by Ben Coes
Paria had been an early, vocal opponent of Natanz. He thought it too expensive and believed the decade of development would only serve to hamper his ability to fight Israel and America by siphoning off precious resources that he thought could be better spent building IEDs and funding Hezbollah, Al-Qaeda, and Hamas.
Once the decision was made by Ali Suleiman to construct Natanz and pursue a nuclear bomb, however, Paria had gotten on board. It was Paria’s team of VEVAK operatives who acquired key components of the centrifuges housed at Natanz that were used for uranium enrichment. It was a VEVAK operative who had purchased a uranium deuteride trigger from a former Russian general named Markov. Afterward, it was another VEVAK agent who had killed Markov, after the Russian had begun to brag of his $35 million payday from the Iranians.
As Paria pulled the truck slowly into the warehouse, he watched as a dozen men swarmed the truck. Dr. Kashilla walked on his cane to Paria’s door.
“General,” said Kashilla. “It’s been too long.”
“Yes, it has, Mohammed,” said Paria, stepping down from the truck and gently shaking Kashilla’s left hand. “How are you?”
“Well, I’m better now,” said the scientist.
Kashilla nodded at the back of the truck.
“I’m told it was a close call,” said Kashilla.
“Yes,” said Paria. “But it’s over now.”
“Let’s get this unloaded and make sure everything is intact, shall we?” said Kashilla.
The roof of the trailer was opened. A side boom moved into place. Over the next few minutes, the bomb was lifted inch by inch into the air as the expectant crowd, now numbering more than fifty workers, gathered below.
Paria stepped toward the bomb as it was hoisted into the air. The silver-black steel of the bomb had a patina of scratches and thin black welding seams that formed a line of slight bumps along the side like an inchworm meandering up the side of the bomb.
Kashilla suddenly gasped as the bomb climbed higher into the sky. He pointed at the bomb.
“What is it?” asked Paria.
Paria looked to the scientist. He appeared to be in a mild state of shock.
“What is it, Mohammed?” demanded Paria.
Kashilla stepped forward. He looked at one of the Iranian guards.
“A hammer,” said Kashilla.
The guard ran to the side of the warehouse and quickly returned with a hammer. He handed it to Kashilla.
“What are you doing?” asked Paria.
Without answering Paria, Kashilla stepped forward, the sledgehammer in his left hand. Despite his weak legs, his advanced age, Kashilla seemed possessed. He smashed the hammer at the front of the bomb.
“Stop!” screamed Paria as the hammer struck the front of the bomb, but he was too late.
Kashilla’s swing came down hard on one of the seams, which immediately cracked. Several rivets dropped to the concrete floor.
Paria grabbed the sledgehammer from Kashilla, pushing him aside.
“What have you done?” yelled Paria, running to the bomb. “Do you have any idea…”
Paria’s voice trailed off as his eye was caught, for the first time, by the Persian lettering running along the underside of the bomb. Where he’d expected to find the words Goodbye, Tel Aviv, a new message, also in Persian, was painted in the same ornate style: Fuck you, Tehran.
Paria stepped to the now torn seam along the side of the bomb. Through the seam, he spied the light gray of concrete. Paria jammed his fingertips into the seam and ripped it open. The thin steel peeled back easily. Beneath there was only concrete, with bricks of lead layered inside it.
Paria looked at the concrete for several seconds. He took the sledgehammer and smashed it into the side of the fake bomb. As a growing cluster of Natanz workers surrounded the big man, he swung down on the bomb and struck it once, then twice, then again, each time making a loud, deep guttural noise, primitive and animalistic. He didn’t stop pounding at the bomb. The sweat began to pour down his face as he smashed into it, ripping apart the thin layer of steel, then striking into concrete and lead. Paria became manic, and the crowd, which at first had grown out of curiosity, started to disperse, as none of them wanted to be in the crosshairs of Paria’s coming explosion.
After several minutes of smashing into the top of the bomb, the top section was torn completely away. Paria was soaked in sweat, his face beet-red. He dropped the sledgehammer. He ripped the section of badly dented steel from the bomb. He hammered away at the concrete. He pulled out brick after brick of heavy lead, throwing them like wafers across the warehouse, even striking the side of a centrifuge and sending a piece of it toppling to the ground. When, at long last, he had gutted the front half of the bomb, Paria stepped back. He looked around the warehouse; Kashilla was the sole individual remaining within a hundred feet of him. Both men stared blankly at the ground, littered in concrete and lead.
