The Unpredictable Page 6

  “I still don’t see how I could help, Mr. Vestwood.”

  “Let us close the circle so that everything will be clear to you. Wharz has the preparation and the skills to help hostile countries develop nuclear devices, with systems that may be used to accelerate the production of enriched uranium or other synthetic raw materials such as Plutonium-239. In case you don’t know, I’ll tell you that these materials are perfect for the production of high-potential nuclear weapons.”

  “Excuse me, but this isn’t my field of expertise at all, I wouldn’t be able to tell a nuclear device from an alarm clock!” Nino doubtfully interrupted him.

  “Please, let me finish,” Vestwood snapped back.

  “The father’s disappearance is obviously connected to the kidnapping of young Nicholas. We are certain that the Iranian secret services have played a central role both in the boy’s kidnapping and in the scientist’s disappearance. Wharz, sordidly blackmailed, was forced to bend to their will and was somehow transferred to Iran, mere hours after his son. You can now see how our worries are based on the actual possibility that, with Professor Wharz’s forced collaboration, Iran may successfully and quickly finalize the construction of a fission bomb and ensure the production of other highly-radioactive material for other devices.”

  It all still sounded like the plot of a skilled director’s candid camera, where he would at the end find out that he was being masterfully fooled.

  In the meanwhile they’d reached the center of Milan and the Range Rover stopped in front of a garage entrance, where Vestwood typed a series of digits on a small remote control and the gate slowly started to open. It was a very large space, painted in light grey, that looked almost aseptic, spotless like an operating room. Other cars were neatly parked within the lines of numbered lots. The British man motioned Nino to follow him towards a security door a few meters to their right. They climbed up two flights of stairs, walked through a narrow corridor and reached the front office desk. Vestwood swiped his badge in the optical reader and waved him to go on in. He noticed the plaque on the door frame: Foreign Office. A large glass window faced the inner courtyard, the modern, measured and minimalist furniture captured his interest, leaving him doubtful that a British man could have such sober taste. In his work he’d often had to deal with British men, and he had never been keen on them. He’d never been able to stand their haughty and aloof act, their entitled attitude. The only exception so far had been Professor Gordon, who had been refreshingly pleasant and compelling company.

  During the short walk from the garage to the office, Vestwood had interrupted his speech and Nino’s mind had gotten carried away in those few minutes of silence. He tried to find rational conclusions in a context that seemed all but real. He thought over what he’d just been revealed, but there was no doubt that the Wharz family would turn out to be the key of everything. Just an hour had passed since Chris Vestwood had shown up at the airport bar, and already he felt himself immersed in a different reality, whether for better or for worse he didn’t know, but no doubt extremely exciting.

  “Nino, we need to get the Wharzes out of that country at all costs! It won’t be easy,

  but with your help we might be able to do it,” Vestwood resumed talking, gesturing him to sit down.

  “I still don’t follow you, Mr. Vestwood.”

  “At the Andimeshk refinery there is a military lab, a fallout bunker built 150 meters below ground level, where Professor Wharz is being forced to work to ensure the success of the project that the Iranian government has called “The punishment of Allah”. They’ve tried to conceal the lab by hiding it inside such a vast and active complex, and I must admit that they had succeeded in this, until just a few months ago. Young Nicholas, instead, is forced to live in a carefully guarded wing of the residence near Andimeshk, where you stayed a few days ago. The professor is only allowed to see his son a few times a week. Your job will be to establish contact with Wharz and pass him all of our messages. You will be in charge of exchanging information to and from the professor. You’ll be a messenger, a channel between us and him. That’s all you’ll have to do, doing all you can to ensure that every message makes it to its destination. What will happen next is of no concern to you.”

  “I suppose it’s not so easy to approach Professor Wharz? It won’t be like running into him at the bar and asking for the time!” Nino said, frowning at the thought.

  “I never said it would be easy. You’ll have the support of one of our men in Iran but in practice, you’re the only one who has the possibility to access the refinery and approach the scientist. Mind you, I said approach, not have a friendly dialog. We’ll have to find a way to establish direct contact, a successful channel to exchange messages, and you’ll have to help us out. We’ll guarantee you the maximum support and all the technology that might be useful for this operation.”

  “What would happen if I were discovered?”

  “I must be honest, there is this possibility, and Iranians aren’t very kind with agents from hostile countries. In the unfortunate event, you could sustain that Wharz himself contacted you asking for help during a casual meeting in the refinery. At the same time, the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs and International Cooperation, since you are an Italian citizen, and the Swiss Federal Department of Foreign Affairs on behalf of Swiss Exploration, would start working to request your release and repatriation, confirming your estrangement from any NOC[3] forces operating in Iran. Then we’d have to hope that diplomatic actions can advance quickly and result in your liberation. In any case, the actions and behaviors you’ll have to hold in emergency situations will be accurately studied in these days, then you’ll be duly instructed, ad nauseam, so as to be able to act quickly and instinctively even in the worst case scenario.”

  “You mean you’ll hire me for a little secret agent traineeship?” Nino asked ironically.

