by Jon Sedran
“Lonny, I tell you now I have a very reliable source in Pakistan and he is most certain he saw Krytron tubes being shipped to Iran. These fast switches are typically used to trigger a nuclear weapon and they are restricted from export to Iran.” Chopras held back that his source was one of his own agents using the cover story of being an arms supplier.
“How many?”
“Perhaps six or even eight, but I have no exact figure,” Chopras replied.
“Please send me whatever you have on this,” requested Hernandez, hoping he could get Chopras to use secure electronic means and end the call.
“Lonny, I believe you have seen reports some years back regarding a theft of Pakistani highly enriched uranium that most likely wound up in Iran.”
“Yes, I think I know what you are referring to, but there was never any solid proof.”
“I understand,” said Chopras. “But we were recently approached by a person who claimed to have been with the Pakistani nuclear program for several years. He offered to sell us what he claimed was verifiable information on the fraudulent inventory records used to cover up the loss. I sent word back we weren’t interested, but I told my people your agency might be, and to let this person know that. His story was that in two-thousand one a shipment of ninety-percent U-235 was hijacked on its way to a secret storage site. It was enough material to make at least two devices. To avoid embarrassment, the records were ordered to be changed.”
Hernandez surmised the man was the same one who had met with his station chief at the. embassy in Islamabad. “We have looked into this before Rashid, but please send me what you have electronically and I will have my people follow up.”
“I am just trying to help prevent another Islamic bomb,” offered Chopras, adding, “We have always believed the U-235 went to an underground storage site in Iran. My people have told me the material was perfect for bomb making…and now the Krytron tubes.”
“I appreciate your efforts,” Hernandez had decided not to share that he felt this was likely that same man that showed up at the U.S. embassy. “I will pass it along, all the way up if I have to.”
“I will send you everything I have shortly,” said Chopras, “But there is one more thing, an Iranian named Rostam Tehrani may have been behind the theft…and he continues to try to obtain restricted materials for Iran.”
“I will have him checked out…thank you again, director.”
Hernandez hung up; he could hardly move. He slumped back into the uncomfortable, but ergonomically correct chair the agency had thoughtfully provided for his bad back. I’ll be retiring soon, he thought. Nuclear bomb parts to Iran, again likely little proof. Maddy’s group at DIA can handle this, I think she’s over there now anyway.
Hernandez quickly typed up some notes and printed them out. Then he stamped them ‘TOP SECRET/SI/NF’ in red at the top and bottom. He logged off his computer, picked up his attaché case and his drink, and headed out the door.
“I’m going home, I’m beat,” he announced to a senior analyst sitting at a desk in the outer office.
“Understand sir, take the day off,” he replied, smiling.
Hernandez handed him the notes from the call. “Here are some notes from a conversation I just had with Rashid Chopras, Director of the Khüfīya Bureau in Mumbai. He’s sending us more details on the secure server.”
The analyst looked through the notes. “Will do,”
“Scan them into a PDF file, and get his report off the server as soon as it comes through. Forward everything to DIA, attention ‘Agency Director, Deputy Director, and Chief-Analysis Section’, Priority. I believe they just sent someone over to Pakistan looking into possible Iranian nukes; this might be helpful.”
“I’m on it boss. Now go home, sir.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Maddy wasn’t getting anywhere in her quest for proof of the theft of Pakistani U-235 allegedly by the Iranians. Jamaki had pulled the car onto a side street at a pre-arranged spot in a secluded residential neighborhood of Islamabad. After about five minutes, the man he had met at the embassy approached them on foot. Jamaki put down the driver’s side window and the man leaned down resting his elbows on the window opening. He briefly described the information he had. They asked him a few questions which he hesitatingly answered, while looking nervously up and down the street. Then he said he would be in touch and quickly walked away. They headed back to the consulate with nothing to show for their efforts.
“Gil, you assured me this man would present authenticatable documentation of the theft of highly enriched uranium taken by Iran,” said Maddy, clearly frustrated.
