by Jon Sedran
Perspiration dripped off el Batam’s forehead. “Give me two weeks.”
Omar frowned. “Do you still have the high-def micro camera we gave you?” he asked.
El Batam nodded and mumbled, “Yes.”
“Okay Emud, two weeks. Go now before you are late for work and they get suspicious.” The men watched as he headed to his car.
“Will he deliver?” the associate asked as they turned to leave.
“I’m not sure…he is very scared. But there is still the other one.” They headed in the darkness back down the corridor toward the front of the apartment complex.
El Batam stopped. He was not thinking clearly. These two men, should I report them? I will deny everything. No I will be tortured. I can’t do this anymore. I will get caught and be hanged. In a moment of panic he reached into his pocket and withdrew the semi-automatic pistol. He would tell the authorities the men were spies and had tried unsuccessfully to recruit him. He turned and ran back a short distance. He was now barely able to make out the two figures walking away near the far end of the corridor. Crouching down he raised the pistol, took aim, and fired off three shots in quick succession. The muzzle flash lit up the darkened corridor and the report rang off the walls making the 9mm handgun sound like a cannon. The two shocked men were sent diving for cover. El Batam stood up and seeing the men still moving, rapidly fired off four more rounds. None of the bullets found their intended targets.
“Jesus Christ,” the associate exclaimed, “Let’s get out of here.”
“No, we cannot let him talk to the authorities. He would give them our description and compromise everything.”
El Batam couldn’t tell if he had hit either man. Lights were coming on in several of the apartments.
Omar steadied his arm against the corner of the building as he put the red laser dot on the center of el Batam’s forehead. There was a barely audible pop accompanied by the pinging sound of an empty brass casing hitting the wall. The round found its mark and el Batam crumpled to the concrete.
“Let’s go!” the associate said, standing back up. They ran around to the side of the building and jumped into their car. Omar got behind the wheel and they quickly sped off. Omar would have to let his superiors know what had happened, but they were not in Baghdad as he had told el Batam. He sat thinking, Eighty percent. They are building a bomb. I will have to contact Tel Aviv…and also tell them we have lost a good source.
* * * *
Defense Intelligence Agency Acting Deputy Director Madeline Teagan had sat impatiently for a half-hour listening to Agency Director, Air Force Lieutenant General Mark Lowe, as he laid out the agency’s current priorities. Her frustration was boiling over, “General, we are spread too damn thin!” she felt compelled to finally tell him.
He nodded sympathetically. “Unfortunately, you know we have to match up many competing priorities with our limited resources.”
“Of course, general, but if the President wants us to accurately verify if the Iranian leadership is complying with the nuclear agreement, or is their military pursuing nuclear weapons, we need more resources. We all know how good their Republican Guard force is at hiding things from us. And I’m down three senior analysts and the rest are working ten to twelve hour shifts. We’re going to miss something…something important, it’s inevitable.”
Lowe leaned back in his chair and listened patiently. “I understand,” he said. “I fought hard against the budget cuts.”
Madeline Teagan was a twenty-one year veteran of the Defense Intelligence Agency. The five foot six-inch brunette was known by everyone at the agency as Maddy. In a career field dominated by men she had proven she was an outstanding analyst, manager, and a tough competitor. Her competence and aggressiveness in solving tough intelligence puzzles had propelled her up through the ranks.
“Maybe you should talk to the President?” Maddy threw out, half-jokingly.
“My getting fired would not get us more funds,” Lowe replied flatly. “And as I said, the White House wants us to focus our resources on the dangerous situation in Syria and Iraq.” The tall, lanky Lowe had spent much of his military career working in the intelligence community and knew well the importance of having sufficient resources to be able to effectively analyze the mountains of data the agency mined daily.
“Two more analysts would make a big difference general.”
“Maddy, damn it, you know all the intelligence agencies are feeling the pain of shrinking budgets. We all have to adjust…I’m sorry.”
“Thank you for your time general.” What else did I expect? she thought as she left and headed down the hall to her office.
Lowe slowly swiveled his black leather chair to face out the window at the view of the Potomac. She’s right. We will miss something, he figured.
Maddy’s six years as a U.S. Army intelligence officer before taking a civilian position at DIA, had prepared her well. She was a risk-taker and not afraid to ruffle a few feathers defending an unpopular position when she believed the gathered intelligence supported it. At forty-eight she wasn’t about to let her appearance slip even if that meant forcing herself to the gym five times a week for aikido and kick-boxing classes and using that awful treadmill she had at home.
The high-level position had come open after an agency-wide reorganization and a subsequent early retirement. She would remain in the job until a permanent selection was made. The DIA headquarters building at Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling in Washington, D.C. houses senior management and most of the agency’s analysts.
The over-achieving Maddy was determined to break through the ‘glass ceiling’ and become the first woman selected for the agency’s highest civilian post.
Even with the agency directed to focus the majority of their resources on Syria and Iraq, the number one item on Maddy’s agenda remained Iran. She was convinced Iran’s leaders were hiding a nuclear bomb program and that it was continuing in spite of the nuclear agreement. The herculean efforts of the western intelligence agencies over the years had garnered only bits and pieces and the U.N.’s IAEA inspectors had found nothing conclusive. The President was demanding more before he was willing to accuse the Iranians of violating the agreement and reinstate the sanctions.
