Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

The card did the trick. The guard gave Ghasem a sloppy, kiss-my-ass salute and we were on our way. A quarter of a mile later we arrived at the entrance to the underground complex. Ghasem parked, and we walked over to the entrance.

I snapped some photos with the camera in my lapel. Digital photography has advanced so far that every person in the developed world has a tiny camera embedded in their cell phone. This was the same technology, without the phone.

This being the third world, there were no plastic IDs with photographs and embedded magnetic strips, nor were there any computers to read them. Security consisted of four soldiers-officers, I assumed-who sat around a folding table at the entrance. They, too, looked at Ghasem’s card and listened to him introduce me. Herr Reinicke. One of the soldiers was eyeing me, so I met his eyes, rolled the dice and asked, “ Sprechen Sie Deutsch ?”

He gave me a blank look.

We walked into the tunnel and boarded an electric trolley, which set off on a journey into the mountain. Ghasem gave our destination to the trolley operator. The caverns were huge, at least twenty-five feet high. I asked Ghasem about that, and he said they had to be large to get the rock-drilling and earth-moving machinery in and out.

We rode for at least eight minutes. As we approached an intersection, the trolleyman pointed left or right, and a man stationed there threw a manual switch, changing the track.

Arranged here and there were large curtains hanging from the ceiling, radiation curtains. There was just room in the curtains for the trolley to get by. Due to the constant change of direction, I assumed the curtains were reasonably effective in trapping radiation.

When we got to the end of the trolley line, we went into a dressing room, where we donned one piece antiradiation suits, complete with gloves, helmets and radiation-absorbent badges. Ghasem knew the guards, who didn’t even ask to see his pass. Nor did they ask him about me. On the overhead were four surveillance cameras, silent sentinels. I wondered where the camera control room was.

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.

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.”