how the Americans there used others to their own advantage. It was not hard for Shir and Ali to learn to hate America and the decadent people who lived far away, to understand that they would enter another country and force their own type of government and beliefs on people who really meant nothing to America.

  As the brothers grew into young men, the Elder continued to talk about how America would keep expanding its influence. It seemed there was no country or army strong enough to defeat them. He t
old them the only way to stop the Americans was to take the war to their own shores and to the homelands of their friends.

  When they reached their early twenties, they lived in camps with other young men from different countries and learned how to handle small arms and automatic weapons. They learned about assembling bombs and developing complex detonators that would explode long after they were gone and safe from the enemy. When not in training classes they attended lectures given by other men who lived far away from Iran and learn how the Americans, the English, and the French were trying to take the riches from beneath their land. Shir and Ali learned they were not alone in their hatred for the Americans.

  As their training continued, it became clear that Ali was the more aggressive. He seemed to be able to handle the weapons better. He had a natural ability to understand the construction of bombs and the wiring required to make them explode at different times. He developed his own unique method to wire the devices, leaving bobby traps in case someone came upon one of his presents and tried to deactivate it. He would call them little presents and laugh because he would kill many Americans.

  One day the Elder introduced Ali to a new stranger. Ali was delighted. He left the camp with the stranger for a special assignment, a mission of great importance requiring special training that would force him to spend many months or even a year away from his family. The last time they were together, Ali whispered to his brother that the success of his mission would avenge their father’s death.

  The two brothers were sad to go separate ways, but the Elder promised one day they would meet again. As they stood outside the tent they shared with four other young men, they hugged each other and promised to somehow stay in contact. Ali had left with the stranger, and Shir had never seen him again. No word of the work he was doing or the mission he had been assigned ever came back to Shir. No contact of any kind.

  Almost two years had passed since their last morning together when word came of an incident in America. Newspapers headlines and broadcast news outlets proclaimed a terrible weapon was uncovered in a southern city. The American authorities claimed a terrorist, identity yet unknown, had tried to set off a nuclear device. Only the heroic efforts of one man had prevented the terrorist attack from succeeding.

  Shir had listened to the news over the camp radio as he prepared for his own mission to send arms and small bombs into the insurgents’ camps in Iraq, hoping to kill more Americans. He was ready to leave for his own mission when the commander of the local group called him back and told him he would not be on the mission. Instead, he would travel back to his village for further instructions. He arrived home to spend several days with his mother and finally received word to meet with the Elder. The old and wise man told him it was no longer safe for him to leave the country. The Americans knew his face.

  Shir could not understand the reasoning behind the new order. Why were they forcing him to stay behind while others continue with the fight? What had he done wrong to deserve this punishment? For the first time since they met many years ago, he argued with the Elder. He demanded an answer. The Elder sat quietly without speaking a word. He would normally never accept this type of disrespect from a soldier under his command. He looked into the face of the younger man and saw the same look in his eyes as in the man who had been his best friend … the young man’s father, now dead for many years.

  He patiently indicated for others in the room to leave them alone. The room emptied of all others except the Elder and Shir. Patting the carpet next to him, he spoke to the younger man. “Please sit down beside me, Shir. I will show you something that you will never share with another person.” Instead, the younger man took a seat on a rug near the center of the room so they could face each other. The room was bare of all things consider a luxury. There was a single rug in the center, soft and warm; a simple cot for the Elder to sleep on was set up in the corner.

  When Shir settled before the Elder, the old man looked directly in his eyes. “Again I tell you, you must never speak of this to any person. Not even to me. Are you perfectly clear on this?”

  Shir understood the seriousness of the Elder’s words and simply indicated his understanding. “I am perfectly clear. Never will I repeat your words.”

  The old man nodded and reached for a backpack on the floor. He unbuckled the straps that held the cover flap sealed and removed a wallet-size photograph. He looked another time into Shir’s eyes before making the final decision to show the photograph to the young man. He simply said, “Ask no questions about where this came from”, and then handed the photograph to Shir.

