Pandora's Ark (23 page)

“I’ve nothing to confess, Father. God knows what I did.”

“I see.”

“I’ve come for another matter. Perhaps you can help me
out?”

“I can try.”

Kimball removed a wad of hundred dollar bills from his
shirt pocket, the money earned from his fights, the money he was setting aside
toward the pursuit of his dreams, and forwarded the money through the bars of
the gate. “It’s for the poor,” he told him.

The priest took the money, his mouth slowly falling into a
perfect O.

“There’s over six thousand dollars there,” Kimball told
him. “Put it to good use.”

Kimball turned and began to walk away.

“Wait!”

Kimball halted and turned to face the priest, but didn’t
say a word.

It was obvious the clergyman was stunned. “Are you sure?
This is a lot of money.”

Kimball was absolutely positive and gave a nod to that
affect. “Put to good use, Father. There are people who need it more than I do,”
he said.

Without saying another word Kimball was gone, surrendering
his dream for the pursuit of another: His salvation.

#

That
night they
took an immediate departure
from Terminal Two at McCarran Airport. Kimball took the window seat, wanting to
see the lights of Las Vegas pass beneath him for the last time.
He didn't appear apprehensive or
excited, he just remained impassively quiet
.
Nor did Isaiah do
anything to change Kimball’s current state or try to curb his lack of
enthusiasm. Instead, Isaiah let the man sit alone with his thoughts, while he
took the aisle seat and read the current aeronautical magazine.

As the plane taxied and took off, the dazzling lights of Las Vegas were in full display, the Strip no doubt capable of rivaling the lights of Paris.

As the plane banked, Kimball realized that he held no
regrets for surrendering the money to the church. Although ill gotten, it would
certainly do a lot of good in the right hands.

Kimball was at peace.

When the plane began its long journey eastbound, he settled
back and looked to the overhead bin above him.

Inside the bin was the aluminum suitcase.
And inside the suitcase was his only
possession, the only thing of importance, and that was the uniform of a Vatican Knight
.

Kimball then closed his eyes and settled back for the long
flight.

He was at rest.

And he was at peace.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Mount Damavand. The Alborz Region, The Facility

Aryeh
Levine was in obvious agony. He had been placed inside a vacuum chamber with
his feet dangling downward in stomach-churning angles, the skin badly swollen
and mottled with gangrenous colors.

Al-Sherrod stood behind the partition. To his left was
al-Ghazi. Both men stood with totally different aspects. Whereas al-Sherrod
looked on with indifference, al-Ghazi appeared as wounded as a man could be
under such circumstances. He had trusted Umar, which was unlikely his real name,
with brotherly reverence. Only to be violated in the worst imaginable way.

Al-Sherrod stepped closer to the glass with the marginal
interest of examining a strange- looking insect beneath the lens of a glass a
moment before angling it in such a way that the rays of the sun would cremate
it. And that’s how he saw Levine, as an insect. “The transmission traces back
to Tel Aviv,” he finally said. And then he turned to al-Ghazi whose eyes
remained focused on Levine, the muscles in the back of his jaw twitching. “And
we both know what exclusive fraternity resides in Tel Aviv, don’t we Adham?”

He could see al-Ghazi reaching a boiling point.

“He is Mossad.”

Al-Ghazi went to the glass partition and placed his palm
against the glass. “Can you hear me?” he asked.

Levine answered with a pain riddled grimace, teeth
clenching, his eyes rolling up into slivers of white and on the cusp of passing
out before coming back.

“Can you hear me?” he repeated.

“I . . . hear you,” he said.

Al-Ghazi sighed and pressed his forehead against the glass.
It was cool to the touch. “Why?”

Levine shook his head. The agony was too much to bear.

“I treated you like a brother, loved you as one. I trusted
you with my darkest secrets.”

Levine gripped the armrests, his knuckles going white.

“Are you Mossad?”

 “What do you think?”

Al-Ghazi stepped away, angry and saddened at the same time.

“Do you usually incorporate the enemy into your leagues?”
asked al-Sherrod. But al-Ghazi could tell that he was being sarcastic and
ignored him. “Perhaps you should apply better methods of recruitment, so as not
to bring aboard anyone who can compromise our position.”

Al-Ghazi closed his eyes and fought for calm. Al-Sherrod
was pushing his buttons. He would rather have the man curse him out and be done
with it, rather than his constant needling.

“You are a traitor to the cause,” al-Ghazi said through the
glass. “You are a Zionist, you are Mossad, and there can be no other outcome
other than death.”
And you have broken my heart, Umar.

