by JC Ryan
“It is true that we are not always in direct communication with the hundreds of operatives who are tasked with assembling and placing the bombs. In many cases, we do not even know who they are. This is the genius of our spymaster, Oleg Zlatovski. He has constructed the network in such a way that the capture of one man does not bring down half a dozen others. But rest assured, the plans went out weeks ago. There should be no mistakes. Even if a few bombs do not serve their intended purpose, we have built in enough redundancy to thoroughly destroy the targets.”
His questioner bowed his head in assent and no one had any other questions. It was as it had been thousands of years ago. The world went about its business, secure in its hubris that nothing could disrupt it. Meanwhile, the chosen, the progeny of Cyrus the Great, would breach its walls and conquer.
One thing Dalir would not share with the others. He had lost touch with Oleg Zlatovski. Messages to the secure email address went unanswered, and this was not an acceptable state of affairs. It had come to his attention that Sam Lewis had been seen in Moscow twenty-four hours ago. He could think of no reason for this, unless they were perhaps looking for a certain rogue Russian agent in conjunction with the spies that had been picked up at the Rossler Foundation. This was just too much of a coincidence to ignore.
When the meeting had ended, Dalir slammed his fist on his desk. ‘Unable to deliver message’ came up every time he attempted to email Zlatovski. It was an unacceptable turn of affairs. The man had disappeared from his surveillance as if he’d never existed. Private email addresses were gone, and so was the website Zlatovski had set up for his network. No more messages were arriving at the lab’s email address, from anywhere, and Dalir needed to know why. That Zlatovski had disappeared as well was serious. Had he been captured? Was he even now giving away the secrets of the grand plan set for less than a month from today? Worst of all, were international security service agents holding him in the sights of their weapons? When he found Zlatovski, he was going to make sure the man would never again cross him. Just as soon as he had all the information he needed.
An international search for Oleg may be mounted, and Dalir intended to find him first. Only Oleg had the names, positions and roles of everyone responsible for placing the bombs and everyone controlling the detonators for each array of bombs. Oleg knew more about the whole operation than anyone else. If he fell into the hands of the enemy, it could compromise some of the operation. But, not all of it. Not even Oleg would be able to reverse this event. Dalir knew that everything was already in order, because Oleg had reported it so before the arrests at the Rossler Foundation. But it would be best if Oleg were not arrested too; it would be best to make sure he got to Oleg first.
The mastermind
July 1, 2020; D-day minus 29, Boulder
With the news that the spymaster had been identified and a couple of agents, one of whom knew him before he staged his death, had been sent after him, Salome turned her attention to the ringleader. They knew his name now, too, and both Sam Lewis and Luke Clarke were acquainted with him somehow. The plot to destroy half the world didn’t mesh with his public persona, though. To understand whether he would really go through with it or merely blackmail the West for some unknown agenda, she needed to apply her best skills to understanding what that agenda might be. After long discussions over the phone with both Sam and Luke, she began to get a picture of a highly capable and patient man. He’d engineered his recruitment to the CIA over fifteen years ago, and had gone underground at least ten years ago. What had triggered his emergence from obscurity?
The most obvious event was the 9th Cycle virus, but Sam and Luke had both heard him say his family was safe. Was that the truth? Finding the family was crucial, but the two names by which he was known made it difficult. Was either name the real one? How could she reconcile his life as Ahmad Ahmadi, political science major, CIA sleeper and Director of Reconstruction in Iran with Dalir Jahandar, al Qaeda leader and among the most-wanted terrorists in the Middle East, whose face had never been identified until Alica Cindric fingered him? He was either a superman, needing no sleep and more brilliant than she could imagine, or he had help.
Salome no longer had access to Karsten Adler, Alica Cindric or any of the translators, who, in any case, didn’t know much anyway. She wanted to get an idea of who Reza Mokri had been, and why he would have committed suicide upon capture. Of all the conspirators, only he had taken that route. There must have been some reason that could be key to her investigation. She made a call to Lewis, who promised to open that line of inquiry with Alica, now that she was fully cooperating. Salome had her doubts about how full the cooperation was, but short of flying back to DC herself to question Alica, she had little choice in the matter. She wasn’t through here in Boulder, so she didn’t want to fly back and potentially get stuck at the JOCC.
