by Rose Fox
She expected to see steam rising from there. She knew clean water flowed over the pipes and turned into steam because of the intense heat. As she did not find anything, she understood that, at present, nothing was flowing in them, and she hoped she would succeed in getting to them as soon as possible, even before the workers.
Abigail passed between various figures and then found herself standing beside a system of thin tubes. Evidently, they contained coolant and without waiting, she pulled the clamping device out of her tools and grasped a pipe. She felt its heat, which was certainly tolerable and clamped it, knowing that water would no longer flow through it.
She continued doing this and clamped many pipes, disregarding the screams that demanded someone turn off the reactors, which were getting hotter with every passing minute. Abigail prayed that no one would come and check what was happening to the system of tubes that she was busy destroying.
Abigail worked for longer than an hour in the cooling chamber, aware that the temperature of the reactors was climbing so high that they would reach melting point. Just then, there was an explosion. It wasn’t a large one but sounded close enough to make her decide to leave the pipes and make her escape.
The figures around her began running and rushing about, but she knew that none of those people had the faintest idea that one of them had destroyed the cooling system. Abigail knew that even if they managed to connect the generators – water would not pass through the clamped pipes she had ruined.
She was feeling her way out when someone pulled her dress and asked her something. She pulled her arm away and got away through the wall that had collapsed and left the area quickly.
Her eyes had become accustomed to the dark and she jumped over the bricks of the fallen wall, as she hurried to distance herself from the overheating reactors in time.
Initially, she ran and then changed to a fast paced walk till the muscles in her legs cramped with fatigue and a she felt a sharp pain in her hip. She found it difficult to breathe, sank to the ground and rested her head. A minute later, she turned on her back and peered up at the stars scattered in the sky above her and spoke toward them.
"Arlene, my child, your mother is exhausted,” she whispered to the wind, “Please, live my life for me because it seems that mine will end today.”
A misshapen moon hovered on high and its meager light partly illuminated clouds that would never bring rain in this expansive wilderness. Wearily, Abigail pressed on the center of her communications device and knew that right now, signals were lighting up a long way away. She straightened the thin cord that moved near her cheek and spoke two words to the small dot before her lips:
“Mission Accomplished”
In an undisclosed location in Israel, the two words were heard and San stared at Barak with his one and only eye and asked in a whisper, as if he did not know the answer:
“Who is prepared to tell her about her next mission?”
Barak ignored his remarks and responded quietly:
”I knew you could do it.”
Abigail swabbed her face and was about to disconnect, but then she heard Barak continue speaking.
“Right beside you, in the region of the reactors, there is an arsenal of rockets with nuclear warheads. We don’t know its precise location and are unable to get it in our sights. Find it and send us its coordinates.”
“Received,” she replied and Barak bowed his head and pursed his lips with worry.
Ten days earlier a select team of fewer people convened. Its agenda was:
“A nuclear Iran and the threat of nuclear missiles.”
The meeting was called after reliably informed reports were received about a huge underground arms depot near the Bushehr reactors. These reports came from Salamas, the ‘Mossad’ agent, who had managed to work his way into the Iranian army to a high rank and get himself placed with the warehouse workforce.
San said:
“I’d like to quote something, so listen,” He said, looking at them with his one eye.
“Long range strategic missiles with nuclear warheads are produced at this location.”
Zaguri argued:
“It sounds totally unfounded and inaccurate. Where did you get that story?”
“From an eye-witness report.”
“Okay, then it must be a mistake,” Zaguri insisted. “They say that the Iranians have not yet reached a level of enrichment that would make the production of a warhead like that possible.”
“They say? Who says? I’m talking about an eye-witness report and you’re relying on…”
“What are you talking about when you say, ‘Who says?’ The American Institute for Science and International Security, ISIS. That’s who says! And they estimate that only in another two to four months will Iran produce enough uranium to produce a nuclear device.”
”Zaguri, you drive me nuts, sometimes,” San said. "Do you find this evaluation more soothing than the report we received? Believe me, I also read exactly the same item as you in the ‘Washington Post” that quoted what someone at ISIS said.”
"Oh, come on, really! If we don’t believe that they are speaking on the basis of reliable checks, what is the point of continuing to take note of their evaluations?”
“If we assume that the reports we received are accurate," said Barak, "how can we estimate the time Teheran requires to produce a prototype of a nuclear warhead?”
”Yes, there is one, but they claim that they need many more months. I would neither rely nor bet on that, especially since I live here, in Israel.”
“Good, so let’s focus on what we received – information I’m prepared to bet on more readily than the results of the American Institute’s inspections.”
Foxy looked around the room and said:
“Let’s send one of our people there to locate this warehouse and we will present the facts.”
Barak glanced at San, who was surly and seemed to be deep in thought, because he heard him say:
“Right, our Lucy.”
“What about her?” Barak raised his head and looked at him.
“I suggest we send Lucy there,” San said.
