8. Family Visit

Sarah was full of apprehension as she slid into the back seat of the well-polished black Mercedes C240. The driver closed the door softly behind her and gave a slight nod of his head. He spoke no English.

“How long till we get there?” she asked in her excellent Russian, even if with a quaint Ukrainian accent.

“Ah, you are from Ukraine?”

“Sort of. I was born there but my parents migrated to America when I was five. How long till we get there?”

“It will be about two hours.”

“That long?”

“The last hour is through mountains. Very beautiful though. Best in the world.”

Sarah Kohmsky had never met her uncle Sergey, even though when she spoke with him on the phone, he behaved as though he saw her every day and had watched her grow up. “And what of my other uncle?” she had asked. Uncle Sergey had simply replied, “Oh, he’s gone. Been gone a long time.” She had not followed up. She wasn’t sure what “gone” meant.

The car glided through the dull streets of Bishtek. These former Soviet towns — that’s all this was, really, hardly a city — seemed to embody her father’s personality, depressed, dull and gray, never quite coming alive, people looking vacantly in front of them as though there was nothing to look for, or look at. It was a terrible atmosphere of emptiness, or maybe better described as loneliness. Her father was always alone. That’s what had made her so alone herself. No, detached, maybe that was a better way to put it. He was disconnected from people and didn’t seem to know why, didn’t seem to even realize the extent of his loneliness. She could not remember feeling close to him; in fact she could not remember ever being hugged by him, or even touched by him. He must have surely. But she couldn’t remember one instance. He never spoke, he never touched. He just thought. Or at least, that’s what she assumed he was doing in all that silence.

Her uncle Sergey didn’t sound that way at all on the phone. In fact, just the opposite. He talked and talked like it was just yesterday. How he and her dad had played soccer and ice hockey together. How they had explored the streams and hills of the Ukraine. It sounded like just one happy childhood. Was he really her uncle? But Shalah had assured her that he was indeed her uncle, and Shalah would know. His network of spies discovered this fact by accident when they were searching for a reliable Russian mafia group with whom they could contract to do the new nine eleven attack.

Shalah was convinced that the Americans would not be looking for Russians, but for Islamic militants. In fact, he knew that was their mindset from his spies in New Jersey. It was a nice surprise when an old photograph of Sarah turned up in uncle Sergey’s dossier put together by one of his operatives. He had recognized her immediately, even though she must have been just a teenager when it was taken. And Sarah had later confirmed it when he showed it to her. She couldn’t understand how her uncle could have got the photograph because she thought that her father never communicated with him, never heard from him again, once they left Chernobyl. Her mom had told her that uncle Sergey had worked at the power plant, but was not there at the time of the disaster. In fact she did not know where he was. She never mentioned the other brother. Her mom must have secretly sent the photo, though how she knew where to send it was a mystery. Unless, unless it had to do with those strange envelopes stuffed with money that would come from the Soviet, with the Chernobyl postmark. Sarah wondered, now, how the money could have gotten through the corrupt and penniless postal workers of the USSR, and even later under the Ukraine when after the collapse of the Soviet Union, nobody had any money, food, or anything. Was it uncle Sergey who sent the money?

*

Her driver had switched on the radio which, Sarah was pleasantly surprised, was playing Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto. Trouble was the driver hummed along with it, out of tune. Classical music was never meant to be hummed to, she thought, even if the hummer were in tune.

They were in the mountains now. It was high summer and they were just beginning to leave behind the rich greens of the oaks and maples and elms, climbing higher into the firs and pines. The snow covered peaks could be glimpsed if she pushed her face against the window, or looked up through the moon roof. The narrow but well-made road curved graciously through the mountains and valleys. She saw waterfalls, whitewater, precipices and deer. Her driver was right. This was a beautiful place, perhaps the most beautiful and unspoiled scenery she had seen.

“Are we getting close?” she asked.

“In a few minutes. You will be happy to see your uncle again, eh?”

“Quite,” she answered.

Sarah saw the road rise steeply ahead, and the driver shifted down a cog. The Mercedes responded and gave a throaty hum as it surged forward. At the very top of the steep rise, the forest cleared and a large wrought iron gate slowly opened ahead of them. The car slowed, rolled into an immense cobblestone courtyard and pulled up in front of a huge stone villa, where uncle Sergey stood waiting at the bottom of a large flight of heavy stone steps. Her driver jumped out and hurried round to her door.