Maddy sat looking at her in-box, piled high with documents awaiting her review and signature. She slide aside some papers to clear a space on the cluttered desktop and sat wondering, How are the Iranians concealing a nuke bomb program? They signed an agreement and there are inspectors over there. At any rate she knew the general could not undo the budget cuts and appreciated that he was a good manager and leader. She felt guilty for her outburst and wondered if she should call and apologize.
The phone ringing startled Maddy from her thoughts. “Deputy Director Teagan here,” she answered.
“Hello Maddy,” said the voice.
“Hello Lonny,” she recognized the voice as that of CIA Director of the Directorate of Intelligence, Lonny Hernandez.
“I have some information for you, can you go secure?” She inserted her crypto card into the slot in the deskset and after a short delay a small blue LED illuminated.
“What have you got Lonny?”
“One of our agency’s priorities has been to develop a more complete intelligence picture of the Pakistani nuclear weapons program. We have felt for some time there are weak links in their nuclear security…the way they transport material, and people in the program that may have jihadist leanings.”
“Yes, we feel the same way,” she agreed.
“Our station chief in Islamabad said this guy walked into the embassy a couple of days ago and told our security staff he had important information and wanted to speak to somebody in charge,” Hernandez said, adding, “Our station chief met with the man. He claimed he was dismissed from the Pakistani nuclear program six months ago. When he was asked why, he said he was fired after they accused him of being disloyal. He said he had threatened to go public with information about certain people in their p
rogram supplying nuclear weapons related technology to other countries including Iran and North Korea. He also stated there were regular visits by Iranian nuclear scientists.”
“Was his conscience bothering him?” Maddy asked sarcastically.
“Actually, he was probably just cut out of some deal, got pissed and said something…so they fired him,” replied Hernandez.
Maddy jotted down some notes. “That’s it?”
“No, he also told of a shipment of weapons grade U-235 that was hijacked about fifteen years ago while he was the materials manager at their Engineering Research Laboratories. This is where it gets good. He said he took a big risk and made copies of the original inventory documents and the altered ones too…to protect himself. And he says he has some photos taken by their security forces of what was left of the vehicles in the ambushed convoy. He said nobody else knows he has these, and they can be authenticated. All for one low price of one-hundred thousand U.S. dollars…in cash.”
“I thought CIA considered walk-ins notoriously unreliable,” Maddy threw out.
“That’s true, so we put him through a polygraph.”
“And?”
“And he passed…anyway, we are too short-handed to follow up on this lead right now, but I know you’re working on the Iranian nuke issue. I thought I could forward it all to you…and... ”
“Yes, go ahead, please send it…I’m definitely interested.”
“On its way…take care.”
“You too, Lonny.”
* * * *
The early morning sun was shining brightly as chemist Ali Shirazi walked along the concrete walkway leading to the entrance gate to a heavily guarded enclosure. This was part of Iran’s sprawling Parchin military site, located some twenty-five miles southeast of Tehran. This high security area was surrounded by a twelve-foot high fence topped with spirals of razor wire. Mounted on telephone poles around the perimeter were numerous security cameras and floodlights.
Western intelligence agencies had tried unsuccessfully for years to find out exactly what was going on at Parchin. They suspected it was being used for testing explosives as part of a clandestine nuclear weapons program. The agreement Iran’s leaders had signed allowed for inspections of the site, but so far no U.N. inspectors had been allowed to enter the high security area. Iran had continued to resist their requests, insisting it was a militarily sensitive area and exempt from the inspections.
At forty-three, medium height, thinly built and wearing glasses, Shirazi was a mild mannered man who had never found the right woman to marry. He had been a chemistry professor before being recruited by the Republican Guard force. Over a five-year period he had repeatedly demonstrated his talents and was promoted to chief chemical engineer at the facility. He was now in charge of developing highly-specialized explosive compositions. A job which he despised.
Two armed Republican Guard security officers stood at the gate. “Identification!” one the guards demanded, glaring at Shirazi. He unclipped the lanyard and handed the guard his badge. After studying the photo intently and looking repeatedly at Shirazi’s face, he was satisfied Shirazi was indeed the person in the photo. He motioned for the other guard to open the gate and returned the badge.
Within this high security area sits Building Forty-one. Located away from the other buildings, it is an ominous looking, dark grey, windowless two-story concrete and corrugated metal structure incorporating a sizable below ground installation.
What am I doing this for? Shirazi asked himself as he walked up to the front entrance. The government lied to me. They are lying to everyone. This is not right - the world needs to know what is going on here.
He recalled how five years earlier he had been told he was being recruited to work in a research lab at the Parchin site. His work, they had said, would involve developing new explosives for use in the oil and gas exploration industries. But a little over a year after he had begun work he was taken to a room and briefed by an officer of the Republican Guard, “Sit down Ali,” the officer had directed. “You are an excellent chemist so we are promoting you and re-assigning you. You will now work in Building Forty-one. Your work will involve designing special explosives, typically used for implosions. You are not to discuss this work with anyone not connected directly with your assigned tasks. You are doing this for your country,” the officer had sternly reminded him. Shirazi had been too afraid to ask for more details, or to refuse the job. Soon enough he would know exactly what they expected of him.
