THE INCREMENT

by David Ignatius

  “Don’t say anything, Harry, because it would be tedious. And it would be irrelevant. We all have our weaknesses. You just haven’t been creative enough to discover yours.”

  “Shut up, Adrian. And get your nose out of that woman’s pussy for long enough to sober up. We have work to do. I think I just figured out what the game is here.”

  “Oh, jolly good. So pleased. I would hate to think that this was just a dirty little weekend in Ashgabat.”

  They walked into the villa and found the anteroom where Jeremy was sitting at his monitoring station. Molavi had gone back to his bedroom to take a nap, the young officer said. Harry asked Jeremy to leave the room, and then closed the door. He poured some coffee for Adrian and told him to drink it. The British officer took a few gulps, and then helped himself to a piece of a Toblerone candy bar that was sitting next to Jeremy’s computer.

  “Are you back among the living?” asked Harry.

  “Yes, more or less. And don’t pay too much attention to my extracurriculars, Harry. That’s always been part of my operational style.”

  “No apology necessary,” said Harry.

  “That’s lucky, because I’m not apologizing. What’s up? Did you break the bank with our Iranian friend? Hope so.”

  “I got a lot of good stuff. So much, actually, that I have a question for you. Can you make a secure call to Kamal Atwan if we need to?”

  “Sure. That shouldn’t be a problem. What do you need to know?”

  “I want to know if he has shipped any equipment to Mashad, for starters. How would we make the call? Can you use the communications suite at the embassy? Because I want this done in a SCIF, or someplace just as tight. For real.”

  “I’m sure Her Majesty’s Government would oblige. But there’s no need to use the embassy gear to contact Atwan.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s right here in Ashgabat. He wanted to come along in case we needed anything. Turkmenistan is one of his accounts, shall we say. He keeps a villa here. He has so many strings tied around the leadership, he might as well be Edgar Bergen. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Christ! You are out of control, do you know that?”

  “Possibly, Harry. But it’s too late to do anything about that now. And besides, so far everything is working out dandy. So settle down, if you please. I will see if I can raise Brother Atwan. He’s probably sticking hundred-dollar bills in the baschi’s trouser pockets right now.”

  Harry and Adrian traveled to Atwan’s villa, a few doors down from the presidential palace. That seemed to Harry the most secure alternative, or to be more accurate, the least insecure. The house was furnished less elegantly than Atwan’s place in Mayfair, but only slightly so. There were fine carpets on the floors and paintings on the walls, including what looked to Harry like a Degas watercolor of racehorses at the track. And there was a British staff in place as well—a butler, maids, a cook. They seemed to live here permanently and maintain the place in perfect Atwanian order—all the foods and wines and sundries that the chief preferred, always ready for his arrival, no matter how infrequent or unlikely that might be. Harry wondered how many of these well-appointed bolt-holes Atwan had secreted around the world.

  “My dear Mr. Fellows, always such a pleasure.” Atwan kissed Harry thrice on the cheek. “I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of joining you here. I do like some adventure, you know.”

  “I’m actually glad to see you here, Kamal Bey. I prefer to travel a little more anonymously, normally. But under the circumstances it makes things easier. I need your help, in a hurry.”

  “How nice. I cannot think of a greater pleasure than being useful to someone who really needs my help.”

  “Can we go somewhere private? I’m sure you trust your people. But in a country like this, the walls have ears.”

  “Quite so. I have a room that’s used for my private business. It’s swept every day when I am here. I brought one of my London technicians along for just that purpose. He made a check a few hours ago.”

  Atwan led Harry past a library, which from the look of it had nearly as many volumes as the one in London. Down a hallway was a door that led into a windowless room equipped with several computers, a Bloomberg terminal, and a flat-screen television tuned to Fashion TV. The models, stunning young girls from Siberia and Belarus and God knows where, were prancing down the runway, planting their high heels in a way that made their tiny torsos pivot as if they were on cocktail skewers.