“I’m sorry,” Jamaki replied. “I don’t know why he suddenly got spooked…pun intended.”
“Right,” she said, “He also mentioned he wanted one-hundred thousand dollars for the documents after you had gotten him to agree to take fifty-thousand.”
“He didn’t agree…exactly,” he admitted. “I told him that was as much as we were willing to pay…and he seemed okay with that amount…I mean we’re only buying a few sheets of paper. Maddy, I know this will sound terribly chauvinistic, but maybe I should go with one of my guys the next time…if there is a next time.”
Maddy looked over at him with contempt, ignoring his question. “I have to go back in two days,” she lamented.
“I expect he will call me again,” Jamaki said. “Anyway, I’ve got something back at the office from Langley I want to show you when we get back. It originated from India’s intelligence service.
Maddy sighed. “Something was making that man nervous,” Maddy suggested.
“Maybe the thought of a long prison sentence for spying?” Jamaki shot back, tapping his hands on the steering wheel.
Maddy sat silently.
“Let’s have lunch at the café down the street, before we go back, on me" Jamaki offered. “They have good food and we can sit outside on the patio.”
“Do you think that man is legit?” asked Maddy, as Jamaki parked the car on the street.
“I had him checked him out carefully, and his work history was exactly as he described. Everything he told us about himself checked out.”
Maddy gave him an icy look. “Will he deliver?” she demanded to know. Before he could answer she continued, “I understand about the woman thing. Maybe if I went and put on a Goddamn berka, then he would feel comfortable talking to me?”
Jamaki bit his tongue. “Let’s go eat,” he said, “The restaurant is just up there on the right.” They got out of the car, walked to the restaurant and were promptly seated on the patio.
Maddy was ready for a fight. “I mean really Gil…Mohammed…the prophet…didn’t he hate women?” she asked, with fire in her eyes.
Jamaki took a sip of water while trying to feign interest in the vehicles of all different shapes and sizes passing by.
Maddy was not done. “Look at that woman over there across the street wearing that Goddamn black burka.”
Jamaki turned and looked.
“That must be her loving husband standing next to her holding the leash.” She made finger quotes around the words “loving husband”. Gil got a broad smile on his face but did his best to keep quiet while she continued her tirade.
“You know what I think Gil? She should make her husband wear a Goddamn burka….that’s what I think.” By now Maddy had worked herself into a near frenzy. “I should go over there and give her my damn gun…then tell her to make him wear a burka.”
She made a motion of reaching down into her handbag and putting her hand around what Jamaki was certain was a pistol grip. He wasn’t sure if she just might not do it. He reached over and put his hand on top of hers, just in case.
“I wasn’t really going to do it,” said a dejected Maddy, sliding her hand out of the purse.
Jamaki exhaled loudly. “Maddy, this is their culture; it is how they do it here. It is not for us to judge them,” he reminded her.
“It’s bullshit Gil. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“What about lunch?” Jamaki asked.
“I’m not hungry.”
* * * *
At Iran’s main naval base at Bandar Abbas, seasoned navy Captain Aryo Yavisht looked on as the crew of the one-hundred foot long Parvin class coastal patrol boat, Nahid, made final preparations for a coastal protection mission. This type of boat normally stayed within fifty miles of the Iranian coastline. Although relatively small in size, it was armed with a deadly mixture of weapons. All these boats had recently been upgraded to carry advanced anti-ship cruise missiles, as well as Iran’s newest super-cavitation fast torpedoes launched from tubes, one mounted on each side of the deck.
They had orders to head out at zero five-hundred hours the next morning on a three-day patrol of a jagged stretch of coastline along the Strait of Hormouz. The crew of seventeen sailors would be augmented by three Islamic Republican Guard Corps-Navy, or IRGCN, personnel. The regular navy crew were mostly young and inexperienced and none of the crew had ever been in combat. IRGCN personnel observed their own chain of command and Yavisht hated having to take them along as part of his crew. He despised their arrogant attitude and sometimes dangerous ideas about directly challenging the American naval forces. On a previous patrol one guardsman had failed follow his orders and had even argued with him. When he had reported the incident to his superiors, it was he who was scolded for not allowing the Guardsman to play a move active roll. Tomorrow morning Yavisht and his crew would begin a patrol like no other.
