The Last Refuge (40 page)

“Dump it,” said Dewey, thumbing toward the water. “Now.”

53

NATANZ

South of Natanz, Paria took a left on a dusty road off the Isfahan freeway. The road seemed to lead nowhere. After a mile, he came to a chain-link fence. A lone soldier stood at the fence, opening it as Paria approached. The dirt road continued for several more miles, eventually dead-ending at an unusual, out-of-context sight—at the base of a small mountain was a nondescript garage door. After sitting in front of the door for a minute, it slowly started to rise. Paria drove forward, through a tunnel that was at least five hundred feet long, lit by halogen lights overhead. At the end of the tunnel was another door, this one thick silver steel, which slid sideways. Paria drove through this second doorway, into a massive open space, brightly lit, like a warehouse. This was the back entrance to Natanz.

The Natanz facility was Iran’s most important nuclear facility. It was the first facility constructed by the Iranian government for the purpose of enriching uranium. It was at Natanz where the plans for the first bomb had been discussed and where the low enriched uranium had been processed into weapons-grade uranium. And despite reports in the Western press to the contrary, despite great acclaim by the media about the reported Stuxnet computer virus and the assassination of several key Iranian nuclear scientists, the fact was it was at Natanz where the processing of yellowcake into highly enriched, weaponized uranium continued unabated. It was also where the first bomb had been put together.

Natanz was constructed beneath a small mountain so that the facility could withstand any efforts to destroy the facility with aerial bombardment. In a feat of considerable technical accomplishment, Iranian engineers had turned the meandering old tunnels of a former copper mine into a fortified sarcophagus, an iron- and concrete-clad dome that went more than six stories beneath ground, while reaching upward seven stories into the mountain, aboveground. It had cost Iran nearly $6 billion to build Natanz. The Iranian reaction to the development by America of the GBU 57, the so-called bunker buster bomb was to move more core operations deeper underground, and to construct newer facilities in a handful of other towns across Iran, including Qum, Mahdishahr, and a dozen others.

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 HOUSE

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.