by Jim Carroll
Here I was back in Ward 350 again, now for five years more of enferadi.
But God intervened again. Rashidi came to my cell thirty minutes after the trial. “I want you to see how kind I am. You have a choice. You could remain here in your cell for the next five years. You must understand that may entail more of the physical trials to which you were formerly subjected, only worse. Or you may accept the government’s generous offer, which I’ve arranged.” He handed me a letter from the Organization for Investment Economic and Technical Assistance. It read:
“Dear Mr. Al-Tamimi,
We invite you to participate in a project, which is designed to enhance the world status of our great country. You will find the work in the Technical Assistance Organization to be very satisfying. We hope you accept our kind offer, and we welcome you as an honored guest.
Sincerely,
Mahmoud Rashidi”
Surely my assistance was not designed for good. I didn’t know the assignment, but there was no way they were going to give me an honorable job. There were plenty of unemployed Persians for that sort of work. It had to be something underhanded. The Iranian government wanted a scapegoat to take the blame if illegal activity was discovered. That was to be me.
Unlike my colleague Kokabee, who had taken the high road, I didn’t refuse. The thought of continuing in Evin for five years, with the on-again, off-again torture, was more than I could stand. Given the choice of working outside the prison, I could not decline. How could anyone choose Evin? How did Kokabee resist? His honorable choice was impossible for me. I could handle no more of Evin. There was no will left within me to refuse the offer.
CHAPTER 9
THE BOMB MAN
In Iran, the Organization for Investment Economic and Technical Assistance is an impenetrable institution affiliated with the Ministry of Economic Affairs and Finance. Their workings are purposely obscure even to their sister ministries. They operate under the Foreign Investment Promotion and Protection Act, which functions to provide legal cover, both transparent and opaque, to a variety of fund transfers and purchases. Now supported by thirteen countries, it is touted as the “New Silk Road of the Twenty-first Century.” All foreign investments and purchases had to pass through this organization in Iran. My acceptance of the job thrust me into a secretive, and possibly malevolent, society. Such was my assignment.
News of the western New Year of 2016 bubbled with the international nuclear deal nearly concluded. The networks droned, each with a different view of the agreement. By mid-January Iran, after accepting a system of inspections and restrictions on its nuclear program, was to have many of its sanctions lifted and a huge amount of money, perhaps 150 billion dollars, returned from previously frozen accounts. Several of my prison mates at Evin were released in trade for Iranian citizens under U.S. prosecution. The goodbye was happy for them, but a sad affair for the rest of us. None of those released bothered to look back. They were freed as part of the settlement, while my sentence to work for the Iranian government would turn into a way for Iran to avoid the details of the pact they just made.
The very complexity of the façade of the Organization for Investment Economic and Technical Assistance made it capable of obscuring forbidden purchases from international view. Under Iran’s current international agreements, which were designed to impede their nuclear program, the operation of this organization was essential for Iran’s success in developing covert nuclear weapons. Was I to be the instrument of such an institution? This is the job I accepted — anything to escape the torture of Evin. One question tormented me: Why did they choose me? Surely there were qualified Iranian residents in need of such a job. Again, the only plan that made sense was that the government required a foreigner to blame if their plan went awry. So, there I was, offering myself up. Fall guy extraordinaire.
Assigned to a tiny apartment near the organization’s headquarters on Davar Avenue in Tehran, I was awarded an allowance to purchase food. A black, uncomfortable, locked bracelet was affixed to my ankle with a tracking device and an alarm should I attempt to venture out of a two-block radius.
My skill set was deemed particularly suitable to negotiating international contracts with countries and groups lying outside the range of the nuclear weapons restrictions. My job, plainly put, was to circumvent the restrictions of the international agreement and obtain devices, basic materials, and technical information to enhance Iran’s progress toward obtaining a nuclear weapon. I consented to do what Kokabee, the atheist, had refused. Never mind that I was a Christian.
I was assigned to the Researches and Foreign Economic Relations Office. It was no coincidence that Mahmoud Rashidi, my supervisor, was Ali Rashidi’s brother, the only familial resemblance being his bulging eyes. One of the armed guards took me up to his office on the second floor and, after an hour on the hard bench in the waiting room wondering what I had done that warranted the delay, a sycophantic male secretary ushered me into Rashidi’s oak-paneled office. Cigarette smoke hung in the room like a wreath, choking me. Several half glasses of tea, each containing an extinguished cigarette, sat on the desk. I expected to be offered tea but there was none for me. Rashidi did not look up for a full minute, but then he finally addressed me. “My brother told me about you. I hope your persuasive abilities are better than he indicated or you won’t be up to the task. The help we need is critical to the country.” I tried to lean back in the chair and appear confident but it didn’t work. I couldn’t stop fidgeting and blinking.
“You will first direct your attention to the work with the Pakistan Atomic Energy Commission. We want you to firm up our relationship with them. I can see by your expression you’re distressed; and yes, you will be working for our country to procure a nuclear weapon.” So much for any hope of honest employment.