Al-Ghazi stepped back and forced upon him the features of
indifference, which al-Sherrod immediately saw through.

“Do what you must,” he told al-Sherrod. “Be done with him.”

Al-Sherrod nodded. And then over his shoulder: “Bring in
the good professor,” he ordered. Then more softly to al-Ghazi: “I think it’s
time to see the true nature of the beast, don’t you? I’m curious to see the
demons that Doctor Sakharov created at work.” He turned to al-Ghazi who kept
his focus on Levine. “As I’m sure you are,” he added with a grin of malicious
amusement that was almost as disturbing as his needling, thought al-Ghazi, if
not more so.

Sakharov was roughly escorted to an open seat before a
console granting an open view of the chamber, a premiere accommodation for the
upcoming event.

“My good Doctor,” said al-Sherrod, approaching him with his
hands placed securely behind the small of his back. “Comfortable?”

“These apes of yours hurt me. I’m an old man. I can only
move so fast.”

The man bowed in feigned apology. “Then let me be the first
to apologize on their behalf,” he said. “But I thought it would be important
that you see the fruits of your labor.”

Sakharov saw Levine inside the chamber; saw the man’s badly
broken and swollen ankles. When he was incarcerated in Vladimir Central he had
seen the same thing. Often guards would take their truncheons to the kneecaps
and ankles, breaking them until the bones became free floating. Nevertheless,
the unnatural angles always made him turn away, as he did now.

“Don’t worry, Doctor,” said al-Sherrod. “We’re going to fix
his ailment permanently.”

Al-Sherrod walked away and took up the area next to
al-Ghazi. “Is there anything more you wish to ask the Jew?”

Al-Ghazi could only stare, not understanding in his own
heart why he cared so much for this man. He cared for him deeply, even now as
Levine sat there riding out unimaginable pain. It didn’t matter to him that
Levine—or Umar—was a Jew or that he was Mossad. All he knew was that his heart
ached deeply for the man whom he had come to care for as a brother, and will probably
grieve for as well.

“Do what you must,” he finally answered. “I’ve said all I
had to say.”

Al-Sherrod smiled. “Good, good. Then perhaps you would like
to engage the button then. After all, it might do your soul good to be rid of
the man who compromised your position. Certainly this wouldn’t look good in the
eyes of al-Zawahiri should this man go unpunished by your hand. Perhaps this
will be the first step of redemption in the old warrior’s eyes, yes?”

Al-Ghazi faced him, his eyes and face lit up with anger.
Did al-Sherrod have the insight to see what he was truly thinking or feeling
regarding Aryeh Levine? Or was his malice simply a part of his makeup in which it
was mere sustenance that moved him forward? 

“You will push the button, won’t you?” al-Sherrod pressed.

“He is a traitor, what do you think?”

The diminutive man’s smile flourished. “Then let’s see what
the good doctor’s discoveries have brought us, shall we?” He turned to
Sakharov, his enthusiasm unbridled. “Good Doctor,” he said, pointing to Levine.
“I want you to take a good long look at the beginning of the end.”

With a quick flick of his hand, a technician began to type
in the required codes. When he was done, he fell back in his seat and rolled
his chair away from the console. In al-Ghazi’s eyes the ENTER button was starkly
larger than all the rest when, in fact, the button was no larger than any other
on the keyboard.

“Go ahead,” said al-Sherrod, placing a hand on al-Ghazi’s
shoulder and directing toward the console. “Seek revenge against the Zionist.
Make yourself whole in the eyes of al-Zawahiri.”

Al-Ghazi stood over the panel and stared at the ENTER
button.

His heart thrummed. Never had he hesitated when granted
such an opportunity.

“Adham, the good doctor is waiting.”

Al-Ghazi faced Sakharov and saw that the man appeared as
lost as he was, perhaps realizing that his ambitions had taken him beyond
something he could live with on a conscience and moral level, the pain of his
guilt growing exponentially. Al-Ghazi, on the other hand, despite his extremist
position and Zionist prejudices, felt the same climatic guilt for what he was
about to do. In their gaze they connected, one man sensing the wrongful deed of
the other, but had no choice in the matter. It was what it was.

“I’m not getting younger, Adham.”

Al-Ghazi turned away from Sakharov and faced Levine. The
man was in such agony that al-Ghazi prayed that he would lose consciousness.
But he didn’t. The fault to maintain his awareness was a noble trait, but also
a foolish one.

He pressed the button.

Within fifteen seconds a waspy hum sounded out over the
loudspeakers, the press of the button activating the sound waves to stimulate
the nanobots.