One of the lines of investigation she wanted to pursue was whether the secrets stolen by the translators truly had the potential to wreak the kind of havoc she’d seen in the pictures from the future. The only person who could adequately answer her questions was Roy James. Salome considered her approach, now knowing that Roy suffered from crippling social anxiety around women. She had some experience with that, because her younger brother had a similar problem, if a less intense version of it. The key was trust and relaxation. If she could gain Roy’s trust, and then keep the interactions with him low-key enough for him to relax in her presence, she could avoid triggering his anxiety. Then they could communicate like normal human beings.
Ordinarily, her trust-building efforts would take place over a longer period of time. This time, she had no such luxury. Four weeks from today, they would see the end of the world as they knew it, unless they could stop the inevitable. She didn’t have time for Roy’s fears, but she couldn’t risk alienating him, either. She started by asking JR Rossler what Roy liked to drink in his lab, after learning that JR had become a friend. With a cold can of Dr. Pepper in each hand, her black-framed glasses on for the academic look, she knocked at Roy’s lab door.
“Roy? It’s Salome Lane. May I come in? Oh, I’ve brought you something to drink. Do you like Dr. Pepper?”
Roy was standing at a counter in his lab, frozen in indecision, a look of terror in his eyes. Salome put one of the cans of soda down in front of him. “Oh, I’m sorry if I startled you. I’ll just sit here quietly until you finish what you’re doing, and then maybe you could help me out?”
Salome didn’t expect, nor did she get, a response. She took a seat on a lab stool, as far away from Roy as she could get in the lab, and began to look around the lab. Surreptitious glances at Roy from under her lowered eyelids revealed that he had picked up the soda and was holding it in one hand while poking at something under a Plexiglas hood on the workbench. Absently, he took a swig of the cold beverage, then put the can down and used both hands to do whatever he was doing under the Plexiglas.
Salome stayed quiet, not even clearing her throat of the sickly-sweet soda she’d sipped. The sooner Roy forgot she was there and relaxed, the sooner he would understand that she wasn’t there to get in his space or interrupt him. It amused her that the way to make a shy man trust her was very similar to the way she’d gain the trust of a dog or a cat…through his taste buds. She sat, unmoving, for more than half an hour. Her back was stiff from sitting on the backless stool, when at last Roy spoke to her.
“Th-thank you.” When she looked up at him, he was holding the soda can up, as if in a toast.
“Oh, you’re welcome. I’ve heard you are the inventor of that amazing little robot, or, I guess it’s called a nanobot. The Spyfly?” she ventured.
Roy blushed and nodded, but didn’t speak.
“That was so clever,” Salome said. Then she fell silent, knowing that too much too soon would undo what she’d accomplished so far. She sat for another ten minutes or more before Roy spoke again.
“Would y-you l-like to see my l-l-little d-d-dog?” he struggled to get out.
; “I’d love to, if you want to show me,” she said fighting the urge to smile. Roy nodded and beckoned her to come closer. Score, she celebrated silently. She moved smoothly and gracefully toward him, making no sudden moves, until she was side-by-side and could see what was underneath the Plexiglas hood. It looked like a tiny model of a dog. When Roy pushed a button on the remote control in his hand, its little head moved to the ground and it started moving forward, seeming to sniff at the ground, until it stopped and assumed the stance of a hunting dog, tail straight out, head up and nose in the air. Salome suppressed a giggle. This was cute, but she had no idea what it was for, and she didn’t dare ask.
“He found the potassium cyanide,” Roy said, without a trace of the stutter that Salome had come to expect. She looked at him in surprise, not only because he wasn’t stuttering, but because potassium cyanide could be dangerous in large quantities. She didn’t see any of the crystalline substance on the workbench, though.
