The Syrian Sunset, page 24
“Their spirits could not protect Ghouta nor even their own home from being burned,” Sami said with an eerie, ghostlike laugh.
“So we must.”
Sami was silent for a long time. If he ran from this, he would truly be nothing. Finally, he swung an arm around Kassem’s high waist. “Okay. So to save the country. Two awkward, brainy, one formerly and one currently lonely scientist.”
“Yes, not in whose trust anyone planned to hand anyone’s fate.”
“Okay. Then tell Lilia to wait to look for a woman. I cannot stand so much anxiety at once. It would make me brag to her about my great feats to rescue the country. I will get the locations and other information you need. Tell me nothing more.”
Kassem swept an arm around Sami’s shoulder.
Sami gazed at the white rock slab sides of the enduring mountain and said, “Let’s save Syria first. Then we will save poor Sami.”
✽✽✽
Two weeks later, upstairs in Waterstone’s Bookstore in Oxford Circus, Alisher Karimov burst towards the blackboard menu at Union Coffee like a charging lioness, her cub Shai trailing. The high ceiling was open, metal beams, intense single floodlights, rectangular ventilation shafts— nouveau decor. Books crowded sections headed HISTORY, COOKERY, TRAVEL, YOUNG ADULT. Bare bulbs slung low on strands like Christmas decorations but all bright white. Picture books rose in stacks from small wood tables. Colorful Harry Potter hardcovers peered out from an entire wall. There was so much space, Alisher thought turning around, he felt he was in Russia.
Across from the traditional list of Negroni, Old Fashioned, Espresso Martini, Long Island Iced Tea ran the list of literary alcohol inducements: L’Etranger, Voltaire Sour, Catcher in the Rye, Master and Margarita, Hemingway Daiquiri, Dorian’s Grey Goose. Below that another chalkboard askew on a pillar, offered French and Italian wines.
Karimov turned to Shai and roared with laughter in this paper jungle. “Bars in bookstores, cappuccino. Master and Margarita drink so funny. You know Bulgakov, Shai guy? This publish only after he so dead, in Paris, even, first. Maybe best book twentieth century anyone write. Longing Russian man for be forgiven. This everyman, no? Even Shai guy, I think. Maybe especially Shai guy?” And without waiting for a response. “Alisher add alcohol to entertainment center bookstores.”
Alisher had released a quiver into the bullseye and Shai yanked the arrows out before the blood was even more noticeable.
“Read it three times,” he said quietly. “At least.”
Karimov roared again followed and then he loped towards the metal counter to his right as if after a zebra, though he settled in front of a Kilimanjaro of pastries. Behind the espresso machine bottles of spirits stood at the ready. Above them wine protruded from a wood niche, beer bottles lined atop it. Brown bags of coffee beans commandingly rose up the wall to the left, nearer the busy whoosh of the milk frothing and the coffee dripping into glass.
“Use space so good. No waste,” Karimov said. “Little country, so understand.” He clapped Shai on the back. “Alisher follow Shai guy. See so crazy things. Yana happy also. Alisher shop for wife while Yana go St. Paul. Wife happy too. Beautiful world, yes? If we no look Syria, where not so beautiful.”
“Yana,” the barista called, the name Karimov had supplied. He approached, lifted the tray from the counter with the four espressos and almond biscotti, each protected in plastic for the journey from Italy.
A short distance away, McE held the fort on one of the few small square wood tables; most were long communal affairs. By necessity McEnnerney had commandeered a fourth chair from one. Down the way in front of picture books ascending face-out optimistically promising Posh Rice, Posh Toast, Posh Eggs and Happy Soups in a country of barely edible fare, beyond the chess players, Shai watched Sir Nigel Davies of MI6 move swiftly, thrusting forward a walking stick he apparently did not much need. His full silver mane was longish to offset the recede; a soft inexpensive Marks and Sparks lambswool jumper, light gray with darker diamonds down the center, matched his patterned gray ascot. Shai had met him once before with McEnnerney in Washington. Uniquely Sir Nigel had risen the slippery ranks on the ladder of congeniality. Though the door, he always sought common cause and then, when met with obdurance or ignorance, which usually came as a team, he considered his brutality warranted.
“Sorry no drink name your country,” Alisher said to Shai, as all converged where McE stood to welcome the mini UN.
Shai smiled.
