As I dressed, I took some photos with the camera in my Dick Tracy watch. We were just about ready to go when an officer I had seen before walked in. He knew Ghasem, who addressed him as Major Larijani. I remembered him, a glowering, bearded asshole. This guy had been in the president’s office when Ahmadinejad did his rant. I half turned, so Larijani didn’t get a full face of me, and didn’t waste any time pulling on the head covering. Larijani talked to Ghasem about a manuscript. Being smarter than the average bunny, I immediately jumped to the conclusion that the manuscript in question was the one Ghasem and Davar had given to me. And baby, it was gone, on its way to America.
Ghasem told Larijani he knew nothing about it, and after a minute or so, Larijani let it go.
After passage through an air dam, Ghasem and I found ourselves on the personnel side of the manufacturing facility. A radioactivity barrier stood between us and the plutonium. Over a dozen people in suits were working at control stations, manipulating large machine tools and conveyor systems. Monitors mounted all over the place allowed them to see precisely what the tools were doing. As Ghasem and I watched, they maneuvered plutonium into a press.
“In the press,” Ghasem whispered, “the plutonium will be shaped into half of a warhead. Ultimately the halves will be assembled around a neutron generator trigger and control unit and pressed together. Then the warhead is coated in beryllium, which has the unique property of reflecting neutrons back into the warhead, helping the plutonium go critical and enhancing the explosion. In short, the beryllium coating allows us to build a warhead with less plutonium. Finally, the entire warhead is coated in lead to prevent radiation leakage.”
Some people were taking notice of their visitors, so Ghasem began an earnest discussion of how the computer remotely controlled the various tools. I inspected everything and tried to act as if I knew something about all this. Our conversation was conducted in English, of course. Ghasem knew no German, and I suspected none of the Iranians did either. I knew just enough to order a beer in Munich and ask for a kiss. Other than casual interest, no one paid us much attention. No one, that is, except the surveillance cameras.
After a thorough inspection of the remote controls, Ghasem led me along the partition to where I could see into the bay. Eight warheads completely assembled and coated in beryllium and lead lay on pallets under the hydraulic arms that moved them about. I peeled back the cuff of my glove and took a photo with my watch.
“Only four more to go,” Ghasem said.
“I’ve seen enough,” I said. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”
So we did. Larijani was nowhere in sight as we took off our radiation coveralls and turned in our radiation badges.
He was sitting in the front of the tunnel when we got off the trolley, though. He motioned to Ghasem that he wanted to talk, so Ghasem wandered over. I took a few more steps and stood looking over the parking area and the distant mountains while Ghasem and Larijani chewed the fat. I couldn’t hear the conversation.
This whole visit had been too easy, which worried me. The conviction grew and grew that they knew who I was, that they were making it possible for me to get information to pass on to Washington. Yet what could I do about it?
The tension mounted with every passing second. Several people came and went, and every one of them glanced into my face. No beard, pale skin, taller than average, I was going to attract attention. I didn’t smile. Tried to not look stressed either. Bored was my game this morning, and I worked at it.
Finally Ghasem came walking over and we strolled to the car. When I glanced back, Larijani was talking to the soldiers at the desk.
I was so relieved to get out of there that I almost went to sleep on the way back to town. I came fully alert when we ran across a demonstration that blocked one of the main thoroughfares. Hundreds of people were chanting and waving signs while at least fifty heavily armed security troops watched. It was difficult to see much from our vantage point, but when I saw another busload of troops arrive, I pointed them out to Ghasem, who began backing our ride into a small park, where he turned around and drove around trees and over the grass and dirt until we got to a street going the other way. We passed a bus full of young men going the other way.
“Basij,” Ghasem said. “Thugs. They will attack the demonstrators.”
“Great country,” I remarked.
“Isn’t it?” he shot back.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The news that Iran was a mere two weeks away from atomic weapons struck those movers and shakers inside the Beltway who were cleared to hear it with the impact of a bunker-buster.
“Prove it to me,” National Security Adviser Jurgen Schulz roared at Jake Grafton in the Cabinet Room of the White House. Also gathered around the table were the president, Sal Molina, the secretary of state, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the secretary of defense, and William Wilkins, the director of the CIA. Behind them a collection of high-ranking aides stood with notebooks and pens, ready to turn decisions into action.
Jake had already given a DVD to the multimedia person, and now he glanced at the appropriate wall and twirled his fingers. In less than a minute a screen dropped down from the overhead and the people in attendance were looking at the photos from Tommy Carmellini’s watch camera.
“There are eight nuclear warheads in this photo, sir,” Jake Grafton said, “hot off the assembly line and ready to be installed in missiles. Our man in Tehran believes they will have four more within a day or two, and all twelve will be installed in operational missiles within two weeks from yesterday.”
“Where was this photo taken?” the SecDef wanted to know.
“In the factory where the warheads are assembled, a tunnel under the Hormuz Mountains near Tehran.”
“The photo is genuine,” Wilkins said heavily. He was in no mood to put up with people who wanted to split hairs and quibble, rather than face facts.
The president cut to the chase. “When the missiles are armed with these warheads, what are the Iranians going to do with them?”
