by Pete Barber
For the rest of the day they discussed David’s requirements for a laboratory. Ghazi spoke of his resistance group, which he called, Allah’s Revenge. David thought the title fitting and just.
After David left, the Imams sat in Ali’s office, taking tea.
“The Saudi connection has funded two attacks,” Ali said.
“If Dawud speaks correctly about his weapon, obtaining further funds should not be an impediment.”
“Agreed.” Ali replaced his cup on the table. “Was he what you expected?”
“Not at all, but the longer I spoke with him the more impressed I became. He has an extraordinary mind. Do you believe he will follow through? Once he returns to America this . . .” Ghazi made a broad sweep with his arm, “. . . may appear too difficult and dangerous.”
“Dawud had an epiphany at Mecca,” Ali said, “I have guided him in the direction Allah wishes, but to be sure I have asked my brother to speak of our hopes for him as a captain in Allah’s Revenge. Dawud feels obligated to his father, as a good son should.”
Ghazi raised his eyebrows. “He does not know you are his uncle?”
“My older brother was ever the wisest in our family. He decided long ago, when the Israelis killed our parents, that we would be a more potent force if we developed individual identities.”
“In this, it seems he was correct,” Ghazi said.
Ali nodded his agreement.
Chapter 7
Back home in his parents’ doublewide, David’s father treated him as a returning hero. For a week, they prayed and reflected on his experience in Mecca. The Zamzam water took pride of place on the mantelpiece. His baba encouraged David to aid Imam Ghazi in his fight.
In November, he returned to Nazar’s Phoenix laboratory and began his preparations.
By January, he was ready.
Last to leave the lab, David crossed to the safe where the “virginbots” were secured: the pure, un-imprinted nanobots from which all other bots were grown. He swiped his access card. Air hissed as it vented into the safe’s vacuum. Once the pressures equalized, he opened the thick metal door. The lab’s twenty-four-hour video surveillance system recorded his every move.
The virginbots were housed in ten glass vials packed in foam inside a stainless-steel cylinder the size of a soda can. He donned an oven-glove modeled after Mickey Mouse’s hand, a running joke among the lab technicians and scientists. He would miss working with his colleagues, but he had a higher purpose to fulfill.
David carried the cylinder across the lab to the programming chamber—a four-foot-square, carbon-free-glass glove box. The apparatus allowed an operator to manipulate items inside without coming into direct contact with them. He placed the virginbots into an induction chamber at the center of the cube.
After closing the glove box door, David slipped his hands into two metal-coated sleeves that extended into the cube. He unscrewed the cap of the containment cylinder and removed one of the glass vials containing virginbots, and placed it to one side.
After withdrawing his hands, he clicked the Program icon on the induction chamber’s computer. Four heat strips, positioned in the vertical angles of the box, lit, and spread a red glow throughout the cube.
When the temperature gauge reached seventy degrees Fahrenheit, parameters popped up on the computer monitor:
Target – C2H5OH (Ethanol)
Inhibitor – C2H5OH*30% (Ethanol)
Feedstock – Bio
Catalyst – Photon
ss:mm:hh:dd:mm
Activate – 00:00:00:00:00
Terminate – 00:00:00:00:00
This simple interface programmed the virginbots in the induction chamber. Nazar’s ‘bots produced ethanol, although any carbon-based compound could be specified. Routinely, one tube of cells was programmed and then replicated into the larger quantities required for industrial-scale ethanol production.
The start and stop times were vestiges of the prototyping days when nanobots were given only a few seconds of life to protect against a catastrophic error if a batch of ’bots went rogue.
For Nazar’s purposes, thirty percent ethanol was the optimum inhibitor. But any chemical compound could be specified; the nanobots terminated on contact with that compound. In future, David would program a different compound to make the weaponized ‘bots safe to handle.
For security, the computer logged every keystroke during programming. However, when David first wrote the imprinting program, he’d incorporated a ‘backdoor’. He made his desired changes to Nazar’s nanobots. Then he held down the Ctrl key and punched in a series of sixteen characters.
