Lippnow also had little patience for the TSA security screeners. Standing in lines, shoes and belt off, laptop out of the carry bag, coins, keys and wristwatch out into the plastic bins. He couldn’t help being curt with what he considered the morons searching him and announcing that liquids had to be put in a little plastic sandwich baggie, as if they were all elementary school children. He often received outraged looks from fellow passengers put off by his rude and condescending treatment of TSA screeners.
He preferred the way European countries handled security, feeling more secure when flying out of foreign airports than from the U.S. with all its investments in aviation security since 9/11. Like the giant German security guy with strong body odor that frisked him and all the other male passengers while a female colleague frisked the women in a separate line before he boarded a recent flight out of Frankfurt.
Lippnow settled into his seat, and felt a sense of superiority when the flight attendant noisily closed the curtain separating business class from coach. After snacking on warmed cocktail nuts with whisky and a light meal, he adjusted his seat to the full recline position, tore the plastic wrap on the quilt comforter and tucked the feather pillow under his head for a decent night’s sleep, even though it was still afternoon.
Lippnow arrived at Chopin International airport. Immigration was uneventful; the officer stamped his passport and he moved on to the arrivals hall, where he spotted the Sheraton Hotel driver holding a small placard with his name. He was pleased with the spotless black Mercedes Benz E200 with tinted windows parked just outside the airport exit doors. Now that’s the way I like it, he thought with a complacent grin. The car set off into a cold and rainy morning, reaching the hotel in only 15 minutes.
It wasn’t like Lagos where he was uneasy the whole time, having heard so much about kidnappings and crime and couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. In Warsaw he took the time to see a bit of the city, enjoying a long walk from his hotel. He stumbled upon the changing of the guards ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, continued past the university and on to the Old Town plaza, a typical hundreds-of-years-old European town square, only in reality this one is relatively new, having been meticulously rebuilt after being spitefully destroyed in World War II, compliments of the Germans. He enjoyed a cup of espresso while people watched from one of the touristy cafes lining the square. The caffeine provided a welcome lift to help stave off jet-lag.
Lippnow and Karl met on the patio of the small restaurant next door to the hotel, over a meal of sausages accompanied by a heaping portion of sweet cooked purple cabbage, which he thought had a hint of apple, and drank Zywiec beer from a tall, thin glass emblazoned with the beer’s colorful emblem. After small talk while they ate their main course, Karl dialed a number from his cell phone. Lippnow could hear it ringing.
“Hi. Karl, ya. Now is good.” He hung up the phone and gave Darrel, who had become visibly tense, a reassuring smile.
A pretty blond waitress wearing a friendly smile and red and white eyeshadow, which Lippnow realized was meant to resemble the Polish flag, came and cleared their plates away and offered desserts, which they declined.
“Hi. Tom Balducci.”
The man introduced himself after approaching from Darrel’s rear, offering his hand.
Bullshit! Lippnow thought to himself, as he shook the man’s hand without getting up. This guy’s Asian appearance didn’t jive with the Italian name.
Obviously accustomed to these cynical looks, the fifty-something year old Balducci explained without being asked, “Italian-American father and Vietnamese mother.”
He pulled a wooden captain’s chair out from the table and seated himself.
“I’m with the U.S. Government.”
Lippnow’s face went white at first, thinking this was some kind of sting operation, and that Karl had fucked him over. But he quickly came to his senses as he realized he hadn’t done anything illegal; he had merely traveled to Warsaw to hear about a business opportunity. And if he were being arrested there’d probably be a swarm of FBI agents accompanied by local police, and not one stocky government bureaucrat with thinning black hair wearing dress pants and a short-sleeve DriFit golf shirt, despite the chilly weather.
“Don’t be concerned,” Balducci began, correctly reading the confused expression on Lippnow’s face. “I simply want you to know that what you’re here to discuss has the blessing of some very, very important people in the United States Government.”
With his ambiguous sentence, he handed Lippnow a business card that read “THE WHITE HOUSE” on top in bold blue capital letters, followed by his name and title that stretched for three lines:
Sr. Advisor to the President
for National Security Affairs.
Special Projects & Initiatives
Darrel raised his eyebrows in shock, while his face suddenly felt warm. “Holy Shit!” he blurted out uncontrollably.
“One rule though, Mr. Lippnow.”
Darrel pursed his lips and looked at him without a word, listening intently.
“My fingerprints are not on this.”
Is this for real? he wondered to himself.
“There’s an email address and password on the back.” It was a gmail account of random numbers @gmail hand-written in blue ink.
“If you need to contact me, write a message and save it in the Drafts folder.”
Lippnow understood immediately that this method would prevent a data trail of sent and received messages since there is no message transmission. This felt like it was out of some spy thriller, he thought.
“And if you think there’s something bogus here,” he added, shocking Lippnow by hitting on his precise thoughts. “You can check me out on the White House website.” After a moment’s pause, he concluded, “Good luck, Mr. Lippnow,” as he reached forward to shake Darrel’s and Karl’s hands before getting up and leaving the restaurant.
