Chapter 33
The Maghreb
Al-Jaghbub Airfield
The hangar was quiet when Malenkov entered. Gone were the whirring of drills, the crackle of welding. The distant howl of a jackal could easily be heard. It was nearly midnight and most of the technicians were asleep.
The team worked long hours, in part because there was much to be done, but also because diversions were kept to a bare minimum.
All phones had been put under lock and key, and even if that hadn’t been the case there was no mobile signal or internet connection.
An old TV in the common room was connected to an ancient aerial antenna and offered two snowy local channels—news and prayers in Arabic, and the odd Egyptian soccer match.
It was a Spartan existence, but everyone understood that this was part of the contract. Long workdays and short nights.
Yet there was one exception to that circadian rhythm.
His name was Omar Qasim, and of all those here, save for Malenkov himself, he was the most vital contributor to the mission.
Malenkov had realized early on that for his scheme to succeed, one position would be particularly difficult to fill.
He needed a man who was both technically proficient and extraordinarily desperate.
An extensive search turned up only three leads, and the CV that rose to the top of the pile did so as a reflection of hardship rather than academic exceptionalism.
Qasim had been born outside the ancient city of Qatana, Syria, in the shadow of Mount Hermon.
He was Syrian by upbringing, British by education, Druze by faith.
None of those influences, however, were what had brought him here, to a refurbished hangar on the edge of a desert wasteland.
His father had been a teacher, his mother a house cleaner.
As a child Qasim had been frail and sickly, a punching bag for the other young boys, and useless in the olive groves.
Yet for all the misery God had inflicted upon him, Qasim had been bestowed with one great gift.
He had a superior intellect, particularly when it came to mathematics.
His father had recognized his talents, and also that they would be wasted in the tinderbox of Syria, which, at that time, was in the darkest throes of its civil war.
For a young man with an astonishing mind, it was a land without prospects.
The only escape was a literal one—migrate abroad into an increasingly unwelcoming world.
His father called in every favor from a lifetime of teaching, and with his life savings he sent his only son to England.
It worked brilliantly for a time. Qasim had excelled at university, earning a bachelor’s degree in applied physics, followed by a graduate fellowship to CERN, the prestigious European Organization for Nuclear Research.
Everything had been going to plan until, one crisp spring day in a pub overlooking Lake Geneva, just over two years ago, Qasim had met George Walid.
Walid presented himself as the son of a wealthy Egyptian businessman, and that much was true.
Malenkov, however, suspected he was far more.
He was certain George Walid had been sent to recruit Qasim, although on behalf of whom, or for what purpose, he was never able to determine.
An intelligence organization, a terrorist network, possibly even organized crime.
In Egypt the lines between them were blurred at best. It was likely that someone had identified Qasim and viewed him precisely as Malenkov did—a talented young physicist ripe for recruitment.
All he knew for certain was that Walid convinced Qasim to join him for a weeklong vacation on the Red Sea.
Qasim never made it past the immigration stand at Cairo International Airport.
The Mukhabarat subjected him to an extensive interrogation and, given his area of expertise, they were deeply suspicious.
Rumors had swirled for years in Egypt that terrorist groups were recruiting experts on nuclear materials.
Whether it was true was of little consequence—the regime’s paranoia ran deep.
Qasim was arrested, and foregoing the nuisances of evidence or a trial, a judge sentenced him to twenty years’ incarceration for engaging in “subversive behavior.” And that was precisely where Malenkov had found him: rotting behind the seven-meter walls of Al-Aqrab, better known as the Scorpion Prison.
Malenkov knew he’d found his man.
The rest had been shockingly simple. Owing to his work in the GRU and SSD, Malenkov’s connections in Egyptian intelligence were extensive.
He paid the requisite bribes—he would have paid far more—and Qasim was deposited on a dusty parking apron outside the prison.
Bojan and two of his men collected the stunned physicist and spirited him by car to the Maghreb.
At that point, the only chore for Malenkov had been to bring Qasim on board in mind as fully as he was in body.
He interviewed him at length, doing his best to avoid the atmosphere of an interrogation—more a coach sizing up a prized recruit.
He learned that Qasim missed his family, and that he hoped to go back to CERN to continue his work.
Malenkov told him both wishes were possible if he undertook one vital project.
The choices he presented were stark: a very large payday for a few months’ work, followed by a return to Geneva, or an immediate return to the arachnid-infested hellhole where Malenkov had found him.
Qasim committed without reservation, and even when he learned precisely what would be asked of him, he showed virtually no hesitation.
Malenkov knew why—an angle he had played perfectly.
He was not only offering the man freedom, but also a chance to extract payback on the nation that had imprisoned him unjustly.
Qasim’s work since that day had been exceptional.
Malenkov found him on the far side of the hangar, working beneath one of the aircraft.
Qasim was a bespectacled man with curly black hair and a frail build.
Leaning into an engine access bay in dirty coveralls, he looked like a typical mechanic, the only difference being a film badge clipped to his breast pocket.
“What are you working on tonight?” Malenkov asked as he approached.
Qasim popped out of the darkened bay, an illuminated headlamp strapped to his forehead. “The airborne mixing system,” he replied. “I am trying to get it to run at a lower speed. High speeds create a froth that injects air into the feed line.”
“Is that critical?”
“It’s only fine-tuning. I’ve verified operation of the dispersal systems on all ten aircraft.”
“Well done.”
“The difficult part will be meeting the tight schedule when the material arrives.”
Malenkov regarded the hardware set up on one side of the hangar.
There was an industrial mixing tank with a three-thousand-gallon capacity and twin agitators.
The attached network of pumps, valves, and piping was designed to be controlled remotely, and a network of cameras monitored the entire process.
Aside from these elaborate safeguards, Qasim had installed basic shielding.
Lines of stacked lead brick created a pen of sorts—such was their weight, the bricks had required two dedicated supply flights.
The enclosure, large enough to contain a single drone, was where the transfer of the material would take place.
Qasim had demonstrated the system yesterday, backing one of the drones into the pen with a tug and filling its supply tanks with water in less than ten minutes.
Even the electric tug was wired for remote operation.
Malenkov was impressed. Qasim rarely socialized with the others at Al-Jaghbub, and he tended toward surliness. But his work was first-rate. Malenkov had chosen well.
“Is there any update on the delivery?” the Syrian asked.
“It is set to arrive the day after tomorrow, early morning.”
“That gives me a narrow window. Less than a day to make the transfer.”
“You said that was all you needed. The material is safe where it is and transferring it here will only draw attention. The less time it is in our hangar, the better.”
Qasim regarded him skeptically. “Do you doubt I can handle it safely?”
Malenkov grinned humorlessly. “Quite the opposite. I expect the danger will be minimal. You will see to that for your own sake.”
Qasim nodded, an admission of sorts. Then he turned away and got straight back to work.