Pandora's Ark (20 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Tel Aviv, Israel, Mossad Headquarters

Yitzhak
Paled stood in the Comm Center watching the screen with his arms folded
defensively across his chest. The large man,
Benyamin Kastenbaum, stood
beside him maintaining the same pose, his colossal frame dwarfing Paled’s.

The room was
dark, their forms silhouetted before the high-definition screen as encrypted
notes downloaded from coordinates in the Alborz Mountain region, specifically
from Mount Damavand, an odd point since there had never been verification of
activity there.

“Aryeh’s alive,”
Benyamin commented.

“From Mount Damavand in northern Iran . . . Of all places.”

“What’s he doing
there?”

“I guess we’re
about to find out.”

They watched the
screen load up with rune-like characters, letters, numbers and symbols, the
techs playing the keyboards to decipher the codes. The data coming forward in
five different segments:

2BEL4o69Zvwb45I1PyFVXr2nnebQliV53ZDboAv1Miat±Av%2Fy%2BFYQTxb9aonEsWDeRHwZBd73Jf%0AoCgOklgcitM90βM1iVifu%2Bftv≥€∞pJhQkVRRuLascUEzrgGz5F%2B34EibZQZUoUkfaVrmvcPcHIXbq12D%0ATrq5d6Wlµ

GQDPfLFnAzafwKeNI0Aixcn12twrk7baXja7dDEJpBO9tbsl2QI3b%0AtHbbABZgmRBBGk44an02VRlhcv%2FFWNg7jum1%π%2BON2sERIyla55%2FVp%2BvH2VX368%2F7M5nf%0AGYQ3LnJAxdjLRp%2BEYSknuWFO£∑πα≠×ĂĂ¥ǚ

1pwyG%2Bj3D5uu69ee4QB0xAzdLQctkIf8X%0Aj4HZuiGuxrsn9CbliKMSOecwUEiNs5Z4pV4sM0%2Bk%2Bg%2Bt%2FaY3T5qc8%2FpaGPRitLV1QZFx4Bu5Ta4Z%0AjmYlUWQt2Sg8fGbMiB3Wu7aGS3MSnsCETQ1u6TkMfoWK2RN

%2FXPgm%0Ax50TAUhWpn4v3epCVw4jCMJcAu8yHsuRoJqaaAf1%2Bk2xGcQ72dpsLxvT2ForGKD6dJzT9QowA%0AhnumrRZUvy%2BLV1DjnylkV0vf7KCdPKwVtq5jsDmg7hHuBWZYcx4clAT%2B%2FNCpEJnWgNsAz6GL10qW%

2FpaGPRitLV1QZFx4Bu5Ta4Z%0AjmYlUWQt2Sg8fGbMiB3Wu7aGS3MSnsCETQ1u6TkMfoWK2RNybls232BXrLsmkKy%2BON2sERIyla55f48rgI%0APlwfdZTHQiWnWji1beBt18RiJYYJFdIRYg5%2FyETojJr33t%2FqkDMQbdUFZiJvE

The encryptions
became clear, the markings and symbols conforming to Yiddish text. There was no
doubt. Aryeh Levine was alive in a complex hidden deep within Iran’s Alborz region inside a covert facility near the base of Mount Damavand. The exact
coordinates were given for a preemptive strike.

The second verse
touched upon a technology more devastating than nuclear weaponry, a nano device
capable of destroying organic material while leaving the infrastructure intact
with no way to combat it. Israel was now within the crosshairs.

Other segments
appeared scattered, the messages themselves needing to be determined as to what
Levine was trying to express. Apparently the man was in a rush.

Inside the facility
next to the lab lies the true Ark of the Covenant. What it was meant to be used
for wasn’t quite clear, the codes indecipherable. But it was apparent that it
had meaning in the scheme of things to come. What that was, however, would
remain a mystery since some of the data was corrupted.

“It’s not
uniform,” said Benyamin.

Paled had to
agree. “That means Aryeh was pressed for time. Not a good sign, I’m afraid. As
much as I want to hope for his safety, I believe that I may be hoping for too
much.”

“The Alborz are
cold at this time—too cold for any man to survive.”

“But he did what
was required of him,” said Paled. The man bent over the console, the light of
the monitor glowing against the sharp features of his face. He scrutinized the
screen, the messages, and read into them. “Nanotechnology,” he said. “There’s a
name attached to this: A Doctor Leonid Sakharov.” He turned to Benyamin. “Find
out what you can about this man and get back to me. If Aryeh has requested an
immediate and illegal incursion to these coordinates, then it is with good
reason that we must take it seriously.”