The sixteen keystrokes were not logged, and only David knew the sequence.
He clicked, End Programming, and the lights went dark. Mickey Mouse helped him carry the container of imprinted virginbots to the safe-deposit box.
David returned to his desk with the single glass vial he had placed to one side. These cells had not been imprinted. They were the only remaining virginbots in the lab and, by implication, in the world.
From his bottom drawer, David retrieved the thermos flask he carried every day with his packed lunch. When he opened the lid, a few wisps of vapor escaped as the dry ice within evaporated. He bedded the test tube snugly in the center of the cold crystals, secured the cap, and placed his precious cargo in his backpack next to his laptop.
David slung the bag over his shoulder and, for the final time, left his Phoenix office.
Chapter 8
Two weeks before the Oxford Circus tube train attack, Abdul Ahmed weaved past dozens of work cubicles identical to the one he’d just vacated on the third floor of the Times of London headquarters. He skipped up the stairs to the fifth floor, nodded to the receptionist, and headed to his senior editor’s office.
He glanced at the letter in his hand and tapped on the door.
Rafiq looked up from his monitor. “What’s up, Abdul?”
“Sorry to interrupt. Can you take a look at this? I think it might be important.” Among his morning mail, Abdul had received a letter, hand-written in Arabic and postmarked from East Jerusalem. He had translated it and now handed a printout and the original to his boss.
Rafiq scanned the document then pointed to the single-word signature, a swirling Arabic rendition of the name Ghazi, which translated as one-who-struggles. “Do you know this man?”
“No, but my family may. I could call my uncle and check.”
“Let’s wait until we’ve spoken to the chief.” Rafiq pressed a speed dial on his desk phone, and the editor-in-chief’s secretary picked up. “Amy, is Scott available for ten minutes?”
“I’ll see.” A few seconds later, she came back on the line. ”Come on up, Rafiq.”
Abdul had met the editor-in-chief only once when, six months before and fresh out of college, he’d landed his first job as junior Middle-East correspondent for the newspaper.
Two walls of Scott’s sixth-floor office were lined with tables covered in papers and Post-it notes. Cleaners were forbidden to enter the room unless Scott was present, in case they disturbed anything. Scott Shearer, a small, wiry man, sat behind an oversized desk, also strewn with papers. White hair, the result, he often claimed, of twenty years spent answering stupid questions, topped a lined face. He looked all of his fifty-five years, plus maybe another ten.
Rafiq handed over the letter and the translation, which his editor began reading as he waved at two chairs on the other side of the desk.
“Whose translation?”
“Mine, sir,” Abdul said.
“I’ve checked, Scott. It’s perfect,” Rafiq said, and Abdul smiled.
“Can we verify the source?”
“Abdul suspects they got his contact information from his family in Jerusalem. He’s volunteered to call his uncle.”
Scott lifted his head and stared at Abdul with ferret eyes—gray, and hard. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” The intensity of Scott Shearer’s stare was the stuff of Fleet Street legen
d. Abdul felt its heat. “Have we heard of . . .” Scott released Abdul from his glare and glanced at the translation, “. . . Allah’s Revenge before today?”
“Seems to be a new group,” Abdul said. “I did a Google search. It’s a generic term for any disaster that happens in the West. The financial meltdown was Allah’s revenge, AIDS is Allah’s revenge, also the 2004 tsunami, 9/11 and so on.”
“The letter says they want to meet you, Abdul, to ‘instruct’ you about their mission and make you . . .” Scott faced Abdul as he emphasized the last few words, “. . . their messenger to the world.”
Scott stood, turned his back on them, and paced the length of the full-wall window, which was the only indication they were in the office of the most influential newspaper editor in London. “If Ghazi is a terrorist, you might not want him making house calls on your family. On the other hand . . .” Scott reached the end of the window, stopped, and gazed out at the dreary English rain. “. . . I’m not comfortable involving the police. If it’s a hoax, we’ll look stupid, and if not, by the time they’ve finished plodding about it’ll be worthless.”
