The Inca Prophecy

by Adrian D'hagé

  A stony-faced Pastor Buffett, his jaw set determinedly, stared at Aleta for some time. ‘To say that I’m disappointed in the question is an understatement,’ he said finally.

  A chorus of ‘Amen to that’ came from the audience, none speaking more loudly than Ryan.

  ‘But I will, of course, answer it. Firstly, Golda Meir was absolutely right when she said, “There is no such thing as a Palestinian people … it’s not as if we came and threw them out and took their country … they didn’t exist.” The Palestinians, as a separate people, are a myth. They exist only in the media’s imagination.’

  ‘And you complain about Holocaust deniers,’ Aleta muttered.

  ‘Secondly, if you read your Bible more carefully, you will find the Old Testament mentions Jerusalem 669 times, while there are another 154 references in the New Testament. Do you know how many times the Qur’an, or the Bhagavad-Gita, or the Dhammapada, or the Tao Te Ching or the Zend Avesta refer to Jerusalem?’

  Aleta returned Buffett’s glare.

  ‘Not once,’ came the answer from the same portly gentleman who consulted the Rapture Index on a daily basis.

  ‘That’s right, sir! Not once! And if you visit Jerusalem today, you will find tunnels under the Old City where fluorescent bulbs throw light, even for an unbeliever,’ Buffett added, staring at Aleta, ‘on archaeological diggings exposing ancient water systems that were built in King Herod’s time. There are sewers there that the Jews used to escape the Romans when the city was attacked. Inalienable proof of Jewish occupation.’

  As the audience erupted in another round of clapping and cheering, Aleta left her seat and headed out of the auditorium, leaving Buffett to repeat his warning to the President of the United States, a warning that was garnering increased airplay and gaining traction around the corridors of power in Washington.

  ‘We have to strike Iran now, Mr President, before it’s too late!’

  Chapter 18

  ‘The pen, Jafari!’

  Jafari instinctively went for his left-hand jacket pocket then suddenly remembered and made as if he’d misplaced it, before going to the right-hand pocket and extracting the pen O’Connor said would pass inspection.

  Golzar turned the silver pen around in his hand and pressed the button that would have activated the microphone. The ballpoint retracted and Golzar unscrewed the top half, exposing the spring-loaded mechanism. He shook the contents out on to the coffee table and inspected them before handing the shell to Jafari.

  ‘Quite finished have you, Golzar?’ Jafari said, feigning anger.

  ‘You’re a junior major, Jafari. I’d be very, very careful if I were you,’ Golzar sneered. ‘In the meantime, General ul-Haq would like some company for the night. See that he has a choice.’

  ‘And how do you suppose I arrange that, Golzar? I doubt the local female commanding colonel would be overjoyed if we order her to provide some of her officers for a visiting Pakistani general.’

  ‘You really are an idiot, Jafari. This is Qom. It might be the theological heart of this country, but it’s also known as the city of pilgrimage and pleasure. Ring this number. They’re expecting your call.’ Golzar gave Jafari a slip of paper. He rose and walked away, consulting a computer printout he’d demanded from the desk earlier in the day. The printout contained a list of the occupants of the hotel.

  Jafari heaved an inward sigh of relief and looked at the number on the piece of paper and shook his head at the hypocrisy of the ayatollahs. Prostitution was illegal in Iran, but demand was still high. To get around the problem, the ayatollahs had promoted an interpretation of the law that had long been abandoned in most Muslim countries. Iranians could legally buy sex, as long as they married the prostitute. According to the Shia interpretation of mutah, it was legal to go to a mullah and get married temporarily – for twenty-four hours, six months or whatever period was stipulated. In addition, it was legal for a man to have as many temporary wives – or prostitutes – as he wanted. And now, the ayatollahs were considering legislation under which brothels in Iran would be renamed ‘chastity houses’.

  The duplicity was breathtaking, Jafari thought, as he dialled the number Golzar had given him. When Ayatollah Khomeini and his mullahs took control, they embedded the Qur’an in the constitution, and acts that had previously been a matter of personal morality were suddenly deemed to be crimes. A woman’s testimony was worth only half that of a man; and not only were women in Iran forced to ride in the back of a bus and use segregated building entrances, but many had fled forced marriages to older men and had to resort to prostitution to survive. The Ayatollah had also banned contraception, which had effectively doubled the population. It was a ticking generational time bomb.