“Of course there
will be fallout from the international community.”

“When the life
of Israel is at stake, then the voice of the international community means
little . . . Doctor Leonid Sakharov. Find out what you can about this man while
we consider a strike against Iran. And quickly, Benyamin, time may be limited,
so a decision will have to be made soon.”

“Yes, Yitzhak,
I’ll do so right away.” The large man was gone, leaving Yitzhak Paled to gnaw
unknowingly on his lower lip in concentration as his mind formulated the
beginnings of a strike mission.

Of course he
would have to contact the proper authorities by moving up the chain of command,
which obviously ended with Prime Minister Netanyahu. But Israel’s previous strikes and assassinations against Iran’s nuclear scientists to retard
their so-called facilities that “produce the peaceful means of nuclear power” drew
the ire of the international community, as Benyamin had said. But here was
confirmation from a stellar operative sending a transmission from a covert
facility hidden away from the scrupulous eyes of Mossad and the CIA. Such an operation was obviously meant to be concealed. And when an operation is meant to be
concealed, then that operation is normally classified as the creation of a WMD, which, in this case, is nanotechnology, a weapon geared to destroy organic matter while
leaving the infrastructure unmolested.

“You did well,
my friend,” he whispered. He then drew the tips of his fingers over the monitor
screen, over the data. “You got your message across.”

#

In less than
an hour,
Benyamin returned with a dossier on Leonid J. Sakharov, and sat at a table with
Yitzhak Paled and held counsel.

Benyamin opened
the file. “Doctor Leonid J. Sakharov was a leading scientist in Russia during the Cold War and a short time thereafter. His primary field of study was in
the field of nanotechnology from the mid- to late eighties. According to our
data, the man was years beyond other scientists in his field with this type of
technology. And it appears, even as the Wall fell, that the Russian government
continued to fund his program into the nineties.” He slid a black-and-white
glossy photo of a much younger Sakharov to Paled, who examined the man in the
picture with a keen eye, studying everything about the man’s hardened features,
his mind to never forget the man’s face.

“There was a
purported accident in one of the labs, the data not quite clear. But it appears
that Dr. Sakharov initiated a test of his findings prematurely, causing the
deaths of his technicians. With Russia being the way it was at the time, they
saw this as a step forward and allowed him to go on, the deaths of the techs
serving as an example of what his experiments can do, rather than to see the
tragedy of their demise. Apparently Sakharov sobered to the idea of what his
research was capable of and destroyed the data, earning him a long stint in
Vladimir Central Prison.”

“So he’s
incarcerated?”

Benyamin shook
his head. “Not anymore. He was released after the principals running Vladimir were allegedly in negotiations with this man to release him.” He slid another
photo across the table. It was a photo of a Middle Eastern man in elegant
dress. “Several months ago Sakharov was visited by this man. His name is Adham
al-Ghazi. And we believe him to be a high-ranking member of al-Qaeda. Information
on this guy is very limited. But we’re trying to learn as much as we can about
him.”

“This doesn’t
make sense.”

“It gets
better,” added Benyamin. “Sakharov was living on a small government stipend in Moscow until a few weeks ago.”

“And?”

Another photo
slid across the table, one that was appropriated from the memory files of a
digital security camera near the Kremlin. “This is al-Ghazi a day or two before
Sakharov disappeared,” he continued. “We believe that al-Ghazi was there for
Sakharov. And ironically, after this picture was taken, Doctor Sakharov was on
a flight to Tehran within days. So tell me, Yitzhak, why would a man of age, a
man like Sakharov, whose only roots lie within Russia, go to Tehran?”

Paled nodded.
“Because, my friend, sometimes when a man grows old and begins to feel left
behind and forgotten, he needs to feel useful. In this case I believe Doctor
Sakharov was given the opportunity to feel useful once again, a second chance
at life rather than to sit back, exist, then die without anyone knowing your
name.”

“So he’s in Tehran.”

“No,” he
answered. “He’s in this covert facility at Mount Damavand. Otherwise Aryeh
never would have known him. Doctor Sakharov, nanotechnology, it all fits.
Sakharov has completed what he started years ago in Russia. And somehow
al-Ghazi and the Iranian government have colluded to benefit by sharing a
common goal, despite their suspicion of one another. It’s no secret that Ahmadinejad
has been recruiting these factions over that past few years to carry out their
deeds, so they can sit back and deny culpability by pointing the accusing
finger at a scapegoat.”

He leaned back
in his chair and gazed into Benyamin’s eyes. “They have perfected a weapon to
take out Israel,” he told him. “Aryeh got enough across to tell us that. He
also told us that they were in possession of the true Ark of the Covenant. By
telling us the exact location and the purpose of this facility, I see no choice
but to destroy it in its entirety.”

