Sakharov straightened up at this the same way the ears of a dog would perk up at something interesting.
“From the looks of things, Doctor, it appears that you won’t live another four months and we both know it. Now I can give you back the freedom and comforts of life, or I can leave you here to rot in this facility.”
“You want to know about nanotechnology.”
“I want to know certain applications of it, yes.”
Sakharov squinted in examination of the man and moved closer. “You know why I’m here, don’t you? You know that I was impatient and foolish, which cost the lives of two good people my government dismissed as collateral damage.”
“I won’t deny that.”
“Then you also know that I foolishly destroyed the subsequent tests because of the nature of the program — that it’s too powerful to manage.”
“You became a drunk who fought with and lost a battle with his own personal demons, Doctor. Don’t kid yourself. There’s nothing altruistic about your nature. You do what you do because you know that you can do what no other man on this planet can. This technology is too valuable to waste. If your government refuses to see that, then there are those who will value you for who and what you are… I can give you peace of mind, Doctor. Or as I said, leave you here to rot. It’s your choice. But if I walk away from this prison, then I walk away for good.”
Sakharov slowly bent back into position, his mind mulling over the proposition. He was a man dying by the inches, a man who often watched his cellmates come and go in a crafted box of cheap wood.
For years he formulated theories in his mind and stowed it away, only to get the chance to one day utilize it once again. For years he romanced and fantasized the idea of once again being in the lab to correct the errors of his past and to learn due diligence. It was the only thing that kept him alive over the past few years. Without it, he would have given up long ago like so many others who died without hope.
“Who are your people?”
“Is it important?”
“If I do this, then I need to know who I’m working with.”
“First of all, Doctor, you won’t be working with anyone. You’ll be working for me and the constituency I represent.”
Sakharov cocked his head studiously. “You’re from the Middle East?”
“I am.”
“Then why would I work for you? A man from the Middle East?”
“If you want your freedom, Doctor, then ask me no more questions and leave it at that.”
“Are you al-Qaeda? Do you want to use my technology for weaponry? Is that it? At least give me the courtesy of knowing the people I may work for.”
“Al-Qaeda is a strong word, so we’ll leave it at that, Doctor. And you’re running out of time. So give me your answer.”
The old man pulled in a breath of cold air, and his lungs rattled with an awful wetness. “What must I do?” he asked flatly.
“Simple: stay alive while my people negotiate a sum for your release. It may take awhile. It all depends upon the greed of these people. It could take a month, a year, who knows.”
“And if you can’t settle upon a sum?”
“Then you will die. But their greed is paramount, so I wouldn’t worry. The moment we attempt to back off, then they’ll give in. In the meantime, the guards will be paid to see that your accommodations are better, the meals more plentiful, and that you stay alive, if possible.”
“And if I’m released?”
“There are other hurdles my constituency is trying to solve at this moment in order to acquire the necessary accouterments and location to serve your needs. Once done, then I will locate you and request that you fulfill your half of the agreement.”
And once I’m free and disagree to fulfill my obligation to them? The answer was obviously clear to Sakharov: Then they will kill you in a manner far worse than Vladimir Central ever could.
“Your answer, Doctor.”
“If you could expedite the matter, then that would be greatly appreciated. It isn’t exactly the Ritz in here.”
Al-Ghazi gave a quick perusal of the area. “That’s quite apparent,” he said.
The man from the Middle East began to walk to the door and without looking back, he said, “In time I will find you, Doctor. Do not forget our agreement should the sum of your release be agreed upon.”
And that was the last time the old man saw al-Ghazi until the moment when the Arab showed up in his apartment to cash in his chips.
From that point after the meeting he was then ushered to a different cell that was larger, yet still cramped with the bodies of other prisoners, who were obviously told that Sakharov was a man walking with a ‘hands off’ policy. If anyone so much as lay a menacing touch on the old man, then not only would they fall victim to a guard’s truncheon, but most likely end up as pulp inside a pauper’s coffin. The gruel was plentiful by Vladimir Central’s standards, and a heater provided as promised. The greatest luxury, however, was not the warmth or the additional gruel, but the wafer-thin mattress. Instead of lying on a cold wooden surface, he slept in marginal comfort.
So here he was, in Tehran, on a mattress reminiscent of his time in a Russian prison, a mere luxury.
And until the moment the old man fell asleep, Sakharov was caressing his fingers over the mattress.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Standing before an open window in the Domus Sanctæ Marthæ, Cardinal Angullo stood looking out at the Basilica, musing over the fact that the conclave was just under two weeks away and that he, along with three others including Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci, were part of the Preferiti, those who were the most preferred to succeed the papal throne by the College of the Cardinals.
Politicking was a way to promote and nothing more. But it was the individual’s choosing as to who would actually succeed that was kept close to the vest. Those who divulged their candidate while entering the conclave stood the chance of excommunication. Therefore, to build camps and alliances, and to share with them the strengths and ideologies of a Preferiti brought to the table beforehand, was paramount.
But Angullo’s camp had weakened over the past six months, his ideologies not coinciding with the pontiff’s, and therefore enacted unwarranted challenges toward the pope with subsequent discussions that often became heated between them. By exhibiting more power than was granted, with his personal management sometimes uncontrollable by the way he acted before the pope, caused his members to disassociate from his camp, the one-time respect for the cardinal now lost.
And this did not go unnoticed before his eyes.
By the inches he was losing his foothold to be the next in line for the papal throne, yet his camp remained strong. But as time moved forward his power diminished. And so was the opportunity to sit upon the papal throne and rule a constituency of more than a billion people.
So he acted accordingly and provided his opportunity.
On the eve of the pontiff’s death, he spiced Gregory’s meal with a poison that made him sick and feverish and somewhat disoriented. As the hours passed, as the blue shadows traipsed slowly across Vatican grounds’ with the trajectory of the moon, he waited in the shadows of the pontiff’s chamber with saintly patience.
When the pope exited from the bed with the poison coursing through his veins like magma, and then making his way to the balcony, Angullo could not believe his luck and chalked it up to God’s will. His original intent was to place a pillow over the pontiff's face and snuff the life out of him. And with the aged man dying in his sleep, a way of life in which the world would view as God's will, no questions would be asked. But when the large man stood at the rail of the balcony overlooking Vatican City, it was as if God was allowing him a lasting panoramic view of St. Peter’s Square, a final good-bye with the Basilica, the obelisk, and the Colonnades clearly defined within his mind.