No one had an answer to that question.
“It sounds as if the consequences of our sins are arriving all at once,” the president said lightly. No one in the room cracked a smile.
“Obviously,” he continued, “the Iranians’ options range from doing nothing-highly unlikely-to threatening their neighbors-more likely-to immediately launching some of those missiles at the people they like the least, which would be us and the Israelis. The last option seems insane, improbable and highly unlikely, and yet one suspects Ahmadinejad and the holy warriors are capable of it.”
“If they do-” the secretary of defense began.
The president cut him off. “I have made an executive decision, for better or for worse, and this is the time to tell you of it. I am not going to order the use of nuclear weapons against Iran, regardless of whom they shoot missiles at or whom they kill. We will respond with conventional weapons only. And we will not attack first; the Iranians get the first shot.”
Dead silence followed that remark, broken only when Jake Grafton asked the president directly, “Have you shared that tidbit with our troops in Iraq and Arabia, or with the Israelis?”
The president stared at Grafton, then looked around the room at the faces looking back at him. “If we attack first, the political damage will lead to a century of warfare in the Middle East, which has something like fifty percent of the world’s oil. The economies of the United States, Europe and Japan will be severely impaired. Quite simply, a first strike on Iran will inaugurate a war between Islam and the West that will not end until every last Muslim is dead. Gentlemen, I am not going to go there.”
“If American soldiers are killed with nuclear weapons and you fail to retaliate, the American people will eat you alive,” Grafton said softly. “You’ll be impeached.”
“I am aware of that,” the president shot back. He was obviously irritated that Jake Grafton was talking when he should be listening, yet he had to res
pond.
With Grafton silent, the president paused, collected himself, then continued. “I have thought long and hard about nuclear retaliation. Iran is not the Soviet Union, nor is it modern Russia. Iran is controlled by a collection of religious fanatics who want to be somebody. They rant, bluster and threaten, and the world ignores them. We will elevate them to the status of a worthy enemy if we overreact. Overreaction and underreaction would both be grave mistakes, ones we will not make.”
When he paused, no one in the room had a word to say.
The president again surveyed the faces, then went on. “It is my hope and prayer that the Iranian government will not attempt to use nuclear weapons on anyone. However, in the event that they do, we must be ready to do whatever is required to shoot down the missiles and prevent them from employing nuclear weapons in the future.”
The president looked at his watch, then rose from his chair. “Sal,” he said, “keep me advised.” Then he walked out of the room.
Shortly after that, the meeting broke up. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs waggled his finger at Grafton. “You come over to the Pentagon as soon as you can. We’re going to need your help.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sal Molina buttonholed Grafton and his boss, William Wilkins, before they could get out of the room. “You didn’t need to make that crack, Jake.”
Wilkins wasn’t in the mood. “Someone around here needs to remind everyone, and I mean everyone, that the Iranians are playing for keeps. The survival of Israel is at stake. Millions of lives are on the block. Millions! And some thousands of those people are American servicemen.”
“The president is aware of the risks,” Molina shot back.
“He’d damn well better be,” Wilkins retorted grimly, “because however the worm turns, he’s going to have to live with it.”
“We all are,” Grafton muttered. He stepped around Molina and headed for the door.
Fifteen minutes later, when the president and Sal Molina were alone in the Oval Office, Molina wanted to apologize for Jake Grafton’s comments. The president waved him off. “Oh, I don’t mind Grafton. He’s our mine canary. He doesn’t give a damn if we fire him this afternoon, so he calls it the way he sees it.”
“He’s not a team player,” Sal said.
“We’ve got enough team players,” the president said sourly, fingering some of the mementos on his desk. “What we need are some original thinkers.” He eyed Molina. “We can’t keep doing business as usual in the twenty-first century. You see that, don’t you? We spend billions on ships and planes and tanks that are essentially useless against stateless guerrillas and terrorists, who are the people we will be in conflict with for generations.”
The president abandoned the toys and dropped into his chair. “Jake Grafton is a damn smart warrior who swings a very sharp sword. I want him on my side.”
After I sent off the photos from the weapons factory and called in my report, my life became more focused. Grafton wanted to chat every few hours. Zipped into that portable security telephone booth, I felt like the interior of a frankfurter.
“Tommy,” he said, “I hate to have to ask you to do this, but I must. I want the target list of those dozen nuke missiles.”
“Why don’t you Google it?” I shot back.
“Also, if possible, I want to know the types of missile they are putting the nukes on and their launch locations.”
“All I can do is try, boss. But how do we know Ahmadinejad and the mullahs are going to do anything?”
“We don’t know.”
“Ahmadinejad may simply call a press conference, strut and rant for a while and dare anyone to knock the chip off his shoulder.”
“He might,” Grafton acknowledged.
“And he might have bigger ideas,” I admitted.
“If he is going to pull the trigger,” Jake Grafton said, “I suspect he will complicate our problem by launching everything they have that will fly. Anything you can tell us that will help us identify the hot birds will help.”
“I couldn’t get that information even if I could charm Ahmadinejad into marrying me.”