  ‘Salaam … hullo.’ The voice was that of an older woman.

  ‘This is Major Jafari. I was given this number …’ Jafari faltered, suddenly wondering how you ordered a prostitute.

  The woman on the end of the line laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Major, we’ve been expecting your call. The bill’s already been paid, and I have some of our best young women ready for the general’s inspection.’

  Twenty minutes later, five young Iranian women, all dressed in black chadors, were discreetly escorted through a rear door of the hotel.

  The next morning, snow was still falling, dusting the desert in a carpet of white, but it hadn’t been heavy enough to build up on Highway 56. The long, wet ribbon of black asphalt stretched across the desert towards the small city of Arak, beyond which the snow had fallen more heavily on the mountains to the east, south and west. The convoy of black Mercedes, accompanied by a military escort from the Iranian Revolutionary Guards, sped through Arak towards a small fertile valley to the west, and twenty minutes later the escort slowed as they reached the nuclear plant. Observation towers dominated a high fence that protected the sprawling compound built in the foothills of the mountains. Guards snapped to attention and saluted as the convoy wheeled through the main gate and onto the long dual-carriage driveway, lined with trees, which led to the heavy-water production facility on the eastern side. The lights on the towers and storage tanks gave it the appearance of a massive oil refinery. Major Jafari leapt from the car and opened the rear door for General ul-Haq. Colonel Rostami had organised hard hats and white coats, and General Shakiba led the delegation into the heavy-water production plant.

  ‘We’ve gone with the proven Girdler distillation process to separate the heavy water,’ Shakiba said, pointing to the banks of cylindrical columns rising above the ground. Trails of vapour from the tallest column condensed in the cool, crisp air. ‘We have a total of twelve production units, including the main liquid hydrogen sulphide and distillation units.’

  ‘And the capacity?’ Dr Yousef asked.

  ‘At present, we’re producing around eight tonnes of heavy water a week, but once the final distillation units come on line, we expect to double that. The reactor will require a starting load of nearly 100 tonnes, so this plant will be critical.’

  Dr Yousef nodded in approval. The Iranians had chosen production methods that had already been proven in the Western world. By running ordinary water down the towers at different temperatures, and bubbling hydrogen sulphide gas up through a series of perforated plates, a chemical exchange took place that produced weapons-grade heavy water at a purity of almost 100 per cent.

  Jafari listened closely as the doctor and the general talked, committing the conversation to memory. He could sense he was never far from Major Golzar’s attention, and he dared not take notes or produce the pen with the recording thumb drive.

  General Shakiba took the delegation on an inspection tour of the production plant, past a maze of tanks, pipes, pumping stations and laboratories, and on to the adjacent nuclear plant itself.

  The inspection complete, the delegation returned to the briefing room. A portrait of the Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Khamenei, hung prominently on one of the panelled walls and tasteful indoor plants lined the room.

  Genera
l Shakiba opened the conversation. ‘At the nuclear plant, we’re using nitric acid to separate the plutonium from the used uranium, but we’re still facing problems with the waste actinides. Neptunium, americium, curium, caesium-135, iodine-129, strontium-90 … We’ve discovered these waste products hold a great deal of heat.’

  ‘And they’re highly radioactive,’ Dr Yousef agreed, ‘but I think we can help with that. We’ve brought the plans for a process involving treatment with calcium carbonate that will enable you to incorporate the dry material into borosilicate glass, which can be stored much more easily. You should be able to do this on-site.’

  General Shakiba smiled broadly. ‘That’s excellent news. Despite our problems,’ he continued, nodding to Jafari to flick on the PowerPoint presentation, ‘the uranium conversion facility at Esfahan, which you can see on the slide, is now almost fully operational, with twenty-one of the twenty-four workshops completed. We currently have some 3000 scientists at this plant, primarily to facilitate the conversion of uranium yellowcake to uranium hexafluoride gas.’