  “We’ll try to prepare you in the most complete way possible,” Vestwood answered pungently.

  “When would I have to return to Andimeshk?”

  “Given the gravity of the situation, I’d say in ten days or so. It depends on how fast you’ll learn. We at the NSFS [4] , or better said the Special Activity Division, the division that takes care of the preparation of foreign agents, will work hard to give you all the training that is strictly necessary for this operation. Unfortunately, they won’t be able to work miracles… this is all the time we have, give or take a day. It all depends on how quickly you will store and memorize the information. Let’s not forget that your return to Iran will, in any case, have to be justified by operational necessities of Swiss Exploration.”

  “I need to think about it, Vestwood, as you surely can imagine.”

  “I must clear a few other points. You will be credited with the amount of 350,000 euros on a Swiss bank account. The moment you step on the plane to Tehran, you will be forwarded an SMS with the bank account details, as well as a letter sent to a p.o. box that you’ll communicate to me. You may select a second beneficiary who would automatically be informed of the account details if something were to keep you in Iran for over 60 days. As for the second point, I’ll clarify that the operation isn’t exclusively an initiative of the British Government, as I mentioned in the airport, it is led by all the government services of the major Western countries, more precisely by the CIIS [5], the council for the coordination of security and intelligence agencies, among which is the Italian ROS. The British government will manage your preparation and your operativity, because we are the only ones to have a contact in Tehran that can support and help you during your stay in Iran. Any questions, Nino?”

  “I get the feeling that you’re taking for granted an answer that is not granted at all.”

  “I’m sure you will accept. I expect your confirmation by tomorrow, call me at the same number. Needless to say, not a word of this meeting and this conversation can get out, not even with your wife,” Vestwood ended.

  NOTE III

  If,
ten years before living through certain events, someone had told you what would have happened, would you have believed them? Would you have thought that their predictions would come true?

  Probably not.

  Often our existence holds unexpected experiences that we would have deemed impossible until a few moments before we actually lived them. These facts, events, meetings, however you want to define them, are to me necessary passageways. Picture them as a series of fixed points, scattered throughout the timeline of your life. Unmovable steps that we have to climb and that, all together, make up what we call destiny.

  The only free will we are given is to move unhindered between one point and the next, to travel between them and eventually reach them. We choose our own path, a never trivial and obstacle-free task; we conquer them one by one throughout our existence, moving in the only possible direction. Letting time slide by.

  Our freedom to choose our own path is one with our points of reference, free will and fate melt into a single unity, that is our future.

  Vestwood and the Wharzes were two of those fixed points that made up a part of my destiny, somewhat hoped for, but completely unforeseen. How I’d connect the remaining points and live my future, that would be the puzzle.

  When I’d found myself at the airport bar and Mr. Vestwood had sat down at my table, I’d been extremely surprised. Only now, however, do I really understand why. I wasn’t surprised by the long series of information that the British man had listed by heart regarding my past and my trip to Iran, but by the sudden call of my subconscious requesting my attention. It had recognized in Vestwood one of those indelible fixed points that had always made up my fate, and it had warned me. If it hadn’t happened at the airport bar, it would have happened at the station, at the cinema, at the restaurant or anywhere else on this planet.

  I would still have met him, I’m absolutely certain.

  But at the time, everything was so messed up, my reasoning was baffled by that offer that ultimately made me curious.

  That night when I got home I was bewildered, I must have looked like I’d taken too many meds, so I explained myself by telling Sara that I’d had a horrible trip back from Tehran due to an upset stomach. I was happy to hold her in my arms, to see her again, smiling and looking as beautiful as ever, but my mind was, understandably, elsewhere. The inner voice I heard kept whispering words that I forced myself not to listen to. I spent a sleepless night, everytime my eyes closed I pictured the man who had stopped me at the airport, and that image blended with memories from the past few years in Milan. Everything I couldn’t stand in my current life came to the surface, together with my desire for change. My ideals, my ambitions kept breaking through the consideration of that ridiculous possibility. I felt pushed by the need to make myself useful, to give my contribution in saving a kidnapped kid’s life. I asked myself if I’d be able to help him, plus, what would I think of myself if I remained helpless in my little world while something terrible happened to him.

  I knew that Vestwood, too, had been able to hear that voice and that, try as I may to resist, it would have gotten the best of me.

  The first thing I did the next morning was make a phone call. To the person on the other end of the line I simply said: “Ok.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Milan (Italy) , 12/18/2011 9:00 P.M.

  -“Rehearsals” –

  After all, it was what he’d always wanted, to become a real actor in his own life. His participation in saving the two innocent souls that had been involved in that awful kidnapping would give a new purpose to his existence, a different, more accomplished one. The train of his ambitions had just passed and he had instinctively jumped on, not willing to miss it. For a long period of time his life had drifted by, only partially satisfying him, as if a vital piece was missing that would complete him and fulfill his ambitions. Now he was as excited as a child waiting to unwrap a present; he felt that he was a part of something important, fair, necessary, and that he was being thrown into a world he’d never known before. Nicholas and his father had been swallowed by the hunger for power of evil men who were playing dirty, extremely dirty. It was his duty to try and help them.

