But the Kremlin didn’t want to hear this side of the scenario. What they wanted were results, so funding was extended with expectations that Sakharov would be able to program the molecules to keep from replicating themselves, and to better devise a way to control them from a computer monitor.
When Sakharov told them that such science was decades away, they simply told him that the “first” second of the first decade just ticked away; therefore, he wasn’t to waste another moment.
For years he worked on methods and theories, having diagrams of buckyballs with scribbled notes wallpapering the walls. He worked effortlessly, truly believing that he could be the next Nikola Tesla, the Serbian genius.
As months and years drew on, as the wall crumbled in 1991 and with it communism, the new leadership refused Sakharov any true freedoms and placed him under the auspice of the new Directorate S, an updated version of Kremlin bureaucracy.
With pressure mounting and with Sakharov struggling with the bottle, his work went well beyond stressful and gains were minimal. With more pressure being asserted by the powers that be, Sakharov finally snapped and erased almost ten years of data from all computers and their banks, leaving nothing to be retrieved.
This earned Sakharov nine years in the prison system where he watched inmates die around him in the most horrific conditions.
But he did not blame Mother Russia. He blamed himself, knowing that his ego was paramount and that his downfall and failures was of his own doing.
He still loved his country, even though it was a marginal facsimile of what she used to be.
But he survived Vladimir Central. And by the time he was released, Russia had a new political face. And it turned up its nose at him by telling him that he was aged and forgotten.
But my mind is as sharp as it always was.
He smiled because this was true.
In Vladimir Central he would draw diagrams and formulas in the mud, then commit them to memory before erasing them at the approach of the guards. Now that his mind wasn’t addled with drink, he could think, configure, and institute new measures of control if given the opportunity to do so. He would be diligent and careful. And though he quickly found a reason to purse his lips around the mouth of a bottle the moment he was released from Vladimir Central, he would gladly give it up to prove to himself that he was not the failure Mother Russia believed him to be since she discarded him like yesterday’s news.
He then raised the glass of vodka to his lips and drank, the alcohol going down much cooler than the urine that often left his body. You’re coming apart, old man. But he smiled at the thought.
Regardless, he had lived a good life, developing weaponry he believed would serve as a deterrent against the United States, for which they would fear retaliatory strikes derived from Sakharov’s wares. The old man truly believed that he was once the front line of his nation’s defense, when, in fact, he was just a cog in the scheme of Russia’s massive operation that was well beyond his comprehension.
He sighed. He stared. He thought. And he drank; knowing once he left this apartment, once he left for Iran, and despite the promises of reliving his glory years, Leonid Sakharov knew his time was limited.
Again he smiled. And then he lifted a full glass of vodka and extended his hand toward the lights of St. Basil’s Cathedral and proposed a toast. “To my beloved Mother Russia,” he whispered. “I have missed you so. And I promise to make you proud.” And then he drank until the glass ran empty.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Deep in the center of Iran’s capital, by far the largest urban city with a population of over eight million people, al-Ghazi found it easy to hide within the bustle of the major metropolis. After meeting with Leonid Sakharov, he took an immediate flight back to his central base.
The weather was hot and dry, the sky a deep blue, a cloud not to be seen. The stink of a big city was evident with the smell of fumes and exhaust permeating the air as if a sandstorm had swept through the streets, the atmosphere cloyingly thick with haze the color of desert sand. People milled about the bazaars where animal meats hung from hooks. And al-Ghazi took it all in as he sat at a table outside an eatery enjoying a Sharbat, a sweet drink prepared from fruits and flower petals. As always he was impeccably dressed in a shirt so white that it cast a glowing radiance, whereas everyone around him wore the traditional Shalvars or Sarbands.
Patiently, while at leisure with his drink, al-Ghazi waited. His contact would be prompt, as always. So at noon when his phone rang he knew exactly who it was.
He recognized al-Zawahiri’s voice right away.
“There is no doubt the Americans will eventually come after me since they murdered Osama,” said al-Zawahiri. “After today I will stay in contact through couriers, since I must now go into exile.”
“I understand.”
“Do you have the physicist?”
“Not yet. But arrangements have been made for him to arrive in Tehran shortly. My men will be there to pick him up.”
“There will be problems getting him through customs, yes?”
“Not at all,” he answered. “I have been given assurances by custom agents at the Imam Khomeini International Airport that Dr. Sakharov will pass uncontested. If he does not, then it is understood that consequences will befall those who stay his passage.”
“Is he capable of doing the job? My sources tell me that the physicist has grown infirm.”
Al-Ghazi took a sip from his Sharbat, the outside of the glass sweating. “It appears that drink has taken his body, al-Zawahiri, but not his mind. So what has become Russia’s loss is now Allah’s gain.”
“Then you’ve done well, al-Ghazi. Allah truly shines upon you with favors.”
“I am blessed, yes.”
“Quickly, tell me of your agenda and then speak no more of it to anyone hereafter.”
“The good doctor will arrive tonight and be taken to a safe house at the northern edge of the city where he will rest. On the following morning he will then be taken to our base camp in the Alborz.”
The Alborz is a mountain range in the northern part of Iran stretching from the borders of Azerbaijan and Armenia in the northwest, to the Caspian Sea in the south. The range also borders Afghanistan to the east and seats the tallest mountain in the Middle East, Mount Damavand, which is well over 18,000 feet tall.
The range is porous with caves, like Afghanistan. But unlike Afghanistan, the region is highly protected by President Ahmadinejad’s forces since the area falls under Iranian sovereignty. To breach the area would be difficult. To find the exact location of the lab site would be almost impossible. And as far as al-Ghazi was concerned, he was untouchable.
“And you’re ready, I presume?”
“Quite. This facility is located deep within the base of Mount Damavand. President Ahmadinejad was kind enough to create a state-of-the-art laboratory that will be activated by power cells.”
“It appears that Ahmadinejad’s nuclear program has more applications than just an energy resource as he claims. I’m sure he did not do this from the goodness of his heart.”
“Of course not, but his stake is a simple one,” he said. “In exchange for his use of the lab and his continued protection, he respectfully requests that his team of scientists be given access to all data regarding Sakharov’s nanotechnology.”
There was silence on the other end.
And then: “We have no other choice?”
“The facility is well protected, al-Zawahiri. And the equipment is something the good doctor may understand. Even with my schooling, I have no concept as to what they do. They are truly state-of-the-art, which gives us the promise of achievement that would bring us victory over the infidels in a final assault that would give Allah his true station above all.”