by Jack Winnick
Lara saw the IAPG marker, knowing immediately it originated from Tom’s team. “I’ll give it top priority,” she said promptly, realizing they would remember how quickly she had translated the first one. She was already clearing her desk as the major left her alone, but not before giving her a conspiratorial grin.
She recognized the coding details on the first reading, and then went back over it to make sure she’d gotten all the details correct. Tom wanted the Iranians to read and believe everything in this “secret” message. Why, she didn’t know—yet. But she would call him tonight to check. Meanwhile, she wanted to get the translation Asani within a reasonable time and, hopefully, learn his reaction.
The document was titled, “Peninsula Water Supplies—Access Points.”
Wow, she thought to herself, was this real or manufactured bait for the enemy? There were four potable-water pipeline-entry points listed; that was clear. She read the document carefully, which seemed gibberish to the untrained eye, translating as she went:
Crystal Springs Reservoir, San Mateo, Skyline Boulevard. Easy access, not totally obscured.
Lower Crystal Springs Dam, Highway 92. Hiking trail, good cover.
San Mateo, Highway 92. Major station, full access, unguarded night entry.
Mid-Peninsula Water District, worker entry point, easy access, poor cover.
There were no maps or other details provided; apparently, these features were available in the public domain. Lara’s heart was beating double-time as she typed her translation in Farsi on her government-issued computer. She saved it in her official documents folder and sent a copy to General Gharoub at his private email address. She had been assured on her first day that it was a totally secure address in a high-security government server.
She didn’t have to wait long. An urgent phone call came from his private secretary in less than twenty minutes. She, along with Major Asani and Captain Maloof, were to report to his office at once. Lara hustled down the hall, carrying a copy of her translation in a plain manila folder inside her briefcase. She hadn’t had time to thoroughly digest the contents of the intercept; but that was as it should be for someone who had just decoded such an important enemy message.
The two officers were already sitting in the general’s office when she arrived. Closing the door behind her, she noted that each had a printed copy of her translation. “Gentlemen, and Ms. Haddad, you have in front of you a most interesting piece of paper,” the general stated, getting right to the point. “Our Bandar station picked up this bit of news just this morning, and thanks to Ms. Haddad, you now see what the Americans know, or think they know, of our coming plans.” He smiled, grooming his moustache with his fingers. “You see, this information was deliberately placed in their laps, so to speak, by our military intelligence branch near the Turkish border.”
Lara tried to assimilate this latest bit of spycraft. So, the Iranians were attempting to assure the Americans that their bit of false information had been accepted. She would have to tell Tom his ploy had worked.
The general dismissed his agents shortly after this bombshell, and Lara headed to her office to look over her papers. After just a few minutes, she looked up to see a smiling Major Asani standing in her doorway. “Sorry to disturb you . . .” he began.
“Please, Major, have a seat. You seem to have something important to share with me.” She was courteously pleasant with him.
“Yes, indeed. You seemed so interested in our little factory tour the other day,” he began, clearly referring to the polonium poison plant, “that I thought you might like to see something even more critical . . .” He looked around to make sure no one was lurking nearby.
Lara, intrigued by this overture, gave him her full attention, leaning forward in her chair.
“Do you have an hour or two to spare this afternoon? I have something you will find even more interesting . . .” The major left the conversation hanging at this intriguing juncture.
“Of course, Major! I’d be very excited to see whatever it is you have for me.” She had no need to feign her enthusiasm.
“If you might grab your bag and come with me now—I have already cleared our little trip with the general.”
They were already on their way to the main exit of the building before Lara suddenly stopped in the reception area. “If you don’t mind, Major, I would like to wash up first.”
Asani obliged politely as Lara went into the visitor’s restroom and rinsed her contacts, taking the moment to make sure her secret phone was securely tucked in its little pouch in her briefcase. She wanted to be certain that wherever they were headed was well recorded by the Agency’s satellite.
