Al-Ghazi looked at the remains and noted that the skull was turned right at him, its smile a grim reflection that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Oddly enough, Levine had the presence of mind to point a bony finger in al-Ghazi’s direction, as well. Or perhaps, he thought, it was by mere coincidence that the accusing talon was directed his way during the throes of writhing agony.
“Outstanding,” said al-Sherrod, moving closer to the window. “Absolutely amazing.”
The waspy hum decreased over time, the nano mass deteriorating by the half-life code embedded into them by Sakharov, making them less critical. Within fifteen minutes their lifespan was diluted to the point where their existence had zero effect. More so, they only attacked the organic matter. Everything had been a resounding success.
“You see, Doctor! You see what you’ve brought us? The ultimate solution in changing the world,” said al-Sherrod. His happiness could hardly be contained. “A controlled weapon of mass destruction.”
Whereas al-Sherrod saw it as a way for Iran to bully their way into a position as a world power, al-Ghazi saw it as a device to rid the world of Zionists and infidels, two totally separate agendas. Sakharov, however, with his scientific mind saw this as End Times. Such a weapon in the minds of corrupted officials tend to lose reason and foresight as their ambitions become too great to control, thereby creating the eventual aftermath of complete and total destruction.
Sakharov knew that Russia would have exercised the same set of ambitions to recertify their egotistic and divine power over the United States, even with the Cold War over. Number one was everything. Number two was insignificant.
“So now I must express to you, my good Doctor, the gratitude of my countryman, the gratitude of President Ahmadinejad and, of course, my appreciation, for what you have given us.”
Sakharov sat back in his seat. And when he spoke he didn’t speak in his usual hardened manner. It was a side of him he never revealed to any of them before, the side of a man possessed with calm intellect. “In the pursuit of progress,” he said, “I have abandoned my humanity. And should there be a Devil, then I have surely nailed my soul to the Devil’s Altar.”
Al-Sherrod stared at him.
“Now I know how J. Robert Oppenheimer felt after he developed the bomb,” he added, “after he realized its horrific potential.”
“Regrets, Doctor?”
“You just heard what I said, didn’t you? Anything of this magnitude can be controlled for so long before human nature finally takes over by someone who thinks he can manage the power. Ultimately, that war is lost and so will all of humanity… eventually.”
“You’re wrong, Doctor. In the right hands, under the right minds, nothing can go wrong.”
The old Doctor Sakharov returned. “Then you’re as ignorant as you look.”
The smile washed away from al-Sherrod’s face. “See the good doctor back to his chamber,” he said. “And do be as rough with him as you were getting him here.”
Two Quds soldiers hoisted Sakharov roughly to his feet and escorted him away.
“Hey! Careful! I’m an old man!”
He then turned to al-Ghazi, who appeared mesmerized by the remains of Levine. “He deserved what he got, yes?”
Al-Ghazi remained quiet.
“If I didn’t know better, Adham, I’d say you were mourning the loss of the Zionist. Surely this isn’t so?”
He flashed the man a hard gaze. “I’m tired of your little innuendos, al-Sherrod. If you’ve got something to say, then say it.”
“I’m merely proposing my thoughts of what I believe to see.”
“Then you’re blind,” he returned.
“Am I?”
AL-Sherrod confronted al-Ghazi by standing between him and the body of Levine, their eyes steely and intent. “We do have another pressing issue at hand here,” he said.
Al-Ghazi nodded in agreement.
“The operative which you solely placed into our facility has compromised the very location of this facility to Mossad; therefore, we must consider the probability of a possible strike. If that is the case, then we must abandon this area immediately. We are now put into a position of denying culpability when we were never in such a position before.”
“Then we have no other choice,” he said. “We wipe away all prints that this facility ever existed.”
Al-Sherrod lifted a hand to al-Ghazi’s shoulder. “None of this will matter anyway,” he told him. “We have what we want, so this facility has become irrelevant. We are now in a position to fear no one.”
“No doubt Mossad is deciding what to do.”
“No doubt. We were able to decipher some of the encrypted contents sent. They know the location and specific agenda of Sakharov’s findings. So I assume they’ll send their concerns up the Zionist chain of command to justify a prompt strike. And, of course, they’ll notify the United States and its allies of their intentions. And, of course, the United States will try to stall them, which will aid us with the necessary time to move our assets.”
“How long?”
“Two, maybe three days,” he answered. “Ahmadinejad is being notified as we speak.”
Al-Ghazi had his own data files locked away in his satellite office in Tehran, so he was safe. What happened to the facility, its wares, or its people was beyond his concern. In fact, he didn’t really care what happened to them, as long as he was in Tehran. But he did have a singular concern regarding the timeline of their conspiracy against the Vatican. “Does that give us enough time to get things in motion?”
“It’ll be tight,” he said. “But doable.”
“And Doctor Sakharov?”
Al-Sherrod shot off another one of his malicious and annoying smiles. “Now that, Ahmad, is another matter. His mind is too valuable an asset, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Which means that he’s staying with your organization?”
Al-Sherrod did little to hide his zeal, his smile widening to a Cheshire grin. “Did you really believe otherwise?”
Doctor Leonid J. Sakharov sat alone in his residence, his sight stretching out for a long moment into the darkness, his eyes unwavering. But his mind churned with the bombarding madness of nonstop memories.
When he was in Vladimir Central prison he subsisted on his memories, which drove in him the compassion to live, to survive, to keep moving no matter how much the guards broke his body down. With random beatings by their truncheons, and then to see those around him die with their eyes staring at nothing in particular as the spark of life left them when their souls departed, he kept going, afraid to die.
While in Vladimir Central he dreamed of buckyballs, of his science, the molecular chains becoming the driving sustenance that kept him alive during those wintery nights beneath threadbare blankets and lived by the power of prayer, his science his God.
Now, with his dreams finally coming to fruition, he realized that his God was a dark one.
He had seen its intention, to kill without impunity or conscience or remorse. And he was the one to helm and unleash its ferocity into the hands of extremists who bore no intent of purity in its application.
What have I done?
His ambitions had corrupted him, he knew that. And he had no justification for what he did because he knew their intent all along. He simply chose to turn a blind eye knowing the power of his creation.