Then came the vague sound of a lengthy sigh after a ghostly intake of breath, an awakening.
With an abundance of caution knowing that the Unholy Trinity had the power to reach out and kill, Ahmed Jaziri and the Bangladeshi looked over the edge of the tomb to look inside. Beneath the weak illumination of a bulb that hung overhead on a slim chain, both men could see the brushed surfaces of aluminum suitcases.
“Intact,” the Bangladeshi murmured.
Reaching inside, the Bangladeshi discovered a keypad. After typing in a four-number code and then hitting the hashtag symbol, fluorescent lights that had been powered by lithium batteries within the vault batted on and hummed to life. Inside were three suitcases, all which were equal partners of mass destruction. On top of each case was a unique symbol to identify the Unholy Trinity.
On the first aluminum suitcase was the character that was represented by an oval shape with two curved outcroppings that depicted horns. Then from the Bangladeshi, as his fingertips traced over the symbol, he said: “Satan.” Then he placed a hand over the numeric symbols of three sixes on the second suitcase, and whispered, “The Antichrist.” On the symbol of the last suitcase, he placed his hand over the image of an angel-like figure with demonic wings and a halo, and stated, “The False Prophet.”
Softly, Ahmed Jaziri started to stroke the suitcases as though they were loving pets. He was both enamored and frightened at the same time. “D.C., Tel Aviv and Vatican City, all sites that I have dreamed of as scorched ruins,” he stated dreamily. “What I could achieve with a unified strike. People throughout the Middle East will be praising the name of Allah.”
Falling back in admiration, the weapons appeared as pristine as the day when Abesh Faruk purchased the nuclear warheads and packed them inside the underground chamber after updating the parts with Israeli components.
“Can I properly assume that they’re safe?” Jaziri asked him. “Now that the lid is open.”
“The lead shields inside remain intact. Radiation output is well within acceptable ranges.” He pointed to a meter built within the chamber whose needle barely wavered within the green zone. “See.”
“I’m talking about their ability to detonate at this moment.”
The Bangladeshi nodded. “No. The units have to be programmed and enabled. Right now, they’re dormant. The only danger would be if a crack existed in any of the hulls, which you can clearly see that there are none. The units are perfect.”
“So, we’re safe?”
“As I stated, we’re in no danger unless the units have been programmed and then enabled, which has to be done onsite. Once the units are in place, my men will bring the units online and set the timers.”
Ahmed Jaziri appeared reassured. And then: “Tell me about the devices—the details. Tell me what I need to know.”
The Bangladeshi, with his eyes remaining fixed on the warheads as though they were glorious articles of worship, started to speak. “Abesh Faruk purchased these from a client—though I’m unsure as to who, but I assume it was a Russian confidante from the Cold War Era since nuclear suitcases were commodities at the time—and had them modified with top-tier components from Israel. He then had this stockpile placed beneath the estate knowing it would be safe from those who continuously surveyed his stockpiles in the Philippines, Colombia and Tunisia. In fact, the stockpile in Tunisia was seized by an Israeli military force who was looking for the warheads, but they obviously came up empty. Faruk believed it was best to store the items in plain sight. They were under his feet all the time.”
“Kiloton yields?”
“Each suitcase possesses a one-kiloton yield.”
“That’s it? A single kiloton?”
The Bangladeshi turned to Jaziri. “Do you have any idea how powerful a one-kiloton nuclear weapon is?” he asked rhetorically. “When strategically placed, it has the power to completely destroy Vatican City. In Tel Aviv, the same. When properly placed, the device will take out Mossad Headquarters. And in the United States, perhaps the White House or the Capitol, the choice is yours to make.”
Ahmed Jaziri looked at the suitcases. To most they appeared nondescript and boring, the aluminum shell a façade for the lead shielding inside, which made the cases heavier to carry at forty-two pounds.
“And you will place the Unholy Trinity at the locations we’ve discussed earlier?”
“They have always been the locations of your desire, Ahmed. I know. Striking a triple blow to areas of critical targeting would only be a boost to your jihad. Imagine the chaos when the power stations of the world—that of Tel Aviv, Washington, D.C., and Vatican City—all fall with a timely blow. Surely your ties with certain organizations would appreciate the outcome of great cities falling in the name of Allah.”
Jaziri knew that the Bangladeshi was posing as a businessman who was trying to entice him by building up his sense of romanticism. To see cities razed and burned in his mind’s eye was detailed and explicit. The fires. The pillars of black smoke. The harmony in all this madness.
In a final push to assure a sale, the Bangladeshi added, “Imagine the recruits, Ahmed, perhaps numbering in the tens, if not in the hundreds of thousands.”
Jaziri did see the pluses involved. Washington, D.C., Tel Aviv, and Vatican City all becoming smoldering ruins along with undermining their political infrastructures. They would be floundering under such devastating conditions, he considered. But he was also a businessman.
“Three hundred million for the three,” he said. “One hundred million apiece. That’s a fair value.”
The Bangladeshi stared at Jaziri with a blank expression for a long moment as though considering the offer. But then he reached inside the tomb and switched off the light, the suitcases once again sitting within shadows, then