As soon as they settled into the comfortable staff car that was waiting at the curb, Asani, sitting courteously at the other end of the spacious rear bench, began to explain this sudden trip. “General Gharoub has been very impressed with your work, the speed as well as the accuracy of your translations. When I told him of our trip to the, um, factory and how interested you were, he suggested this little jaunt to a location that you may find even more . . . fascinating.”
Lara noticed that he glanced at the female lieutenant sitting opposite the driver. She was the apparent chaperone on this little junket. “At any rate, you will see another link in the little surprise we have in store for our . . . enemies.” There apparently was no more to tell her before they reached their destination.
The route followed a paved two-lane road north of the city, just below the foothills of the Alborz mountains. The air was crisp, even in the early afternoon, and Lara was fascinated by the display of subalpine firs. After thirty minutes, the car came to an abrupt stop at an electrified fence and guard booth. Two armed sentries stood just beneath terse-looking “No Entry” signs; adjacent to these on the fence were the distinctive, universal “Radiation Hazard” signs. Lara’s pulse was near panic level.
Major Asani showed his credentials to one of the sentries, who, along with his partner, examined them closely for a full minute, then used his walkie-talkie to communicate with an unseen person, no doubt inside the gray concrete building in front of them. After some more scrutiny, the guards allowed the driver to enter the premises and park the luxury car. On exiting the car, Lara noted the distinctive Iranian government flags displayed on the doors.
Lara and Asani were led into a sparsely appointed reception area, its walls adorned only with portraits of the current leader of the government and his predecessors. They each donned full-body protective suits along with radiation monitors, the type that measures actual dosage of alpha, beta, and gamma absorption. Only then were they permitted to enter the huge gray structure that obviously housed a nuclear reactor. A loud hum was as pervasive as it was insistent. Whether it was the sound of monitoring or air-cleaning equipment was not clear, but it was both annoying and frightening. They were led straightaway to a platform that overlooked a large pool of intensely clear water. Though the water was apparently quite deep, an insidious glow emanated from the region at the base of the concrete reactor itself, perhaps ten feet or more beneath the surface.
Lara knew what she was seeing: it was the Cherenkov radiation, which supersonic particles emanating from the reactor produced after being absorbed by the reactor’s cooling water. The sinister glow might assure the observer that the water was absorbing the deadly radiation, safeguarding the people. It was like watching the creation, and hopefully nullification, of death itself. She glanced over at Asani’s face and saw, rather than the fear that she herself felt, a gleam of satisfaction at the visible evidence of his nation’s deadly game of nuclear transformation.
They stood there, mesmerized by both the visual and aural demonstration, until a guide escorted them courteously into a small classroom. There, the radiation badges were scanned to make sure nothing more than insignificant dosages had been absorbed. Then a professorial-looking gentleman took to the podium as the major and his guest took their seats.
“Hello, honored guests,” the gray-b
earded man said politely. “I am Professor Sabani. It is my privilege to explain to you the workings of our unique reactor.” A slideshow commenced on a screen next to him. “What we are doing here is nothing less than transforming one element into another, something man—and woman—have struggled to do for centuries.” The professor had all the attributes of a television pitchman; Lara smiled inwardly as he continued.
“In our heavy-water cooled reactor, elemental bismuth is bombarded with high-energy neutrons. After a few days, the product of this impact decays to the element known as polonium-210, one of the most poisonous materials known to man . . .”
“Yes, well thank you so much, professor,” Asani interrupted. “That is all very interesting, but we must be on our way. We have a busy schedule as you know.” He smiled graciously, nodding to Lara that they must depart. They exited the classroom, glancing briefly at the very pleased professor.
They moved quickly to the reception hall, where the major told their driver to bring their car around. Then, seeing the hall empty of other people, he said quietly to Lara, “I have shown you these facilities, the bottling plant and this reactor, in appreciation for all your excellent work in translating all the important messages from our enemies. And now I want to bring you up-to-date on our plans for the near future.”