  It was gratifying to while away the evenings with his sweetheart, knowing that the cumbersome hours he spent with the Special Activity Division instructors were for a noble and important cause. He felt like Sean Connery.

  A hint of a laugh escaped his mouth, attracting Sara’s attention. She was lying on the sofa, momentarily distracted from the vision of her favorite reality show.

  “Why are you laughing?” she asked, intrigued.

  “These characters who’ve got nothing left to give in the show business, so they go and tell their deepest and darkest secrets on TV, they just make me itch!” he answered, pretending for a moment that he’d been watching the show.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t stand it,” he added, switching on the computer and sitting down at the desk beside the sofa.

  - Salah al-Din[6] sent you a friend request -, was the first thing that Nino noticed on his Facebook profile.

  “Check this out, The Ferocious Saladin has added me as a friend!” he said out loud, laughing, and clicked “confirm”.

  “Sara, who’d you think it might be?” he asked her, taking the answer for granted.

  “Let me think. The ferocious Amir, of course!” she replied, temporarily awakening from her reality TV-induced hypnosis.

  The request came with a message:

  “Hello Nino, at last I find the peace of mind to write you. As you can imagine, things have radically changed since you left. My land isn’t the one you used to know and love, you’d have a hard time recognizing it. People have changed, everyone is suspicious and fearful, especially those who, like me, had friendships that are now defined as dangerous. The basiji [7], recognized and made official by the fundamentalist leaders and the government, are everywhere, and they’d willingly sell their mothers if it meant catching someone acting against Islam or the regime. Everyone is afraid of their own coworkers, neighbors, acquaintances, scared that they might be willing to make up inexistent allegations just to gain the favor of a government official. We all live in fear of our own shadows. As you surely know, Swiss Exploration and the Western oil companies have shut down, everything has been nationalized and has fallen into the hands of the statal company. I recently transferred to Iraq, where I’ve been given the chance to work for a while. We are strengthening relationships with our Iraqi neighbors. I’m able to write to you so freely because I’m using a computer that belongs to a French colleague from another company, and we’re sure that it isn’t monitored. As long as I’m here in Al-ʿAmārah, I’ll be able to read and answer your messages consistently. Believe me, these are very difficult times, it pains me deeply to see my country ruined like this by the same people who say that they love it. It’s such a pleasure to send you these few lines!

  But tell me about yourself now, how are you, how is Sara? Is it still only the two of you or did Allah send you the gift of a heir?

  I look forward to hearing from you.

  p.s. I almost forgot, my French friend’s telephone number is +964 33959… if you want, you can call and ask for me.

  Your brother Salah al-Din”.

  Amir’s words deeply affected him, for a few seconds he was carried away by a soft, bitter melancholy that brought him back to earlier years, when religious fundamentalism still hadn’t showed all its violence, rising like a phoenix from the ashes of the Twin Towers and of the retaliation against Al-Qaeda; to when his whole world had seemed to be limited between the sandy desert dunes and the coasts of Maghreb.

  While Sara was still enthralled by the unlikely plot twists of the TV show, Nino copied the number Amir had sent him into his small phone book and started up the browser. In the search engine he typed the words: Alexander Wharz.

  “Now, where do we start?”

  Surprised by the amount of information found by the search engine, for a moment or two he c
ouldn’t decide what to read first. There were several references to the professor; he began by opening a Wikipedia page dedicated to him: his life, scientific career, works, bibliography, and a close-up photograph.

  “The prof has kept himself busy!” he thought to himself.

  He had obtained a degree in physics from the University of Bonn at a very young age, then after a few years in the United States he had returned to Germany, where he had become a professor in Computational Physics and Matter Physics at the University of Tubingen. As he scrolled through the page he paused on the external links, one of them caught his eye: it was about the disappearance of Wharz’s gorgeous wife Lisa Wonderlich. She had passed away due to an incurable disease, to which the journalist ascribed the professor’s sudden awareness of the importance of ecology and environmentalism. The article stated that Alexander had blamed the disease on the damages caused by the accident in the Chernobyl plant and the studies that Lisa had conducted in the devastated area. That was where the professor had began having trouble with the law. In a number of occasions, he’d earned himself lawsuits for being “too active” a member of an environmentalist association.

  All in all, a contrasted portrait of “Gehirn” stood out, a mixture between a genius and an anti-globalization activist.

  Mc Gown had revealed the man’s nickname to him when they had been studying the professor’s psychological profile. He’d been dubbed Gehirn by his environmentalist friends many years back, it was a sort of a nom de guerre, every member of the movement had had one. It meant “brain”, and no nickname could have been more suitable for Alexander Wharz. His nickname was only known to a few close friends from the eco-environmentalist group and wasn’t mentioned anywhere else, not even in the documents the police had confiscated in the group’s headquarters. This information would come handy in the future.