Lippnow had the urge to follow Balducci out, curious to see if he would get into a car with diplomatic license plates, but felt awkward about possibly getting caught checking up on him and appearing amateurish, even though it would have been within his right.
Karl sat there beaming, waiting for Lippnow to say something. Lippnow shook his finger at Karl as one does to a naughty child.
Lippnow had a lot to contemplate. Was the support Balducci mentioned for the refinery project some well-meaning U.S. Government official was promoting to help Nigeria’s economy while simultaneously combating piracy, or for the project hiding behind the cover story of the refinery? It wasn’t a question he could ask, and may have been left vague intentionally. But the introduction took place here in Warsaw, Lippnow reasoned, where he was about to meet his Iranian customer, suggesting it was the Iranian deal of which he was aware.
The following day Karl and Lippnow made their way to the Warsaw Marriott Hotel, ironically located on Jerozolimskie Street—Polish for Jerusalem—to meet the Iranian. Using Google Maps app, they easily navigated the twenty-minute walk from the Sheraton, past the valet and concierge stands, across the Marriott’s polished marble floor and settled into comfortable red fabric armchairs in a corner of the spacious air- conditioned lobby, away from the large glass windows where prying eyes might spy them.
A middle-aged man in a light gray suit, collarless white dress shirt with no tie, with salt and pepper hair and matching beard and mustache approached at the appointed time, shook Karl’s hand while ignoring Lippnow, and asked in German, “Ist er das?” as he nodded his head towards Lippnow.
“Ya. This is Darrel,” Karl answered as the Iranian seated himself and then crossed his legs.
Turning to Lippnow, the Iranian began speaking even before introducing himself or exchanging pleasantries. “I have been watching the news about the mess your country left in Iraq. Perhaps it is a conspiracy of your CIA to kill Muslims?”
Lippnow strai
ghtened, shocked by the stocky Iranian’s opening barrage.
“Your soldiers came in, killed the Iraqi people, humiliated them in Abu-Ghraib prison and then leave a mess to deteriorate into civil war when more Muslims will be killed.”
“Now that would be a pretty sophisticated plot,” Lippnow responded sarcastically. “We didn’t think you people were smart enough to catch onto us so quickly! I guess we were wrong!”
Karl’s face went white, and the Iranian recoiled with a look of shock.
The smug smirk on Lippnow’s face revealed pleasure with his retort. He thought Iranians to be terrorist assholes who he wished the U.S. had nuked after they pulled that stunt seizing the U.S. embassy in Tehran back in 1979. But he didn’t think this was the appropriate time to share his enduring opinions.
“Is that the best you can come up with?! Resorting to derogatory insults, Mr....”
“Lippnow. Darrel Lippnow. I’m sorry but I did not come prepared for a verbal duel. I came here to discuss business.”
The Iranian wasn’t ready for that yet; he was still sizing up the American.
He offered Darrel his hand and introduced himself.
“I am Salami,” the Iranian said, bowing his head slightly.
Darrel chuckled through his nose and smiled at the name, thinking of a dried meat sausage, even though the Iranian had stressed the first syllable of his name: Sal-ami.
“Your country is very presumptuous, wouldn’t you say?” the Iranian asked.
“And why do you say that, Mr. Salami?” Lippnow asked, intentionally mispronouncing it both to insult his counterpart and to humor himself.
The Iranian’s face twitched with Lippnow’s mispronunciation of his name.
Salami leaned forward. “Are you a fan of sports, Mr. Lippnow?”
“I am.” Lippnow leaned back and crossed his arms and legs—body language suggesting distance.
“Then explain to me please why your country have the World Series when the only people who give a shit about that boring game are Americans?!” He smiled at his barb. “At the World Cup of football—what you people call soccer—there are actually teams from around the world,” stressing the word world. “Not like your World Series, which has nothing ‘world’ about it!” The Iranian let out a hearty, artificial- sounding laugh.
“Your infatuation with baseball,” Salami continued. “I don’t understand. It is slow and boring. But our football, now that is a game that moves.”
Lippnow considered soccer a Third World sport played by kids in dusty lots whereas baseball was a game of strategy, but he wanted to avoid stooping to the Iranian’s level of insults. The Iranian was definitely rubbing him the wrong way, as if he were challenging him, or trying to derail the deal even before negotiations began. Yet strangely Lippnow found Salami’s abrasiveness intellectually stimulating. His point about the World Series was a valid one, he had to admit to himself.
The talk moved to politics but remained confrontational.
“Iran need to thank your country,” Salami said cynically.
Cocking his head to the side, Lippnow responded sarcastically, “And why so?”
“Your government invaded Afghanistan and scattered the Taliban—our worst enemy to the east, and then attacked Saddam Hussein, our worst enemy to the west. And then you replaced Saddam with a Shia Muslim government friendly to Iran!” After letting his comment sink in for a moment, he raised an imaginary glass, smiled and said, “And so I toast you America!”