  “My favorite program,” said Atwan, switching off the television. “When I see a woman I particularly like, I place an order. I have a friend at one of the modeling agencies, you see. And many of these dear girls are available, for a price. You wouldn’t think so, but there it is. They are exotic caged animals, and they know it. Peacocks on promenade. When I find the right girl, available, you know, I will send her as a special gift to a friend. Or send him, where that is appropriate. The boys are not so expensive. I will ship them abroad all tied up in ribbons and bows. It’s so much nicer than the usual sort of gift. The personal touch.”

  “Not my problem,” said Harry, taking a seat in one of the black leather chairs in Atwan’s little hideaway. “It’s just business.”

  “I am so glad to hear you say that, my dear. That’s a very enlightened attitude. Just business indeed, and how can we afford to make value judgments when it comes to business? Now, my dear, how can I help you do business? Please. I am at your service.”

  Harry looked around the room. The door was closed tight. The only people inside were him, Adrian, and Atwan. He hated to share secrets with people he didn’t fully trust, but he had no choice.

  “The Iranians have a secret weapons laboratory in Mashad. At least it was unknown to me until a few minutes ago. Its cover name is Ardebil Research Establishment. Have you ever heard of it?”

  Atwan paused and thought a moment. “I don’t think so. We have shipped to Jamaran, and Esfahan, and Parchin, and Natanz, and Shiraz. But never to Mashad.”

  “We know about those other places. But Mashad is new to you, too?”

  “I can check, if you would like. I took the liberty of bringing my records with me. They are very portable.”

  The Lebanese businessman reached into his pocket and removed a computer flash drive monogrammed with his initials. He turned to the bank of computers and plugged the little drive into the USB port of one of the processors. He clicked open the drive, and in a few moments the screen displayed a spread sheet of business records.

  “You’re good,” said Harry. “The normal billionaire arms dealer would have someone else do that for him.”

  “I couldn’t afford to hire such a person, my dear. The only assets I truly possess are the secrets I keep. I cannot entrust those to anyone.”

  Atwan studied the screen, looking for Ardebil Research Establishment among dozens of Iranian company names to which his far-flung affiliates and hidden fronts had shipped equipment over the years. He found nothing in this first scan; then he went back and looked for any business concerns in Mashad that might have touched his net. Again he came up dry.

  “What did you say they were doing at this facility in Mashad?”

  “I didn’t,” said Harry. “But my guess is that it parallels the work at Tohid. So they would be doing the basics of weaponization. Work on a trigger, probably with a neutron emitter. Work on timing the firing. Work on miniaturization of the core. Materials science, maybe. The key thing is the neutron trigger.”

  “Well, let’s look, shall we?” Atwan went to a different document on his flash drive, this one organized by products sold. He went to the subcategory for neutron generators and the related instruments for testing and simulation. Tohid had been a customer, all right. Many shipments through various cutouts, over many years. But there was nothing for a company called Ardebil or for any concern in Mashad.

  “Dear me,” said Atwan, “they seem to have gotten past us. I wonder how anyone could have sold them this sort o
f equipment without it coming to my attention. That disturbs me, more than you might imagine.”

  “Accidents do happen,” said Adrian. “Even to you.”

  Atwan ignored his genial British friend, who was still a bit red-faced and giddy from his earlier activities. It was as if he could smell the sex on Adrian, and he didn’t like it. Atwan was peculiar in that respect; he used debauchery freely enough to get what he wanted, but he was not a debauched man himself. That was his power—to use others without being used.

  “Perhaps you could get us something to drink, Adrian. Some tea, perhaps. A whiskey if you prefer. I’ll have a cup of tea. And a sweet biscuit, please. How about you, Mr. Fellows?”

  Harry said that he would have tea and a biscuit, too. Adrian knew that he was being sent away, but he didn’t seem to mind. He had taken the master’s shilling, many millions of them. And he did as he was asked.