“There were only a couple of grains,” Roy explained. “I’ve been refining the identification process so that tiny quantities of dangerous substances can be detected. Naturally, they won’t let me experiment with anthrax.”
“I can understand that,” Salome blurted, too startled by his statement to guard her tongue.
“Miss Lane, what can I help you with?” Roy asked, changing subjects as naturally as if he were a normal man with normal social skills.
“Well, I do have a few questions but please call me Salome,” Salome started, slowly. This had been too easy. Carefully, in order to maintain the fragile connection, she began to question him about nanonuclear technology.
Volunteered for martyrdom
Early July 2020, various target cities
Hundreds of more technologically savvy assemblers were taking delivery of kits that would become drones under their ministrations. Representatives of the Sword of Cyrus had purchased them over the past few months, a few here and a few there to avoid suspicion. That the drones were readily available from many online sources was a stroke of good fortune of which Sword of Cyrus logistics experts had taken full advantage. No need to smuggle them into the target countries, when anyone with the means to purchase them could simply have them delivered to their doorstep. The perfect model, already capable of delivering a larger payload, they each had to be specially prepared to avoid detection by police or air radar. For this purpose, a set of scientists separate from the nuclear specialists in Esfahan had developed another use for nanotechnology.
Current stealth technology had not advanced much past the generation of military aircraft that deflected radar signals in unpredictable directions rather than echoing the signal back to the radar location. What if, the scientists postulated, that instead of deflecting the signal, they could find a way to absorb it? No reflection of signal meant to a radar installation that nothing was there. If it could be absorbed, the signal would go nowhere - not back to the radar installation, and nowhere else, either. It would work both for the very low-flying mini-drones as well as the much larger ones that could otherwise be detected by air traffic controllers in airports near the targets.
After weeks of work by a large team of scientists all focusing on the same problem, they came up with a special paint infused with non-reflecting carbon nanoparticles. The nature of carbon made it an ideal absorption medium. Furthermore, the paint could be easily mixed on-site once the nanoparticles were delivered. No known inspection technique could detect the carbon as anything hazardous, so it was shipped to various locations within the target countries, from whence agents distributed it as needed. Some of the assemblers got a kick out of having their children paint the drones with it.
The next task would be to synchronize the radio signals that would control the drones, so that at the appropriate moment each would receive the trigger signal. For this purpose, agents were designated to operate MCUs, or Master Control Units. Once the drones had been flown into place, the MCU, at the appointed time, would activate the signal that turned on the lasers, which in turn triggered the fusion reaction. The MCUs were instructed to place themselves in such a way that their targets were arrayed around them in rough circles.
The maps they were given showed the expected radius of destruction of the bombs, and all showed a small area in the center where the destruction wouldn’t reach. Unbeknown to the operatives, who were reassured by the maps that they could find safe haven in the centers, those maps were deliberately very conservative in the expected destruction radius. In fact, all operatives would be killed by overlapping detonations. Because the Sword needed expertise in flying the drones and the other technical issues, they had decided that hoping to find enough voluntary martyrs for the purpose would be unlikely. Therefore, they did not tell their operatives that they would be ‘volunteered’ for martyrdom.
He’s my uncle
July 3, D-day minus 26, Piraeus
Oleg Zlatovski gazed out at the Mediterranean, wishing he could change what was about to happen. If only he hadn’t…but no, if it hadn’t been he, it would have been someone else. Besides, there would be somewhere just as beautiful on the coast of Turkey. At least there would be no drifting radiation to rain on him anywhere he went. He heard a step at his front door and then the door knocker. The people to whom he would sell his beach-front property in Piraeus. That they would be able to enjoy it only for the next few weeks was his secret. It was his last property in Greece. He had cashed out of the rest and stashed his fortune in an Iranian bank.
In an hour, his business concluded, Oleg made his way to an outdoor eating establishment to enjoy the sea breezes of Greece for the last time. Tomorrow, well ahead of the planned nuclear attacks, he would fly to a safe haven. Today, he had to consider where that might be. He knew that Alica Cindric had been compromised and was attempting to soften her fate by luring him into custody in the United States. That was the last place he wanted to be when the bombs went off. On the other hand, the fact that his network had been pierced couldn’t be pleasing to the Sword of Cyrus. Oleg wasn’t sure that turning up in Iran wouldn’t be just as dangerous as ground zero of one of the infernal bombs. He had taken down all communications links that led to him and was considering where to go for another change of identity.
