by JC Ryan
“No!” he shouted, jerking wildly to avoid being injected with whatever was in the syringe. “What is this? What do you want?”
“The truth,” one of the uniformed men said to him. Squinting against the bright light in his eyes, Oleg thought he recognized the man. But, it was impossible wasn’t it? Where was he?
“I’ll tell you the truth,” he managed to say, though his mouth was very dry. “Please, may I have some water? And to know where I am?” He knew, though. Against all odds, they’d found him. And they knew he knew, because he spoke in heavily-accented English. Unless he was hallucinating, he was in America. And that was his old enemy, Sam Lewis, speaking to him.
Someone gave him a swab for his mouth. “No water. You have a saline drip, you’ll be fine.” The swab was merely to make his words more intelligible, not to offer him any comfort. There was no time for that. Sam waited only until Oleg nodded his understanding.
“You’re in Washington, DC,” he said. “You are in federal custody, suspected of international terrorist acts. Don’t bother to deny it,” he interrupted himself, seeing Oleg begin to shake his head.
“We know almost everything already. We only need you to confirm a few things, and tell us the location of Dalir Jahandar.” Lewis paused, hoping that was enough to make Oleg talk, though he didn’t expect it to be.
“I don’t know what you speak of,” Oleg growled.
“Don’t be stupid, Zlatovski,” Sam said. “No one, not even the president of the USA, knows you are here. The men in this room know what you’ve done in your KGB career. Some of them lost colleagues to your schemes and they will not tell anyone what happened to you. But if that doesn’t concern you, let me show you who else is here to question you.”
At his nod, someone opened the door, and in walked a woman that took the breath of every man in the room, including Oleg.
“Hello, Uncle,” Tamara said, ice dripping from the simple syllables. Jack had slipped in behind her and now put his hand on her shoulder to steady her. In contrast to the ice in her voice and in her veins, fire sparked in her eyes.
Lewis noted the sudden fear in Oleg’s eyes as they spotted the dagger in his niece’s hands. She was toying with it as if it were a mere plaything. It was as good as a confession, in Sam’s view. There was no doubt Oleg had abused this woman, somehow, sometime. Now his past had caught up with him, and he was terrified. It was time to put the questions to him again.
“You have a couple of choices, Oleg. You can tell us what we want to know, now, with no further foolishness. Or, I can leave you alone with Tamara, here. I’m sure you’ll want to cooperate with your niece; after all, she’s family. Or, I can turn you over to the FSB. They seem to have an interest in you as well. I’ll let you choose.” Sam noted with satisfaction that the man blanched when he heard he might be turned over to Tamara. If possible, he turned even paler when the third choice was put to him. The correct answer was forthcoming.
“I’ll tell the truth. But, how did you discover the plan? My network was flawless!” It was almost pathetic, the defeated spymaster still trying to take pride in his handiwork.
“Two things. First, a genius nanodevice that someone in the Rossler Foundation invented. It caught your operatives on film, taking pictures of their computer screens. That made the Rosslers’ security team curious. And second, we’ve seen the pictures of the destruction. We know what will happen and when.” Lewis tossed the last sentence out casually, but closely observed its effect on the prisoner.
“Nonsense,” Oleg spouted. It was a bold gesture, considering his predicament.
“You think?” asked Lewis. “Ok let me give you a few quick pointers to help you think straight” Lewis pulled out a document and started reading the exact targets, time and dates of the planned attack.
“Stop! I can see you have figured out the targets. Who talked?” asked Oleg.
“Your ghost from the future. Said Lewis with a big smile causing an expression of utter confusion on Oleg’s face.
“Let me put you out of your misery.” He showed the most revealing picture of Washington, with its timestamp of July 29th, to Oleg, whose eyes widened. “You’re right about here,” Sam said, pointing to an area that was smashed beyond recognition, although a few partially-destroyed landmarks gave a good indication of the location of the picture.
