“What do you think?”
“Ahmadinejad has given me his promise that no harm will come to you or to anybody as long as we share a mutual interest in your work. But I cannot ultimately control the man’s actions should he fall back on his word.”
“I’m not so sure I want to take that risk,” he returned.
Al-Ghazi feigned a half smile and leaned forward so that his lips were inches away from Sakharov’s ear. “If you do not do this, Doctor, then be assured when I tell you that if you do not go forward with my wish from this point on, then I will have you diced into cubes of human flesh by my people starting from the feet up. And be doubly assured when I tell you that I will make sure that you live long enough to see the pieces of your body placed beside you before they are fed to the dogs. Now, do you have any further questions for me?”
Sakharov tried to square his feeble shoulders in defiance. But it didn’t work, the old man looking comical in his attempt, which turned al-Ghazi’s false smile into a real one.
“Good,” said al-Ghazi, stepping back. “Then we are in full agreement.” Al-Ghazi turned his back on Sakharov and started for the door. “Gather your things,” he told him over his shoulder. “We’ll be flying off to the Alborz very shortly.”
“How shortly?”
“Fifteen minutes.” And then he was gone, leaving Levine in the room with Sakharov.
The old man squared off with the al-Qaeda operative, looking intently into the man’s steely eyes and seeing nothing but resolve.
“Just to let you know that I’m a grown man who’s not about to stand by and let someone like you intimidate me,” he told him. “I’ve been around the block a few times and dealt with people much tougher than you.”
Levine stood idle, saying nothing.
“I’ve been to Vladimir Central, you know. There isn’t a tougher place in the world than Vladimir Central. And I survived that.”
The operative took a step forward. “Now you have fourteen minutes.”
Sakharov began to pack.
The chopper lifted off accordingly with al-Ghazi, Old Man Sakharov and Levine, who sat in the helicopter’s bay, as the groundscape of Tehran passed quickly beneath them, they headed north toward the Alborz mountain range.
The trip for the most part was a silent one with the exception of the rotor blades thrumming overhead. And it was during this down time of the flight that each man held to his own thoughts. Al-Ghazi considered the future and the opportune consequences that Sakharov’s ingenuity would bring to the major cities of the United States and its allies, most notably Israel. Sakharov on the other hand, resurrected illustrations of buckyballs within his mind’s eye, seeing with microscopic clarity the Frankenstein’s monster he was unknowingly creating, due to his lack of visualizing anything beyond his own colossal arrogance. And Aryeh Levine, or Umar al-Sarmad, sat there trying to decipher ways to contact his sources without drawing undue attention and risk his own unwanted sacrifice, should he be discovered.
So the Israeli’s mind toiled, always thinking. But until he saw the Comm Center of the facility in the Alborz, or until he understood what exactly Dr. Sakharov was working on, only then would he act.
Levine leaned forward and yelled over the noise of the rotating blades. “So, Doctor, what is it that’s so important that you’re working on?”
Sakharov turned to him. “What’s your name again? Omar, right?”
Levine nodded in a way to correct the old man. “It’s Umar,” he said.
“Omar?”
Levine spoke louder, trying to best the sound of the rotors. “U… Mar,” he pronounced.
Sakharov shot him a thumbs-up. “Gotcha, Omar!”
Levine wanted to roll his eyes and considered that Al-Ghazi was right when he said that Old Man Sakharov had a way of crawling beneath your skin and staying there.
“So what do you do?” he asked again.
“Buckyballs,” he answered.
“What?”
“Nanotechnology.”
Levine fell slowly back into his seat. He knew nothing of nanotechnology, having only to be a quick study in regards to nuclear or biological warfare. But nanotechnology, although not exactly new, was alien to him since its applications were relatively in the genesis stages since the 1980’s.
“What about it?” he pressed.
And then al-Ghazi intervened by raising a hand, a gesture for the discussion to cease and desist immediately. “What the good doctor does, Umar, is not open for discussion until we reach the facility. Once you become his aide, only then will you become an implicit part of the program. As long as we are in the company of others not privy to the project,” he pointed to the two Iranian pilots sitting in the cockpit with headgear capable of washing out noise and listening in, “then there is to be no further discussions. Trust no one at this point.”
How spot-on he was, thought Levine. Trust no one, especially the man who was sitting beside him wearing the guise of al-Qaeda when he was actually Mossad.
Playing his part as the duty-bound soldier, Levine fell all the way back into his seat, closed his eyes, and for the remainder of the flight let his mind wander, often dreaming of a safer Israel, while Sakharov dreamt of buckyballs.
The chopper floated effortlessly over the helipad near the top of Mount Damavand. The mount itself was one of the tallest within the range at over 18,000 feet in elevation, but the facility was located just above the base at roughly 3,000 feet above sea level. Nevertheless, the air was cold. The mountain capped with a pristine layer of snow. And the anticipation had boiled to a point where Old Man Sakharov’s heart began to beat with the pace of the swinging blades of the chopper. As if to placate his condition, the Russian placed a soothing hand over his chest.
The helicopter hovered above the pad, giving a view of the facility’s grounds. Above the cave entrance that led to a vault-like door, was a machine-gun nest manned by two soldiers. Below that entryway, where the gravel road began to wend its way toward the cave’s mouth, stood a second MG nest, also manned by two soldiers.
And Levine took it all in, making mental calculations by noting the landscape, entry-points and manned positions.
When the chopper landed and the blades stilled, the helicopter’s door was swept open and a soldier stood in silence as if appraising each man individually.
Levine immediately recognized the man’s uniform. The soldier was wearing the identifiable attire of a Quds’ operative, the uniform a tan camouflage with matching tan beret and Quds’ insignia. His beard was marginal, a stunted growth of hair, and he wore sunglasses to protect his eyes against the harsh sunlight. With a wave of his hand he motioned for the people within the helicopter to disembark, and yelled something out in Farsi, which was taken to be an order to hasten their activity, since patience did not seem to be a virtue with this man.
Once the three disembarked, they were ushered to a nearby Jeep and gestured to get in by the soldier who carried an assault weapon.
Levine leaned to within earshot of al-Ghazi. “They’re Quds,” he whispered.
“I expected no less from Ahmadinejad.”
The Quds Force is an elite unit of Iran's Revolutionary Guard who once reported directly to the supreme leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei. However, since the uprising in the past presidential election in 2009 and its post-election suppression, highly indicated that the political power of Ahmadinejad was surpassing the power of the Shiite clerical system, leaving Ahmadinejad as the supreme ruler. With the Quds Force now under his rule, they remained subject to strict, military discipline presumed to be under the control of the highest levels of Iranian administration.