by Jon Sedran
“This is Ayatollah Javadi,” the voice on the phone announced.
Armami took a deep breath, “How may I assist you ayatollah?”
“These setbacks at the hands of the Zionists are intolerable,” declared one very agitated Javadi. “The Zionist entity is a dagger pointed at the heart of Islam.”
He sat silently for a few moments, before finally getting up the courage to speak. “I have asked for more people, but they tell me the budget is tight.”
“By Allah, Armami, you must use what you have and redouble your efforts to stop the damn Zionists! You are not being creative enough with your interrogation methods…do you understand me?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Emud el Batam was one of our top chemical engineers and an expert in nuclear materials. His loss is another setback for us. This is unacceptable,” Javadi yelled into the phone.
Armami tried desperately to fend off Javadi’s verbal assault. “I understand. I will do whatever …”
Javadi cut him off. “The Mossad are using our own people to spy for them…and this must be stopped! If our program fails because of the Zionist agents, I will hold you personally responsible.”
“I under…..”
Before Armami could finish, Javadi hung up.
CHAPTER FOUR
“He’s coming around again,” the nurse exclaimed as she entered Shirazi’s room at Tavanir Hospital in Tehran. It had been two days since the explosion; now the fog in his head was slowly clearing. Two nurses were looking down at him as he lay in bed. He did not know where he was or what had happened. He lifted his head a little, but it fell back to the pillow. Is this a bad dream? He wondered.
A second nurse gentle lifted his head and placed another pillow atop his, then left the room.
“Where am I?” Shirazi asked in barely audible voice. Nothing around him was familiar. The room was filled medical equipment. He slowly tilted his head to the side to look around the room. A display screen next to his bed showed what appeared to be his vital signs. Moving his left arm he noticed to two small clear plastic tubes coming out from under white tape and going up to plastic liquid-filled bag hanging on a pole next to his bed.
“Careful, you will pull the lines out,” the nurse cautioned him. “You’re in the hospital…you are lucky to be alive.”
“How did I get here?” a groggy Shirazi mumbled.
The nurse smiled. “You were brought here by ambulance. Do you not remember anything?” she asked.
“No,” he responded weakly, “May I have some water?” He tried to recall what had happened. “I remember leaving the building where I work and walking toward the gate. I…I… felt this scorching heat against my back and a sensation of flying through the air. When I tried to get back up, I couldn’t move.” He took a sip of water with help from the nurse. “ I..I..saw a large cloud of dust and smoke rising up from all around me…then I thought I heard sirens begin to wail. Then nothing…it was like a bad dream.”
“Just rest,” directed the nurse. “You took quite a shock.”
Shirazi took another sip. “How long have I been here?”
“About two days, but…” the nurse stopped mid-sentence. Shirazi noticed she was backing away from his bed. He turned his head slightly to the right, fighting the pain. Two men had entered the room and approached his bedside. Both wore the uniform of a Republican Guard officer. Shirazi recognized the taller one was from the plant and had been the one who briefed him originally about his duties in the program. The second officer motioned for the nurse to leave the room, and then he closed the door behind her.
The officer from the plant looked down at Shirazi for a moment, then at the bedside monitor. “Good to see you are going to live...when you are better you will take a polygraph test.”
“Why?” Shirazi asked, weakly.
“We know you do not approve of the program,” replied the second officer, tersely.
“But I didn’t do anything,” Shirazi protested.
The taller officer stood glaring at him. “Then you will pass easily, and if not…you will pay,” he declared.
“Pay? Pay for what?”
The officers glanced at each other. “The explosion was not an accident…and we think you may have been involved,” the second officer stated coldly.
“What? Explosion? I don’t remember any explosion…and I have not done anything wrong,” Shirazi pleaded.
“Good, then you will have no problem with the test,” he replied. He motioned toward the door and the two men headed out. The taller officer glanced back at Shirazi. “We will return for you soon.”
* * * *
Russian nuclear technician Vladimir Seltzen was just finishing lunch in the Natanz installation’s cafeteria, when his cell phone rang.
“Comrade Seltzen, how is the training progressing?” asked the voice on the phone, whom Seltzen immediately knew was that of the Russian Nuclear Shared Technology Program Director.
“Very well Comrade, we have almost finished turning over of all aspects of the operation to them.”
“Good, you have been at this for two years now. We just received word the Iranians want all our people out of Natanz in two months’ time…anyway, the second reactor at Bushehr will start construction soon and we will need everyone on that project.”
“Yes, I saw the plans,” said Seltzen, adding, “But I was hoping to come back to work on the Arak heavy water reactor.”
“I do not think so comrade…I was informed foreign workers are no longer allowed there.”
“Too bad, I really wanted to work on that heavy water design,” said a disappointed Seltzen.
“Getting the Natanz site up and running was a big challenge. You and your team did very well, Moscow is pleased. The Natanz enrichment complex is the showpiece of Iran’s nuclear power program.”
“Thank you. Anyway I am anxious to get home. Natasha just e-mailed me another photo from Minsk, we are expecting our first child in three months,” said Seltzen. He paused for a moment. “I miss her comrade.”
