Over time he had become stellar in his duties, promoting himself as a trusted officer within the ranks, but more so in the eyes of al-Ghazi, which prompted a call from the high-ranking official to serve as his aide in an impromptu mission.
In al-Ghazi’s office in Islamabad, Umar al-Sarmad — and whenever he heard that name he inwardly cringed — sat before al-Ghazi’s ornate desk with the black marble top. Despite the notion of al-Qaeda living in abject poverty within caves and landscapes that were harsh and brutal, they were obviously not without their luxuries, either. His office was spacious with top-of-the-line furniture surrounded by Arabic wares, vases and tapestries that proved costly. And scarlet drapery with scalloped hems that adorned the windows overlooked the stunningly beautiful city.
Like always al-Ghazi was impeccably dressed as he sat in a chair made of Corinthian leather, one leg crossed over the other in leisure. With his elbows on the armrests and his fingers tented with the tips resting beneath his chin, the Arab smiled at Umar, at Levine, showing off the fine rows of bleached-white teeth. “How are you, my friend?” he asked.
“I’m fine, Adham. Yourself?”
“As well as could be,” he said, leaning forward. The Arab then reached into a draw and removed a manila envelope. Inside was a photo which he removed and placed on the marble top of his desk. “I need your services,” he told him.
Levine sat there, waiting.
“I need you to serve as an aide for this man” He slid the photo across the desktop, a black-and-white glossy of Leonid Sakharov. “He is a scientist working on behalf of our organization,” he said. “But I need someone who will watch him since I have other projects in the making and cannot be there as I would like.”
“You want me to serve as his bodyguard?”
“Not so much as I want you to serve as my eyes and ears when I’m not there,” he said.
“There?”
“Tomorrow, you and I will be escorting the good doctor to Mount Damavand in Northern Iran.”
Levine’s mind reeled. Iran? The country was not exactly open to al-Qaeda operatives, he thought. But since he was programmed not to question al-Ghazi’s judgment, who thought he was acting on behalf of Allah — and that the sin of not “possessing faith” in everything Allah warranted was usually meted out with a good old-fashioned beheading if questioned — thought it best to remain silent.
“Where we will take part in creating a glorious history,” he added dreamily.
Levine realized he had to get a message out to his sources immediately. With al-Qaeda making a pact with the Iranian leadership, their alliance would galvanize Israeli and western agencies to take the required action in the form of sanctions or military strikes. His first inclination was that it had something to do with the development of Iran’s nuclear program, and that Sakharov the key to put it all together.
But Levine was wrong. His inclination was way off base because it was something far worse than the advancement of nuclear weaponry.
“I would be honored,” he finally told him.
“Good. Then we leave for Mount Damavand first thing in the morning with the good professor along. But I must warn you now, Umar, the man is very difficult to get along with.”
“I’ll cope.”
“Get a good night’s sleep, then. Tomorrow we begin to make history and shine in Allah’s eyes once again.”
Whatever. “Then I must assume, Adham, that this will be a lengthy mission?”
“That will depend on Sakharov.”
“Then may I leave the compound for a moment of leisure.”
Al-Ghazi stared at him long enough for Levine to think that he may have triggered suspicion.
But then: “Not tonight, Umar. I cannot allow anything to happen to you. This opportunity is so dire that I must insist on your lockdown.”
Levine conceded by nodding. He would have to figure a way to contact his sources once at Mount Damavand — a terrible risk to be sure, but a necessity nonetheless.
Levine got his feet and bowed his head in respect of al-Ghazi’s leadership. “Allahu Akbar,” he said softly. Allah is the greatest.
Al-Ghazi smiled in return. “Allahu Akbar, my friend. Allahu Akbar.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
For the past two days Old Man Sakharov sat by the window watching children play in the dust of an infertile land. The air held a wonderful dryness to it, and the sun blazed whitely overhead. As the children played on in the heat of a mid-afternoon sun without a care or worry of the atrocities brewing around them, he wondered if these kids would fall victim to the fundamentalist guiles of people like al-Ghazi, who were far more determined to put a gun in their hands in the name of Allah, rather than to teach them the ways of proffering an olive branch to their enemies.
But were they any different than his government who routinely embedded the seeded hatred against the United States during the Cold War? No, he answered loudly. There was no difference, whatsoever.
For two days the old man waited patiently, often daydreaming by creating buckyballs within his mind, often taking on a detached look by staring at nothing in particular and smiling dreamily at the thought of a second chance.
But when al-Ghazi walked into the room Sakharov didn’t dare tip his hand that he wielded all the excitement of a child gearing up for the holiday season, as if gifts were mounting under the tree or placed next to the Menorah.
He was ready.
“About time,” he said curtly. And then he noticed that al-Ghazi was not alone. “And whose little boy is this?”
Al-Ghazi was dressed in fatigues and wore the traditional black turban of war. Beside him stood Levine, just a measure shorter than al-Ghazi, but beefier and broader along the shoulders. He too was wearing fatigues and a turban similar to al-Ghazi’s.
“His name is Umar al-Sarmad,” he told him.
“Is Sarmad going to be my babysitter? I’m not a child, you know. I thought we had this discussion.”
“We discussed the matter of your scientific aides bearing the knowledge and skills to assist you in the lab. Umar will be standing in as my proxy, since I will not be there as much as I would like to be. Since I have cabals to direct, he will act as my eyes and ears when I’m gone.”
“In other words, he’s my babysitter?”
“No, Doctor. He’s like I said — my eyes and ears.” He stepped deeper into the room, his hands clasped behind the small of his back. “In order for you to work uninterrupted, we were only able to secure this lab in collusion with Ahmadinejad’s blessing, as long as your work is shared with his regime.”
Levine’s ears prickled at this.
“However,” he continued, “Ahmadinejad is not entirely a man of integrity. But a man who often says something to those who wish to hear something positive, but does something else entirely different to promote his own self interests. Umar al-Sarmad will make sure that my interests will be protected when I’m not there.”
“Is that how you look at me, as an interest?”
“I look at you, Doctor, as an asset to me, to my people, and to Allah. And I made that quite clear to you on the day I visited you in the courtyard at Vladimir Central Prison, did I not?”
Sakharov remained silent.
“Umar will make sure that your progress will be recorded, and then forwarded to our sources for our safekeeping, should Ahmadinejad fall back on his promises to unite our findings.”
Sakharov raised a hand. “Wait a minute,” he said. “If Ahmadinejad falls back on his promise, then what will happen to me?”
“Do you want me to lie, Doctor, and tell you that nothing will happen once the testing is completed? That there is no risk involved? Or do you want the truth as I believe it to be?”