  Major Jafari flicked on the first slide. The Esfahan plant covered 60 acres around the base of a mountain range 250 kilometres to the south-east of Arak. ‘The base is protected by anti-aircraft missiles,’ Shakiba said, ‘but some of it is being moved underground, at depths that will make the facility impervious to attack.’ He indicated the tunnel entrances that led to subterranean caverns deep within the mountains.

  ‘This next slide will give you an idea of our trial production facilities at Natanz.’ Jafari flashed up the next slide, showing the Iranian enrichment facility 100 kilometres north of Esfahan, constructed in remote desert country in the shadow of a bare, rugged mountain. ‘You can see the pilot plant on the western side of the complex and if you look at this area here,’ he said, highlighting a hidden entrance in the centre of the complex with a laser pointer, ‘that’s where we’re constructing the major plant, which is designed to hold 60 000 centrifuges. Again, as you can see, it’s heavily defended. But even if there were a successful attack on this plant, there is another …’

  At the end of the briefing, Colonel Rostami handed Major Jafari the general’s briefing notes. ‘Put those on my desk, Jafari,’ he said, and turned to escort General Shakiba and the Pakistanis to lunch.

  Jafari waited until the group left the room before quickly inserting a spare thumb drive into the computer. His heart racing, he copied the top-secret presentation and headed towards the colonel’s office. He placed the file on Rostami’s desk and was about to leave when his attention was drawn to the uppermost file in the colonel’s in-tray. It was marked Top Secret – Operation Khumm. His heart pounding again, Jafari took out his CIA-supplied cell phone, with its high-definition camera and silent shutter. He photographed both pages in the file and returned it to the colonel’s in-tray.

  After lunch, the VIP convoy headed back across the desert towards Qom and then turned north. When it reached the vast expanses of the Hoz-e-Soltan salt lake, the convoy turned off Highway 7 and headed west, past a huge airfield constructed in the middle of nowhere. It ground its way along the graded dirt road, and when it reached the foothills of a rugged mountain range, the convoy halted near a massive concrete tunnel entrance. White coats, hard hats and blue cover shoes were on hand, as were electric carts to ferry the delegation deep inside the mountain. Natanz and Esfahan were becoming known to Western intelligence agencies, but this facility was known to very few, even inside Iran.

  Even Jafari was taken aback. The underground caverns were the size of football fields, and all constructed hundreds of metres underground, where no conventional bomb could penetrate. The only threat was from a nuclear attack. Hundreds of the new P2 centrifuges, each two metres tall, stood in rows of what looked like small metal telegraph poles. Thousands more lay ready to be unpacked. The rotors, made from the technically sophisticated and export-controlled maraging steel, spun on finely machined needle bearings at the bottom, while a magnetic bearing held the tops in place. The centrifuges were designed to spin in a vacuum, and a pulsating magnetic field produced revolutions of 90 000 rpm. Miles of piping lay ready to transport uranium in the form of uranium hexafluoride into the centrifuge banks.

  With his cell phone concealed in his hand, Jafari stood at the back of the group, quietly taking photographs.

  Chapter 19

  It was just before six a.m. Major Golzar took the call in his quarters at the heavy-water nuclear plant.

  ‘Major Jafari farewelled the Pakistani delegation last night as instructed, sir.’ The voice belonged to Captain Kashani, Golzar’s second-in-command, assigned to track Jafari’s movements in Tehran. ‘He left the airport at 9.05 p.m., just after the Pakistanis’ flight departed for Islamabad, but he stayed in Tehran overnight. This morning he drove south to Qom, where a short while ago, he entered the Qom International Hotel.’

  ‘Hmm … And what did you find out about Professor McLoughlin?’

  ‘There’s no specific intelligence, sir. McLoughlin is listed as a professor of political science and he’s been granted a business visa that’s valid for three months. The reason given on his visa application was to visit archaeological sites.’

  ‘And where are you now?’

  ‘About 100 metres from the hotel, sir. We’ve got the front entrance under observation, but it’s still very quiet. I’ve called up another team to cover the rear, and they’ll be here shortly.’

  ‘Keep the hotel under observation. I’m on my way.’ Golzar put down the phone and stroked his chin thoughtfully. Was it possible that the major had gone AWOL? Back to Qom to enjoy his new-found knowledge of what Qom had to offer, besides theology? Golzar doubted it.