A conversation in English a few tables away caught his attention when he heard his Greek name spoken in an American accent. Looking up, he froze at the sight of his niece, Tamara, and a clean-cut American that he would probably peg as CIA anywhere in the world, speaking to the maître d’. Oleg immediately turned his head away and, moving in a leisurely manner to avoid drawing notice, put some cash on the table and stood to leave. With his ears tuned to the sound of pursuit, he slipped down the street and into an alley, taking a circuitous route to a house he knew of, where he could obtain sanctuary and female company for the night. Now he would have to find a way out of the country that didn’t involve public transportation. How the hell had this happened? Then, he knew. Alica. If he ever saw the bitch again, he’d slit her throat. Along with that of his lovely niece, if he could manage it.
Safe in a room in the bordello, Oleg considered his options. How had Tamara and her escort tracked him to Piraeus? It was true he’d severed his communications, even with those he relied upon to give him early warning of anyone looking for him, but the last he knew, Tamara was still in Russia, and that had been only a week ago. Alica must have given her the Athens information, and from there it was a matter of public records search to find all of his properties. He’d held onto the beach-front villa for too long. Obviously, he couldn’t fly to Turkey, his original destination. Driving to Istanbul would take eleven hours, a trip that would require several stops. With someone else helping her drive, if Tamara got wind that he was headed there, it was possible she could catch up to him. He needed a red herring of some sort.
Oleg looked at his phone, and decided to use a public telephone to call his estate agent. It was only a matter of time before Tamara found his property, along with the agent’s
For Sale sign, and called him. Maybe she already had, and that was why she’d been nosing around the restaurant. There weren’t that many in the area, so it had been a stroke of luck that she hadn’t spotted him there. A timely word in the estate agent’s ear might send her in the opposite direction if she hadn’t already called him. Of course, it wasn’t foolproof. Tamara knew Oleg well. Very well, in fact, he reflected, as he took a moment to savor a distant memory. His plan could backfire. Nevertheless, he had to try.
Oleg dialed, and then addressed the man in Greek. “Nikolas, Dimitriou. I wanted to let you know that I’ll be moving to Paris. I’m not able to wait until the transaction clears for the sale today. When I get to Paris, I’ll let you know what bank to wire the funds to.” Accepting Nik’s congratulations on the sale and expression of envy for his Paris sojourn, Oleg ended the call. He hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to the nearest car rental establishment, where he rented a car, gave Paris as his destination there as well, and drove the late-model Toyota Corolla north, following a route that would skirt the Aegean and end in Istanbul. From there, he would decide what to do next.
It was too bad he’d had to miss the night of rest and relaxation in the arms of a beautiful Greek courtesan. Turkey would not have so many opportunities, he thought.
~~~
July 3, 2020; D-day minus 26, Piraeus
Jack Johnson gazed at Tamara across the breakfast of koulouri and graviera cheese with fruit. He’d have preferred an American breakfast, but Tamara insisted he try a traditional Greek meal, and at the moment he was happy to do whatever Tamara wanted. He only wished she wanted to extend their professional relationship to a more personal level. From his first glimpse of her, Jack had suffered from a very non-professional opinion of his new partner. Far from the stereotype of a stout Russian woman in a babushka gleaning in the fields, this woman was spectacular in his eyes. Aside from a slightly too-prominent nose, she was perfect. Blonde hair that she styled in a chignon reminiscent of movie stars of the nineteen-fifties, ice-blue eyes and high cheekbones made her look cool and elegant and very European. She was tall for a woman, nearly as tall as Jack, who at five-eleven wasn’t the tallest agent around. But, where he was brawny in a way that bespoke long hours in a gym, she was lean and smooth, with a slender figure that he’d like to explore sometime.