He put his glass back on the floor. Suddenly, without warning, Ali Hammel stood up and ambled over to the men who had arrived with Gulzhan in the truck. They glanced up at him with consternation, then at each other. One was about to speak when he realized that his throat no longer operated. He reached a hand up, grabbed at his neck. The other man leaned forward stiffly, toward his Kalashnikov. Hammel kicked it away. It clattered harmlessly across the warehouse floor. Then the Algerian squatted down in front of the two men and stared into their eyes. They began to wheeze. They couldn’t breathe. It was as if the air had been sucked out of them, first from their lungs, then from the building, then from the atmosphere itself. They began to panic. They glanced over at Gulzhan. They rolled their eyes, bloated with fear. They clenched their fists, opened their mouths as wide as they could go, and finally fell against each other in a heap. Within seconds they were still.
Ali Hammel watched them for a moment longer, tilting his head to the side, looking deep into their eyes, trying to catch the wink of their extinction. Then it finally came, and he absorbed it soundlessly. When he was satisfied, he returned to the spot where he’d been sitting earlier, and continued to clean his gun.
The rest of the men behaved as if nothing had happened. Gulzhan cleared his throat. He took another sip of tea. Then he said, “Arrangements have been made to take you across the Caspian to Rasht. From Iran you will travel westward, separately, through Iraq and into Syria. Everything has been arranged.” He looked about the group. “There will be no trouble. When you reach the Mediterranean, you will journey under new directives, to different destinations.”
Just then, Ziad clicked his tongue and everyone turned and stared at him. He pointed out the window. He raised a single digit, ducked and squatted down behind the corrugated iron door, drawing his gun. A moment later somebody knocked. Gulzhan wandered over nonchalantly. He peered out through the grimy window. He motioned toward Ziad to move, and opened the door.
A small bald man with glasses and a large black attaché case hesitated by the entrance. When he saw Gulzhan, he smiled and bowed. He was wearing a large black coat over a Western suit. He was pale and sported a thin dark brown mustache, trimmed close to the lip. “Gulzhan?” he said.
Gulzhan smiled and motioned for the man to enter. He stepped inside uncertainly. As soon as he saw the other men, he lifted the briefcase to his chest as if it were a shield. Then he pulled back, thought better of it, and took another step. “Salaam,” he said, pitching his voice at no one in particular. His glasses twinkled in the light. “Salaam,” he repeated. The men stared back at him without a word.
“Good evening,” Gulzhan said. “Please, come in, Dr. Kunabi.” He urged the small man forward. “Would you like something to eat, to drink?”
“No. No, thank you,” Kunabi answered timidly in Kazak, the tortured Turkic dialect.
“This is Dr. Kunabi of the Kazakhstan Ministry of Nuclear Science and Technology. Dr. Kunabi, my business associates.” Gulzhan waved a hand about the room.
Dr. Kunabi finally noticed the two dead men in the corner. He looked at their bulging eyes, their open mouths and backed away.
“Please, pay no attention to those… men.”
Dr. Kunabi tried diligently not to stare at the bodies heaped together in the corner. Despite the cold, his forehead was covered with perspiration.
“Dr. Kunabi here is one of our country’s foremost nuclear scientists. He is here to help us, aren’t you Dr. Kunabi.”
“If I can,” Kunabi said.
Gulzhan took the small man by the elbow. “Of course you can. Please,” he added. “Follow me.”
They made their way toward a door at the opposite end of the warehouse. As they walked, Kunabi kept on turning, kept on looking back behind him at the others. He smiled at them even as Gulzhan opened the door and gently pushed him in.
The room was filled with wooden crates, most of them opened, spewing yellow straw, newspaper clippings, or snow-white Styrofoam peanuts. Instruments had been set up on a wooden table: screens and pressure pumps; two electronic devices, like two small EKG machines, linked by a pipe. Nearly everything had been unpacked, assembled. Tubing was stacked against one wall, as high as a man. Several dozen large canisters of gas were propped up in the corner. Kunabi stepped excitedly into the room.
“It is all here,” Gulzhan said with pride. “You can start immediately. We have little time.”
Kunabi glanced about. “Everything?” He listed the instruments he’d requested, abandoning his Kazak dialect for Russian. Most business transactions took place in Russian anyway; Kazak had been outlawed during the Soviet era. But the main reason he’d switched to Russian was because the Kazak language simply couldn’t accommodate the terms. They were too technologically advanced. They had yet to be invented. Then he reverted back to Kazak, saying, “Including my money, of course.”
“Of course,” said Gulzhan with a laugh. “Although both you and I know you will never live to spend it.”
Kunabi slumped. He glanced back at the door, hugging his attaché case.
“Do not worry, Dr. Kunabi. Your secret’s safe with me. Let us speak frankly. You may be a devout Muslim, but were it not for the sacrifice you’ve already made for your country, you would not be here. Would you?”
Kunabi shook his head.
“I know that you are dying, Dr. Kunabi. I’ve known it all along. Since before our first meeting. A small exposure here. An accident there. It all adds up, does it not? And, suddenly, the world collapses. You may be a good scientist, but the safety record of the Kazakhstan Ministry of Nuclear Science and Technology has much to be desired. All this is known to me,” said Gulzhan. Then he smiled and added, “As is your love for your family.” He flicked a switch and the fluorescents crackled overhead.
There were four attaché cases on the table beside the instruments. Kunabi wandered over to them. Each case looked identical, covered by some kind of brushed aluminum — about a meter long, and half a meter wide. He stroked the nearest to him. He opened it and peeked inside.
The attaché case was cast into a single piece, like a computer terminal. There was a keyboard built into the lid. Within the case itself, across the lower half, was a raised area featuring several digital displays and buttons. Above the displays, on the right hand side, a bulbous protrusion — like the top half of a metal ball.
With a start, Kunabi turned toward Gulzhan Baqrah. “Why are there four cases?” he asked, suddenly on guard. He was a man used to precision instruments. “You told me there were three.”
Gulzhan shrugged. “A precaution, Dr. Kunabi.” He moved a step closer, smiling smoothly. “If I have learned anything over the years, it’s that it always pays to have a backup plan, a redundancy. Just in case.” He wrapped his arm about the scientist’s small shoulders. “Don’t you agree?”
Kunabi didn’t respond. He simply stared at the attaché cases on the table.
“You, for example, have two children. You could have stopped at one — your daughter. After all, she is beautiful and bright, and pregnant with your first grandchild, I am told. You must be very proud.” Gulzhan paused. Then he added, wagging his head, “But something told you to continue. You were driven. So you had another child — your son, Mohammed. A doctor. A pediatrician. He works not far from here, just north of Gurjev in the Children’s Hospital, does he not? You are a prudent man. You see,” he said, squeezing Kunabi tighter. “We have something in common. We both prepare for the contingency.”