“Talk to Rostram’s cousin. See if he has any more rabbits in his hat.”
“Yo. Rabbits.”
“And the sooner the better.”
I tried to salute, but there wasn’t room in that damn zip-up plastic bag.
I got out of the bag, put the satellite phone away and went in search of Frank Caldwell.
“Hey, Frank, do you still have that motorcycle?”
“Yep,” he said smugly. “It’s perfect for riding around town. I get over fifty miles to the gallon.”
“I need to borrow it.”
“Say what?”
“I need a bike that the MOIS hasn’t seen before. If anything happens to it, the Company will buy it from you and you can get another.”
He eyed me without enthusiasm. Although Frank was a case officer, he rarely if ever got his hands dirty. He still hadn’t forgiven me for recommending two tourist visas to the States, either. It was as if he’d caught me cheating at cards. He agreed with ill grace.
“Terrific,” I said with comradely warmth. “Let’s go take a look at it.”
He had it parked behind the annex and locked with a chain through the wheels. The thing was made in Japan and had a 500 cc motor. New five to ten years ago, it was still in reasonable shape. Tires had been replaced recently. Two helmets were locked onto the back of it.
“Great,” I said as I looked it over. “Now how about riding it down to the central train station, park it and lock it up, then take a taxi back here and give me the keys?”
He tried to wheedle some information out of me about how I intended to use his ride, but I just shrugged it off. Caldwell didn’t need to know.
After he left, I got my spy cell phone from my trouser pocket. I kept it set on vibrate so I would get a cheap thrill when and if Rostram/Davar called. Hoping the Iranian Gestapo hadn’t yet glommed onto our numbers, I gave her a ring.
When she answered, I said, “Hey, Hot Lips, I need to see you,” then instantly regretted my flippant choice of words. This wasn’t a woman you could flirt with. Hell, this wasn’t a country you could flirt in.
“Tonight, if possible,” I added.
“Yes,” she said.
“Be in front of the Armenian Church of St. Thaddeus at seven. Do you know it?”
“Near the main bazaar?”
“That’s it.”
“See you then, lover,” she said and hung up.
I have known a few women in my time, and even fallen pretty hard for a couple of them, but this one had me flummoxed. Davar seemed to be ready, willing and able, but that sort of killed the fun, somehow. Then there was the fact that this whole country was going to go straight to hell in about thirteen days, more or less. Bedding my Iranian contact didn’t seem smart. Or ethical. Or…
Maybe I was overthinking this. “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we shall die.” Who said that? Lions or Christians?
When Frank returned he gave me the keys and told me precisely where he had parked his ride.
“Anyone follow you?” I asked.
A startled look crossed Frank’s face. He hadn’t thought to check for tails. “No one ever follows me,” he said lamely.
“Must be all that clean living,” I remarked as I pocketed his keys.
After work, I set off to shake any and all tails. I headed for my hotel, just to see who might be following.
I was getting really antsy. All the political posturing, ranting, slogans and billions of dollars spent on bombs had led to this moment. Expectations had been created and promises made. I felt as if we were all passengers on a runaway train with the Devil in the cab. When the crash came, it was going to be bad. Really bad.
I knew the nukes were going on the missiles and Iran was going to be a nuclear power in two weeks, and if I knew it, the security forces knew it, and would become more and more paranoid, which meant th
ey would be watching us foreign spies with commendable zeal.
Sure enough, I picked up a couple of tails soon after I left the embassy annex. One was walking behind me, and the other was on the other side of the street. A block from the hotel, I unexpectedly threaded my way through traffic to cross the street and go along a sidestreet. This maneuver almost got the man behind me run over; the other guy was on his cell phone, no doubt summoning help. Which meant, to me, that these guys were serious this afternoon. Someone had lit a fire under these people.
I ignored my tails and headed for the central train station, walking briskly.
The day was hot, so I took off my sports coat and carried it over my shoulder. Somehow the women in chadors and manteaus managed to keep from passing out from heatstroke, which amazed me.
The neighborhood around the train station was not the best. A lot of homeless people lived here on the streets, some straight from the village. They came to the capital to find a better job and a better life and lived catch as catch can. I could only hope Frank’s motorcycle was where he left it.
I went into the station and found it packed with humanity, as usual. I circled the room once, then ducked out a side door. Sure enough, Frank’s bike was chained to a rack with a couple dozen other motorcycles.
Working as quickly as I could, I unlocked it, wrapped the chain around my waist, put on a helmet and my coat, climbed aboard and fired it up. Went zipping off into traffic.
In the mirror I saw one of my tails run up to the rack where the bike had been. He was on his cell phone.
I threaded my way through traffic, detoured to the sidewalk twice and let that bike roll. Unless they were on motorcycles or in a helicopter, no one was going to follow me. Of course, they could alert every cop and paramilitary gun toter in town to look for me, so I needed to stage a disappearance. This proved relatively easy. I rode to a park I knew, kept going right into the place and parked the bike in the shade under a tree, where it couldn’t be easily seen from the boulevard. Then I checked the bike for a beacon-there wasn’t one-and sat down to wait.
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