“I could take the meeting.” The words tumbled from Abdul’s mouth and his heart rate tripled. Could this be a breakthrough story so early in his career?
Scott terminated his examination of the window and focused on Abdul. “What do you think, Rafiq?”
“Depends on what we hope to gain.” Rafiq also faced his junior correspondent. “Do you want to do this, Abdul?”
“Yes, I think it could be important.”
Scott sat opposite them and folded his hands on the desk. Abdul received the stare again. The room went quiet for five beats. Throat tight with nerves, Abdul swallowed, twice.
Scott said, “You do understand the risks? You wouldn’t be the first journalist taken hostage.”
“I’ve thought of that, sir. They’re an unknown organization. They want publicity. Hamas or Al-Qaida can take hostages and use them as leverage. But if a new group shows bad faith at an initial meeting, no one will ever deal with them.”
“You still have family in Jerusalem, right?”
“Yes. My parents and siblings were the only family members to leave.”
“Okay, Rafiq, let’s set it up.” Scott scanned the letter. “They’re going to call him at the King David hotel in Jerusalem at 6:00 p.m. next Wednesday. Abdul, why don’t you go a few days early? Visit with your family. Adjust to the time zone and the language.”
“Thank you sir, I’d like that. It’s been many years since I was back.”
“No, thank you, young man, and good luck.” Scott stood and took a firm grip of Abdul’s hand across the desk. “Rafiq will set up a communications regimen. Don’t miss a scheduled call or you might find the cavalry smashing into your room and turning you out of bed.”
Scott’s mouth smiled, but his eyes did not.
Chapter 9
One week before the tube train massacre, Nazar Eudon stood stage center at a wooden lectern in the Hilton London Metropolis Hotel. Dressed in a seven-thousand-dollar charcoal-gray suit, power tie, and white shirt, he presented a carefully crafted look.
Nazar’s face, surgically tightened to wrinkle-free perfection, stared from two huge screens mounted at each side of the stage. Colored contact lenses transformed his brown eyes to a striking green; dark hair, supplemented with implants at the crown, graduated in tone so it blended into his trimmed, silver-gray beard.
Most of the audience at the International Alternative Energy Symposium was pro-renewables. Nazar’s selection as keynote speaker had met with resistance from members of the organizing committee. But after his marketing VP e-mailed Nazar’s speech to the chairman, Nazar had prevailed.
As he reached the conclusion of his twenty-minute talk, Nazar was about to drop a bomb.
“I am honored that in this room, with my competitors and peers in the energy business, sit Nobel-prize winning scientists, leaders of the world’s finest academic institutions, and political representatives from more than thirty nations.” As he referred to them, Nazar made eye contact with a few of the five hundred seated luminaries.
“I wish to apologize to you all.”
People fidgeted in their seats as he scanned the crowd and allowed his words to hang for a silent three-count.
“I am sixty-four-years old. It has taken me until now to understand that my life’s work has contributed more than most to the tragic despoiling of our fragile planet . . . obviously, I am a slow learner.” His wry smile triggered a smattering of laughter and eased the tension. “I plan to make amends. Today, I formally and publicly reject the business model that has made me a rich man. Today, from this platform, I am announcing a new direction for Nazar Eudon.” Nazar bowed his head to emphasize contrition.
A hushed silence hung over the audience. These were extraordinary words coming from one of the world’s most hawkish oilmen.
“From now on, my life, energy, and resources will be dedicated to Eudon Alternative Energy, an organization committed to delivering only clean, renewable energy solutions. Naturally, I can no longer continue to serve the shareholders of Eudon Oil, so today I am resigning as their Chief Executive Officer.” Uncertain applause rippled through the meeting hall.