The young men with whom I was engaged were disciples of Abdul Qadeer Khan, the father of Pakistan’s nuclear program. Since I was not allowed to leave the country, we invited two of these men to Tehran for the introductory meeting. I was given considerable latitude to find out what they required in order to proceed with further business. We went to dinner within my two-block radius (I avoided telling them about my short leash), where I treated them to Iranian cuisine: pomegranate walnut stew, eggplant and tomato stew, and rice with dill and fava beans. The aroma emanating from the kitchen gave me confidence in my choice for the meal, which enhanced my newfound determination to be an engaging host. After all, in Middle Eastern culture, much more than in the West, personal relationships are the basis for successful deals. Failure would mean my return to imprisonment – no more of that for me.
“Yusef, I’m sure it’s in your interest that our arrangements proceed without any delays along the way,” said Latif, wolfing down his meal.
His partner, Abdul, added, “Yes, in the deals we have through with other groups, we’ve found that speed and efficiency overcome many deficiencies that could arise along the way. Delays can even cause projects to fail.” I put down my fork. The fact that both brought up the same issue made me think we were getting to the point, their point of the meeting.
“I see you’re anxious about this line of discussion,” Latif continued, “but all the difficulties can be smoothed over by your making certain our time here is personally worthwhile.”
“Yes, I’ll see to that.” I had to assume Rashidi expected bribes. The meal went smoothly after that. I would be sure to meet their needs.
I was only a financial expert. I had no knowledge of what sort of goods Iran needed to proceed. A trip to the processing facility in Natanz would be necessary, so our guests could see the status of our nuclear facilities for themselves. With secret service protection, I accompanied them, delighted to get out of Tehran, even on a nuclear tether.
After a long ride, avoiding any talk of bribes in the presence of the driver, we arrived. The gate guards swept the undercarriage of our Mercedes with mirrors, looked us over as unfamiliar, and perused our papers for ten minutes. After a call to the
ir supervisor, we were finally admitted.
The building was a cubic four-story white concrete building with only a scattering of windows. My guess was that it had been designed to look as boring as possible. We were admitted through the front door security and given thick, weighty, white garb to put on over our clothes. We were then taken through hall after hall containing large, tube-shaped structures, metal vessels, and arrays of dials and gauges. I had no idea what I was seeing. Abdul and Latif shook their heads in feigned dismay and smiled at each other as they surveyed the facility. “We had no idea you were so far behind.” Sales pitch lesson number one demonstrated. It was soon clear from their comments that Iran’s needs were immense if a weapon was to be produced within a year.
Pakistan promised full cooperation, just as they had in assisting North Korea. How could I do this to the rest of the Gulf? And what about Israel? My mother would have brought up Israel the first thing. Was there any chance of my withdrawing at this point? Not without a return to Evin.
I quickly learned the basics of bomb construction. Our visitors smiled again at each other as they made a list of what we needed. They anticipated a substantial reward. The most important item on the list was fissionable material. The main ingredient we did not possess was an adequate amount of uranium 235, which must be prepared from uranium 238. The uranium 235 required separation in a centrifugal system linked together so as to produce a series of increasing uranium 235 concentrations up to the necessary ninety percent enrichment. The main choice we had to make was whether we should purchase the already enriched uranium or the necessary centrifugal equipment to continue the process on our own. Although we already had centrifuges, they were not adequate for the job. Many centrifuges had already been sacrificed as part of the new international deal. As I anticipated, Iranian officials wanted to be able to make their own, so the centrifuges were on the list. The price of this additional equipment? Two billion U.S. dollars.
The second requirement after the enriched uranium 235 was a detonation system. The simplest method, the two informed me, was to use conventional explosives surrounding the nuclear core material to produce a blast, which then initiated the nuclear reaction at the core. They recommended we utilize the improved method of two-point implosion. The Pakistanis advocated Semtex, an odorless, plastic explosive. The detonator itself was essentially an electronic device used to ignite the Semtex. The Pakistani team offered to sell us a complete detonation system for 2 million U.S. dollars for each separate bomb module. We purchased ten. I tried to shake the pride in being involved in such an historically significant project. What a ridiculous feeling – success, betrayal, and self-preservation, all wrapped into one package.
The Pakistani team agreed to return and give on-site instruction when we reached the point of assembly. Thus, the total cost for the equipment was two billion dollars plus twenty million dollars. For their personal assistance the visitors requested a five percent private service fee, which they agreed to round off to 100 million dollars. I phoned Rashidi about the costs. He was not put off. “Sounds routine.”
Abdul and Latif, our highly skilled consultants, flew back by private jet to Lahore, and I rode back to Tehran in the same Mercedes. My drivers took me on a side trip to the planned bomb assembly site, one not on the international inspection list. It had already been prepared underground in the Bafq Protected Area, a rugged, arid land of barren rocks and hills. The area was a wilderness of sandy, arid, near-desert stark beauty. It was a vacation day for me, and I was encouraged to see such a beautiful example of God’s work, even in a landscape as forbidding as this one. The site was originally designed as a national wildlife refuge and contained rare Asian cheetahs, leopards, gazelles, wild sheep and goats, wild cats, jackals, and rare birds. A gazelle wandered in front of our car, and I gasped as we just missed the graceful creature. No cheetah or gazelle would dare betray the secret. Rashidi, whom I now recognized as having a sense of humor, had named this project Operation Cheetah.