As chairs squeaked on the gray floor, drinks and biscotti marched across the table, and McE made the introductions.
“Pleasure to have you on our patch,” Sir Nigel said to Karimov. “I’m sure not your first occasion.”
“Of course, no,” Alisher said. “But first with big friends at little table. Big honor.” From his waist, he bowed.
“President Putin is well?” Sir Nigel inquired.
“Of course. He run against no real peoples. So, no stress. Russia most efficient. This lovely, Waterstones. I think efficient too. Alisher learn. Like play chess when buy books. Russians so love chess. Many ideas arrive.”
Sir Davies lifted his espresso and turned to McE. “I gather from the report you flashed over, you just discovered you have a bit of VX on your hands. Cheeky. Let that one slip. Wanted to keep it for a rainy day, did they?”
“We have our eye on a bit of it up near Raqqa that thus far seems to have escaped anyone’s notice.” McE kept at the head of the presentation. “Like to get it out before anyone does. Maybe five thousand gallons of the sarin elements ready to stir up. Great deal less of the VX, small quantity, but helicopters gassed up in an adjacent hanger.”
“Doesn’t take much of the VX to make an impression.” Sir Nigel smiled at Shai. “Rather like you Israeli chaps. Seem to draw a lot of attention despite how few of you there actually are.”
“We landed in a noisy corner of the globe,” Shai said. “We took immediately to the environs.”
Sir Nigel lips came together almost in a smile. He remembered this about Shai, liked it, the fortitude to not take offense. Sir Nigel returned his cup to the table. “I asked around a bit. You say you can’t take the VX aboard your super ship. Our chaps at Porton Down, by the by, concur. Enthusiastically. Not a word I use much about them, I might add. The VX put through your otherwise brilliant technology will blow everyone aboard a good deal of the journey to the sun. The sarin you might manage that way aboard the pitching seas. Might.”
Shai had explained to Karimov that Porton Down, the fenced facility in the south, housed the Ministry of Defense’s Defense Science and Technology Laboratory. It had plowed ground in 1915. Soon buildings rose to test mustard gas, chlorine and phosgene to defend British forces against Germany’s eagerness with them. Over 7,000 acres, above and below ground, they practiced seeding Britain’s own clouds with sarin and its associates. Later they were tasked with determining exactly what killed the various Brits and Russians the FSB jabbed while strolling in Hyde Park. To which Karimov had replied, “This subject, Shai guy, we spoke one time, so too much. I thank you.”
McE cradled his small cup in both hands. “We don’t have all our t’s crossed and i’s dotted aboard the Cape Arthur.”
“Ah,” Sir Nigel released a knowing sigh. “Technology or the bureaucracy?”
“Latter worried about the former. Still inside the boxing ring dancing around. I’m afraid the bureaucrats are sticking in their corner and punching from there.” McE took a small pull of the espresso which was Italian and surprisingly good. “If it all goes to hell in a handbasket, might Porton Down take the sarin too? Not much of a journey from Southampton?”
“Right as British rain. Was a thought you might put that to me. So we rung that one up the chain of command. Ever so sorry, came back and if you please, don’t ask again. Too many jihadis on the prowl eager to swing a sword if our neck’s out there for a century. Too much of the bloody sarin. Take forever and longer to transfer.”
Karimov leaned both elbows on the table. “You, I mean Great Britain. You invent this VX thing at your Porton Down. So you know it like your baby boy. Alisher correct this, yes?”
“I’m afraid, sir, you have pulled down our knickers. This Nazi who started us all on this ignominious nerve gas escapade, the IG Farben chap what’s his name? Can’t recall. All those names sound the same to my aging colonial ears, I’m afraid.”
“Gerhard Schrader,” Shai said evenly.
“Wasn’t there a Schroder chap too, bit more recently?”
“Yes, Gerhard Schroder, chancellor of Germany in the early oughts,” Shai obliged. “We still have a lot of dealings with the Germans. Big war reparation discounts on nuclear submarines still on today. As the guilt continues. He stood down so Merkel could stand up.”