Levine’s eyes opened to the size of saucers, his body going
erect and statuesque as the bots, creatures so small that a hundred thousand
could fit on the head of a pin, began to dissolve the man by the inches. Levine
screamed, his hands going to his face that dissolved and liquefied under the
onslaught; his eyes popping, then sliding within his orbital sockets,
disappearing; the flesh around his mouth paring back before disappearing,
showing the horrific smile of a skeletal grin. The fabric of his clothes began
to turn red, his blood from gaping wounds beneath his shirt and garments
ripping apart as flesh was rented and torn asunder, the imprint of his ribs now
showing through his shirt. His legs seemed to dissolve beneath his pants, the
material of his camouflage suit deflating until his legs appeared no thicker
than broomsticks. And then he was gone, leaving skeletal remains draped in
bloody fabric.

Al-Ghazi looked at the remains and noted that the skull was
turned right at him, its smile a grim reflection that would haunt him for the
rest of his life. Oddly enough, Levine had the presence of mind to point a bony
finger in al-Ghazi’s direction, as well. Or perhaps, he thought, it was by mere
coincidence that the accusing talon was directed his way during the throes of
writhing agony.

“Outstanding,” said al-Sherrod, moving closer to the
window. “Absolutely amazing.”

The waspy hum decreased over time, the nano mass
deteriorating by the half-life code embedded into them by Sakharov, making them
less critical. Within fifteen minutes their lifespan was diluted to the point
where their existence had zero effect. More so, they only attacked the organic
matter. Everything had been a resounding success.

“You see, Doctor! You see what you’ve brought us? The
ultimate solution in changing the world,” said al-Sherrod. His happiness could
hardly be contained. “A controlled weapon of mass destruction.”

Whereas al-Sherrod saw it as a way for Iran to bully their way into a position as a world power, al-Ghazi saw it as a device to
rid the world of Zionists and infidels, two totally separate agendas. Sakharov,
however, with his scientific mind saw this as End Times. Such a weapon in the
minds of corrupted officials tend to lose reason and foresight as their
ambitions become too great to control, thereby creating the eventual aftermath
of complete and total destruction.

Sakharov knew that Russia would have exercised the same set
of ambitions to recertify their egotistic and divine power over the United States, even with the Cold War over. Number one was everything. Number two was
insignificant.

“So now I must express to you, my good Doctor, the
gratitude of my countryman, the gratitude of President Ahmadinejad and, of
course, my appreciation, for what you have given us.”

Sakharov sat back in his seat. And when he spoke he didn’t
speak in his usual hardened manner. It was a side of him he never revealed to
any of them before, the side of a man possessed with calm intellect. “In the
pursuit of progress,” he said, “I have abandoned my humanity. And should there
be a Devil, then I have surely nailed my soul to the Devil’s Altar.”

Al-Sherrod stared at him.

“Now I know how J. Robert Oppenheimer felt after he
developed the bomb,” he added, “after he realized its horrific potential.”

“Regrets, Doctor?”

“You just heard what I said, didn’t you? Anything of this magnitude
can be controlled for so long before human nature finally takes over by someone
who thinks he can manage the power. Ultimately, that war is lost and so will
all of humanity . . . eventually.”

“You’re wrong, Doctor. In the right hands, under the right
minds, nothing can go wrong.”

The old Doctor Sakharov returned. “Then you’re as ignorant
as you look.”

The smile washed away from al-Sherrod’s face. “See the good
doctor back to his chamber,” he said. “And do be as rough with him as you were
getting him here.”

Two Quds soldiers hoisted Sakharov roughly to his feet and
escorted him away.

“Hey! Careful! I’m an old man!”

He then turned to al-Ghazi, who appeared mesmerized by the
remains of Levine. “He deserved what he got, yes?”

Al-Ghazi remained quiet.

“If I didn’t know better, Adham, I’d say you were mourning
the loss of the Zionist. Surely this isn’t so?”

He flashed the man a hard gaze. “I’m tired of your little
innuendos, al-Sherrod. If you’ve got something to say, then say it.”

“I’m merely proposing my thoughts of what I believe to
see.”

“Then you’re blind,” he returned.

“Am I?”

AL-Sherrod confronted al-Ghazi by standing between him and
the body of Levine, their eyes steely and intent. “We do have another pressing
issue at hand here,” he said.

Al-Ghazi nodded in agreement.

“The operative which you solely placed into our facility
has compromised the very location of this facility to Mossad; therefore, we
must consider the probability of a possible strike. If that is the case, then
we must abandon this area immediately. We are now put into a position of
denying culpability when we were never in such a position before.”

“Then we have no other choice,” he said. “We wipe away all
prints that this facility ever existed.”