“Of course there will be fallout from the international community.”
“When the life of Israel is at stake, then the voice of the international community means little… Doctor Leonid Sakharov. Find out what you can about this man while we consider a strike against Iran. And quickly, Benyamin, time may be limited, so a decision will have to be made soon.”
“Yes, Yitzhak, I’ll do so right away.” The large man was gone, leaving Yitzhak Paled to gnaw unknowingly on his lower lip in concentration as his mind formulated the beginnings of a strike mission.
Of course he would have to contact the proper authorities by moving up the chain of command, which obviously ended with Prime Minister Netanyahu. But Israel’s previous strikes and assassinations against Iran’s nuclear scientists to retard their so-called facilities that “produce the peaceful means of nuclear power” drew the ire of the international community, as Benyamin had said. But here was confirmation from a stellar operative sending a transmission from a covert facility hidden away from the scrupulous eyes of Mossad and the CIA. Such an operation was obviously meant to be concealed. And when an operation is meant to be concealed, then that operation is normally classified as the creation of a WMD, which, in this case, is nanotechnology, a weapon geared to destroy organic matter while leaving the infrastructure unmolested.
“You did well, my friend,” he whispered. He then drew the tips of his fingers over the monitor screen, over the data. “You got your message across.”
In less than an hour, Benyamin returned with a dossier on Leonid J. Sakharov, and sat at a table with Yitzhak Paled and held counsel.
Benyamin opened the file. “Doctor Leonid J. Sakharov was a leading scientist in Russia during the Cold War and a short time thereafter. His primary field of study was in the field of nanotechnology from the mid- to late eighties. According to our data, the man was years beyond other scientists in his field with this type of technology. And it appears, even as the Wall fell, that the Russian government continued to fund his program into the nineties.” He slid a black-and-white glossy photo of a much younger Sakharov to Paled, who examined the man in the picture with a keen eye, studying everything about the man’s hardened features, his mind to never forget the man’s face.
“There was a purported accident in one of the labs, the data not quite clear. But it appears that Dr. Sakharov initiated a test of his findings prematurely, causing the deaths of his technicians. With Russia being the way it was at the time, they saw this as a step forward and allowed him to go on, the deaths of the techs serving as an example of what his experiments can do, rather than to see the tragedy of their demise. Apparently Sakharov sobered to the idea of what his research was capable of and destroyed the data, earning him a long stint in Vladimir Central Prison.”
“So he’s incarcerated?”
Benyamin shook his head. “Not anymore. He was released after the principals running Vladimir were allegedly in negotiations with this man to release him.” He slid another photo across the table. It was a photo of a Middle Eastern man in elegant dress. “Several months ago Sakharov was visited by this man. His name is Adham al-Ghazi. And we believe him to be a high-ranking member of al-Qaeda. Information on this guy is very limited. But we’re trying to learn as much as we can about him.”
“This doesn’t make sense.”
“It gets better,” added Benyamin. “Sakharov was living on a small government stipend in Moscow until a few weeks ago.”
“And?”
Another photo slid across the table, one that was appropriated from the memory files of a digital security camera near the Kremlin. “This is al-Ghazi a day or two before Sakharov disappeared,” he continued. “We believe that al-Ghazi was there for Sakharov. And ironically, after this picture was taken, Doctor Sakharov was on a flight to Tehran within days. So tell me, Yitzhak, why would a man of age, a man like Sakharov, whose only roots lie within Russia, go to Tehran?”
Paled nodded. “Because, my friend, sometimes when a man grows old and begins to feel left behind and forgotten, he needs to feel useful. In this case I believe Doctor Sakharov was given the opportunity to feel useful once again, a second chance at life rather than to sit back, exist, then die without anyone knowing your name.”
“So he’s in Tehran.”
“No,” he answered. “He’s in this covert facility at Mount Damavand. Otherwise Aryeh never would have known him. Doctor Sakharov, nanotechnology, it all fits. Sakharov has completed what he started years ago in Russia. And somehow al-Ghazi and the Iranian government have colluded to benefit by sharing a common goal, despite their suspicion of one another. It’s no secret that Ahmadinejad has been recruiting these factions over that past few years to carry out their deeds, so they can sit back and deny culpability by pointing the accusing finger at a scapegoat.”
He leaned back in his chair and gazed into Benyamin’s eyes. “They have perfected a weapon to take out Israel,” he told him. “Aryeh got enough across to tell us that. He also told us that they were in possession of the true Ark of the Covenant. By telling us the exact location and the purpose of this facility, I see no choice but to destroy it in its entirety.”
“We’ll need to contact the Prime Minister.”
“Who will then inform our allies of our findings. The CIA will then use their satellites to zone in on the position and confirm this facility as we did. On the ridgeline are numerous fuel cells maintaining the power of the complex — a target that should aid in its fall.”
“The United States may want further proof than just a few encryptions.”
“It’s not their choice. The United States needs to think less about how they can profit from this and make their economy swing better. Because if they allow this to continue, if Iran and al-Qaeda go forward with this technology, then Israel, the United States, and their allies may not have an economy withstanding at all.”
“And the Ark?”
Paled’s eyes went soft. “It will be lost forever, I’m afraid.”
“Such a treasure for the world to behold.”
“If we don’t do this, Benyamin, then there will be no world to treasure.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Leviticus was sitting at his desk wearing slacks, a white shirt and black tie, which was far from the uniform he was accustomed to as a Vatican Knight. For the past six months he’d been working as a security analyst working for an Italian investment firm with interests abroad.
Although Leviticus was not his proper name, it was the moniker he bore as a Vatican Knight. His true name was Danny Keaton, a man who was born, bred and raised in Brooklyn, New York.
While carefully perusing over documents regarding the recent hacking attempts against a billion-dollar investment firm in Belize, a country with a company tie, came a light tapping against the door.
He looked up and laid the papers aside on the desktop. “Come in.”
An unattractive woman with dishwater-brown hair tied up into a bun opened the door. Her smile, however, was quite becoming and electric. “Mr. Keaton, there’s a priest here to see you.”
A priest?
“You can send him in. Thank you.”
She stepped back and allowed the priest to enter the office, then closed the door softly behind him. For a long moment the priest stood there looking through glasses that magnified his eyes, the man suffering from some clinical form of visual degeneration. On the pocket of his clerical shirt was the symbol of the SIV. In his hand an aluminum suitcase. “Mr. Keaton,” he said, coming forward and offering his free hand. “I’m Father Domicelli of the Servicio de Inteligencia del Vaticano.”