When I arrived back in Tehran, I informed Rashidi of the details. He presented the numbers to the Organization for Investment, and they accepted the proposal without disagreement. He said, “Yusef, your service to Iran will always be remembered.” Hardly reassured by this statement, I hoped it was a lie. Was there an information pipeline to Esau here too? From the previous communications, I knew there was.
The next concern was the delivery process. The Chinese were the obvious choice here. For many years they had been selling missiles capable of delivering nuclear devices. Their standard charge was 10.5 million dollars per unit. We purchased ten.
The final component of the program, which would need to be ongoing, involved the fitting of nuclear explosives to the missile. For this task we needed several consultants who would remain on-site for assembly. The North Koreans were quite helpful in this regard, and they had unexpected knowledge about miniaturization of the bomb payload. Compared to the already expended funds, their cost was minimal. They worked cheap, no bribes required, with all the funds immediately sent by wire transfer to the North Korean government.
And so, I obtained nuclear weapons for Iran. That I had done so, solely for my own protection, sent a foul odor up to God. I could smell it too. Would the weapons be used?
This whole time Western inspectors continued their work dutifully in areas where no nuclear weapons would be discovered. The inspections and monitoring proceeded according to the new agreement. Its enforcement was monitoring the percentage of uranium 235 produced by the centrifuges at Fordow, Lashkar Abad, and Natanz. The inspectors stuck to the rules of the arrangement and went only where they were allowed. Both sides knew no weapons would be found. The agreement was designed to have a favorable outcome for all — with no bad news attached. Since we had purchased the necessary materials and equipment to proceed with rapid processing of uranium, the deal with the Western powers had no real meaning other than political subterfuge for both sides. Although the West did not know the specifics, they were not naïve to the Iranian intent to achieve nuclear capability. Surely the Americans must know. That thought salved my conscience. Would they know about me? I was a small fish. And besides, Donald Trump had just been elected president in the U.S., and no one knew what was next from the angry American cowboy. Perhaps his intentions were even less holy than mine.
The last step for completing the negotiated deals was the creation of written contracts for the transfer of funds, which would be subject to evaluation outside the ministry and perhaps by Western reviewers. This arrangement was part of the agreement with the U.S. and their allies, that all large international purchases required external examination. The contracts I put together to cover our nuclear acquisitions appeared to be for the purchase of sophisticated agricultural techniques and equipment. Rashidi was completely enthralled with the job I had done in the short span of six weeks.
How could I have been so effective in the face of moral disaster? It would take another year, and perhaps well into 2017, for the nuclear weapons to be ready for testing or for use. Testing was probably not necessary, as the Pakistanis and North Koreans had given their guarantees. Deliveries occurred at the port of Bandar Abbas near the Strait of Hormuz where the materials were offloaded from South African registered vessels and transported by truck to the Bafq Protected Area. The trucks were marked as agricultural companies, covering the weapon materials stuffed within. All transfers occurred on moonless nights to avoid detection by American satellites. I had outsmarted all the outside observers, but my success hung over me like a guillotine.
I hoped the weapons would never be tested. For Iran to do so would make a mockery of the treaty with the West, and their discovery might eventually point to me. I wondered what the value of the weapons really was to Iran. If no one knows you have the weapons, they have no effect. They are neither offensive nor defensive. But those I worked for were satisfied. Perhaps they intended to use the weapons in a surprise attack, an awful thought. As a reward for my success, the radius on
my ankle bracelet was increased to four blocks.
Just as I thought the worst was over and that I could survive comfortably for the remaining four and one half years of my term, another layer of misery was added. I knew now I was trapped. Even though I had computer access, I couldn’t ask for outside help, not through an international news sources or Amnesty International or the Kuwaiti consulate, or any such group. Now that I had assisted in Iran’s nuclear weapon program, I could be considered an international criminal. And Esau surely possessed this knowledge. He was everywhere.
Rashidi’s kindness in increasing my fetter was reversed and the radius of my electronic ankle bracelet was shortened to only one block. They were masterful in keeping me off-balance. I had no idea why they pulled back on the rewards I anticipated after the success of Operation Cheetah. Not only did they control my physical state, they managed my emotions too. I was subjected to daily questioning for four hours in what seemed a pointlessly cruel manner. Some days the four hours were in the morning, sometimes the afternoon, but the most troublesome were the ones that extended into the night or early morning hours. I was still expected to complete all aspects of my job.
One day I received a written message: “I know what you’re doing. Congratulations!” It was from Esau. His knowledge still startled me. Was this an escalation of his involvement?
And then there were the events in Qatar, as they were accused of collaboration with Iran. Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, Egypt, and Bahrain had embargoed Qatar because of their suspicions. Who had arranged such collaborations between Iran and Qatar? The news filtered out to me. Once again, there was Esau. His interactions were unending.
