As difficult as it was for Crocker to focus, he understood that there was a big difference between reactor-grade uranium and weapons-grade uranium. But even low-enriched uranium could be used to fuel a dirty bomb. He was one of a handful of people who were aware that something like that had almost happened when Iraq’s Tuwaitha Nuclear Research Center was looted in April 2003, following the fall of Saddam Hussein, and a quantity of low-enriched uranium was seized by al-Qaeda terrorists. Crocker had led a team into Iraq to recover the uranium in that highly dangerous environment. They succeeded, but Crocker still regretted that he had lost two men.
Even though Tajoura’s security hadn’t been compromised during the fighting in Libya, in his mind the situation here was even more troubling. Because while the IAEA had removed all existing weapons-grade uranium from Tajoura in 2004, it hadn’t disassembled the facility’s centrifuge plant. As ST-6’s WMD officer, he knew the technology. One needed an elaborate centrifuge plant like that at Tajoura-which featured over ten thousand P2 gas centrifuges-to separate weapons-grade uranium (U-235) from the heavier metal. Uranium ore contained roughly 0.7 percent of U-235.
The process was complicated and time consuming. First, a cylindrical rotor housed in a glass casing was evacuated of all air to produce frictionless rotation. A motor was used to spin the rotor, creating centrifugal force. Heavier molecules separated to the bottom of the centrifuge, while the light molecules moved to the top. Output lines at the top of the centrifuge carried the lighter molecules to other centrifuges that kept refining them.
After separating the gaseous U-235 through many centrifuge steps, engineers then used another chemical reaction to turn the uranium gas back into a solid metal that could then be shaped for use as bombs.
As they continued to tour the facility, Crocker asked himself, If they weren’t enriching weapons-grade uranium, why were they storing UF6?
It was a question that wasn’t answered during their visit and that continued to bug him as they drove away.
“What’d you think?” Mancini asked from behind the wheel.
Crocker was trying to separate his anxiety about Holly from the questions he had about the center. He said, “Something about the whole thing leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”
“I wonder why they let us tour the reactor complex but didn’t show us the radiochemical lab, which is the probable location of the centrifuge plant.”
“I’ve been asking myself the same thing.” In fact, Crocker had specifically asked to see it. He was told the lab was closed and unsafe to visit because of high levels of radiation.
Now what?
They called Ritchie and Davis again, but they had no news. Then he called Leo Debray at the embassy; he was out of the office. Crocker didn’t feel like sitting around the guesthouse or driving around aimlessly. He also didn’t see the point of going back to the embassy and trying to explain his suspicions about Tajoura to Remington. He preferred that Remington and his staff focus on locating-or better yet, rescuing-Holly and Brian.
Troubled about the UF6 and Salehi’s evasions, and not knowing what to do next, he said, “Let’s stop here and wait near the gate.”
“Why?” Akil asked.
“I need to think.”
They parked on the opposite corner under a clump of eucalyptus trees and sat in silence, Crocker in his private agony, with Jabril’s warning echoing in his head. It was a horrible position to be in-wanting to be loyal and trust your superiors, while also being very aware of their limitations. Remington had lost his boss and seemed overwhelmed by his new position. Ambassador Saltzman-who appeared to be a kind, thoughtful man-was focused on building up the NTC so it could secure the country and lead the transition to some form of representative government.
A black Acura sedan emerged from the gate and turned left.
“That’s him,” Akil said.
“Who?” Crocker asked, still lost in thought.
“Salehi. He’s in the backseat, behind the driver.”
“Let’s follow him.”
Mancini made a U-turn and followed the Acura east, then south. They watched it turn into a compound surrounded by a high, burnt-sienna-colored concrete wall. A satellite dish leered from the terra-cotta roof like a big eye.
“Now what?” Akil asked, scratching his stubble-covered jaw and neck.
Crocker said, “We call the guesthouse again and see if there’s news.”
There wasn’t any.
Mancini: “Boss, you want to explore another part of the city?”
All he had was an intuition and an urge to follow it. Even if it was hard to figure out how it related to Holly, it was better than wandering aimlessly. He said, “We’ll wait a few more minutes, until it gets dark. Then Akil and I will go in, while you wait in the vehicle.”
Mancini immediately protested. “You sure that’s the best use of our time?”
“You stay on the radio and watch the gate.”
Akil got out and eyeballed the area as Crocker sat listening to Mancini talk about the dangers of nuclear proliferation. More specifically, the possibility of terrorists like al-Qaeda getting their hands on some kind of nuclear device. Mancini thought it was more likely that they’d get hold of a biological or chemical weapon first.
“Why?” Crocker asked, trying to focus.
“One, because chemical and bio weigh a whole shitload less and are easier to transport. And two, because nuclear weapons are hard to make and even harder to store, because you need to separate the critical masses to prevent the bomb from detonating too early.”
“I agree.”
Akil returned with falafel sandwiches and cans of soda he had purchased from a nearby vendor.
Crocker said, “I told you to surveil the place, not buy dinner!”
“Ever hear of killing two birds with one stone?”
“Here’s one,” Crocker said, holding up the sandwich. “Where’s the other?”
Akil smiled. “There’s a big palm tree along the back wall that we can climb and use to get over the fence. No surveillance cameras, but at least two dogs.”
“Yeah?”
“Big, mean-sounding motherfuckers.”
“Your favorite kind.”
“Not really.”
Crocker was reminded of the two bull mastiffs in Bolivia who had bitten a friend’s balls off during a mission. Sesame sauce dripped down his hand onto his wrist, then onto the faux leather seat, as he started to formulate a plan.
“Tasty, huh?” Akil asked handing him a napkin as thin as tissue paper.
“Next time, follow orders.”
Akiclass="underline" “It’s really goat shit I scraped off the street.”
“Whatever it is, it tastes good,” Crocker said, as he picked a piece of chopped parsley out of his teeth. “Here’s what we’re gonna do…”
Chapter Fourteen
Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a
mistake.
– Napoleon Bonaparte
The sky had turned a deep shade of blue by the time he and Akil circled around to the back of the compound. They waited until Mancini started pounding on the gate to attract the dogs to the front before they took turns scooting up a palm tree, leaning on it so it dipped over the fence, then jumping ten feet onto the lawn, making sure to bend their knees and somersault over their left shoulders as they landed.
It felt good to be doing something instead of slowly dying of frustration. Libyan music wafted out of a room near the garage, which was located in a two-story structure separate from the main house.
“That’s Ahmed Fakroun,” Akil whispered.
“Who?”
“Only the most popular Libyan singer of the last twenty years.”
“Like anyone gives a shit. Focus.”
“I’m focused.”
“Quiet.”
Crocker peered in the window and saw a man in white underwear lying on a bed watching TV, apparently mesmerized by the music video he was watching-peacocks, a waterfall, dancing girls in colorful outfits. He was in condition white, Crocker thought, which meant a total lack of awareness of the circumstances around him.