Uncle Sergey put out his hand. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he smiled.

“Hello uncle Sergey.”

“My dear, how beautiful you have grown!”

“But we’ve never met. How do you know that?” quipped Sarah.

“Ah, just like your dad. No time for formalities! Of course I have seen your photographs.”

“How? My dad never communicated with anyone, least of all you.”

“Men, Russian men. What can I say? Of course your mom kept in touch from time to time.”

“She never said anything to me.”

“Probably, she did not want your dad to know.”

“Well, whatever. Nice place you have here.”

“Wait till you see the view!”

Sergey leaned forward and tried to complete his welcome by gently kissing Sarah on each cheek. She allowed him, but did not really respond. He stood back and said, looking into her round and almost smiling face, “My dear, welcome, welcome. It’s a terrible thing that our families have been broken up for so long. Family. When you come right down to it, that’s all we have, you know.”

Now Sarah did smile, not happily, but at her uncle’s lame attempt at wisdom. “Yes, uncle Sergey, at last we are together,” she said, almost mocking him.

“Ah, your father all over again. It’s amazing, but very reassuring,” said Sergey, grasping her hands affectionately. “Come, let’s get you settled.”

Three men dressed in black suits descended the stairs to retrieve her luggage. Uncle Sergey took Sarah’s arm and guided her up the steps. They spoke Russian.

“I didn’t know you lived so well, uncle Sergey.”

“And would you believe, on no income!”

“You Chechens always were resourceful.”

“When you have a government that can’t pay you, you must look for other means.”

“You are Chechen, right?”

“If you say so, my dear.”

Sarah laughed and went as if to kiss uncle Sergey on the cheek, but did not quite do so. She had to resist getting too close to him. It could interfere with business. She turned to look out across the valley.”

“Yes, Sarah, that is all mine, or more or less mine. It’s the government’s of course, but I take care of it for them. The great waterfall you see down there,” he pointed across to the right of the villa, “runs a hydroelectric station that produces enough power to supply most of Bishtek.”

“Amazing!”

“Come inside my dear, I hear we have big business to discuss.”

They entered the huge lobby, large enough for a hotel, which it actually was, since uncle Sergey employed “many men doing many things,” as he described them, and he liked to keep them close to him. The lobby was over furnished with very large items hewn from natural logs. There were stuffed animals and animal heads on the walls, giving the impression of a well-used hunting lodge. Sarah looked down and saw that she was standing on a thick rug of a black bear, complete with head.

“I’d like to freshen up a little before we get started, if that’s OK.”

“Yes of course. How inconsiderate of me. Petrovka will show you to your room.” He signaled to a maid standing in a far off corner of the lobby.

*

Uncle Sergey stepped out of the lobby on to the top of the landing overlooking the steps and the view of the waterfall. He opened his phone and began to text, but then changed his mind and made a call instead.

“Turgo?”

“What is it?”

“I just want to be sure you’re on board with this.”

“She’s here?”

“Yes. Now this is what I’m going to do. No, wait a minute. I don’t want to do this on the phone. Meet me down at the observation tower. I’m going there now.”

“Down gravel path?”

“Yes.”

“I come.”

The observation tower jutted out from the villa and was entered from the outside. It literally hung out over a precipice, giving an unnerving view of the waterfall and the hydroelectric generating plant. Sergey entered the glass enclosed deck and looked back up the path to see Turgo shuffling along. He cut a pathetic figure, hunched over in his disheveled gray suit, too big for him, looking like he had slept in it, and probably he had. Poor Turgo, thought Sergey, he’s fallen on hard times, but soon all that will change.

*

Turgo had been his boss at the Chernobyl power station. But neither of them was there for the disaster. In fact, they were far away in Bishtek selling nuclear waste to one of Khadafy’s henchmen. Turgo had reluctantly joined Sergey on his first adventure. And it was an adventure, since they had done the deal, and got half the money, when news of the Chernobyl disaster reached them and the Libyan had demanded his money back because, he said, obviously they could not produce the goods. It was then that Sergey decided that he was a Chechen, and disposed of the Libyan right there in front of Turgo.