Lara held her breath for what must be coming.
“We are planning, as you know, a strike on the San Francisco municipal water supply. The general has been assessing all the incoming messages from the Americans, and we now know that they are anticipating our strike to come up the peninsula . . .”
“But where else could it come from . . . ?” Lara affected a puzzled demeanor.
Major Asani again checked the hall for any observers; this, after all, was one of the most secure buildings in Tehran. “The other likely path for an attack would be from the Hetch Hetchy reservoir, on the west end of their so-called Yosemite National Park. It captures all the precipitation from the park itself, an enormous amount of water, as you can imagine. Practically all the winter rain and snowfall in central California. It supplies the drinking water for more than ten million people!”
Lara feigned astonishment; it was easy enough in view of the enormity of what he had just announced. She even let her mouth drop open just a bit, to the major’s delight. “But isn’t the lake, or reservoir as you call it, under severe observation? How could your men possibly get the, uh, poison in . . . ?”
“You are very quick, indeed. Yes, ordinarily that would be difficult,” he said, scanning the hall again for intruders. “But, you see, just this year, the park authorities have yielded to growing pressure from the public for more access to recreational facilities, especially in the hot summer months. Fishing and swimming have been allowed for some time. But they have just announced that, beginning July Fourth, pleasure boats will be allowed on the lake—for the first time since the building of the dam that created Hetch Hetchy. And it will be literally impossible for the authorities to inspect every motorcraft and sailboat on the lake at any given time. The opportunities for contamination of the lake, and thus the San Francisco water supply, will be incredible. Hetch Hetchy will drain all the resources of the US government, if you will pardon the play on words.” He grinned, pleased with his display of humor.
“So,” she extrapolated, “with the Americans assuming you know of their plans to protect the peninsula . . .”
“How quick you are, indeed. Yes, they will assume we will choose the reservoir as our avenue for contamination.” At that moment, their driver entered. Their vehicle was ready for them. After they each removed their protective gear, the major opened the door for Lara, and they proceeded to the waiting car.
Chapter 20
Uri spent what should have been a relaxing weekend at home; however, it was just the opposite. Friday, the Muslim holy day, was taken up with meal preparation and religious services. It was not, strictly speaking, the same as the Judeo-Christian Sabbath. In fact, the Prophet Muhammad had reportedly shunned any relation with the Jewish day of rest. Muslims were encouraged but not required to return to work after the afternoon prayer and sermon. In order that no suspicion be aroused, Uri had been instructed to spend the weekend with his ersatz family. If they were to run into relatives or neighbors, “Heydar” would be introduced as a distant cousin from the southern part of the country, in Tehran seeking employment. Tala had been looking forward to some time with her “cousin” so that she could show him some of the sights of the big city; she had made that abundantly clear.
Tala and Sarina did all the shopping for the weekend on Thursday. Friday morning, the family prepared for the afternoon prayer services and dinner. There would be guests for the meal, some friends of Sarina and Mohsen, who would arrive an hour or so after they returned from the mosque.
Uri made his early morning call to Tom. It was a convenient time, because it was Thursday evening in New York. Tom was delighted, of course, to hear of the success of their deception with the peninsular water plants and gave Uri instructions for his upcoming week at the Castle. That was first on the agenda. With the water running noisily in Uri’s bathroom during the brief four-minute call, Tom told him that his assignment would no doubt be with Iran’s Black Ops division, which was known to be headquartered at the secret fortification in the foothills above Tehran. The Castle had been constructed over the last decade as a highly fortified command center for most of the anti-American operations run by the Iranian Revolutionary Government. The exterior had been under constant US surveillance all during its construction, but the interior was still largely a mystery. There were, however, multiple cable connections, both electronic and optical, that were constantly monitored as well as possible.