“Yes, see.” Sir Nigel loosened his ascot. “Schrader, Schroder. Though I suppose they feel the same about our lot. Sir Nigel Davies. Must sound to them like a vanilla lolly. So yes, Alisher, if I may, come the 1950’s we’re as crazed about you Russkies as the Americans were about the Iraqis before the tits up in Baghdad. So we take Herr Schrader’s fertilizer eugenics, tweak here and there, and bring to the world from between our British loins venomous X, I’m quite ashamed to say. With all lesser-known V nerve agent cousins to come and join the unholy family.” He turned to McEnnerney. “If I’m not mistaken your Blue Grass Chemical Agent Destruction Plant is near Richmond, Kentucky. Crushing 155mm projectiles, M55 rockets. Not to mention what was in them. I have that about right? In the ballpark, at all?”
“We have chemical weapons stored south of Richmond and Lexington,” McE countered tiredly, without an edge, keeping this friendly given that Davies was right. “We try not to put such places in the cities. Even if they’re filled with trusting southern folk who don’t pay much attention.”
“Wouldn’t be awfully taxing for you to make magic with the VX there. Given that they’re disposing of your very many tons of VX. Seems like something you Americans might do for the cause, American exceptionalism and all. So we muse here in our spare time.”
“Yup. If only we were so enlightened. We have a nasty chemical stockpile at the nearby Blue Grass Army Depot. Though it’s a mere pittance of the 4,400 tons of VX we whipped up in the 60s and had stockpiled across our glorious heartland. Which of course was nothing compared to our 34,000 tons of sarin. Nobody pays attention to this, so before flying over I decided to have a look see, on the off chance it came up.”
“Thoughtful of you,” Sir Nigel said with a smile, genuine enough, saluting him with him small cup. “Even appreciated.”
Once running, McE continued around the track. “Brewed in one place then distributed to nine army chemical weapons depots from sea to shining sea. Almost. One on Johnston Island, 800 miles off Hawaii. I suppose in case we decided to go after Beijing and Shanghai this round. Then we head to Umatilla, Oregon; Tooele, Utah; Pueblo, Colorado; Newport, Indiana, VX only there as it happens, specialty stop, no sarin welcomed. So, on to Aberdeen, Maryland; Pine Bluff, Arkansas; and Anniston, Alabama. We wanted to make sure people in all different parts of the country had equal opportunity to die horrible accidental deaths. Good deal of it done, finished neutralizing about ninety percent as I eyeballed it, hydrolysis, incineration, supercritical water oxidation at Newport for the VX. Been awhile since the 1997 Chemical Weapons Convention which prohibited the use and stockpiling, which we’re getting Bashar to ink his John Hancock to. Had to build most of these take apart jobs from scratch. Blue Grass’s got a good way to finish up. Unfortunately, in our present state, we can’t get our powers-that-be to green light the Cape Arthur, not to mention actually bringing a glass of Syria’s VX onto our hallowed shores. Lest there be an accident, theft or some unanticipated mischief.”
Sir Nigel smiled. “So you want us to do what you won’t?”
“Unfortunately, it’s the American way. Pass the Buck, Chuck,” McE said. “You can shoot the messenger. I’ll take a bullet for the cause, happily,if it gets something tidied up.”
Shai remained silent; could not rise from where he was sunk in sullen despair. The West was whispering, you can kill hundreds of thousands of civilians with big blunt instruments, just not with chemical weapons. Beside him, Alisher studied the lettering on the biscotti plastic, then ripped it open. Assembled and having made the slow journey from Tuscan Lucca, it was scentless and as he bit into it, tasteless. He decided that he would need his own biscotti factories.
“Sorry about our MP’s,” Sir Nigel said to McE. “Twelve votes. Traitors running to Labour just because Blair and Bush gave them the fast shuffle. We have our heads up our arses. Follow the Americans into the dark, and when there’s daylight and a view clear, run the other way. Could have given those brave Syrian lads a chance against those barrel bombs. What a cock-up.”
Alisher set his biscotti down and turned to Davies. “Sir Davies...”
“Call me Nigel, lad. If we’re going to clean up the world’s poison let’s have none of this British stiff upper lip nonsense.”
“Okay, new friend, Nigel. So Vlad tell me, tell them. He much sorry. VX, he cannot take himself. Our destruction not so first class. Other reasons too. However, many things he do. Big things. So he promote favor. Nigel and bigger people. Sorry no insult, to my friend, Shai guy. Everyone have bigger people. Maybe even Vlad. So, if Porton Down murder this VX, do such favor. Sometime Nigel come to Alisher, this favor return. Alisher go to Vlad. Vlad open arms. Also, Alisher open arms. Not as big when open as Vlad. But not nothing.” Karimov stretched his large arms wide to hammer in his point.