* * * *
Jamaki and Maddy returned to the U.S. embassy compound in Islamabad and spent the afternoon going over recent intelligence reports on Iran. Late in the day Maddy checked and noticed a report had come in for her on the secure JWICS system. She printed it out.
“This came from your Deputy Director Hernandez and was forwarded to DIA,” Maddy said, “The source is India's Khüfīya Bureau. Looks like there may have been a shipment of some specialized electronic switches from Pakistan to Iran. They are the type useful in nuclear weapons…and which are restricted from export to Iran.” She handed him the report.
“Gil, highly enriched uranium and now specialized electronic components. They have no intention of giving up on their nuke bomb program,” she declared, as Jamaki read it.
“CIA doesn’t see it that way and we still need to get our hands on those documents…and then authenticate them,” Jamaki replied, handing her back the report. “The President wants to let the U.N. inspectors have more time…so far they have found nothing. Besides, those electronic parts have commercial uses too.”
Maddy rolled her eyes. “I’m sure they do Gil.”
It was almost five pm when Maddy finished catching up on her e-mails. Jamaki had invited her out to dinner to try to make up for the aborted lunch. They were just getting into the car when Jamaki’s cell phone came to life. “Hello,” he answered. He listened for a short time to the voice on the other end and then said, “Yes, we can meet you…I know the place, we have the money. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” He ended the call and looked at Maddy. “Meeting’s on…I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said, shaking his head. “I have to get the cash out of the safe, be right back.”
“He’ll take the fifty-thousand?” Maddy asked.
“He’ll have to,” yelled Jamaki as he dashed back inside the embassy.
He returned two minutes later, put an envelope in the trunk and then jumped behind the wheel. “He says he has to move fast and yes, I think he’ll take the fifty grand,” Jamaki told her, adding, “He is certain he being watched by the ISI. By the way, keep your gun handy. I am not expecting any trouble, but with fifty-thousand dollars in the trunk.”
Jamaki pulled out onto the busy avenue, then maneuvered the car with great skill through the traffic for two miles and then onto a quiet tree-lined side street. He went a hundred yards further and stopped directly across from small a tobacco shop. Mahal was seated on a stool outside the shop smoking a cigarette. Jamaki motioned with his hand. He stood, looked up and down the street, and then walked over to their car. Jamaki directed Mahal to toss his cigarette and get into the back seat. Before he could even finish closing the car door, Jamaki drove off. In his rearview mirror he could see that two men who been standing about one-hundred feet from the store had jumped onto motorcycles and were following. “This is Badir, he speaks English,” Jamaki said, keeping one eye in the rearview mirror. “Hello, you are CIA too?” he asked. “Uhhm…I’m Maddy, uh…no not CIA, just a friend,” she stammered, thinking she should not have told him her name.
Jamaki looked away shaking his head slightly. Maddy thought she saw him smile.
“We are being followed by two men on motorcycles,” Jamaki interrupted. “Are they friends of yours Badir?”
Mahal looked back briefly then shook his head. “No, I think ISI.” he replied.
“Okay, let’s talk,” Jamaki said as they headed out onto a major avenue crowded with vehicles. “What do you have for us?” Mahal reached beneath his shirt and pulled out several documents. He passed them over the back of the seat and handed them to Maddy. Then he began to point out what was written on the first few pages. Jamaki took the top sheet from her and tried to read it while following along with what Mahal was saying, and do it without crashing.
“Hang on,” Jamaki advised, as he accelerated hard and pulled away from the two motorcycles. He wove in out of traffic for several blocks barely avoiding collisions as Maddy handed him sheets to read while praying they didn’t have a major accident. Finally, he swung the car into an alleyway, tires screeching, went more few more yards and stopped. They all looked back but there was no sign of the two motorcyclists.