“Why not?!” Barak exploded, "Why don’t you just send someone there to kill her, that’s all.”
He lowered his voice and hissed:
“I think if I remind you of the “Water” operation that she is working on, you will let her off going in search of that arms’ warehouse.”
Michael interrupted.
“Listen, all of you, I know where she is operating right now and I estimate that warehouse is close to her present location,” and Barak groaned as he said.
“We are talking about two assignments that are just too big for her to take on alone…”
San nodded and looked at him as he said:
“I have an idea. After all, we have a great agent working there at the very heart of things.” He didn’t mention Salamas’ name on purpose.
“We only have to contact him to get them to cooperate,” and when he saw that Barak was about to respond, he added:
“And I suggest we end this discussion right now because it’s becoming too personal and is digressing from the point.”
When the others dispersed, Barak spoke, without looking at San:
"She is going to give birth, as I recall, in another four months and after the assignment I am going to arrange for her to fly home.”
“You mean both of them,” San replied.
“I don’t believe that she will survive both of them. We are overdoing it.”
“Hey, cool it. Let’s be positive rather than negative.”
“How did I express it? When she disappears from the screens – our systems prepare for an attack.” He said.
Barak tried to speak dispassionately about the smiling agent with the dimples, the one that stole his heart a long time ago.
“So what, should you be angry with her that she disappeared without your permission?” San asked, and saw how Barak cringed. He could ima
gine what was going through his mind and spoke gently:
“Okay, I understand, but when she returns – marry her and get off our backs, ha?”
*
Dawn broke slowly and illuminated the solitary figure lying on the ground, lost in the enormous expanse of the wilderness.
Noise overhead made her open her eyes and she saw two helicopters flying in the direction of the reactors. Abigail looked back and saw the great distance she had covered at night. She thought that even if they found her here, it would not occur to anyone that just a few hours earlier, she had been in the cooling chamber of reactor number 1.
Not for even a minute did she imagine that they had noticed her from afar and were waiting for her.
The damage in the number 1 reactor, where she had operated, was huge because the temperature in the core of the reactor had already risen to a level that could not be cooled down.
Initially, they tried to connect the failed power system to the giant generators and make coolant water flow to the boiling core of the reactor. When, for a moment, it appeared that they had succeeded in connecting them, they noticed that the coolant was not flowing because of the damage no one knew about. The engineers simply lost any control of the procedures.
In the minutes that followed, a chain reaction began to build up in the core. The temperature continued to rise and led to the unavoidable explosion, which was so great that it shattered what was left standing after the earthquake. As a result of the explosion bricks and segments of the building flew in the air, were flung in every direction and hit the adjacent buildings.
A fire broke out in the boiling core of reactor number 3, which was made of graphite and the fire caused it to melt. This core melted first and was followed by damage to reactor number 5.
The temperature in the remaining reactors continued to climb, and in a last attempt to control them, an order was given to bring in water from the Caspian Sea. Containers hanging from below giant helicopters siphoned water from the sea, but even the large quantity of water was unable to cool the reactors or prevent their overheating because of its mineral content and their salinity.
In the pools containing the nuclear fuel rods, the water level fell below the red line. Flames began to lick the building and rise from the reactors. Further explosions were heard from all over the place until the order to abandon the premises was given.
In the minutes that followed two trucks arrived and people were evacuated from the building and quickly disappeared into them. A half-hour later helicopters landed near the reactors. The wounded were laid on doors that had fallen from their hinges and were used as stretchers to load them onto the helicopters that flew off. By one hour after midnight, the nuclear structure was empty. Only the crackle of fire consuming the surroundings illuminated the ruins in shades of red and orange.
Nothing about the meltdown of the reactors at Bushehr was published at first. Then, stories that began to appear in the world press were denied. The authorities in Iran pretended nothing of any importance had occurred. Afterward, they grudgingly began to admit the reactor buildings had been cracked or damaged. They claimed it was caused by the earthquake and blamed this force majeure, but the disaster was so severe that they could no longer suppress or deny it.
A week later an official announcement was made informing of an explosion at the six Bushehr nuclear reactors, which were entirely put out of action. No one thought that in spite of succeeding in connecting the generators, no coolant could chill the terrible heat because of the narrow tubes that had been sabotaged in reactor number 1.
The stench of smoke and burnt metal filled the air and Abigail curled up on the ground, trembling with cold. At the break of dawn, she strained her eyes to see into the distance and check out her location, but she only saw empty desert sands.
Beneath her, she felt a rhythmic beat, like galloping horses and when she shaded her eyes with her hand, she could discern horses’ ears bobbing far away just above the horizon. Later, their dancing heads were visible, followed by a cloud of dust and, finally, as they galloped closer the figure of Ali Akhbar appeared standing on the cart and holding the reins.
When he reached her, he reined in the horses and they stopped, shaking their bridles and snorting. He looked at her from above and declared proudly:
“We promised, and here we are.”
He extended his arm and helped her climb up the wooden steps to the seat.