Two young women at the next small table eyed Karimov and giggled, the way young women did when eager to jot down their phone numbers.
“Greatly appreciated on both counts,” Sir Nigel said. “Will bear it in mind.” He then pulled his coffee nearer and lifted his attention directly across the table to Shai. “Want to make sure we’re not putting the cart ahead of the camel here. There was no VX on the original Syrian sworn declarations.”
“I think they temporarily misplaced their hearts,” Shai said.
“Which they’ve now suddenly found.”
“So it seems.”
“You have a source? Electronic? Human? Some new hybrid of both? You fellas are bang up with technology. This Q Cyber Security group of yours in Herzliya. Doing the nasty on cell phones. A declared Chinese wall between them and the Mossad? Tissue paper, maybe. Anything you can’t do, if you put your minds to it? In the name of survival, of course.”
“How about I don’t lie to you?” Shai suggested. “I much prefer not to though some say I have a talent for it.”
Sir Nigel let loose a grin. “We’re all just meeting for a friendly cuppa. You confident it’s comprehensive, what McE’s given us?”
“If not, it’s close.”
Just then, one of the girls stood shyly, her friend physically nudging her. She tottered near on high narrow heels, her boots rising most of the way towards her very short skirt. Her wispy blond hair jumped as she wobbled.
She giggled, thrust the scrap of pink-lined paper with her phone number out, and set it before Shai. “I’m Amy. You remind me of my dad. He’s super.” Before he could say anything, she darted away and holding hands with her friend for balance, they ran off.
Alisher roared with laughter and proper British eyes from other tables arrived disapprovingly.
“If I’m not interrupting,” Sir Davies said with a playful smile. He drained his coffee and slowly turned to McE. “Let me run this up the food chain and see who’s willing to bite. Maybe some cold hearts will be warmed by the reminder that we delivered this plague to the planet. We have a military aircraft testing site, RAF Boscombe Down. At Amesbury, Wiltshire. Been there since the first cows ever went to pasture. Private, just two hardly noticed runways. In your parlance, as the crow flies five miles from Porton Down, who obviously are up to the task.”
Sir Nigel pushed the biscotti away and patted his stomach to indicate the need to keep it flat, which it was. “Alisher, you think your Vlad might spare a couple of large cargo planes for flights from Mezzeh Air Force base in Damascus to Boscombe Down? They’d be helpfully inconspicuous at Mezzeh if any of the baddies are about. No need to waste ink on flight plans. Especially with everybody so busy and all in today’s fast-paced world.”
“This not even question. Vlad proud help. This certain fact.”
“Okay boys,” Sir Nigel said and stood. “I’ll see what kind of enthusiasm I can muster. But everything on the hush hush, obviously. We’ve paid rather a sizeable price for our colonial adventures in terms of the people we’re forced us to let inside our very insecure shores. Don’t want any attempts at a grab of the VX.”
After Sir Nigel bid his goodbyes, Alisher picked up the pink-lined paper. “You no call, I think. Pity. Maybe world go bang tomorrow. Never know.”
Shai smiled. “Always heartening to hear someone speak well about a parent.” He took the scented pink scrap and tore it in short lengths.
“This Sir Nigel,” Alisher asked. “Why he Sir. He save country from the Fascists? Or maybe the Americans?”
“He’s a virtuoso violinist,” McEnnerney explained. “Violin, very good.” As he saw on Karimov’s fact that he did not understand. “Goes into poor neighborhoods far and near. Sets up music classes. Orchestras. Buys everyone instruments. Even has them wrapped.”
“I so love this,” Alisher said. “Maybe I do too in Russia. Not in entertainment centers. There pay, of course. But poor places, I want. Alisher’s duty help make such music.”
Shai turned to McE. “Any decision on the Cape Arthur?”
“Just checked my phone. Doesn’t look good.”
CHAPTER 14
INSTITUTE 3000
DAMASCUS
A bead of sweat dropped down General Muhammad Mitqal’s forehead and sped down the side of his face into his meticulously trimmed gray beard. It was stifling again as he strode down the underground corridor of Institute 3000. Stark overhead fluorescents created a shadow of himself in front of him and for a brief moment he thought of himself as double an ordinary man. He could not understand how they could revolutionize the readiness of sarin, yet the air conditioning regularly groaned at anemic levels.