“We’ll need to
contact the Prime Minister.”

“Who will then inform
our allies of our findings. The CIA will then use their satellites to zone in
on the position and confirm this facility as we did. On the ridgeline are numerous
fuel cells maintaining the power of the complex—a target that should aid in its
fall.”

“The United States may want further proof than just a few encryptions.”

“It’s not their
choice. The United States needs to think less about how they can profit from
this and make their economy swing better. Because if they allow this to
continue, if Iran and al-Qaeda go forward with this technology, then Israel,
the United States, and their allies may not have an economy withstanding at
all.”

“And the Ark?”

Paled’s eyes
went soft. “It will be lost forever, I’m afraid.”

“Such a treasure
for the world to behold.”

“If we don’t do
this, Benyamin, then there will be no world to treasure.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY

Rome
, Italy

Leviticus was sitting at his desk
wearing slacks, a white shirt and black tie, which was far from the uniform he
was accustomed to as a Vatican Knight. For the past six months he’d been working
as a security analyst working for an Italian investment firm with interests
abroad.

Although
Leviticus was not his proper name, it was the moniker he bore as a Vatican Knight. His true name was Danny Keaton, a man who was born, bred and raised in Brooklyn, New York.

While carefully
perusing over documents regarding the recent hacking attempts against a
billion-dollar investment firm in Belize, a country with a company tie, came a
light tapping against the door.

He looked up and
laid the papers aside on the desktop. “Come in.”

An unattractive
woman with dishwater-brown hair tied up into a bun opened the door. Her smile,
however, was quite becoming and electric. “Mr. Keaton, there’s a priest here to
see you.”

A priest
?

“You can send
him in. Thank you.”

She stepped back
and allowed the priest to enter the office, then closed the door softly behind
him. For a long moment the priest stood there looking through glasses that magnified
his eyes, the man suffering from some clinical form of visual degeneration. On
the pocket of his clerical shirt was the symbol of the SIV. In his hand an
aluminum suitcase. “Mr. Keaton,” he said, coming forward and offering his free
hand. “I’m Father Domicelli of the
Servicio
de
Inteligencia
del
Vaticano.
”

“The SIV. I know. I saw the
emblem on your shirt.” Leviticus gestured to the seat in front of his desk as
an invitation for the Jesuit to sit. “How can I help you?”

“You can help us,” he said, “by
servicing the needs of the Church.”

“You knew my place within the
Church?”

“I do. It is within the scope of
our knowledge under the exclusive sponsorship of the pope to know so.” Then
with cool evenness and little hesitation, he said, “You were a Vatican Knight.”

Leviticus fell back into his
seat. “Again: How can I help you?”

The Jesuit’s smile never left
him. “Of course you know the result of the conclave.”

He nodded. “The good Cardinal
Vessucci has taken the papal throne. A good man in a deserving position.”

“And in turn the pontiff has
requested your assistance,” he returned.
Father Domicelli then
raised the aluminum suitcase for show and pointed to the desktop. “May I?”

Leviticus swept
the papers aside. “Yes, of course.”

The Jesuit laid
the suitcase on the desktop, undid the clasps, and lifted the lid. Inside were
crisp, clean clerical shirts and clerical collars as pristine as snow, the
shirts neatly folded. Beneath them were military-style pants with cargo pockets
and freshly glossed military boots. On the shirt pocket was the logo of the Vatican Knights, a blue and gray shield with a
Pattée
cross as its
center point and two Heraldic lions standing on their hind legs holding the
shield stable with their forepaws. Upon seeing this Leviticus worked his lip
into a minor tic, a micro-expression of pride over the embroidery that meant so
much.

In slow reaction
he reached for one of the shirts and held it within his hands as if the fabric
was as fragile as threadbare silk. And with either caution or homage or perhaps
even both, he brushed his fingertips over the embroidered shield. “I remember,”
he simply said.

“The shirt is
set to specifics,” he told him. “Pope Pius the Fourteenth has decided to
reinstate the Vatican Knights, and he needs your efforts, should you accept his
proposal, to serve the Church once again.”

Leviticus never
took his eyes off the shirt. “I still have my old uniforms,” he said in a
dreamy, almost distant tone. “I have all of them.”

“Would you be
interested in reprising the role as second lieutenant of the Vatican Knights?”

He looked at the
priest and nodded. “It would be my absolute honor.”

Father Domicelli
extended his hand. “Welcome back, Leviticus.”