  “This is just about our worst nightmare, isn’t it?” said Harry, turning to Atwan once they were alone. “I mean, we’re spinning them for all it’s worth on one side of the house—so much so that they’re getting suspicious that we’re playing games. Meanwhile, there’s another side of the house we didn’t even know about. And over there, they’ve got a whole other program on ice. As soon as they get spooked about Track A, they’ll go to Track B. And then we’re fucked. Pardon my French.”

  “That is the problem, my dear Mr. Fellows. Quite right. But it has an answer. We are not without resources. Certainly, I am not without resources. The question is how to use them.”

  Harry rubbed his forehead, as if by that action he could bring forth a plan. What were the tools he had to use? How quickly did he have to play his next move? What could Atwan’s network do quickly that might make the pieces of this puzzle fit together the right way? In the space of a few minutes, he had gone from resenting Atwan’s presence to depending on him for advice and operational support.

  “Let me ask you some questions, Kamal. Do you mind if I call you that? I promise that I won’t steal anything from your cookie jar or order one of your fashion models for Christmas.”

  “Of course you can, my dear. And I am sorry that you will not accept a present or two, but I quite understand.”

  “So, for starters, I’m wondering how quickly you could penetrate the supply chain for the Mashad facility. So that you could get your gizmos in, and make the equipment there as unreliable as the other tools the Iranians are playing with.”

  “Months, I am afraid. If at all. The Iranians are not stupid. None of their suppliers are, either. They go to very great lengths to avoid precisely the tricks that we are using. They accompany all their shipments. They have twenty-four-hour guards at all their warehouses. They do not hire anyone in the chain whom they do not know, and even then they test them for loyalty. To build my network has taken the better part of thirty years. I am using now penetrations that I set down when I was starting out in the business. I can work through many governments, it is true. But I cannot conjure up companies and shipments out of thin air.”

  Harry nodded. That was the answer he had expected. That was the reason the CIA had gotten out of the sabotage business. It was too damned difficult, it took too long, and it cost too much. And it was vulnerable to any asshole scientist who had been recruited for the mission but got pissed off and decided to tell someone about it. But intelligence work was the art of the possible; you used the tools you had in hand. And Harry’s hands were not empty. Sleeping in the nearby safe house was a human key that could unlock the door that Atwan thought was impassable.

  “Kamal, I want you to do a little thought experiment with me, okay? I want you to imagine that you had access to the research lab at Mashad. Assume you could get in and out safely. Is there something you could put in play, into the neutron generator, or into the computers, that would achieve the desired result?”

  “Meaning to poison the project?”

  “To poison it, but without a trace. So that if the Iranians turned to that facility, assuming that it was clean, they would end up screwing themselves. But they wouldn’t know it for years. Do you think that would be possible?”

  “Oh yes. I mean, my dear sir, that is what we do. We need only a few minutes’ access to the equipment to do our little business.”

  “Would you sabotage the neutron generator?”

  “Oh no. They would build another. Or buy one. The oil companies use them now, you know, for seismic work. No, the better way would be to manipulate the computer that does the simulation of the imploding core and the operation of the neutron generator. That’s how they test a bomb without actually testing it, you see?”

  “How in the hell would you do that?”

  “We have ways to delete bits of code, pieces of chip, slices of memory. We can do brain surgery without ever cutting open the skull. We just have to be nearby. But it is access that is the problem. So you are asking me, if I could fly, could I fly to Mashad? And I answer yes. But of course, I cannot fly.”

  “Maybe I can,” said Harry. “Or maybe I can put wings on someone.”

  They talked into the evening. The tea and biscuits were replaced with whiskey, and to Harry’s surprise, even Kamal Atwan had a drink.

  And Harry told Atwan about Karim Molavi; he tried to say as little as possible about the boy’s background, but the Lebanese had a way of filling in the gaps. He seemed almost to know the story as Harry was telling it.