“Ladies and gentlemen, mark this day, a milestone in my life I am honored to have shared with you. I pray that in the eyes of Allah my achievements going forward will be sufficient reparation for the damage I have wreaked on His magnificent earthly creation. I look forward to working with you to make Eudon Alternative Energy’s bold vision a reality. Thank you for your time and attention.”
Right hand on his heart, Nazar stepped from behind the lectern and bowed. The audience applauded. A few people stood, then more. Shouts and whistles echoed across the auditorium and gradually became a raucous standing ovation. The chairman came from stage left, took Nazar’s hand in both of his, and shook with vigor.
With a final wave, Nazar left the stage. Behind him, he heard excited murmuring as the crowd discussed what a huge private initiative to accelerate the development and adoption of alternative energy solutions might mean. But what really had them buzzing was the announcement that the CEO of the fourth-largest oil company in the world planned to turn his back on the goose that laid his golden eggs.
Sandwiched between two burly security guards, he smiled as he strode through the dark backstage. Dropping the announcement on that group of self-serving crooks and charlatans had been a rush. Tonight, his business competitors would raise a glass to the crazy Arab who had committed financial suicide.
They’d be laughing from the other side of their faces when he started producing ethanol at a buck-fifty a barrel.
One of the suits held the elevator door, and Nazar joined six of his staff. They descended to the second floor where he and one bodyguard got out. The rest of the group continued to the ground floor. A second guard held the adjacent elevator for Nazar and they rode it to the roof where they climbed into a waiting helicopter. Less than ten minutes after leaving the stage, he was in the air.
Below him, on the street outside the auditorium, a crush of reporters pressed and jostled his staff as they protected a decoy Nazar Eudon and escorted him, dramatically, toward a waiting black SUV.
At Heathrow airport, a sedan collected him from the helipad and drove him to the steps of his private jet.
Keisha, her black hair pulled back in the tight bun he preferred, awaited him. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Eudon.”
“Thank you. I’m relieved to be back and, as always, delighted to see you.”
His personal assistant smiled and bowed, her delicate hands clasped in front. “I’ve laid out a change of clothes. We’re scheduled to depart in thirty minutes.”
In five paces, he passed through the plane’s passenger cabin and opened the door to his private apartment, which occupied half the plane. A black silk jumpsuit lay on top of the colorful, hand-stitched top-cover of his king-sized bed. Letting his clothes drop at his feet, h
e stripped, then stepped into the bathroom. A switch turned on the shower, the water adjusted to his preferred temperature.
Fabier Martain of Paris had handcrafted the mother-of-pearl-accented porcelain tiles that covered the bathroom walls, ceiling, and floor. The tiles served as a canvas for a hand-painted mural portraying Hydrophis belcheri—the most venomous snake in the world. Its vivid gold and dark-green striped scales coiled around the room and culminated on the rear wall of the shower stall where its mouth gaped, ready to strike.
As Nazar traced the snake’s fangs with his finger, a cocoon of water jets massaged his body.
He toweled off and, still naked, returned to the living room, slipped on the silk jumpsuit, and pressed the intercom.
“How about one of your special martinis, Keisha?”
Seconds later, the door opened. Nazar lounged on the bed. He admired her as she turned to place a tray of food on the cocktail bar. At first he had lusted after her, and now, ten years later, Keisha had become indispensable to him. She wore a simple black skirt, tiny and tight. Even in three-inch heels she was six inches shorter than he. She bent forward to hand him the drink, delivering the teasing glimpse of breast he so enjoyed. But only titillation; his sexual proclivities did not extend to mature women.
She said, “I have some wonderful sashimi, selected in person from Billingsgate market. Can I tempt you?”
“You constantly tempt me, Keisha, and I’m delighted you do. That sounds wonderful, and then I think I’ll catch up on my sleep. What is our flight time?”
“Five hours. We’re cleared to Aqaba.” She moved the tray of food to his bedside table. Colorful slices of fish, rice, and seaweed garnish were precisely positioned on the stark white plate as though she had painted the meal.