Novinsky Boulevard, 121099, Moscow, Russia, 12:03PM local time
The white-haired man twirled his pen as he gradually squeezed the phone harder by the second.
“Yes, I heard you the first time. Just remind them that we’re not responsible for the safety of their men or any breach in their security.”
“They’re arguing that the security breach came from our end,” said the man on the phone.
“Pandora was in their possession when it went missing. You tell the Sudanese officials that we have an endless supply, which we’ll sell to other clients that we regularly do business with. Let them know that if they want to continue doing business with us, they’ll have to guarantee that there won’t be any more security breaches, especially since it puts us at risk also. And tell them that whether we choose to accept them as clients again will be at our discretion.” He slammed the phone into its cradle. Bloody salespeople, don’t know when and how to control the clients.
He got up from his desk and walked over to the window. He was on the ninth floor of the modern office building at the corner of Novy Arbat and Novinsky Boulevard. Thirty years ago he never would have imagined working in a clandestine organization, much less being the leader of one of its cells-the October Cell-named after the month it was established.
There were other cells throughout Europe, mostly consisting of ex-intelligence and military officers. He told himself that nations rise and fall, but wars are common, and have been since the beginning of time. He mused that war would always yield great business. He might consider the fall of the Soviet Union, and his inactivity in the former KGB, as a mixed blessing. The knowledge and experience he had acquired had allowed him to help jumpstart the Arms of Ares, which had seen worldwide revenues of over four billion in the last eight years in arms sales. He expected those revenues would triple with Pandora in their possession.
There was a knock at the door. He stopped twirling the pen and inserted it into the breast pocket of his charcoal-gray suit.
“Enter,” he said, without taking his eyes off of the traffic below. Through the window, he saw the reflection of one of his staff members, closing the door behind him.
“Excuse me, sir. There’s been some troubling news.”
“If it’s about our loss in Darfur, I’m fully aware of it.”
“It’s not about Darfur, sir. It’s about our satellite laboratory.”
The white-haired man turned away from the window to face him. “What do you mean?”
“There’s been an attack. We’re not sure when, but it must have been recently.”
The white-haired man approached him slowly. “Pandora, is it safe?”
The man didn’t answer immediately. Either he didn’t know or he was afraid to tell him.
“Is it safe?” he yelled.
“We don’t know, sir,” the staff member said. “We got a distress signal that was cut off within seconds of it going off. When we tried to contact them, there was no reply.”
“Valerik, where is he?”
“He cannot be reached, sir.”
“Find out what happened there. I want some answers within the next half hour. I want you to also contact the unit and have them assembled and waiting for me at our usual rendezvous point. Have my car waiting for me downstairs.”
“Yes, sir.” The man then walked out the door, closing it behind him.
The white-haired man took out his pen and twirled it, trying to calm his agitation. This couldn’t have been Fox-again. If it was, he would’ve known in advance from his mole in the CIA, unless Fox caught onto him. But then, a more dreadful scenario occurred to him, and the more he thought of it, the faster he twirled his pen. Valerik stole Pandora to sell it himself, and it was the last remaining stock. If he was out there hiding, his cell would track him down and he would personally end the traitor’s life.