* * *
The Milene moved through the calm waters of the Caspian Sea with four mysterious guests and, hidden in the back of a semitrailer lashed to the deck, a stolen twenty-kiloton nuclear bomb.
Dewey called Calibrisi and Jessica on the SAT phone.
“I’ll keep those Reapers overhead until you’re in Baku in case Iran finds the fake bomb and scrambles some boats to look for you.”
“You got a C-130?” asked Dewey.
“I scrambled one out of Bagram. We need to get that thing back here so we can look at it.”
“Hector, it’s Israel’s bomb,” said Dewey.
“Jesus Christ, you’re a pain in the ass, Andreas.”
* * *
The Milene enjoyed the security of three overhead UAVs—MQ-9s, or Reapers as they were appropriately named—armed to the teeth with Hellfire missiles. But there had been no cause for concern.
Meir was not in good shape; he spent the first few hours in a bunkroom, sleeping. He was dazed. In the past week he’d been electrocuted twice. He’d been severely beaten, and barely fed. Many people would have died from such abuse.
Nevertheless, by 6:00 P.M., as the sun was setting over the western strip of green that was the far-off coast of Azerbaijan, Meir had gotten up to join Dewey, Foxx, and Tacoma, who were in the small mess hall near the back of the ship.
Tacoma was able to find a bottle of vodka in a cabinet, and the four each had a few drinks as the night wore on and the Milene chugged at twenty-five knots to the north.
It was midnight by the time the ship steamed into Baku, capital of Azerbaijan, a large port city on the country’s eastern coast.
They were met by the Baku CIA chief of station, a young, curly-haired American named Lew Vaphiades. Tacoma and Meir drove in Vaphiades’s Mercedes, while Dewey and Foxx followed in the semi. They drove from the port across the eastern section of the capital to Baku Kala Air Base. Sitting on the tarmac at Baku Kala was a desert-camouflaged C-130 cargo plane, its rear hatch lowered. Next to the C-130 was a silver Gulfstream G150.
Dewey drove the truck up the ramp into the cargo hold of the C-130. Two U.S. soldiers attached steel cables to the semi in order to prevent the truck from shifting about in case there was turbulence. Dewey walked to the cabin, where two pilots were seated.
“Evening, guys,” Dewey said. “What’s the itinerary?”
“Tel Aviv,” said the first officer. “Then back to Bagram.”
“You got one guy with you,” said Dewey. “He’s in back. Make sure you check in on him.”
“Yes, sir.”
In the rear cabin, Meir was buckled into one of the canvas flight chairs on the side of the cabin. He strained to open his eyes, but he did, reaching out his hand to grasp Dewey’s. Dewey shook his hand for several moments.
Meir reached to his neck and removed a necklace. He balled it up and handed it to Dewey; it was a Star of David.
“Thanks,” said Dewey, smiling and taking it from Meir. “I’m not Israeli.”
“Yeah, you are.”
54
THE WHITE HO
USE
Jessica and Calibrisi entered the Oval Office at a quarter after one in the afternoon on Sunday.
Dellenbaugh was already seated in one of the two big tan leather chesterfield sofas in the center of the room. He was reading The New York Times. Dellenbaugh was dressed in a blue-and-red-checked flannel shirt that was untucked and a pair of jeans. He held a mug of coffee in his hand. He gestured to Jessica and Calibrisi to sit down also.
Dellenbaugh pointed at the silver coffee service on the table. “Would either of you like a cup?”
Calibrisi nodded and Dellenbaugh filled one of the small blue and white porcelain cups with coffee.
“Jess?”
“No, thank you, Mr. President,” she said.
“So what’s up?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“It’s about Iran,” said Calibrisi.
“Buenos Aires?” the president asked. “I assume everything is moving along?”
“Not the summit, sir,” said Calibrisi. “Though it might influence whether or not you should go forward with it.”
