Pandora's Ark (16 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Northern Iran
, Mount Damavand, The Facility

Although Leonid Sakharov worked more than ten hours
straight, he did not allow his fragility to slow his pace. In fact, Sakharov
appeared to have more of a bite to his stamina, more of a hitch to his gait as
he roamed from one unit to another, from one monitor to the next. 

While Levine stood sentinel by the bay doors, one of the
few spots in the lab afforded to him by Sakharov, he watched the old man
operate the nanoscopic machines with eagerness that had been missing in the old
man since leaving Vladimir Central, and subsisting on the memories of someday
returning to his one true love: nanotechnology.

And here he was, inside a lab with the most advanced
technology the profits of oil could buy despite the UN sanctions that crippled
the country.

In the fore of the lab Sakharov was seated before the most
powerful microprocessor in the world that had millions of transistors just a
few dozen nanometers wide, a nanometer being a billionth of the size of a
meter. The technology was a marvel in the eyes of Levine, the machinery incomprehensible
since something manufactured that was a billionth of size truly existed. But
the Holy Grail was the Assembler, Sakharov’s pride and joy. The machinery was state-of-the-art
technology that built nanobots molecule by molecule until molecular chains were
created, the chain itself becoming the fusion of the nanobot.

With quick efficiency drawn from memories, Sakharov
expertly crafted molecular chains that would take on a programmed life of its
own and replicate. To program a lifespan and to give it a platform to perform
to the will of their Creator was a different matter, a different process. So
for years he sketched theories in his mind. And now that he was handed the
opportunity to accomplish the means during the twilight of his life, Sakharov
was creating with much success. Within hours he created the chains. Within days
he designed a program to imbue in the molecules. Within a month he would become
a God.

The makeup within the nanobots was a predesigned half-life
with every subsequent bot living approximately half the lifespan of its
predecessor. This was a safety feature to keep the nanobots from replicating exponentially,
based on Drexler’s theory that unrestrained growth would cause the bots to
consume all organic material on Earth within weeks.

With half a lifespan with every replication, their time
would always be minimized to the point where each and every bot would exist
down to a trillionth of a trillionth of a second, hardly time for them to exist
long enough to do any damage, which was Sakharov’s goal: Maximum damage in the
beginning, zero to none thereafter.

At the end of the day and at a specific time, Sakharov
would create a disk of the day’s acquired data and proffer it to Levine who was
summarily escorted by two Quds soldiers to the Comm Center. This was the only
time he was allowed into the communications station per agreement between
al-Sherrod and al-Ghazi, and through President Ahmadinejad. Since the data was
crucial, since a tenebrous alliance was born between factions with a common
goal, since trust remained at a bare minimum, Levine was able to, via imaging
satellite, speak to al-Ghazi, whose image appeared slightly grainy on the live
feed on the monitor screen.

After placing the disc into the required slot of the
computer, Levine spoke into the lip mike. “Download today’s data,” he said
evenly.

On another screen designs of molecular chains, nanobots and
buckyballs, along with scientific equations, formulas and rows of text,
downloaded, the screen becoming a cyberscript of symbols and rune-like designs.
Once the material was downloaded, he said, “Send specifications to given
address: Tehran. Al-Ghazi.”

The data moved through cyberspace within the blink of an
eye, the information relocating to al-Ghazi’s location and downloaded onto a
disc on his end.

And then: “And how are you, Umar?”

“I’m fine,” he answered.

It was here that al-Ghazi would look for particular facial tics
on Levine’s face, with certain tics meaning certain things. If the data proved
false or doctored, then he would give a subtle wink with his left eye; if under
duress, then a wink with his right, two separate gestures with plenty of
meaning behind them. Should Levine give off the impression of either, then
al-Ghazi would counter with a gesture of his own by blinking his eyes twice, a
signal to Levine to use his very particular set of skills to kill Sakharov,
ending the concord between the alliances. But his features remained stolid,
meaning that Ahmadinejad was, at least for now, complying with the conditions
of the agreement. To get this message across that everything was pretty much
copasetic, he would then tent his hands in mock prayer and bounce his fingertips
off the base of his chin.

Whenever he did this he could see relief fall over
al-Ghazi’s face. At least for now, Ahmadinejad was keeping to the agreement
that the data should be shared between alliances, even with marginal distrust
between them. 

“Good,” al-Ghazi said from the other end. “It appears he’s making
incredible strides.”

“Sakharov knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s done it
before.”

“And you, Umar?”

“I know little of his project,” he told him. “But the techs
he’s working with seem to be grasping his theories quite well.”

“How much longer do you think it will take?’

Levine shrugged. “If I was to hazard a guess, I’d say maybe
two weeks, three at the most.”

“Excellent. Is that what he told you?”

“In so many words, yes.”

“Al-Sherrod must be pleased.”

“He is. So is President Ahmadinejad.”

