He then went to the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels, and rather than grab a glass to drink from, he returned to the window and drank directly from the bottle.
And then reality struck him like a hammer blow: I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at.
This had always been his mantra.
It was also a fact that those who contested him had also breathed their last breath.
“I kill people” he whispered. “It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at.”
Kimball closed his eyes, letting the effects of a buzz overwhelm him. And in his mind’s eye he could visualize the disappointment in Louie’s face, could hear the admonishment in his voice: “A fighter will always be a fighter. A loser will always be a loser. And a dreamer will always be a dreamer. If you think for one minute this is only temporary, then you’re sadly mistaken.”
Kimball brought the bottle to his lips and took a long swig.
And then in a whisper only he could hear, he said: “I… am… a warrior.”
He took another long pull from the bottle and closed the drapes, immersing him in gloom that was equal to his mood.
Within the hour the self-proclaimed warrior passed out from too much drink, his bladder loosening as he lay in mock crucifixion across his bed, only to awake six hours later totally humiliated by what he had become.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Leonid Sakharov had always been afraid of flying, which was actually an excuse to imbibe a few shots before boarding his flight to take away the edge. He also knew it would be the last time he’d be allowed to partake.
By mid-afternoon he boarded an Aeroflot Russian Airliner. And though he found the economy class cramped with the hanging odors of unwashed passengers sitting around him, he at least found marginal comfort knowing it was a straight route to Tehran.
With his meal tray down, Sakharov had his notes out, little pieces of paper with drawing representations of molecular buckyballs and corresponding formulas. From his memory he had mined the information he created mentally while serving in Vladimir Central, the sketches derived strictly from recall as he doodled spherical molecular formations of the Buckminsterfullerene, the Carbon 60 molecule necessary for the structure of the nanobot.
Buckminsterfullerene is the smallest fullerene molecule in which no two pentagons share an edge. The structure of C60 is a truncated icosahedron, which resembles a soccer ball made of twenty hexagons and twelve pentagons with a carbon atom at the vertices of each polygon and a bond along each of its edge. This special molecule was discovered in 1985 at Rice University and deemed very adaptable, smart, and able to contemplate its own existence. A year later, Leonid Sakharov embarked on his scientific journey thousands of miles away by programming a chain of commands into the structure, the molecule then carrying the codes over to replicated molecules until the commands became a collective whole. And though the commands worked in previous testing, the matter to slow the process to duplicate itself exponentially had fatal consequences. And this was the problem — to somehow give it a smaller lifespan half the length of the original, and then a half-life for every subsequent molecule thereafter until it fades itself out completely.
He examined his notes carefully, then made additional sketches and drew formulas with numerical designs that looked more like Greek lettering.
And he did this all the way to Tehran.
Once the plane touched down, Sakharov disembarked with the aid of airline personnel, who wheeled him across the terminal in a wheelchair, and released him to al-Ghazi, who was waiting by the terminal doors.
Al-Ghazi, as always, was impeccably dressed from top to bottom. “And how was your trip, Doctor? I assume it was a pleasant journey.”
“Pleasant? It smelled like ass all the way over,” he said.
As crotchety as ever, al-Ghazi thought.
Once the doors opened, a plume of heat blasted into the doorway.
“It’s hot as hell out there,” said Sakharov.
“But it’s a dry heat.”
“I’ll make sure to tell that to the ambulance driver as he’s loading me into the back of the van. I’ll just say to him: ‘No rush. It’s just a dry heat, so don’t worry about the oncoming heat stroke.’”
Al-Ghazi rolled his eyes. Working with Sakharov was going to be difficult, he could tell.
Moments later they were in the back of a limousine cruising away from the airport. Sakharov had his full attention set to the passing landscape, marveling at the architecture.
Al-Ghazi smiled, intuiting the old man’s thoughts. “It’s not the mud huts and stone structures you thought it would be, is it?”
The old man looked out the window, noting the complexity and wide arrangements of design and culture taken into consideration of their planning. The buildings were stunning, elegant. But such praise of amazement was beyond Sakharov’s makeup.
He waved his hand dismissively and sat back. “I’ve seen better,” he finally answered. And then: “So now what?”
“Now, you will go to a safe house and rest. Tomorrow you will be taken to a facility in the Alborz Mountain Range, courtesy of President Ahmadinejad.”
“Ahmadinejad? What the hell does he have to do with this?”
“He’s providing a safe haven that neither Iraq nor Afghanistan can provide at the moment,” he told him. “You will always be safe, Doctor. And you’ll be able to work knowing that you will not be disturbed.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Those are conditions I can work with.”
“But, Doctor, you will not be alone, either.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you will have three aides of my choosing to help you with your research.”
“Aides! I don’t need any aides! There was never any discussion of assistants.”
“The choice is not yours to make.”
Sakharov nodded, “I see. Now that you have me where you want me, I’m now at your mercy. Is that it?”
“Doctor, I’m providing you with the best equipment, the best of everything, so that you can simply provide me with the best results. You will be pampered beyond your wildest dreams. And believe me, this lab will be something you’ve never seen before and something Russia could never duplicate. It’ll be your playground. And these aides are there only to be at the mercy of your beck and whim, nothing more.”
“Nothing more, huh? Well, I don’t want any rookies, you hear me? I want somebody who knows their way around the lab and to do things without me watching over their shoulder every waking minute.”
“Your three assistants, Doctor, are tops in their field of nanotechnology. Two were educated at the most prestigious schools in the United States, the other in the United Kingdom.”
“Americans and a Brit?”
“Hardly,” he answered with a hint of venom. “They are like me. They are Arab.”
“You mean they’re al-Qaeda?”
“Not particularly. No,” he returned. “Let’s say that they had no choice in the matter since their family members are at the mercy of my organization.”
“I see,” said the old man. “Recruitment by intimidation, is that it?”
“Ultimately in the end, the decision is theirs to make.”
“And if their answer is ‘no,’ then a good ol’ fashion beheading is in order for their family members. Am I right?”
Al-Ghazi held his hands out in surrender. “What can I say,” he said. “Business is business.”
The old man looked out the window noting that the landscape was getting visibly downgraded as if war torn, the buildings old and in disrepair. “Obviously you’re not taking me to a five-star hotel.”