Read Online Critical Mass by Whitley Strieber - Free Book Online
Authors: Whitley Strieber
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Espionage, Terrorism, Prevention, Nuclear terrorism, Islamic fundamentalism
Ads: Link
was a worldly man. He wanted to believe that he had been chosen by Allah’s mysterious hand, but Aziz thought there were other reasons. First, he was rich and could afford to keep everybody in this place supplied. Also, he was not important to the brotherhood. He was not a member of the council. In all truth, his death would be no loss. The title of Mahdi would then be passed to some other equally expendable man.
Eshan reminded him, “Oko is up.” Eshan, faithful clerk, Inshalla’s eyes and ears.
Aziz sighed. He was watched, always. He turned on the shortwave radio, tuned to the correct frequency, and listened to the numbers. Oko was a Russian number station broadcasting to the Kremlin’s spies in China, Afghanistan, and Japan.
From Inshalla’s contacts in Russia they had acquired the one-time letter pads necessary to decode the Oko ciphers. Because each cipher was used only once, breaking the code was essentially impossible. But the use of the system was difficult, especially because the same set of numbers meant different things on different pads, and the Russians were not aware that anybody was piggybacking messages onto their system.
The result of this was that decoded messages were often ambiguous and subject to interpretation. As he was the only person outside of the council who knew the whole structure of the plan, he was generally also the only one who could resolve these ambiguities.
As he worked, Eshan copied the numbers coming from the station, handing another tissue to him whenever he was ready for a new page.
A fly came and went, buzzing into his luncheon dish. He let it feast on his palaw.
Here in the Pamir Panhandle, the Russians had dug deep enough to defeat the American missiles of the day, and they had built to last. They had never expected that they would lose this base. How could they lose? They were the Soviet Union. The mujahideen were the mujahideen, ragged, reeking, and armed with little more than Chinese-made Kalashnikovs that would melt after a few rounds. Nobody with weapons you could bend across your knee was going to beat the Red Army. Unless, of course, theywere also armed by the United States, which provided weapons that did not break, most certainly not. Terrible weapons, the Americans made. They were a clever people.
The Russian intention in Pamir had been to construct missile installations that could threaten China and, potentially, other Asian states and deepen Russia’s relations with India by giving the Indians some tangible support . . . and also something to think about, should they become too interested in turning toward America.
There was space for fifty large missiles in the tunnels, as well as control facilities and personnel housing. Immediately after 9/11, Osama bin Laden had used them—to hide not from the Americans but from the far more dangerous Afghans, both the Taliban, who wanted more money to leave him alone than he could raise, and the Northern Alliance, who wanted to collect the American reward that was on his head.
Aziz said to his clerk, “It is done,” and Eshan withdrew. Aziz put the thin tissue of the one-time pad into his rice and ate it, then burned his thicker worksheet in the little brazier that kept his food warm.
He listened to the number station droning on, moving agents, he supposed, issuing requests for information, whatever else the nursemaids of spies did. His part of it had come today for four minutes between 1306 and 1310. Tomorrow, there would be a general call at 0600, which would tell him when later to listen for his messages.
Now tea was being served by the Persian boy who had been left here to be Aziz’s student. The boy’s father was a powerful Iranian politician, a man of the holiest aspirations. Aziz, in his new role as Mahdi, had said on first seeing the boy’s deep, soft eyes and the glow of his smooth skin, “His name is Wasim, the handsome.” And so it was.
This place was ten meters below the surface, under
Eshan reminded him, “Oko is up.” Eshan, faithful clerk, Inshalla’s eyes and ears.
Aziz sighed. He was watched, always. He turned on the shortwave radio, tuned to the correct frequency, and listened to the numbers. Oko was a Russian number station broadcasting to the Kremlin’s spies in China, Afghanistan, and Japan.
From Inshalla’s contacts in Russia they had acquired the one-time letter pads necessary to decode the Oko ciphers. Because each cipher was used only once, breaking the code was essentially impossible. But the use of the system was difficult, especially because the same set of numbers meant different things on different pads, and the Russians were not aware that anybody was piggybacking messages onto their system.
The result of this was that decoded messages were often ambiguous and subject to interpretation. As he was the only person outside of the council who knew the whole structure of the plan, he was generally also the only one who could resolve these ambiguities.
As he worked, Eshan copied the numbers coming from the station, handing another tissue to him whenever he was ready for a new page.
A fly came and went, buzzing into his luncheon dish. He let it feast on his palaw.
Here in the Pamir Panhandle, the Russians had dug deep enough to defeat the American missiles of the day, and they had built to last. They had never expected that they would lose this base. How could they lose? They were the Soviet Union. The mujahideen were the mujahideen, ragged, reeking, and armed with little more than Chinese-made Kalashnikovs that would melt after a few rounds. Nobody with weapons you could bend across your knee was going to beat the Red Army. Unless, of course, theywere also armed by the United States, which provided weapons that did not break, most certainly not. Terrible weapons, the Americans made. They were a clever people.
The Russian intention in Pamir had been to construct missile installations that could threaten China and, potentially, other Asian states and deepen Russia’s relations with India by giving the Indians some tangible support . . . and also something to think about, should they become too interested in turning toward America.
There was space for fifty large missiles in the tunnels, as well as control facilities and personnel housing. Immediately after 9/11, Osama bin Laden had used them—to hide not from the Americans but from the far more dangerous Afghans, both the Taliban, who wanted more money to leave him alone than he could raise, and the Northern Alliance, who wanted to collect the American reward that was on his head.
Aziz said to his clerk, “It is done,” and Eshan withdrew. Aziz put the thin tissue of the one-time pad into his rice and ate it, then burned his thicker worksheet in the little brazier that kept his food warm.
He listened to the number station droning on, moving agents, he supposed, issuing requests for information, whatever else the nursemaids of spies did. His part of it had come today for four minutes between 1306 and 1310. Tomorrow, there would be a general call at 0600, which would tell him when later to listen for his messages.
Now tea was being served by the Persian boy who had been left here to be Aziz’s student. The boy’s father was a powerful Iranian politician, a man of the holiest aspirations. Aziz, in his new role as Mahdi, had said on first seeing the boy’s deep, soft eyes and the glow of his smooth skin, “His name is Wasim, the handsome.” And so it was.
This place was ten meters below the surface, under
Similar Books