“These Libyans are no good anyway,” he said as he pocketed his revolver.

Turgo was mortified. He was such a worrier. He stood there shivering and shaking and whining. “I’m going back to the plant in Chernobyl. I can’t do this kind of work,” he whimpered.

“It’s not work. It’s adventure! Besides you can’t go back to Chernobyl.

It’s radioactive.”

”I’ve got to. What about my family?”

“Forget about your family. Worry about yourself.” Sergey realized he said the wrong thing. That’s all he does is worry, he mused. He fiddled with his revolver in his pocket. Turgo watched him and became frightened.

“Don’t worry. I won’t do anything to you. Go on. Go off wherever you want. But my advice is to stay away from Chernobyl,” said Sergey.

Of course, Turgo went back to Chernobyl, or at least he tried to. He could not get within fifty miles of the place and ended up on the streets of little towns begging for money or a bit of food. It was a few years later when Sergey encountered Turgo working at the counter of the Tulgovichi post office. He couldn’t believe it. Turgo at first pretended not to recognize him, but soon, weak as he was, he gave in.

“How did you end up here?” Sergey asked.

“It’s a long story. My wife and daughter. They are both dead. Radioactive poisoning they said. I got a pension, or used to until the Union collapsed. Then I managed to find a job here when the worker and his family also died.”

“Your good fortune, huh?” observed Sergey, insensitive as usual. Turgo did not answer. “I need you to do me a favor,” continued Sergey. Turgo looked apprehensive and said nothing. “Can you mail this small package and make it look like it came from Chernobyl?”

“What’s in it?”

“Money. And I know how much is there. So don’t try swiping it. I’ll give you $100 to take care of it.”

Turgo looked at him puzzled, but too timid to ask him why he was doing this. He looked at the address and recognized the name. “Oh, I see.

I’d be very pleased to do it. And the return address?”

“Make it this post office, and to you or any name you want to make up.

But not mine.”

*

Turgo, lost in thought, entered the observation tower, leaving the door open behind him.

“Turgo!” yelled Sergey. “Close the door. The noise of the waterfall is deafening. We need to talk.”

Turgo pushed the door shut. He looked at Sergey, a mixture of apprehension and longing in his eyes.

“OK. Now, are you sure you’re up to this?”

“Of course,” said Turgo, “I am nuclear scientist, I was top of class in my heyday.”

“It looks like this is all going to happen. I’ll provide you with four assistants, two of them bodyguards and the other two technical assistants.

Some of them are already in the USA.”

“What must I do?”

“When you get there, take delivery of two disassembled Nag missiles and assemble them.”

“Ah yes, those are the new Indian short range ones. Very good! And the payloads?”

“Here’s the challenge. Our clients want nuclear tips. But frankly, I think they’re crazy, or at least don’t fully comprehend the technical challenge of installing nuclear tips and further, we don’t have anything nuclear that we could adapt to these missiles, do we?”

“You are right. Nuclear tips have never been installed or tested on these short range missiles. The stuff we have either here or stashed away in the USA will not work. Or at least would take a year or more to adapt.”

“Here’s my strategy. I’ll try to talk my niece into doing a bio toxin payload. Ricin. That hasn’t been tried either, but at least it's easier to do, isn’t it?

“And the ricin?”

“You will have to manufacture it over there. It’s easy to do. My young brother Nicholas, an American, will get the castor oil from which you can make it and he’ll set up a manufacturing lab in the kitchen of the safe house which he has acquired already.”

“I have never made ricin before, but I hear it’s not difficult. However, it’s the delivery that is the challenge.”

“So innovate. I suggest some common explosive payload laced with ricin.

“I can do that. This is for both missiles?”

“We do one with ricin and the other we do with high explosive to make as big a bang as possible. Has to look good, you know. That’s what our clients like most of all.”

“And the explosives? Where are they?”

“They are already in the safe house. Nicholas acquired it. He can get anything.”

“What type of explosive?”

“That I don’t know. I just told Nicholas we wanted high explosives that can be packed into a small space. Now we come to the most important part. We cannot, repeat, cannot, tell our clients any of this. And this applies especially to my niece. She’s very sharp I can see, and she also works for one of Iran’s most ruthless terrorists, or maybe it’s Al Qaeda. Who knows? I don’t really care. So you say nothing. You push your role as the nuclear scientist. Got it?”