  Using the simple, pre-arranged signal, Jafari knocked quietly on O’Connor’s door.

  ‘This is the proof you need,’ Jafari announced, handing over the thumb drive containing General Shakiba’s presentation. ‘I’ve also recorded the details of a massive new underground enrichment facility that very few people are aware of.’

  ‘Location?’

  ‘About 30 kilometres north-west of Qom. They’ve built an airstrip to the west of Highway 7 and the facilities are further inside the mountains and hundreds of metres underground. I managed to take some photos of the centrifuges, and when you look at the images, you’ll see that each of the underground caverns is about the size of a football field. Eventually, that facility will house 60 000 centrifuges, and they’ll all be the latest P2 design.’

  ‘So if we knock out the enrichment centrifuges at Natanz, they’re not going to miss a beat,’ O’Connor observed. ‘You’ve done well, Farid. Are you sure you weren’t followed?’

  Jafari’s face clouded. ‘I’m not entirely sure. There wasn’t anywhere to turn off to check, but there was a car, a black Peugeot 407, behind me all the way from Tehran. It turned off when I stopped a block from the hotel.’

  O’Connor’s mind began to race. Expect the best, but plan for the worst. ‘It may be coincidence, but I’m going out for a look. Stay here, and don’t open the door – for anyone.’

  O’Connor checked the chamber of his Glock 21 and cautiously opened the door, but the corridor was empty. It took less than two minutes to reach the loading dock area and he took to the back streets and doubled back towards the hotel’s front entrance in Helal Ahmar Street. O’Connor took up a position behind a large tree and spotted the Peugeot immediately. The day was about to get interesting, he mused, although surveillance was obviously not one of the Iranians’ strengths. The Peugeot was parked just off a dusty square in line of sight of the hotel entrance. Both the occupants were in uniform and one was observing the hotel through binoculars. Time to move, O’Connor thought.

  ‘We need to get out of here, now,’ O’Connor said, zipping closed his backpack that was always ready. ‘That Peugeot has a couple of Ahmadinejad’s gorillas in it, and my guess is they’ve already called for reinforcements.’

  ‘But I’m due back at work tomorrow …’

>   O’Connor shook his head. ‘That’s history, Farid. I’m betting someone has you under observation, and you’ll have a hard time explaining why you’ve detoured to Qom on your way back to Arak. If this lot want to stitch you up, you’ll spend the rest of your days in Evin.’ The dreaded prison at the foot of the soaring Alborz mountains had been constructed by the Shah of Iran. Back then, it had been run by the Shah’s feared secret police, but now the SAVAK had been replaced by the equally dreaded police and intelligence services of the Ayatollah. Under the Ayatollah’s regime, dozens of Iranians and foreigners deemed to be a threat to the theocracy had been hung in the prison’s courtyard, and women prisoners were routinely raped.

  O’Connor led the way down the concrete fire escape to the loading dock, but the hotel laundry truck had parked in the dock and O’Connor moved back into the shadows as the driver loaded some calico bags and disappeared back into the hotel. O’Connor moved forward cautiously, only to see another black Peugeot 407 pull up 100 metres from the loading dock entrance.

  ‘Change of plan,’ he said, pushing Jafari towards the rear of the laundry truck. O’Connor climbed into the rear of the truck after Jafari, and he pulled six large calico laundry bags behind him. Ten minutes later, the driver returned and threw six more bags into the back, closed the rusted back doors of the battered Isuzu and leapt into the cab. The driver engaged the gears and the truck lurched out of the loading bay. O’Connor drew his Glock 21 and moved towards the doors.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he muttered as he peered through a gap, now convinced that Jafari had been traced to the hotel and they’d been spotted in the loading dock. The Peugeot that had pulled up at the rear of the hotel was following closely behind. The truck moved towards the centre of the city, but it slowed in heavy traffic and then came to a halt, the brakes squeaking in protest. The traffic was backed up near the courthouse where a large crowd had gathered. The driver of the Peugeot had allowed a dozen cars to get between him and the truck, and O’Connor seized his chance. He flipped the rusty door catch with his knife.