“How…” began Oleg, but he stopped. It didn’t matter how. He knew very well that Washington was a target, and he couldn’t help but believe that’s where he was. The choices arrayed before him were unacceptable. They had to move him, somewhere far away from a major city. Sweat began to roll down his brow as he said the truth as he knew it. “You can’t stop it. There’s nothing you or I can do.”
“He is of no further use,” Tamara said suddenly. “Let me kill him.”
“Not yet,” said Sam, further alarming Oleg.
“Then how about allowing me to take a little souvenir? His middle finger?” Tamara said, still playing with the dagger and playing along with Lewis to scare the shit out of Oleg.
“But you said, if I cooperate,” Oleg sputtered. “Please, let me tell you what I know, and then for God’s sake, get me far away from here!”
“Hold your horses,” Sam said. From another pocket, he produced a picture with a later timestamp, showing Washington unharmed. “We can do something, this proves it. But we need your help to do it. Get him up,” he said to the doctor. “Bring him in to the situation room. He’s going to tell us everything, aren’t you Oleg?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” moaned Oleg. “May I ask where you got those pictures?” he asked, with a puzzled look on his face.
“All in good time,” Lewis said to Oleg. To Tamara, he said, “Miss Zlatovski, may I escort you somewhere? I don’t think you’ll be having that private chat with your uncle just yet.”
Pouting, Tamara turned her back and took Jack’s arm. Jack looked over her head at Lewis and shrugged. In answer, Lewis handed him a card with an address and a key ring. Tamara would have the use of a nearby safe house until the crisis was over. Then Oleg would be given into her custody for return to Russia, or whatever her mission was. Jack couldn’t wait to tell her, but getting Oleg’s cooperation required that the revelation not reach his ears yet.
Have they been told?
July 10, 2020; D-day minus 19, Washington, DC
In the situation room, Oleg was surrounded by analysts and chiefs of the various involved agencies alike as he began his narrative concerning the network he’d set up for the terrorist group. Within a few sentences, Sam interrupted him.
“Stop. We know a lot of this already. We’ll hear it later, but the top priority is who is behind this. We have information that an al-Qaeda operative named Dalir Jahandar is behind it. Are you able to confirm this?”
“Da. Yes. Jahandar is my employer, and to my knowledge, the leader of the group called the Sword of Cyrus.” Oleg shifted in his seat. The words he’d just uttered would ensure his death if Dalir ever heard of it. However, death was certain in any case if he didn’t cooperate.
Lewis held up a picture of the operative he’d known as Arsalan. “Is this the man?”
“Yes. That is Dalir Jahandar. You know he is also known as Ahmad Ahmadi, yes?” Oleg was eager now to please his captors. Perhaps they would have mercy on him and spirit him away from the murderous intent of his niece. He was already plotting how to disappear again, assuming he survived.
Lewis signaled an assistant, who hurried away to begin the process of notifying allies that they had identified the leader. “Where is the lab where they’re developing the weapons located?” he asked.
Oleg named the small town, Esfahan, where he’d been given a tour of the facility. Another assistant was dispatched to redirect satellite observation to the area. Oleg continued. “Jahandar is not there, though. As far as I know, he is continuing his duties as Director of Reconstruction, in Tehran.”
That was good to know, but allied assets in Tehran would confirm it. A
third assistant left to contact the Mossad. Now it was time to return to the details of the plot.
Lewis let Oleg talk, telling the story as he wished. He confirmed that the network had been built in such a way that operatives who had no need to know their counterparts, or even in some cases their true mission, knew no one other than their handlers, and those knew no one except their single operative and a superior. The superior in turn may handle ten or twenty handlers, but the network was so distributed that arrest of one person put no more than twenty others at risk.