“I do understand.”

“I will tell her that we already have the nuclear materials stashed away in our safe house in New Jersey.”

“New where?”

“New Jersey, idiot! America! It’s a state that is right next to New York. You don’t know that and you even have a Green Card?”

“Whatever you say, Sergey. I can do whatever you want. But —”

“But what?”

“What about the money?”

“It’s going to be a lot of money, more than you will be able to spend in your lifetime. Sarah’s outfit has money coming out of its eyeballs. I don’t know where they get it, although I have my suspicions. Anyway, I don’t care, so long as we get our share of it.”

“And how much is that?”

“We’ll know after we have talked with my beautiful and smart long lost niece. You just be sure you make no slip-ups. She’ll catch on if you do. Then she’ll report to her boss, and we’ll be done for. And I mean done for.”

*

Uncle Sergey walked across the lobby to meet Sarah as she followed the maid into the room. Turgo followed, haltingly, not sure whether he should follow or not. Uncle Sergey grasped Sarah’s hand with great joy and turned to Turgo.

“Turgo! Come meet my beautiful niece!”

Sara strutted forward and vigorously shook Turgo’s limp hand.

“I am the nuclear scientist,” blurted Turgo, “pleased to meet you, miss?””

“I’m Sarah, Sarah Kohmsky. Call me Sarah. Pleased to meet you.”

“Ah yes, Kohmsky. Pleased I meet you. Think I knew your father years ago, even before you born,” replied Turgo, trying hard to be enthusiastic but not to make any slips.

Uncle Sergey led them to the large coffee table that sat not far from the lobby entrance, surrounded by deep overstuffed couches and chairs, upholstered in rich off-black leather. They sat towards one corner of the table, Sarah sitting separate on a chair, the other two on a couch.

“Now, my dear, tell us what you want. My best wishes by the way to your mom and dad,” Uncle Sergey added.

“I come from my colleague Shalah Muhammad, who I think you know, uncle Sergey.”

“A shit-head, that much we know. But he is a very good operator.” He immediately noted that his remark upset Sarah. Was there a spark there? He wondered.

“We are planning,” Sarah looked around the room.

“It’s OK. You are among loyal friends. Nothing will go beyond these walls.”

At this moment Petrovka appeared with a tray of Russian tea and placed it on the table. Sarah waited for her to leave. “We need a scientist who can reassemble two mini Nag missiles and attach nuclear tips.”

“Of course, I am scientist,” said Turgo, “but missiles, they very new, no?”

“Yes, the very latest model. And they should be on the way to the port of Mumbai as we speak.”

“That Muhammad, he’s good all right,” mused Sergey.

“It’s who you know, and he knows everyone.”

“I bet he does,” said uncle Sergey, convinced that he saw a very slight reddening of Sarah’s cheeks. “And what do you want from us? More importantly, how much will you pay?”

“We’d like you to arrange shipment of the missiles out of Mumbai through the Port of Newark. Then provide technicians to reassemble them and add nuclear tips. Shalah tells me that you already have safe houses in the New Jersey area.”

“And then?”

“Fire them of course, and hit the target.”

“This Newark, it’s close to New York City, right?” asked Turgo.

“Right. About sixteen kilometers, but the launch will be North of Newark, more like thirty kilometers away from Manhattan.”

“So what is the target?”

“The target is Ground Zero. Or, as they are starting to call it, now that the tower is near completion, Freedom Tower.”

“Ground What? What is that?” asked Turgo.

“What was left after Bin Laden destroyed the twin towers on nine eleven.” Sarah turned to Sergey. “Can you do it?” she asked.

“For how much?”

“Ten million dollars now, another five million when you hit the target,” she paused, “with both missiles of course.”

Uncle Sergey looked over at Turgo who smiled nervously. Sergey could almost see the dollar signs in his retinas.

“How much time?” asked Turgo.

“It must be right on the anniversary of the Bin Laden attack. September 11, 8.34 AM. U.S. eastern standard time.”

“That gives us roughly two months,” observed Uncle Sergey.

“Can you do it?”