“With UN sanctions crippling his nation, he will now have
some leverage against Israel should they commit to a military strike against
their facilities. But it’s not the nuclear programs they should be worried
about, but the program of Doctor Sakharov.”

Levine fell back in his chair. The room was dark all around
him with the occasional glow from the monitor screens and blinking lights from
the surrounding computer modules. He had to get word to his contacts, that a
bunker not within the eyes of his country’s satellite system is developing a
weapon of mass destruction far more devastating than a nuclear device.

“Umar?”

He snapped aware. “Yes, al-Ghazi.”

“I will speak with you again tomorrow, same time.”

“Yes, al-Ghazi.”

“And watch over the good doctor, yes?”

“I will.”

From his end al-Ghazi gave him a cursory salute. “
Allahu
Akbar
.”

“
Allahu Akbar
.”

The
monitor winked off.

In
a dash of a moment before he stood, he took quick note of the other monitor
screens, taking in that they were surveillance monitors of areas within the
facility and outside with NVG cameras watching the areas surrounding the MG
nests, paths leading to the facility, the helipad, and the banks of fuel cells lining
the ridge, the power source for the facility. Fuel cells, he knew, were
extremely volatile. Explosions by themselves might not destroy the facility.
But coupled with a military strike from Israeli fighter planes, the missiles
would certainly cause the bunker to collapse.

Since
he was constantly being watched he knew he would have to act sometime before
Sakharov finished his project. But if he killed the doctor, then he would have
no way to contact his sources since he would no doubt be executed. Worse, the
doctor had finished enough of the process for the Iranian scientists to pick up
where he left off. Now he had no choice but to compromise his position and
order a strike to destroy the bunker and the data, quashing the project and the
minds contained within.

And
then there was al-Ghazi. He knew where he was and the threat he had become now
that he possessed much of the unfinished data.

It
was time to make a move. But first he would need to fathom a plan rather than
to act hastily.

A
rough hand touched down on his shoulder, the hand of a Quds soldier. In Farsi
he barked an order. It was time to leave the Comm Center.

Standing,
Aryeh Levine knew that his time was limited on this planet. But he also
understood that the romance of being an operative was over. He had done his job
and done it well. Now it was time to cash out and he would do so in a very
large way, in a blaze of fiery glory.

After
all, he was saving Israel. More likely other parts of the world, as well.

Therefore
Sakharov must not finish.

The
bunker cannot stand.

And
al-Ghazi cannot survive the week.

Being
directed toward the exit by the rough hand of a Quds soldier, Aryeh Levine’s
mind was already working.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Vatican City
, The
Start of the Conclave

Before the election
the cardinals hear two sermons: one before entering the conclave, the other
once they are inside the Sistine Chapel. The sermons are basically intended to
spell out the current state of the Church, and to further suggest the qualities
necessary for a pope to possess at that particular time. 

Over
the past few days leading up to the conclave, Cardinal Angullo had worked his
silver tongue and once again garnered the favors of those who had once
gravitated away from his camp back into his pull, placing himself as a favorite
within the
Preferiti
alongside Cardinal Vessucci.

As
the first sermon was coming to an end, Cardinal Angullo viewed Cardinal
Vessucci with a long and calculating look. The cardinal was kneeling with his
hands tented in prayer with an onyx-beaded rosary and silver crucifix dangling
from his fingers, the crucifix reflecting a diamond spangle of light whenever
it spun pendulously from side to side.

Closing
his eyes and tenting his fingers in his own sense of prayer, Cardinal Angullo
went back to his own entreaty to God, his lips moving wordlessly until the
final moment of the Eucharist.

At
noontime, on a day with a uniform blue sky and white-hot sun, the cardinals
gathered in the
Pauline Chapel
 of the Palace of the
Vatican, and then proceeded to the Sistine Chapel singing “Veni Creator
Spiritus.”

Cardinal
Vessucci was at the head of the procession, singing in chorus. Behind him
Cardinal Angullo also sang and did so in accord, the overall melody between the
cardinals sounding more like a harmonious Gregorian chant.

Once
inside the Sistine Chapel,
the cardinals took an oath to
observe the measures set down by the apostolic constitutions that upon election,
should he be elected, understand that his optimum duty was to protect the
liberty of the 
Holy See
; disregard the instructions of secular authorities on
voting; and above all else, maintain secrecy.

In
keeping with age-old practices, the
Cardinal Dean
, the
president of the College of Cardinals, then read the oath out loud in order of
precedence, while the other cardinal electors stated—while touching the 
Gospels
—that they
promise, pledge and swear to uphold the policies of the Church.

Cardinal
Angullo was most vociferous.