#

The Temapache Orphanage, Mexico

The Mexican desert was dry and
arid at the site of the mission where Isaiah had been adopted from by Cardinal
Vessucci all those years ago and then taken to Vatican City. The structural body
of the orphanage hardly changed—although the cracks were wider, longer, and the
surrounding adobe walls bleached lighter than what he recalled. The rooms, the
hallways, the lighted core of its essence remained the same, however. Even
after all these years.

Though his
moniker was Isaiah, his given name was Christian Placentia, a child orphaned at
an early age who wound up half dead at the missionary doors. Summarily taken in
and nourished by a kindly nun, Christian soon caught the eye of the missionary
priest who noted the child’s exemplary physical skills, high intelligence and good
character. Word soon reached across the ocean to the ear of a cardinal in Vatican City—a world away—who saw in Christian the potentials required of a Vatican Knight. For years the young man trained diligently, if not fanatically, learning
the skills of an elite fighter, as well as the philosophies regarding the
differences between right and wrong, and how to employ ‘just’ reasoning to
awkward states of affairs. Philosophies, teachings and classical readings were
a must. Martial arts became a discipline of self-defense not only to protect
himself, but for those who could not protect themselves. Not only did the
Church turn children like him into men with a particular set of combat skills,
but also compounded their development by fashioning unfaltering character by
embedding the mantra
Loyalty above all else, except Honor
, as a code of
unwavering principle.

It was a credo
he lived by as a Vatican Knight. It was also a credo he lived by as a
missionary who now served the orphanage he had grown up in.

Dressed in a
cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic collar, wearing faded dungarees and work
boots, Christian worked the garden tilling the soil with a hoe, the muscles of
his arms becoming ropy and sinewy with every strike that drove the implement’s
blade into the ground.

After mopping
his brow with his forearm and leaving a greasy smudge, he rested against the
hoe’s handle for a brief moment.

“Christian
Placentia?”

The former
Knight turned toward the voice. Beneath the bullet-shaped entryway leading into
the garden stood two priests, one a near facsimile of the other in appearance with
the exception that one was slightly taller. While one stood idle with his hands
crossed before him, the other remained just as idle with an aluminum suitcase
in his grasp.

“Yes.”

“May we have a
word with you?”

Isaiah nodded
and gestured them forward with a beckoning of a dirty hand. “Please,” he said,
“come in. The garden is for all to share.”

They pressed
forward and took a seat upon a decorative bench bearing the faces of smiling
cherubs. On their pockets of their robes were the emblems of the SIV.

“You’re from the
Vatican,” Christian stated rhetorically.

The man with the
suitcase nodded. “We are.”

“What can I do
you for?”

“As you know a
new pontiff was elected.”

“The venerable
Cardinal Vessucci—a good man.”

“That’s correct.
And since we are SIV, we come under the rule of the pope regarding undisclosed
matters that must remain unknown to the clerical population of the Vatican.”

Christian
waited.

“We know that
you were a Vatican Knight,” the Jesuit finally said.

“And you came
all the way from the Vatican to tell me this?”

The priest with
the suitcase laid it against the ground, undid the claps, and opened the lid.
Inside was a pristine uniform of a Vatican Knight. “The pope has requested, should
you approve and accept, that you return to the Vatican as a Knight. The unit is
being reinstated.”

At first
Christian appeared unemotional until the Jesuits saw that the Knight’s eyes
insisted otherwise. They were bright and dazzling and filled with undeniable
joy.

“Pope Pius the
Fourteenth has respectfully requested that you rejoin as a Second Lieutenant—the
same position you held six months ago before the unit was disbanded by Pope
Gregory. Others are returning to the Vatican as we speak.”

Christian got on
a bended knee and lifted the shirt from the case, noted the emblem on the
pocket, and drew it close.

“Do you accept
the pontiff’s invitation to reunite?”

He looked at
them, his eyes saying it all. “Of course,” he said. “Yes.”

The priest then
nudged the aluminum case closer to Christian with his foot. “Welcome aboard,
Isaiah
,”
he said, placing an emphasis on his moniker. “The pontiff will be pleased by
your decision.”

“When am I to
return?’

“After you
conduct your first mission,” he quickly answered.

“And that would
be?”

“To Las Vegas,” the Jesuit answered, standing.

The other Jesuit
followed his partner’s lead and took to his feet as well.

“Las Vegas?”

The taller of
the two Jesuits answered him with a sad wilt as he spoke. “There’s someone
there who needs your help, Isaiah—a friend who may be losing his way.”

“And who would that
be?”

 “Kimball,” said
the other. “We’re talking about Kimball Hayden.”