“You will be home soon enough.”
Seltzen cupped his hand next to the microphone and glanced around. Then he quietly said, “She is so cute, short brown hair. You know there are no pretty women here…and no good vodka.”
“Good, then you will not give in to temptation…Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.” Seltzen slid his cell phone back into his belt holster and headed back to his office. No working at Arak, were the Iranians hiding something there? he wondered.
What his boss did not know, and would not be told; Seltzen had been recruited by Russia’s Security Service, known as SVR, to report on uranium enrichment levels and any suspicious activities. Over the past two years he had dutifully reported any unusual occurrences to SVR headquarters in Moscow. He would have to let them know about the changing situation.
* * * *
From three-hundred miles up, the images taken by the KH-11 satellite operated by the National Reconnaissance Office, showed Iran’s Arak nuclear reactor site to be fairly typical for a heavy water type reactor. Examination of the photos by nuclear power experts confirmed the buildings of various shapes and sizes were what would be expected at such a facility. The Iranians had told the world this reactor, designated IR-40, was designed to make medical and industrial isotopes. The reactor’s original design incorporated features making it difficult to convert it to use in plutonium production for nuclear weapons. But the Israelis had demonstrated with their French-built Damona reactor, no obstacle is too difficult to overcome if the motivation is there. This was not lost on the Iranian leadership.
The Arak reactor site was defended by at least three anti-aircraft missile batteries set up on the nearby hills. For good measure they had sprinkled a dozen or so anti-aircraft gun batteries around.
Today, an IAEA compliance inspection of the reactor site had just concluded and revealed nothing out of the ordinary. The reactor’s control room was carefully checked and records
were reviewed; all was found to be in order. Inspectors noted the reactor had experienced no suspicious shutdowns or other telltale signs of possible plutonium production. The plant’s manager had met with the inspectors and reassured them the reactor was only for peaceful nuclear purposes.
As soon as the IAEA team had departed, he returned to his office. Waiting for him was Dr. Benuit. “The inspectors have left,” he announced as he entered and closed the door behind him.
“Good, they found nothing, I take it?”
“No, I showed them everything they asked to see, exactly as you directed…and they reviewed all our records.”
Benuit nodded. “And you have finished all the upgrades?”
“All done,” replied the manager, continuing, “The first plutonium production tests were completely successful.”
“Excellent…and the control room?”
The manager smiled broadly. “The inspectors were completely fooled. It looks just like the other one, and is completely functional. They checked all the readouts on the gauges and displays,” he said, beaming.
“You did well, thank you,” Benuit said, turning to leave. Walking out through the outer office he noticed a portrait of Ayatollah Khomeini hanging on the wall and looking down with an icy stare.
“I’m sure you would approve,” he mused.
* * * *
Maddy completed her usual morning routine, feed the cat, pack the purse, make lunch and find the car keys. She pushed the button on the garage door remote, started the engine and headed out to fight the one battle she could never win, the Washington D.C. morning rush-hour Beltway crush. Crawling along with all the other civil servants, lawyers, and lobbyists, she sat thinking, if prices weren’t so damn high, I would sell the house and move closer to work. The kids are gone and I’m all alone in that big damn house.
The long hours and six-day workweeks had cost Maddy her marriage. Mark had been an understanding husband at first. They had had long discussions about her important role in the fight against terrorism. But over the years the cancelled vacations and the sixty-hour workweeks had taken its toll. They had been to see counselors, but to no avail. They still kept in touch and Mark took her out to dinner on her birthday. They were proud of their two kids, who were both pursuing advanced degrees at Ivy League colleges.
She thought about the long-winded monologue she watched on T.V. last night, delivered to the General Assembly by the U.S. Ambassador to the U.N. He had rambled on about how the Islamic Republic of Iran must continue to show full compliance with the nuclear agreement in order to prevent the reinstatement of sanctions. He added that some in the west remained suspicious of Iran’s true intentions. Maddy remembered watching as the camera panned the room, showing near-comatose delegates politely pretending to listen. Some were looking down, obviously texting or surfing the internet to relieve their boredom as the ambassador droned on. He had felt it important to again remind everyone the agreement required inspectors be granted unfettered access to Iran’s nuclear facilities.
That was the last thing Maddy was conscious of until the five am buzzer had returned her again from the dream world. Now, ten grueling bumper-to-bumper miles and forty-five minutes later, she pulled into her reserved parking spot at DIA headquarters. Past the metal detectors, through the main lobby, a latte from the coffee stand, then the elevator up to the sixth floor. Finally, down the hall to the bullet-resistant glass security door allowing entry to the executive suites. Maddy swiped her ID card in the security device and the latch clicked open. The morning greetings with the receptionist and office staff came next, then straight to her office.
The wall adjacent to her desk was decorated with three marksmanship plaques. Her dad and the Army had taught her to shoot well. She sat down and inserted her crypto card into the keyboard. Anything new on the J-WICS, she wondered. Logging onto the DIA’s computer system and e-mail network, she scanned for anything urgent, then went over to the classified information storage filing cabinet and unlocked it. Lastly, she returned to her desk and checked her Outlook calendar, thinking again about the U.N. speech the night before. The ambassador had not mentioned the four non-signatory countries which are known to possess nuclear weapons. He had also conveniently not mentioned Israel is the only one of those four which has never publically acknowledged having nukes. It was all political bullshit anyway.