“There’s been a fairly dramatic series of events in the past couple of days you need to be aware of, Mr. President.”
“In Iran?”
“Yes, in Iran.”
“Let me guess,” said Dellenbaugh. “Dewey Andreas freed Kohl Meir. After stealing Iran’s nuclear bomb.”
Dellenbaugh took a sip from his cup, looking calmly at Calibrisi and Jessica. A smile slowly came to his face.
Jessica and Calibrisi exchanged glances, saying nothing.
“Prime Minister Shalit called me,” continued Dellenbaugh. “To express his gratitude to the United States of America.”
“Mr. President,” said Calibrisi, “Jessica had nothing to do with Andreas. It was me.”
“I’m not mad,” said Dellenbaugh. “You did the right thing. His life was worth fighting for.”
“What about Buenos Aires?” asked Jessica.
“The hope that was created by virtue of the fact that we were bringing Iran to the table of the civilized world was an illusion,” said Dellenbaugh. “Obviously, Mahmoud Nava can’t be trusted.”
“No one can be trusted, sir,” said Calibrisi. “You know that.”
“I want to cancel the summit,” said the president.
“Actually, we believe now is the time to push ahead, President Dellenbaugh,” said Jessica. “If the public pressure and the lifting of sanctions are enough to get Iran to halt their nuclear weapons program—”
“Even if we know it’s bullshit?”
“Even if we know it’s a charade,” said Jessica. “It will mean we have on-demand inspections, monitoring infrastructure, access to their scientists, and details about the centrifuge supply chain. It will be a lot harder for Iran to build another bomb. Frankly, we were caught by surprise on this one. So was Israel. Everyone was. If it wasn’t for a man named Qassou who leaked word to Israel, we wouldn’t have known until it was too late.”
“You’re missing the point,” said Dellenbaugh. “If he was willing to negotiate while privately plotting to build a nuke, he can’t be trusted.”
“No one can be trusted,” Calibrisi repeated. “Russia, China, North Korea, Pakistan. Certainly not the Iranians.”
Dellenbaugh sat back and took a sip from his coffee cup. He smiled.
“I was naïve,” said Dellenbaugh.
“It takes time to get used to the fact that, in our jobs, we’re dealing with the most ruthless people known to man,” said Calibrisi. “The president more so than anyone. You’ll get used to it.”
“I’m the one who trusted the Iranians,” said Dellenbaugh. “What the hell was I thinking?”
“I should probably mention the fact that CIA drones were employed in the operation,” said Calibrisi. “We also fired Tomahawk missiles to destroy the warehouse in Mahdishahr.”
Dellenbaugh stared for several moments at Calibrisi, then at Jessica, while remaining silent.
“Mr. President, I understand if you want me gone,” said Calibrisi.
Dellenbaugh was silent for nearly a minute, sipping his coffee, then stood. He walked to the French doors that looked out on the Rose Garden.
“Do you want out of Langley?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“No, I don’t,” said Calibrisi.
Dellenbaugh stared out at the leaves on one of the trees along the edge of the garden.
“I don’t want your resignation,” Dellenbaugh said. “Your actions, and Andreas’s, saved a lot of lives. I need you. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Then learn,” said Calibrisi. “And don’t be shocked or angry when your advisors talk straight to you. How do you think Rob Allaire got so good at this? He listened and wasn’t afraid to have people disagree with him.”
Dellenbaugh turned from the window. He looked at Calibrisi.
“I want you to honor everyone who risked their lives saving Meir and taking that nuke.”
“A thank-you from you will mean a lot. I’ll make sure to let Dewey know how grateful you are.”
Dellenbaugh stepped back to the sofa and sat down.
“Let’s talk about Buenos Aires,” said Dellenbaugh. “I want to know if you two are serious.”
“Serious about what?” asked Jessica.
“That I should go. That the United States should continue this thing. I mean, what’s the fucking point?”
“Absolutely, you should go,” said Jessica. “Iran knows we know about the bomb. They assume we were involved in stealing it. Nava and Suleiman have two choices. They can either back out of the agreement, in which case they will lose the significant economic package associated with signing the agreement, hundreds of billions of dollars, and incur the wrath of every civilized country in the world, and more important, their own people. Alternatively, Iran can proceed, sign the agreement, then attempt to subvert it. That’s what we want. Because even if they’re trying to build another nuclear device, the country will be crawling with inspectors. They won’t be able to do it. We’ve boxed them in, sir.”