“These are the inventory control documents for the uranium?” Jamaki asked, as Maddy handed him two more sheets.
“Yes, you can see they have the official Engineering Research Laboratory and Pakistani government stamps and the program director’s original signature on the unaltered ones,” Mahal explained.
“Those are easy to copy,” Jamaki cautioned, glancing at Maddy and then into the rear-view mirror.
“I do not deal in counterfeits,” Mahal assured them. “I know you would probably have someone kill me.” He reached over the seat and took two more sheets from Maddy and handed them to Jamaki. “Look at these two pages. You can see how the amount of U-235 has decreased by twenty-four pieces and one-hundred twenty kilograms from one day to the next.” He pointed out the different quantities shown on the two inventory sheets.
Jamaki produced a magnifying glass and a small UV lamp from the glove box and studied the sheets intently, going through them one by one.
“They are real…I assure you,” Mahal stated.
“And the photos you mentioned?” Jamaki asked.
Mahal unfolded four sheets of paper, each had a copied photo on it. “Here,” he said, handing them to Jamaki. “One of the top security officers passed them around during their investigation, and forgot to collect them all. I stuffed them into my desk drawer.” Then he added, “During the investigation I overheard our plant manager disclose the location of the attack, and wrote it down…I will throw that in too.”
Jamaki nodded as he reviewed the photos.
“The investigator asked me if I knew of a certain Iranian national named Rostam Tehrani. I told him no, but I believe he is in some way connected to their government.”
Maddy looked at Jamaki who just shook his head.
“Everything I am telling you is the truth,” Mahal insisted.
Jamaki glanced over at Maddy and then looked back at Mahal. It was obvious Mahal was holding back some information, but the documents appeared legitimate. “Okay, I will give you fifty-thousand for everything.”
Mahal smiled weakly. “I agreed to fifty thousand for the inventory sheets and fifty thousand for the photos. So it is all worth one-hundred thousand dollars,” he confidently announced.
Jamaki glared at him. “We agreed to fifty-thousand for everything, no more…and th
ese photos are poor copies, do you have the originals”
Mahal looked at Maddy, who quickly looked away. “American money…cash?” he inquired, ignoring the question.
Jamaki nodded. “Yes.”
“Mahal sighed. “Okay,” he said.
“Give me the documents,” Jamaki instructed Maddy. She handed them to him and he got out and walked to the back of the car. Mahal looked around apprehensively as Jamaki lifted the trunk lid. He retrieved an envelope from a small concealed compartment and placed the documents there instead. Then he closed the trunk lid, got back in and handed the envelope to Mahal. He promptly tore it open and thumbed through a stack of U.S. currency.
“It’s all there,” Jamaki assured him.
“I trust you,” he replied, closing the torn envelope and stuffing it down the front of his pants.
“Do you want a ride somewhere?” Jamaki asked.
“Yes, I will give you directions as we go. It is not far.”
Jamaki slipped the transmission into ‘Drive’ and they sped off down the alleyway. He took a quick look in the rearview mirror; the two motorcyclists were coming up behind them.
“We have company,” he announced. Maddy and Mahal looked back as Jamaki pushed the gas pedal down hard. Just as he did, a sedan suddenly appeared directly in front of them and coming straight at them. Jamaki slammed on the brakes and swerved to the right, going part way up a driveway. The sedan stopped directly behind them, blocking them in. They were out of good options.
The two motorcyclists pulled up next to Jamaki’s car and quickly jumped off their bikes, producing handguns. Maddy and Jamaki both got out their side arms. Three men leaped from the sedan, guns drawn. “Security Service” one yelled in English. Another opened the back door, dragged Mahal out and threw him against the car. “Put your hands up and get out,” one of the men directed. The others all stood in combat stances pointing their weapons directly at Jamaki and Maddy.
“We better do as they say; I think I recognize the driver as ISI,” Jamaki said. Maddy slid her handgun back into her purse and Jamaki put his between the seat and the console. They both got out of the car slowly, hands raised. Maddy walked around the front of the car and stood next to Jamaki.