Barillas got off the elevator and headed for Maddy’s office. He had called ahead to tell her he had some new information on Iran. The receptionist mumbled, “Good morning,” and barely glanced up as he walked by her desk.
Knocking lightly on Maddy’s door, he let himself in. “I’ve got something interesting, Director.”
“An Iranian smoking gun I hope,” she said looking up from her monitor, “And it’s still Maddy, Aaron, she gently reminded him. Please, sit down…what have you got?”
Barillas handed her a copy of the transcript he was holding. It had the NSA logo at the top and was marked ‘TOP SECRET/SCI/NF’. “Maybe a smoking gun,” he offered. “This is an NSA cell phone intercept, it’s a conversation between IRGC General Namazi in Tehran, and a person NSA voice analysis identified with ninety-eight percent certainty, as the explosive testing manager at their Parchin site.” Maddy reviewed the transcript as Barillas explained, “They are discussing detonation velocities, shaped charges…and there are some comments on an air lens.”
An air lens was something they had seen mentioned before. She quickly Googled it. Her query yielded one important possibly related topic titled, ‘Explosive Lenses’. There was a lot of information at the website explaining the use of shaped explosive lenses in a nuclear weapon.
“Did CIA see the transcript?” she asked.
“Yes, I spoke with one of their people, he said it was more likely for use in a shaped charge warhead for their new cruise missile,” Barillas replied, adding, “But I think not. Look at the last item, “…[garbled] uniform compression at both points.”
Maddy thought for a moment. “Let’s give research a call and get Dave Parsons opinion on this. He knows nukes.”
A quick push of the speakerphone auto-dialer got him on the line and she requested he come up to her office.
The receptionist was on the phone and waved Parsons past. He entered and took a seat at the conference table.
Maddy opened a folder. “Dave, we need to pick your brain on some implosion stuff. What we have here is an NSA cell phone intercept between IRGC General Namazi and the explosive testing manager at the Parchin site,”
Barillas passed the transcript to him.
“They are discussing detonation velocities and also an air lens. I Googled explosive lenses and it all fits,” Maddy said passionately, as Parsons read through the intercept.
He nodded and set it aside. “Director, I saw where our case officer in Baghdad reported his contact told him they are just testing shaped charges for a new deep penetrating conventional warhead…and I believe CIA still agrees with that assessment.”
Maddy’s face turned red. “Then why won’t they let the Goddamn U.N. inspectors have full access to every facility?” she demanded to know. “Look, we all know their story; Iran is moving ahead with a peaceful nuclear power program. But we also know that is bullshit…and look here’s another voice intercept…it was garbled and still partially encrypted…but it is General Namazi talking to the Fordow site director. Here are some of the key words NSA’s XKEYSCORE picked up: Enrichment levels, accelerated process, and centrifuges too… and there were several references to IAEA inspections. Why would the head the Republican Guard force care about uranium enrichment levels?”
She’s obsessed with this, Parsons thought, again looking at the transcript while Maddy continued going through the collected intelligence to try to make her case.
The two men listened quietly, both nodding occasionally. Finally, Parsons spoke up, “Director, with all due respect, we need more…and the IAEA inspectors have found nothing,” he groused.
Barillas
cringed.
Maddy closed the folder and sighed; she could see she had not convinced him. “Thank you both for coming. I know the volume of data we collect is mind-boggling and we can’t get to all of it. I really appreciate all your efforts…you are keeping America safe.”
As the men got up and headed for the door, Maddy was entertaining conflicting thoughts, The Iranians are good, very good; CIA is misreading them. They are committed to building a bomb…or are they? Is my quest for promotion clouding my judgment? My God, most of this intelligence is contradictory and vague; how can we reach any Goddamn conclusion that will be believable?
* * * *
It had been almost two weeks since Shirazi arrived at the hospital. Nurses had brought him copies of the Tehran Times to read to help pass the time, but he had not found any articles about the explosion.
The nurse pressed the button on the side of the Shirazi’s bed to raise the top section and helped him to sit up on the edge of the bed. “Ali you are doing much better. I see you are now able to walk around on your own. We may be able to send you home today or tomorrow.”
“Thank you; I do feel better,” replied Shirazi.
“That is good Ali, go put on your clothes,” directed a male voice coming from behind him. “You can leave us,” the voice directed the nurse, who quickly obeyed and left the room.
“Who are you?” asked Shirazi, as he turned to see two men in Republican Guard uniforms standing behind him.
“You will come with us, we are just going to ask you some questions,” said the first man.
“Put on your clothes,” the second man loudly directed.
Shirazi painfully complied. The men escorted him from the hospital to a waiting unmarked car, placing him in the back seat. Then they quickly got in, one sitting on either side of him. The driver immediately stepped on the gas and accelerated hard into traffic.