Aryeh Levine was in obvious agony. He had been placed inside a vacuum chamber with his feet dangling downward in stomach-churning angles, the skin badly swollen and mottled with gangrenous colors.
Al-Sherrod stood behind the partition. To his left was al-Ghazi. Both men stood with totally different aspects. Whereas al-Sherrod looked on with indifference, al-Ghazi appeared as wounded as a man could be under such circumstances. He had trusted Umar, which was unlikely his real name, with brotherly reverence. Only to be violated in the worst imaginable way.
Al-Sherrod stepped closer to the glass with the marginal interest of examining a strange- looking insect beneath the lens of a glass a moment before angling it in such a way that the rays of the sun would cremate it. And that’s how he saw Levine, as an insect. “The transmission traces back to Tel Aviv,” he finally said. And then he turned to al-Ghazi whose eyes remained focused on Levine, the muscles in the back of his jaw twitching. “And we both know what exclusive fraternity resides in Tel Aviv, don’t we Adham?”
He could see al-Ghazi reaching a boiling point.
“He is Mossad.”
Al-Ghazi went to the glass partition and placed his palm against the glass. “Can you hear me?” he asked.
Levine answered with a pain riddled grimace, teeth clenching, his eyes rolling up into slivers of white and on the cusp of passing out before coming back.
“Can you hear me?” he repeated.
“I… hear you,” he said.
Al-Ghazi sighed and pressed his forehead against the glass. It was cool to the touch. “Why?”
Levine shook his head. The agony was too much to bear.
“I treated you like a brother, loved you as one. I trusted you with my darkest secrets.”
Levine gripped the armrests, his knuckles going white.
“Are you Mossad?”
“What do you think?”
Al-Ghazi stepped away, angry and saddened at the same time.
“Do you usually incorporate the enemy into your leagues?” asked al-Sherrod. But al-Ghazi could tell that he was being sarcastic and ignored him. “Perhaps you should apply better methods of recruitment, so as not to bring aboard anyone who can compromise our position.”
Al-Ghazi closed his eyes and fought for calm. Al-Sherrod was pushing his buttons. He would rather have the man curse him out and be done with it, rather than his constant needling.
“You are a traitor to the cause,” al-Ghazi said through the glass. “You are a Zionist, you are Mossad, and there can be no other outcome other than death.” And you have broken my heart, Umar.
Al-Ghazi stepped back and forced upon him the features of indifference, which al-Sherrod immediately saw through.
“Do what you must,” he told al-Sherrod. “Be done with him.”
Al-Sherrod nodded. And then over his shoulder: “Bring in the good professor,” he ordered. Then more softly to al-Ghazi: “I think it’s time to see the true nature of the beast, don’t you? I’m curious to see the demons that Doctor Sakharov created at work.” He turned to al-Ghazi who kept his focus on Levine. “As I’m sure you are,” he added with a grin of malicious amusement that was almost as disturbing as his needling, thought al-Ghazi, if not more so.
Sakharov was roughly escorted to an open seat before a console granting an open view of the chamber, a premiere accommodation for the upcoming event.
“My good Doctor,” said al-Sherrod, approaching him with his hands placed securely behind the small of his back. “Comfortable?”
“These apes of yours hurt me. I’m an old man. I can only move so fast.”
The man bowed in feigned apology. “Then let me be the first to apologize on their behalf,” he said. “But I thought it would be important that you see the fruits of your labor.”
Sakharov saw Levine inside the chamber; saw the man’s badly broken and swollen ankles. When he was incarcerated in Vladimir Central he had seen the same thing. Often guards would take their truncheons to the kneecaps and ankles, breaking them until the bones became free floating. Nevertheless, the unnatural angles always made him turn away, as he did now.
“Don’t worry, Doctor,” said al-Sherrod. “We’re going to fix his ailment permanently.”
Al-Sherrod walked away and took up the area next to al-Ghazi. “Is there anything more you wish to ask the Jew?”
Al-Ghazi could only stare, not understanding in his own heart why he cared so much for this man. He cared for him deeply, even now as Levine sat there riding out unimaginable pain. It didn’t matter to him that Levine — or Umar — was a Jew or that he was Mossad. All he knew was that his heart ached deeply for the man whom he had come to care for as a brother, and will probably grieve for as well.
“Do what you must,” he finally answered. “I’ve said all I had to say.”
Al-Sherrod smiled. “Good, good. Then perhaps you would like to engage the button then. After all, it might do your soul good to be rid of the man who compromised your position. Certainly this wouldn’t look good in the eyes of al-Zawahiri should this man go unpunished by your hand. Perhaps this will be the first step of redemption in the old warrior’s eyes, yes?”
Al-Ghazi faced him, his eyes and face lit up with anger. Did al-Sherrod have the insight to see what he was truly thinking or feeling regarding Aryeh Levine? Or was his malice simply a part of his makeup in which it was mere sustenance that moved him forward?
“You will push the button, won’t you?” al-Sherrod pressed.
“He is a traitor, what do you think?”
The diminutive man’s smile flourished. “Then let’s see what the good doctor’s discoveries have brought us, shall we?” He turned to Sakharov, his enthusiasm unbridled. “Good Doctor,” he said, pointing to Levine. “I want you to take a good long look at the beginning of the end.”
With a quick flick of his hand, a technician began to type in the required codes. When he was done, he fell back in his seat and rolled his chair away from the console. In al-Ghazi’s eyes the ENTER button was starkly larger than all the rest when, in fact, the button was no larger than any other on the keyboard.
“Go ahead,” said al-Sherrod, placing a hand on al-Ghazi’s shoulder and directing toward the console. “Seek revenge against the Zionist. Make yourself whole in the eyes of al-Zawahiri.”
Al-Ghazi stood over the panel and stared at the ENTER button.
His heart thrummed. Never had he hesitated when granted such an opportunity.
“Adham, the good doctor is waiting.”
Al-Ghazi faced Sakharov and saw that the man appeared as lost as he was, perhaps realizing that his ambitions had taken him beyond something he could live with on a conscience and moral level, the pain of his guilt growing exponentially. Al-Ghazi, on the other hand, despite his extremist position and Zionist prejudices, felt the same climatic guilt for what he was about to do. In their gaze they connected, one man sensing the wrongful deed of the other, but had no choice in the matter. It was what it was.
“I’m not getting younger, Adham.”
Al-Ghazi turned away from Sakharov and faced Levine. The man was in such agony that al-Ghazi prayed that he would lose consciousness. But he didn’t. The fault to maintain his awareness was a noble trait, but also a foolish one.
He pressed the button.
Within fifteen seconds a waspy hum sounded out over the loudspeakers, the press of the button activating the sound waves to stimulate the nanobots.
Levine’s eyes opened to the size of saucers, his body going erect and statuesque as the bots, creatures so small that a hundred thousand could fit on the head of a pin, began to dissolve the man by the inches. Levine screamed, his hands going to his face that dissolved and liquefied under the onslaught; his eyes popping, then sliding within his orbital sockets, disappearing; the flesh around his mouth paring back before disappearing, showing the horrific smile of a skeletal grin. The fabric of his clothes began to turn red, his blood from gaping wounds beneath his shirt and garments ripping apart as flesh was rented and torn asunder, the imprint of his ribs now showing through his shirt. His legs seemed to dissolve beneath his pants, the material of his camouflage suit deflating until his legs appeared no thicker than broomsticks. And then he was gone, leaving skeletal remains draped in bloody fabric.