In hindsight, Levine just realized that his game had become more difficult by countless times. These guys were not to be trifled with.
As the Jeep took the road to the cave’s entrance, Levine noticed the concern on al-Ghazi’s face. Apparently al-Ghazi’s sudden illumination of the matter was surprising, given the fact that he formerly mentioned that Ahmadinejad was not to be trusted. Obviously, the presence of Quds Forces posed a threat to his program, or at least that’s what Levine discerned from al-Ghazi’s expressions.
In gesture, al-Ghazi rubbed a nervous hand over his face and chin.
When the Jeep came to a stop at the cave’s entrance, both al-Ghazi and Levine took note of the machine-gun nest situated in the rocks above the cave’s maw. Levine also took quick note of the .50 caliber machine gun pointing in their general direction. Sakharov, either in blissful ignorance or he simply didn’t care, maintained a preamble of a smile.
Now what?
The Quds driver said something in Farsi, which al-Ghazi apparently understood, and gave the driver a faux-pas salute the moment the driver sped away.
It was at that juncture that the vault’s door, which held a mirror polish to its metal and about twenty-feet within the mountain’s recess, began to open outward. When the aperture was wide enough, a dozen Quds’ troops sprinted toward the three men with assault weapons well within their grasps but not pointed at them, but more to the ground at their feet.
Taking up the rear but walking as a man of leisure, a forged smile on his face, was a small and delicate man, hardly a soldier, but someone al-Ghazi and Levine immediately recognized.
His name is Hakim al-Sherrod. And in the circles of intelligence it was believed that he was the most trusted of Ahmadinejad’s aides. In fact, some believe that al-Sherrod was the true voice of Ahmadinejad, persuading the president on most decisions, earning him the nickname “The Devil’s Companion.”
With his arms held out in greeting, al-Sherrod pulled al-Ghazi into an embrace. And Levine saw al-Ghazi tense for moment as al-Sherrod corralled him in.
“Ah, Allah has blessed you, I see.” The man’s smile widened, showing small, yellow teeth resembling kernels of corn.
“And why is there a Quds Force here?” al-Ghazi asked in a measured tone.
“For protection. Why else? You must remember, my good friend, that this facility is unchartered. Should the Israeli’s learn of its position, then they may see fit to hand down retribution should they prove the true meaning of what we are about to achieve here, yes?” He then released al-Ghazi to square off with Sakharov, the man still smiling as his hatchet-thin face moved up and down the old man in appraisal. “And this is the esteemed wizard, yes? The man who will change everything?”
He then turned to Levine, the smile vacating him quickly as the man sized him up. And Levine could feel his scrotum crawl, wondering if this man had the uncanny insight to see him for who he really was, Mossad.
“And you would be?” he asked.
“Umar al-Sarmad,” he answered evenly.
“He is my most trusted aide,” al-Ghazi intervened. “And he will act as my proxy when I am not available. During my absence he will act as the good doctor’s aide.”
“Aide?” Al-Sherrod faced al-Ghazi with his hands clasped behind the small of his back and looked at him questioningly. “It was my understanding that we have already provided Doctor Sakharov with the required aides.”
“It was also the understanding that the good doctor would have an aide of my choosing, should my presence be needed elsewhere.”
The man stared at him for a long moment, and then he beamed a smile. “Of course,” he said jovially. “Of course!” And then he gestured to the open vault. “Please, come and settle in,” he added. “We’ve much work to do, yes?”
Al-Ghazi, Sakharov and Levine entered the facility in front of the suspect eyes of the Quds’ troops, the door closing behind them, and then the massive bolts sliding into their circular sockets, locking them in.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Levine’s first assumption was that the facility was an unchartered station within the Alborz initially created to engage in nuclear or biological weaponry manufacturing. But as they walked by the glass-encased laboratory he barely recognized some of the hardware involved. In fact, he recognized none of it.
In a two-tiered lab that was massive and well lit, the bright lighting gave it somewhat of an antiseptic white-wash glow to the point where the area seemed to hold an ethereal glow. Technicians were completely in white, the color of their skin the only contrast to anything around them, as they tendered to electromechanical components and hardware. To the left was a tube-like structure Levine would come to learn as the molecular assembler. There were infrasonic equipment and probe microscopes, vacuum environments to avoid the scattering of bots, and the most advanced Electron Optical System available. And by Sakharov’s expression he could tell that the old man was salivating internally.
Whatever they were planning to do was definitely on a molecular level. Whether it was nanotechnology as the good doctor professed or nuclear research for warfare as intel believed, he knew he had no other choice but to contact his sources for a probable strike, even at the risk of his life.
And time was critical.
Acting as guide, al-Sherrod led al-Ghazi’s team to their quarters, which was through a tunnel drilled by a cylindrical bore, since the walls were perfectly round and smooth. Overhead tracks of lighting gave off a pearlescent glow. And the smell of baked meats wafted from the mess hall not too far from their quarters, making them yearn for a fine meal.
At the next turn al-Sherrod stopped with his hands clasped before him. His features betrayed no sense of emotion, no sense of what he was thinking. Behind him was a channel that went as far back as thirty meters before hitting a wall, the living quarters. And from Levine’s view point he could tell they were prefab capsules built into the walls.
“Here you will rest,” said al-Sherrod. “Mess call will be at eighteen-hundred hours. If you are late, then you will not eat. Everything here is regimented. So I need you to keep that in mind.”
Nobody said a word; the tense silence an awkward passing between them before al-Ghazi finally stepped forward and bowed his head as a show of marginal respect. “We accept your hospitality,” he told him, “and much gratitude.”
Al-Sherrod nodded. “What I do, I do for Ahmadinejad, as you know. But what we do together, we do so for the sake of Allah, yes?”
Al-Ghazi concurred with a nod and a smile. “Allahu Akbar,” he added. Allah is the greatest.
“Allahu Akbar.” Al-Sherrod then side-stepped al-Ghazi and moved with disciplined economy to the end of the corridor where it came to the T-juncture of the branch before stopping to face off with al-Ghazi and company one again. “One more thing,” he began. “There is a hallway leading from the lab to a special compartment,” he said evenly. “Inside is a great treasure which lays the purpose as to why you are here. Should your curiosity pique, you may enter in the presence of its glory but only under the watchful eye of the Quds.” He hesitated while surveying Old Man Sakharov, internally commenting how this feeble looking troll held the key to success. And then: “Remember, 1800 hours and not a moment later. Allahu Akbar.”
“Allahu Akbar.”
The moment al-Sherrod and his Quds unit left al-Ghazi and his team; al-Ghazi let his tension drip away by letting his shoulders fall slowly into the crookedness of an Indian’s bow, the shape of a man slipping into relief. “I don’t trust him,” he said lowly. “The Devil’s Companion is never without his wiles, no matter how accommodating he may seem.”