After
the cardinals had taken the oath, the Master of the Papal Liturgical
Celebrations then ordered everyone other than the cardinals and conclave
participants to leave the Chapel, a very slow progression as if in mourning,
leaving behind the cardinals, the Master of the Papal Liturgical Celebrations,
and an ecclesiastic designated by the Congregations prior to the commencem
ent of the election to make a speech concerning the
problems facing the Church, and once more on the qualities the new pope needed
to possess.
 

The
ecclesiastic was an aged old man with deeply wizened crow’s feet who hunched inwardly
at the shoulders, his gray eyes held innumerable intelligence, and the tone of
his voice remained honey smooth as he spoke words learned verbatim from script.

As he spoke Cardinal Angullo decided that he had all the
qualities and tools required, had all the solutions to the problems plaguing
the Church, ticking them off in his mind as the Vatican’s new savior. Cardinal
Vessucci, on the other hand, appeared studious and rapt, hinging on the
ecclesiastic’s every word, imbibing everything he said. 

When
the ecclesiastic finished, he moved with a shuffling gait beyond the Chapel
doors, leaving behind the Master of the Papal Liturgical Celebrations to stand
sentinel. Once the cardinals of the conclave were ready to proceed, the Master
of the Papal Liturgical Celebrations closed the door before them and wrapped a
chain with a papal seal on its lock around the door handles from the opposite
side, locking the cardinals within the Sistine Chapel. 

The click of the
lock resonated throughout the chapel in echoing cadence, like the gunshot sound
of finality, the galvanizing shot
marking the start of the procedure
of electing a new pope.

#

In voting, the
cardinals use simple note cards for ballots with the words "I
elect as Supreme Pontiff ___" printed on them, the open space to be filled
in with the name of the elector’s choosing.

By
afternoon the first ballot was held. However, no one garnered enough votes to
win the pontifical seat, including Angullo or Vessucci,
neither one getting the required
two-thirds of the assembly’s vote to win the papal throne. How much
was received by Angullo, Vessucci or the other two cardinals of the
Preferiti
remained unknown.

It
was also the only ballot of the day.

On
the subsequent morning, as a battleship-gray sky threatened to open with
torrential rain, the conclave continued with two additional votes, both failing
to come to a clear and decisive decision as to who should lead the Church.

As each day passed, Bonasero Vessucci
was beginning to lose hope.
Whereas Cardinal
Angullo smiled with all the pompous glory of a victor by the way the edges of
his lips curled with the smug and anticipatory grin of someone who believed
that the throne was well within his grasp. With every passing ballot things
were beginning to look very bleak, whereas things were starting to look golden
for Cardinal Angullo.

During
the day’s recess between the second ballot and the beginning of the third
ballot, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci stood alone, musing, his eyes obviously
detached from the moment until Cardinal Angullo invaded his space.

“Bonasero,”
he said.

Vessucci’s
eyes settled on the cardinal who held a smile. “It’s becoming quite obvious
that the throne is under the strong union of those who wish to see the most
qualified to receive the papal station.”

“Isn’t
that always the way?”

Angullo
leaned forward, his smile widening, but marginally—more of a vindictive smirk
than a gentle grin of congeniality. “Yes,” he finally said. “But it appears
that your camp has weakened significantly over the past few days.
Since you were the alleged lead in the
Preferiti
, then the casted votes should have marked you as the pontiff within
the first three ballots. That means, my Dear Cardinal, that something else is
in the wind, wouldn’t you agree? People are perhaps considering other factors.”

“Like
you perhaps?”

Angullo
closed his eyes and gave a small tilt of his chin in acknowledgement.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I am the Vatican secretary of state, which would serve
others well if they should cast their votes on my behalf.”

“So
you offered favors to those in order to bolster your camp?”

“No.
Never. People see that I am a man of position. And who does not want to be in
the same circle as a man of position? No, Bonasero. People by nature are
self-centered, even if it’s to the smallest degree. They’re ambitious and they
have the need, and the right, to excel to the next level. People, Bonasero,
like to be in a circle with those in power, those within position, those who
can help promote.” And then: “Whose circle are you in?”

Bonasero
Vessucci simply stared at him. Not a glare, just a studious look in which he
was seeing Angullo as a man of true Machiavellian conviction.

“I
see,” he finally answered. “But keep in mind, Giuseppe, that it takes
two-thirds of the votes to secure the position. There are others in the
Preferiti
whose votes may be diluting the overall percentage. It doesn’t necessarily mean
that you, I, or anyone else in the
Preferiti
has an advantage over the
other. It simply means patience should be an exhibited virtue.”

“An
exhibited virtue,” he repeated. His smile broadened. “Yes, Bonasero, exhibit your
virtue should it give you comfort.” He then stood back and smiled in a way that
was truly Machiavellian in nature by the simple curvature of his lips.

“Don’t
cast your shadow upon the papal throne yet, Giuseppe. The votes may not be in
your favor.”

“Perhaps
not,” he said. He then backed off, turned, and began to walk away. “But then
again,” he added over his shoulder, “perhaps they are.”