  Shir might have been looking into a mirror. The only light in the room came from one small light bulb. He could not make out the few facial details in the picture that showed the difference between him and Ali. As he focused on the picture, he could tell it was a full frontal photograph of his brother from the waist up. The Y-shaped surgical incision and the closed eyes were enough to tell him his brother was dead.

  His hands begun to tremble and tears formed in his eyes, but he kept silent, despite the words he wanted to scream. The old man leaned forward and laid his right hand on Shir’s shoulder. “Ali died trying to destroy America. He was only a few hours away from succeeding. Some day we will complete the mission, but you must never be seen by them. The American intelligence organizations know his face, and now yours. They are unaware of his identity, and we must keep it that way.”

  Shir did not say another word but rose from the floor and put the photo in his pocket. The Elder had not wanted him to take it, but he decided to keep his thoughts to himself.

  Two and one-half years went by. Shir Mohammad Moez Ardalan continued to help the cause by returning to the training camp and working with others preparing for their missions. He asked to revenge his brother and strike a blow against the Americans. Each time, his request received the same response: not this mission.

  He taught tactics and logistics to new recruits. Better-skilled men taught weapons training, but he kept up with his own training with the many different types of handguns and the knife. All the while, he heard about the successful missions and the failures. He continued to ask to become part of a mission, but still the answer was no. When he became aware of a new mission that would strike at the heart of England, he walked into the office of the camp leader and demanded that he be part of the mission. The leader listened to his arguments and promised to take the idea up with the people planning the mission. To his surprise, several days later he received a summons to the camp leader’s tent and was told to prepare to leave camp within twenty-four hours. He would be part of the mission to hurt the enemy in London.

  A quiet cough behind Shir broke his reminiscence about Ali’s death and brought him back to the present. The store clerk stood next to him. “Can I help you, sir, with a selection?”

  Shir felt sweat rolling down the center of his back. There were beads of sweat at his temples and mixed within his thin mustache. He shook his head no. “I’m just waiting for a friend.”

  There was hardly any accent in his words; his English was nearly perfect. The clerk simply nodded and turned away to return to the sales counter, where he kept an eye on the stranger.

  Shir had ducked into the clothing shop to avoid the searching eyes of the US senator. Now he visualized his appearance. The Tie Rack store’s product offerings prevented him from blending properly with the few other people in the shop. With his current clothing, picking a tie would not look quite correct. He would have to move soon or the clerk would become more suspicious.

  At the corner of the store’s front window, he leaned forward slightly to check if the American was still in view. His hat brim tapped the glass surface. He pulled back and removed it. He had earlier tried to hide among the hundreds of people in the train station, and now he had to locate one man among the same number of people milling in the station lobby. He could not afford to be captured by the single man who might b
e able to warn the English authorities that a terrorist plot was developing in their country. He could not see the American, nor could he see to the end of the long station lobby.

  There was no doubting Shir’s conviction. If the American came too close, he would have to kill him.

  Chapter 12

  London

  Saturday, November 28, 2015

  1:30 p.m.

  Randy Fisher was pissed at himself. He had lost the man. Now he would have to contact the authorities without proof that there might be a terrorist threat developing in London. He walked around the train station for a few minutes, looking in all directions in hope of locating his adversary. He was reaching for his cell phone, not quite knowing whom he was going to call, when a man in a dark outfit emerged from the Tie Rack store.

  He had noticed the store during his earlier scout of the retail shops. The company’s logo featured a picture of a tie instead of the letter T; the logo had stuck in his mind. The man looked familiar. Randy quickly walked about fifteen yards to stand in front of the store, continuing to watch the stranger heading for the south lobby exit. He took a few seconds to look through the front shop window inside the clothing store and noticed a collection of men’s black leather jackets along the left wall of the shop. A mannequin in the storefront displayed the same type of jacket.

  Randy looked sharply again at the stranger. Except for the leather jacket and the missing wide-brim hat, the rest of the clothes he wore were the same as the man he had been following. The backpack slung over his right shoulder was the giveaway. Apparently the man had purchased a jacket to wear over his heavy sweater.