Abigail was exhausted and paid no attention to his remarks. She just stared at the rear of the horses galloping ahead of her and the dust their hooves were kicking up. She raised the flap of her hijab to cover her mouth and nose and didn’t hear the clatter of the cart behind her.
Akhbar turned back to the wagon, picked up a sack and laid it on her knees. Abigail stared at the bag and at the man. The aroma of bread brought a smile to her face. Only now, did she feel how hungry she was but, when she felt inside the sack, her fingers touched a smooth greasy lump that could be squeezed like plasticine. She peeked inside, saw the brown paper wrapping around the lump and looked up in surprise at the cart driver alongside her. Abigail grimaced, knowing that what she had just seen was an explosive device, but he turned to look at the road and just said:
“Yes, you can also eat some bread.”
Abigail cupped the bread and tore off a piece with her hands, and saw a silvery tube peeped out of it. She removed the dough on top of it and saw a small opening through which a yellowish liquid appeared. She recognized that it was a detonator, but on this moment she became aware of something else, and murmured.
“Just a minute, you…you came after the accident at the big Urmia intersection, right?”
All at once, she connected all the details of what had transpired. The gray car that arrived after the accident on the sidewalk, the keys that were left in the ignition of the idling car and also, Salamas, who drove for hours to take her to Baku. Her fatigued brain caught on that she was not alone in this assignment but surrounded by people from the organization, who appear at different stages.
“Eat,” he told her, “that’s real bread and there is also butter and a washed pear, not like the one that rolled about in the cart.”
“Where are we going now?” she asked, holding the bread but unable to eat it. Akhbar didn’t respond because he didn’t know.
He had been told no more than to come and take her out of this enormous wilderness and he had no idea what she had done before then. Ali Akhbar served as another lone link in the chain from there to Ramat Gan in Israel.
Abigail pulled the lump of plasticine out of the sack, peered at the man beside her and made sure that his eyes were on the road. She turned her back to him, pushed the device against her skin, under the silvery protective dress and pressed and flattened it forcefully. Then she connected the tube she had removed from the loaf of bread and pulled it all under her bra.
The tops of palm trees and palm fronds peeped out in the distance, followed by the domes of mosques. Here and there straggly bushes successfully persisted and pushed their stems up out of the sand. Suddenly, she saw a mound of sand, somewhat different in color from the rest of the area. It was a hill that did not match the vast plateau and Abigail blinked with surprise.
They passed close to the hill when in a sudden there was heard a single shot. Ali Akhbar pushed Abigail back and the speed with which he drew his weapon was very surprising. An orange flash burst out of his revolver but missed and hit one of his horses, which neighed and collapsed on the spot. The cart continued its progress, dragging the injured animal on the sand and capsized onto its side. The second horse rose in the air, kicking its front legs, and uttered cries of fear. The reins slipped and went under the overturned cart and stretched like taut strings from the horse’s mouth.
Someone ran and aimed a gun at them, but Abigail was no longer on the wagon. She had climbed below it, pulled out her tiny knife and waited. The man came right up to the overturned cart and scoured every yard around it in his search. As soon
as he stood under the raised belly of the neighing horse, Abigail cut the reins that were stretched like rubber. The horse that weighed several hundred pounds dropped on top of the man and crushed him.
She heard Ali Akhbar yell:
“Run, escape, he’s not alone!” And when she looked at him, she saw that he was wounded and heard him say something and understood that he was talking to her in Hebrew:
“A helicopter will await you at Baku, at seven o’clock in the hospital courtyard.”
The shot that followed hit Ali Akhbar in his forehead. His head recoiled and he fell. The gunman stood over him and turned slowly with his smoking gun to Abigail, taking aim with steady hands. Someone shouted and called his name and he turned his head towards two other men, who appeared from behind the hill, but continued aiming his gun at her head.
Abigail remained facing them, her back to the capsized cart, and wondered how she could cope with three people in such a barren place with nowhere to hide. They came closer and she almost screamed, because she recognized that one of them was Salamas, the man with the short beard, who had driven her to Naka.
A funny thought went through her head. Perhaps, she might even make it to the hospital courtyard in Baku by seven o’clock but, just then, Salamas lunged at her and she froze in disbelief and did not resist. Roughly, he pulled her arms behind her and tied them together, then placed a black scarf around her head and covered her eyes. While he was busy with the scarf, she heard him whisper into her hair, from behind:
“Don’t put up a fight, we’ll get you out of this.”
The truth was that the people there had been waiting for Abigail for many hours and had been following her tensely the whole night.
It began the night before at midnight and started with the explosions at the nuclear reactor located some fifteen kilometers from them. The guards had surveyed the area between them and the burning reactors through binoculars by the light of the stars, that shine very brightly in the total darkness. They were able to see the figure of Abigail, walking alone across the endless wilderness.
“Someone survived the explosions!” Nabil yelled, “Wait, it’s a woman.”