The guard at the building’s front entrance again checked Shirazi’s identification badge and then opened the door for him.
Building Forty-one had been specially constructed for the explosive testing which would be done there. A football field size area had first been excavated and lined with concrete to create an expansive fabrication shop to house the specialized machinery needed for the project. Much of this machinery was restricted from export to Iran, and so was purchased from persons inside the former Soviet Union by a front company, then trans-shipped through Pakistan, before being quietly sent on to Iran. The building was then erected over it. The bottom level went down thirty feet below ground with a forty by forty foot opening to the main level above near the center of the building. At the far end of the bottom level was the large underground testing pit. It was equipped with sophisticated remote measuring equipment and high-speed cameras. To channel the blast wave from each explosive test down into a chamber filled with sand and gravel, heavy steel barriers were moved into place by hydraulic arms. Above on the main floor the opening was surrounded by safety railing. A metal staircase allowed for access between the main and lower levels. Large and heavy objects were raised and lowered between floors by means of an open-platform hydraulic lift situated in one corner of the opening. To minimize damage from an inadvertent explosion, the main floor of the building was divided into sections separated by concrete walls and the center part of the roof was designed to blow off in the event of a significant overpressure.
Shirazi walked up to the railing, put his hands on it and leaned over to watch. He sadly thought, I should not be doing this. They said my work would be for oil and gas exploration. Now I am helping to make weapons. Terrible weapons. Directly below him the precision machinery used to form and shape explosives and special metal alloys were obediently going about their pre-programmed tasks. The size of a small car, when operated by a well-trained technician each machine was capable of holding the exacting tolerances required to shape the explosives and unique metals used inside a nuclear device. Leaning out a little further he could see a dozen or so technicians in blue coveralls going about the process of preparing the pit for another test. High speed flash X-Ray cameras and digital pressure sensors mounted on remotely-controlled telescoping arms, stood ready. A maze of thick black cables ran up from the testing pit along the walls and ceiling to the second floor mezzanine, terminating in the control room. There, scientists monitored and recorded test results. On the bottom level at the far end opposite the pit, hemispherical shaped blocks of explosives were stacked on shelves. Unworked and partially machined billets of beryllium and other metals lay about on pallets.
Shirazi gazed down as milling machine number three sculpted his latest explosive compound into the desired shape. The precision machine could achieve six-decimal place accuracy. A tiny air pocket or defect too small to be seen with the naked eye, could spell failure.
“We are falling behind schedule.” Shirazi heard the machining supervisor yell out to the workers on the floor below him.
“Ali please, we need to get moving.” He was startled as he turned to see his own supervisor walking up behind him. He put his hand on Shirazi’s shoulder. “Ali, I know you do not like this work, but please try…the Republican Guards are watching us.” Shirazi glanced up at a security camera, shrugged and headed off to his work area.
* * * *
Lowe maneuvered the government sedan through the heavy mid-day Virginia traffic as they made their way to t
he headquarters of the Office of the Director of National Intelligence at Liberty Crossing in Mclean, Virginia. Along the way Maddy told him about the CIA walk-in informant in Pakistan and the possible stolen nuclear material, which rumor had it ended up in Iran. Lowe listened politely, but Maddy could tell he was unimpressed. She knew he had heard much of this same information before.
He parked in the restricted parking lot, shut off the engine, and looked over at Maddy. “It sounds to me like CIA wants us to do their job for them, and we just don’t have the resources.”
“I understand,” she replied, unfastening her seat belt.
They started walking toward the building. “Maddy, as this will be your first meeting with the DNI, you can answer any questions of course, but please don’t volunteer anything,” Lowe instructed.
Maddy rolled her eyes. “No problem general, I will behave,” she assured him, as they entered the lobby and passed through security, scanning their badge chips and continuing on to the elevators. A uniformed guard inserted a key card into the panel and the door on a waiting elevator opened. They stepped on and Lowe pressed the third floor button. When the door again opened, it revealed a lobby with mahogany paneled walls adorned with portraits of several former Presidents. Stepping off the elevator and going to their right they walked up to locked glass doors and a guard stationed at a small desk. He briefly checked their ID badges and nodded. Maddy stepped up to the retinal scanner mounted next to the doors. It obligingly beeped, and she entered the outer conference room waiting area. Lowe then offered his eye to the machine, another beep, and he entered. Yes, I know my station, General, Maddy mused watching the general walk past her and into the conference room.
She followed him in dutifully taking her seat on the perimeter of the room along with the other deputy directors from the various intelligence agencies. Then she watched quietly as the major players took their seats at the conference table. The Director of National Intelligence, Cabot Marshall walked in last and sat down at the head of the table. Short and stocky, he was an ex-Army four-star general. He dispensed with any pleasantries or even introductions, and got the meeting underway right on schedule.