  It would work, Atwan said. There was a special tool his people used, when they had proximity to a computer but couldn’t get inside. It used an electronic pulse to alter computer circuits. It needed a lot of power to do its work, but that could be arranged, too. Atwan hadn’t brought this gear with him, but he knew where it was in London. He sent an encrypted email message to his senior technical assistant back home. He told him to gather the necessary components and then fly that night to Ashgabat on another of Atwan’s ubiquitous GasPort Ltd. jets.

  Harry asked if the sabotage could be done remotely, without Karim having to take the risk of inserting a flash drive or rewriting code.

  “As you like,” said Atwan. “We need to have someone inside with our device. It is better than rewriting code. Your boy will not have to plug that device into anything. But he must plug himself back into Iran. Do you think he will do that?”

  Harry’s brow furrowed. He didn’t like to think about this part.

  “He’ll do it if I ask him. That’s my problem. He will do whatever I say.”

  Once the London technical team was on the way, they could all relax a little. Harry had a plan—a complicated and risky one, but not an impossibility. He nursed his Scotch; he still had a lot of work to do, and not many hours left. He had already begun thinking through the details in his mind, and he’d had one side talk with Adrian, when Atwan was sending his emails to London and ordering up his private air force. But it was still very much a work in progress, and Atwan knew it.

  “You will need help getting the Iranian boy back in,” said the Lebanese.

  “Adrian has his team. They are multitalented.”

  Harry shot the British officer a look, and he could see that Adrian winced. Harry felt sorry for him, suddenly. He was an addict; he wasn’t in control of himself.

  “They’re very good on the ground,” Harry continued. “Much better than anything anyone else has. And the kid trusts them. They got him across the border once, so they can do it again.”

  “Adrian’s team will need local help from the Turkmen, I should think,” said Atwan. “Mashad is in their neighborhood. I would be very pleased to assist.”

  “With your own people, or with the baschi? I don’t want to widen this circle any more than we have to.”

  “My dear, in these matters, they are all my people. National boundaries are impermanent. Personal loyalties are not.”

  “What could you do?”

  “To get to Mashad, you would be wise to cross the border from Saraghs, in the eastern portion of this mercifully unpopulated n
ation. I have friends who can make arrangements for transport.”

  “And crossing the frontier?”

  “Well, guards are guards, aren’t they? A border is not an impermeable wall, but a collection of very permeable individuals. That is my specialty, I think.”

  “I need all the help I can get, Mr. Atwan. I threw the sextant overboard a while ago. When we do the operational scrub tomorrow morning, you sit in with me and Adrian. We’ll make the pieces fit.”

  Atwan sat back in his chair, but not magisterially. He looked uncomfortable for a moment, and Harry wasn’t certain why. This was a man who seemed supremely at ease in just about any situation. But there was something that was nagging at his conscience, if that was the right word. Eventually he took a long pull on his whiskey and spoke up.

  “Your Iranian friend, the young scientist, do you plan on getting him out again?”

  “Yes,” said Harry. “Absolutely. That’s a requirement.”

  Atwan measured Harry, at the same time weighing a question of his own.

  “But that will be quite difficult, won’t it? It will be hard enough to get him back into Iran, but it can be done. It will be hard to get him access to Mashad, but it can be done. Yet surely, my friend, at some point the alarm bells will go off. A nuclear scientist goes missing. Foreign spies running about the country on secret missions. I am sorry, but at some point the music stops.”

  “They don’t know Dr. Molavi is missing yet. They think he went home sick, and it’s still the weekend. By the time they’ve gone looking for him, it will be too late. He will have done his dirty work in Mashad, and he’ll be out.”

  “But the Iranian investigators are already suspicious of him. Didn’t you tell me that? He has been called in for talks. People know about him.”

  Harry looked at Atwan curiously. He was sure he hadn’t discussed anything Molavi had said about interrogation during the debriefing that morning. Atwan could see the suspicion in his eyes, and he eased back in his tone.