This the JOCC knew, since they’d been picking up spies in ones and twos for several weeks now. It was like a ball of yarn that had been sliced up inside by a knife. Pulling an end netted only an inch or two of yarn; it didn’t unravel the whole ball. Oleg didn’t recall all the names, although he knew a few of the top-level people. To no one’s surprise, he named Reza Mokri as one of the twelve followers of Jahandar who called themselves the Sword of Cyrus. Others did surprise them. Oleg named half a dozen well-known wealthy men known to reside in the US and Europe. Their holdings would be devastated if the plan weren’t stopped. How could they be all right with that? Still more assistants were dispatched to look into their finances and see if they were pulling out of their holdings.
All of that was a matter of curiosity only. Knowing who they were wouldn’t stop the attack, Oleg insisted. In the most shocking revelation of all, he confirmed that all of the fuel and components for the hundreds of bombs that were planned were already in the target countries, and for the most part should have already been assembled. As of this date, nothing remained to be done but connecting the triggering devices to the delivery mechanisms - drones that would be undetectable once they’re launched. Even if some of them were intercepted or the signal interrupted, the majority would get through. In addition, he explained why he’d said it couldn’t be stopped.
“All operatives have received final instructions and will proceed as planned, on schedule. They expect no further communications, and indeed, all communication infrastructure has been destroyed.” Oleg now regretted that decision.
Lewis was no longer interested in the network, only in the logistics. “How close would the mobile control units have to be to trigger the bombs?” someone asked.
“About two and a half miles,” Zlatovski answered, having asked the same question during his tour of the facility.
“Aren’t the diameters of destruction up to seven miles?” Lewis asked, aghast that so many of the terrorists were committing suicide.
“Yes,” said Zlatovski. “The drone operators will be martyrs.” His offhand answer offended Lewis and several others in the room. As if the lives were of no value.
“Have they been told?”
“No, of course not. Many are not even aware of what they are detonating. They think it is a large joke. I told you,” he said. “Nothing can stop it now.”
His questioners kept Oleg for hours, by the end brainstorming even the most unlikely solutions to the problem. Jamming the signal? Maybe, but there could be hundreds of signals. And how were they to know what it was? Zlatovski could not help them there. He wasn’t privy to those details. What he did know was that a nanolaser device was being used to trigger the bombs. Most likely the one Roy James had invented, Lewis realized.
Another revelation was that the bombs were to be detonated four hundred to five hundred meters above the targets, so as to get the maximum EMP damage as well.
Evacuate the cities? Lewis envisioned panics like those of some old movies he’d seen, of thousands of cars gridlocked with hapless victims awaiting whatever disaster the screenwriters had decided upon. Or, worse yet, throngs of thousands of people all fighting to get away and trampling each other in the process. Nevertheless, he asked Oleg if he knew how far that effect would be spread, mentioning that if they evacuated the cities, they couldn’t have tens of thousands of dead cars littering the highways. Then came the worst shock since the pictures had been found.
“Evacuating the cities will not help. Operatives are even now standing by with drones that will deliver anthrax over everyone fleeing the suburbs in the aftermath of the bombs. The Sword of Cyrus means to kill as many of your people as they can, by whatever means are the most efficient. You cannot escape your fate.”
After hours of questioning and brainstorming, an exhausted Oleg was returned to a cell and locked in. An even more exhausted Lewis, operating on no more than catnaps since the crisis had begun, presented himself at the White House. News of this kind could not be conveyed over the phone.
No weapon that is formed against you will prosper
July 10, 2020; D-day minus 19, Washington, DC
Harper glanced up at his Chief of Staff, who’d just interrupted the brown study Harper had been in since Sam Lewis left in the early hours of this morning. He couldn’t have told anyone what he’d been looking at for hours, nor what thoughts circulated in his exhausted brain. What he had to think on was no less than who would live and who die on his watch and by his decision. The responsibility was greater than he ever would have believed, more than seven years ago when he took the Oath of Office for the first time. He’d weathered more, and more serious, crises than any other president before him, but this was the last straw.