Karl piped in, “Let us stay focused, gentlemen!” which really meant, There’s good money to be made here, so cut the bullshit, Salami before the guy 1 brought here gets up and storms out.
The Iranian was still testing Lippnow. Would he put up with his abuse? Salami wondered, or stand his ground? Maybe he was an undercover U.S. agent of some sort? The Iranian watched carefully to see if Lippnow flinched as he goaded him with insults about the United States.
Lippnow couldn’t contend with his obviously well-rehearsed counterpart. But he didn’t need to outsmart the Iranian; he needed to do business with him. So he’d let the Iranian disparage the United States for the sake of what he figured would be a very handsome take of the deal at hand.
His concession did not go unnoticed by the Iranian, who now saw Lippnow as doubly betraying his country. Not only was the American unscrupulous enough to help his country’s sworn enemy evade sanctions, but he was incapable of even defending his country in a verbal skirmish. Despicable, Salami thought to himself. But the Iranian also had to be cautious, for his country needed high-technology goods from the West to operate and improve its centrifuge plants. Sanction relief had come at the price of increased oversight, so its covert weapons development efforts still relied on foreign supply via interlocutors like Lippnow.
Accepting Karl’s admonition, Salami began talking about his business interests. “My country’s intentions are for peaceful purposes, as an alternative to fossil fuels and other energy sources.”
To Lippnow, it seemed rather unlikely that a country capable of producing millions of barrels of crude oil a day required nuclear energy.
“I’m raisin’ the bullshit flag on ya, Salami.”
The Iranian looked at Lippnow uncomprehending. Lippnow continued: “If it’s for peaceful purposes, then why do you need it? Sanctions held your country back for years, hurting your oil and gas industries, and given the reactor meltdown in Japan after their tsunami a few years ago, nuclear power isn’t the ‘flavor of the month.’”
“The what?”
Lippnow waved his hand, as if to say “never mind.” He would let the Iranian continue with his monologue.
“Many Arab countries are plagued by power outages. Some have them every day because of inefficient infrastructure.” And then, moving to the crux, Salami added, “And they earn more money exporting oil than using it at home.” He smiled.
Lippnow reciprocated and nodded his head in understanding. So it was about money. That made sense.
Salami continued. “Would you believe the Emirates with all their oil are building nuclear power plants and investing in solar power? And Saudi Arabia also wants nuclear power.”
“I didn’t realize that,” Lippnow confessed.
“Your government and media hide lots of truths about us, I presume.” Salami leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, as if to say, what do you make of all this...
The theocrats might not have liked the truth, but it was actually the Shah of Iran who began Iran’s drive for nuclear energy. The Shah understood that while his country was blessed with oil, its supply was not endless.
U.S. assessments corroborated this, foreseeing an end to Iranian oil exports at some point.
“So while enough oil remains for domestic needs,” Salami continued. “My country wants to prolong the oil supply by diversifying its power generation sources.”
Makes perfect sense, Lippnow acknowledged to himself. He nodded his head and uttered, “Hmmm.”
“To that end, we are expanding our centrifuge capacity, and that’s where we need your assistance.”
Karl had earlier filled Lippnow in with the background to all this, explaining that centrifuges enrich uranium by separating fissile isotopes from the heavier and more common non-fissile ones. Since individual centrifuge output is limited, multiple interconnected centrifuges are used to create a cascade that increases the enrichment level. Karl explained that Iran’s 10,000 operating centrifuges produce 3.5% low-enriched uranium, of which Iran has managed to stockpile more than eight tons. Karl had glossed over the part that uranium further processed into highly-enriched “product” could be used for the explosive core of a nuclear weapon, and that Western experts believe Iran is only a few months away from enriching enough high fissile material for a nuclear bomb, known as “breakout time”—a term Lippnow had heard in the news.
“Th
e Iranians’ official version,” Karl had reminded Lippnow on the way over to the Marriott, “is that their enrichment efforts are for peaceful energy production.”
“We need lots of centrifuges,” Salami added. “We have learned the lesson from the Zionists at Osirak to disperse our facilities,” referring to the Iraqi nuclear reactor destroyed by Israel in a 1981 airstrike. “Your expression is not to keep all eggs in one basket, no?
Lippnow nodded his head in the affirmative.
“Do you want to know something ironic, Mr. Darrel? The Zionist airplanes were meant to be ours!”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” Lippnow said, cocking his head sideways.
“Yes, the F-16s were built for the then-Royal Iranian Air Force under the despicable Shah, that dog Pahlavi. When the people rose up and ousted him, your country stopped the order and gave our airplanes to the Zionists. So you can say it was actually Iranian aircraft that destroyed Iraq’s Osirak reactor!”
“I’ve got to ask you a question, Salami.” A straight-shooter, Lippnow couldn’t help himself. He leaned closer to the Iranian for effect and looked him straight in the eyes as he asked, “Do you really believe all this bullshit you are spewing about the Shah and Zionists, or is this just part of your routine?”
The Iranian looked shocked by the American’s directness and then recoiled as he let out a hearty, artificial-sounding guffaw.
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