Blood of the Dragon

Altirani Pharmaceutical Building #2, Falarvarjan, Iran Forcing himself to stare past the searing fireball of Falarvarjan’s setting sun, he glances up at the Iranian flag on the roof of the building. This gives him his initial read on the direction of the winds at ground level. Compulsive about knowing the wind’s direction, he studies the movement of the clouds as he searches for further clues from clotheslines, leaves on trees, even trash blowing in the streets. “Praise be to Allah, the wind blows steadily from the southwest.” The tension in his jaws eases. He never allows himself to ignore the direction from which the wind is blowing. He chose the locations of his small apartment, and that of his son’s school, so that they would both be on the upwind side of Altirani Pharmaceutical’s Building #2, where this handsome young Iranian biochemist works. This building is equipped with a BL4-rated air handling system. An air handling system with this rating level is designed to be capable of collecting and disposing of the most dangerous kinds of toxic materials... plutonium dust, Ebola virus, or binary nerve gases From young Doctor Ashram Hamadi’s perspective, no safeguards were foolproof. He knew too much about the risks. It has been two grieving years since leukemia left Doctor Hamadi a single parent. He loved his beautiful wife, Chadya. Now, with her gone, he spent as much time with his nine year old son as his work permitted. Tonight, after finishing their dinner, Hamadi and Hassan sat together, watching Falarvarjan's evening TV news program. Hassan Hamadi adored his father. He never failed to tell his friends that he knew his father was “very smart. This must be so,” he assured them “because my father studied at the big university in Teheran, and there is a big sign on his laboratory desk that says that he is Doctor Ashram Hamadi.” In that laboratory, Hassan’s father and six other doctoral graduates from Teheran University were developing binary nerve gas mixtures, based on Sarin, suitable for delivery by the Iranian SCUD missile forces. Part of the Iranian TV network feed this Monday evening includes an American cable news network satellite transmission. This segment starts off with an old taped clip, a powerful low camera angle shot of five technicians, doggedly working to clean up a two mile stretch of Prince William Sound’s shoreline. They are obviously bone-tired after hours spent filling hundreds of polyethylene trash bags with sand, armed only with shovels. The sand is saturated with black sludge from the spill. The anchorman’s rich baritone smoothly delivers the voice-over. "Recently, many years after the Exxon Valdez oil spill, there has been a flurry of exciting progress as several companies at the cutting edge of biochemical remediation engineering have demonstrated a fair degree of success in oil-spill clean-up operations using a species of anaerobic bacteria capable of digesting crude oil. Too bad they weren’t around back then." The screen dissolves to display a white-smocked technician in a laboratory in Redondo Beach, California. A tight close-up shows a young Vietnamese woman adjusting a Nikon binocular microscope equipped with a Hitachi TV pick-up. The TV’s picture then switches to the image displayed on the lab's color monitor. Young Hassan reads the Arabic captioning out loud. Fascinated, he exclaims "Father, look at the bugs. They’re eating the oil! Surely this is a trick with the camera?" Ashram looks over to his son and smiles. "No Hassan, it is no trick. American biochemists have indeed found certain species of anaerobic bacteria that love to eat oil. Perhaps we should ask them to put some of those bugs in the Persian Gulf near Bandar Ganeveh so that when we go swimming on our vacation we won't get that awful black tar all over us." "If we could do that Father, I would swim all day so that I could see a real fish." "I’m afraid you would be an old man before you saw a fish in those waters. No self-respecting fish has been found in the polluted waters of the Gulf of Persia since Hammurabi was a law clerk." “Am I anaerobic, Father?” “No, you are aerobic. If you were anaerobic, then you would be able to swim underwater without an air tank and mask.” “Then I wish I could be anaerobic when I go swimming.” Ashram Hamadi laughs at this remark, tousles Hassan’s shiny jet black hair and scurries him off to bed. The next morning, before he sends Hassan off to school, Hamadi begins his compulsive daily security ritual, scanning the sky, looking for tell-tale cloud movements to reveal the direction of the winds aloft. He rolls their bicycles out of the narrow alley, carefully weaving between the other bicycles, baby carriages, two-wheeled shopping carts and finally, out onto the macadam-paved street. As a final check, just before he starts pedaling away from his apartment with Hassan, he scans the clothes hanging from lines strung from house to house. They serve as confirmation that the day is starting out safely for young Hassan, should there be an accident at Altirani Pharmaceutical’s Building #2. During the 0830 break for their thick Turkish coffee, Hamadi tells Mohammed Bharavi, the Laboratory Director, about the previous night's TV news program. With a father’s pride, he repeats Hassan’s closing comment about wanting to become anaerobic so he can swim without an air tank. Bharavi stares up at the ceiling tiles, taking a long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette. The Laboratory Director suddenly excuses himself, goes into his office, locking his door. He picks up the telephone and dials his boss, Defense Minister Kamil Majid, at his office in Teheran. When the full implication of Bharavi's plan hits Majid, he puts Bharavi on hold. He savagely punches three keys on his phone and barks orders to his aide. "Have a chopper pick up Mohammed Bharavi, at once! Yes, Altirani #2, Falarvarjan! Bring him directly to the Telephone Switching Center building here in Teheran! Notify me as soon as he has lifted off!" He reconnects with Bharavi. "You will be picked up by helicopter in fifteen minutes. Discuss this with no one." Majid disconnects, leaving a puzzled Bharavi staring at his phone