The information from the interrogation of Oleg Zlatovski was disturbing and depressing. Yet he knew there was an alternative. He had seen the pictures that showed his cities intact; but at this moment it seemed as if there were nothing they could do.
The Chief cleared his throat. Harper had forgotten him almost as soon as he’d acknowledged him.
“Mr. President. Do you wish to speak to Daniel Rossler, sir?” He waited respectfully for the answer, expecting it to take another moment or two for his question to sink in. President Harper was clearly operating on his last reserves of strength. His appearance was alarming. The Chief resolved to convey his concern to the First Lady as soon as we was dismissed.
“Rossler? Of course. What’s he doing, calling so early?” The question made the retreating Chief of Staff smile. When didn’t Daniel Rossler call early? More often than not, it was around two or three in the morning. At least he’d waited until a decent nine a.m. today.
Harper picked up the ornate antique phone that graced his desk. As old-fashioned as it was, it nevertheless had the latest electronic inner workings. The appearance was just to blend in with the historic room in which Harper conducted the business of the nation. The Oval Office held too much history to be modernized.
“Daniel?” Harper’s voice came out in a croak, not the firm tones of the leader he wished to be. He tried again.
“Daniel? I’m glad to hear from you. Have you got some scheme to pull our bacon out of the fire?”
Rossler’s voice sounded odd, as if he were on speakerphone. “Good morning, Nigel. Sarah’s here with me.”
“Hi, Nigel,” Sarah interjected.
“Oh, hi, Sarah. Good to hear from you, too. What can I do for the two of you?”
Daniel was the one to answer. “Nigel, we’re calling to put ourselves and the Rossler Foundation at your disposal. We heard from Luke last night that we’re literally sitting on a time bomb. I know it’s horrifying, but how can we help? We will not give up until it’s over, one way or another.”
Nigel was touched, and his state was such that it put him near tears. He’d been through much with these people, supported their formation of the most advanced research facility in the world, attended their wedding, and even almost had to give in to pressure to nuke Daniel’s position during the 9th Cycle flu pandemic. But, there was nothing they could now do for him. He said so.
Sarah’s voice began soft, but grew stronger as she spoke. “Nigel I have a message for you. No weapon that is formed against you will prosper. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their vindication is from Me’ declares the Lord. Nigel, please don’t give up.”
The quote, which Harper recognized was from Isaiah, gave him heart. “Sara
h, thank you. Daniel, you have already done more for me than I can ever thank you for. We’ll talk again, before… Well, we’ll talk again. I hope you’ll excuse me, because I have work to do.”
Harper was already remembering another verse from the Old Testament, Deuteronomy this time. “Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the LORD will personally go ahead of you. He will be with you; he will neither fail you nor abandon you.” Discouragement passed away from Harper. If the Lord was with him, and he firmly believed that He was, then he need not fear. He would be up to the task.
Only a handful of his advisers were ignorant of the looming crisis. All the military and national security heads were involved in the operation that Sam Lewis headed up. The rest, those not directly involved in areas where Sam needed their expertise, had not been told. Given the hair-raising nature of the news, it was a near miracle that it hadn’t leaked, not even to the families of the men and women who were frantically working to avert the bombings. It was now time to inform the most senior members of government in the other areas. There was no doubt that they’d react with anger that he’d kept it from them.
Harper was prepared to defend himself. The words panic and no need floated through his head. There had never been any need to prepare for the worst, since the worst wasn’t something anyone could adequately prepare for. No movement of funds or troops, no diplomacy, no press conference would help if it weren’t stopped. If it were, then creating a public panic would serve to create more harm than good.
Should he have allowed time for people to put their affairs in order? Why? No one would be left to be affected afterward by disorderly death. Only those who already lived on the fringes of society. Perhaps a few other hapless souls who found themselves accidentally outside the area of destruction and completely unable to fend for themselves without the modern conveniences they’d always had. But he now knew that even those would be wiped out by anthrax within a few days after the bombs. This was truly a case of nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.