The division was headed by the notorious General Hossein Alirezeh, who had been with the revolution since the beginning, in 1979. He was, in fact, one of the young “students” who were responsible for the takeover of the American embassy on Taleghani Street in Tehran, now an anti-American museum. The compound occupied a full city block, decorated with gratuitous murals and slogans such as, “Death to America.” The Great Seal of the United States, badly damaged, was an attractive novelty for the scores of Iranians who visited the compound daily, now laughingly known as “The US Espionage Den.”
General Alirezeh was, as expected, a highly secretive individual. Photographs were nearly nonexistent. But he was known to be in his mid-seventies, physically fit, with a full head of artificially colored black hair. His ruthlessness was unequalled; he reportedly had several of his own family killed when they questioned his antipathy toward the United States. This, after a multibillion-dollar program of famine relief from the United States at the turn of the century.
Lara and Uri knew all this long before they embarked on their mission. The focus of this short conversation with Tom was Uri’s specific task at the moment. He was to be America’s eyes and ears inside the Castle, at least through the current drinking water terrorism campaign.
He would begin by making contact with the Americans, using the code he had deciphered in his initial interview at Sa’id’s office. Uri would make a response in a CSfC appropriate for a field agent. Tom’s men would pick it up and reply to this agent, identified once again as “U37FGI.”
What Uri would communicate, as this nonexistent American agent, was that there was no impending threat to US drinking water supplies, at least on America’s Pacific Coast. Uri would then intercept a return message, in code of course, from Homeland to Agent U37FGI thanking him for this reassuring information. This should establish a solid line of communication. “What about the real agent U37FGI?” Uri wondered. Tom replied that this person was rumored to have been lost to “SAVAMA,” the Iranian secret police that had evolved from the Shah’s notorious SAVAK somewhere along the way, but without divulging any information. “Sort of murky, then . . . ?”
“Right, that’s the way things are over there; works to our advantage.” Uri could almost see Tom smiling as he said this
. “Make contact Sunday night if you can,”
“Will do. What about ‘Daria’?” Uri inquired hopefully.
“Doing well. She’s on a parallel path. But let’s keep this short for now.”
That would have to do it, Uri could tell. At least no bad news. Maybe there would be some good news next week.
* * *
Uri made some excuses dealing with work, aiming to keep some distance between himself and the amorous Tala until it was time for the Jumu’ah, or Friday afternoon prayer service. Each of the little family did their ritual washing, separately, of course, then dressed appropriately. Uri had with him his white “thobe,” or long prayer shirt that he wore over jeans and slippers. He also wore a white knitted skullcap. He noticed, thankfully, that Mohsen was attired similarly; the two women were dressed in modest, dark clothing complete with head coverings.
At 2:00 p.m., the four of them: Tala, her “aunt” and “uncle,” and the somewhat reluctant Uri headed for the local mosque just two blocks away. Other couples and small families made their way slowly to the service, some carrying simple prayer rugs. On the way, they chatted briefly with friends from the neighborhood, introducing “Heydar” as a distant cousin from the desert-like south of the country, in Tehran to look for work. This was a common theme: families in the big city helping relatives seek a living in the urban environment. They all wished him well, not knowing his experience or schooling and not about to pry.
At the mosque, Uri and Mohsen slipped off their sandals at the door and entered the men’s section toward the front of the large hall. Head blocks made of stone were already in place as they each did the preparatory movements and uttered the appropriate prayers before prostrating themselves. Though Uri had sufficient practice, he still felt as if he were being stared at, the stranger from another district. Finally, the prayers began, the women out of sight in the rear of the hall, away from the men. Mohsen did not look at Uri at all; it had been clear from the outset that he was aware of Uri’s true identity and was doing everything necessary to help this agent of the United States bring back a democratic Iran. He played his role perfectly. At the end of the service, in which Uri fully participated, a sermon was delivered by the local mullah, one that wished for peace and ascension of Ali, the true heir of Muhammad.