Dellenbaugh nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go to Buenos Aires.”
55
GEORGETOWN
It was a crisp, perfect spring day, a Saturday; a late April afternoon in Washington. The sky was deep blue, not a cloud anywhere. The temperature was in the midfifties. There was a faint aroma of smoke, coming from a few chimneys in Georgetown. The smell of burning firewood reminded Dewey of Maine.
He climbed out of the taxi on Wisconsin Avenue. To say he looked slightly out of place was an understatement. He still had on Turkish clothing, a pair of baggy pants and a tan shirt bought in Istanbul. He had, however, managed to sleep for a time on the CIA Gulfstream back from Baku.
As he walked down Twenty-fourth Street, Dewey suddenly realized that he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do next or where he was going to live. He knew, in a way, what he had was total freedom. He didn’t owe anyone a thing. He had no obligations. He could live where he wanted, go where he wanted, and do what he wanted. His year on a ranch in Australia had made Dewey realize he could be happy in almost any job, in any environment, as long as certain conditions existed. He needed the feeling of physical labor. He liked being away from it all. On some level, being alone was what made Dewey happiest.
Yet Dewey knew that he couldn’t be alone forever. Seeing Kohl Meir and the sacrifices the Israeli was willing to make in order to protect his own country had, on some level, revitalized him. He had once lived the same way. Those were the hardest days of his life, but also the most fulfilling, Dewey knew there was no greater feeling than fighting for something that mattered, for your country, for an idea, for America. There were few people in the world who could understand what it meant to use all of your skills, your physical abilities, your mind, your experience, and your training, to fight for the country you loved.
Still fewer could understand what Dewey was experiencing, having at one time felt the intense patriotism only to then lose i
t all. Perhaps it was the way Abu Paria had stared at Dewey, with pure hatred. There was a war going on, and Dewey was missing it. He wanted back in.
He walked past Standard Bakery, did a double take, then turned and went inside. He bought two raspberry muffins and two cups of coffee.
He walked along a thin, brick sidewalk, past the old, impeccably maintained brick, wood, and limestone town houses. He came to one particularly nice town house, a wide unit of red bricks, with a beautiful brass light fixture next to the door. Dewey paused for a moment. He knew Jessica was angry at him, for a number of reasons, but primarily for not telling her about the Iranian bomb. He bit his lower lip, then rang the doorbell. He waited nearly a minute, then the door swung open.
Standing in the doorway was Jessica. In her hand, she held a paintbrush with pink paint on the bristles. Her nose and right cheek each had paint on them, as did her yellow T-shirt. She had on a pair of cut-off denim shorts, also decorated in pink paint, and flip-flops. She stood inside the doorway, staring at Dewey for several moments. She didn’t smile or show so much as a flicker of recognition whatsoever.
“Muffin?” he asked, holding the bag out toward her.
She stared at Dewey, then reached out and put her hand in the paper bag, pulled out a muffin, then transferred it to the same hand that held her paintbrush. She reached for one of the cups of coffee, pulled it from Dewey’s hand, then softly kicked the door shut without saying anything.
Dewey stared at the door, then sat down on the front stoop. Eventually, he pulled the other muffin out of the bag and ate it, then drank the coffee. After finishing the coffee, he sat on the stoop for what seemed like an eternity but was in fact about an hour. On the stoop across from Jessica’s was a stack of Washington Posts in plastic bags, the owners obviously away. Dewey crossed the street and took a newspaper, went back to Jessica’s, and read. As he was finishing an article about innovative methods for baking outmeal cookies, the door again opened. Jessica had slightly more paint on her, including some in her hair. She stared at him without saying anything, standing in the doorway. Then she took a few steps back, so that only Dewey, sitting on the stoop, could see her. She reached down and pulled up her paint-splattered T-shirt over her head, then dropped it on the ground. She didn’t have a bra on. She reached down and unbuttoned her cut-offs, then let them drop to the ground. She was wearing a pair of black lace panties.