“It is too little time, unless we get the missiles there within two weeks,” complained Turgo with his characteristic negativity that attracted a disapproving glance from Sergey.

“For that amount of money, we can do it,” said Sergey.

“Excellent!”

“And now the down payment?”

“Do you have an Hawala?”

“Of course. He is my nephew.”

“Tell him to call this number in Dubai, code word zero.” Sarah handed over a cell phone, but then pulled it back. She had forgotten Shalah’s exhortation:

We must, absolutely must, have the nuclear tips. The operation is nothing without them.

Holding on to the phone, she looked hard into uncle Sergey’s face, examining every line on it, watching his eyelids flutter, nostrils pulled down, his bottom teeth, stained with nicotine, pressing on his upper lip.

“You understand,” she warned, “that we must have the nuclear tips. Without them the operation is nothing.”

“No problem my dear. We already have a store of nuclear materials tucked away in the USA. We saved them for just this purpose. My brother in America has it all set up.”

“That’s very good to know,” said Sarah, then, suddenly realizing what Sergey had said, looking very puzzled, she asked, “wait a minute, you said your brother in America? My father is part of your operation? Surely not!”

Uncle Sergey coughed a little to clear his throat. He had made a slip.

“Did I say that?” he asked with feigned surprise, “no, of course, not your dad. Good heavens, could you imagine that? The poor old man is stuck in the 19th century and will never get out of it, you know that.”

“I do,” said Sarah suspiciously, “so who do you mean?”

“It was no one. Just an operative. I don’t know how I could have said that. Naturally, I think of all my operatives as family,” he said unconvincingly.

Sarah leaned across to her uncle sticking her chin out just like her mother did when she was upset and determined to get her way, which wasn’t often. “Uncle Sergey, or whoever you are, you need to come clean with me. I can’t do business with someone who is holding back on me, who I can’t trust.”

There was a long silence, broken only by Sergey clearing his throat, and Turgo strangely beginning to hum, almost under his breath. Sergey had to reveal the truth. “All right. But I tell you it’s not a good idea to know too many names of those who you are dealing with in such a big operation as this one. Anyway, your boss probably already knows who it is.

“Well?”

“It is my little brother Nicholas, your uncle. He is fourteen years younger than me, sixteen younger than your dad.”

“But why is he in America? Is he actually American?”

“He left Russia when he was just fifteen years old, just around the Chernobyl disaster and never came back. Then some years later I heard through my other contacts that he was involved in exporting cars out of Newark, and we have done business ever since.”

“I don’t believe you. I’ll ask my dad.”

“There’s no point. Your mom and dad know nothing of him, least of all that he has been in Newark all the time you have been in New York.”

“I want his phone number.”

“That’s not a good idea, Sarah. It puts him at risk; you and me as well.”

“Give it to me, or our deal stops right now.”

Uncle Sergey got up and paced up and down the bear rug, looking at the bear’s face staring up at him. Then he sat down again. “You promise not to call him until after the successful completion of our operation?”

“Fair enough. Give it to me.”

Uncle Sergey opened his phone and scrolled down his contact list. He tapped the contact and showed the phone to Sarah, who copied it into her own phone.

“Thank you uncle Sergey,” she said with a sweet smile, “now where were we?”

“I said we had nuclear materials all ready at our safe house in Newark.”

“Oh, yes. I was about to say again that Shalah will be really pissed off if the attack is not nuclear. He has heard that you were pushing for a bio toxin attack with ricin.”

“Ricin? No, not at all. We can do it of course, and it would be very spectacular if I may say so. A real first in terrorism!”

“Yes, very good. And I could do it too!” added Turgo, trying to be helpful.

“Uncle, no! There will be hell to pay if you do ricin. No bio toxins of any kind, understand? We want nuclear tips.”

“Of course, of course. We are well prepared for nuclear. All that is required is for Turgo to meet up with the nuclear components. ”

Turgo smiled and wriggled in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Sarah handed over a phone showing the text of the Hawala number which uncle Sergey began to copy. But Sarah stopped him. “No, you must make the calls from this phone. Make sure you destroy it after you’ve made the calls.”

Uncle Sergey raised his tea cup and Sarah and Turgo joined him. “To nine eleven two!” he said with great satisfaction.