“I was an analyst. For six months.”
“Over a twenty-year career.”
“You never asked for how long.”
“I mean it, Mark. We come clean with each other for real now or no deal.”
“Fair enough,” he said, although in truth he was thinking that any opportunity to reestablish mutual trust was long gone.
Daria glanced around her, as though someone might be eavesdropping even in the middle of the woods. “So this is the deal — as part of that pipeline agreement I told you about, the Chinese gave the Iranians help with their nuclear program.”
“What kind of help?” Mark said slowly.
“Enriched uranium.”
“High grade or low grade?”
“Most of it low. Around four percent uranium two thirty-five.”
Good enough for a reactor but not for a bomb, thought Mark. Besides, the Iranians were already making plenty of 4 percent 235 on their own. “And the rest?”
“Some at sixty percent uranium two thirty-five, some as high as eighty. Not the ninety-plus percent considered weapons-grade, but—”
“Eighty percent is concentrated enough to be used in a weapon. Not a very efficient weapon, but a weapon that might work. I can’t believe the Chinese would have been so fucking reckless.”
But he actually did believe it. The Chinese hadn’t balked at arming the genocidal government of Sudan in return for access to oil, or dealing with the deranged generals of Myanmar in exchange for an oil pipeline; arming Iran would be right up their alley.
“The low-enriched uranium was given with the understanding that the Iranians would use it to produce electricity. The rationale was that, with the Chinese buying so much of Iran’s oil, the Iranians would need the extra energy capacity.”
“And the highly enriched uranium?”
“Supposedly for use in a research reactor and in two nuclear-powered subs the Iranians want to build to patrol the Persian Gulf.”
“What safeguards were there, so that it’s not used for a bomb?”
“Real ones? None. The Chinese want the Iranians to have the bomb, so that the US and Israel will think twice before attacking their gas station. The BS about the research reactor and subs is just so that, if this ever comes to light, they can deny that they meant to give Iran the bomb. Anyway, what it comes down to is that China got its oil and the Iranians got enough highly enriched uranium to make three small fission bombs in the ten kiloton range.”
“That’s big enough,” said Mark. Ten kilotons was only about two-thirds of the explosive power of the bomb dropped on Hiroshima — nothing compared with the destructive force of modern nuclear weapons, but more than enough to destroy the better part of a city. “What about delivery systems?”
“They’re going for something small that can be smuggled over borders or onto a cargo ship, or better yet a cargo plane. A poor man’s version of an ICBM since their long-range missile technology sucks.”
“They’ve already built these bombs?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. And when they try to, they’ll be short some enriched uranium.” Daria’s mouth tightened into something approximating a smile. “I helped a physicist in Tehran smuggle two blocks of it out of Iran.”
“My God, Daria.” You are in way, way over your head, was all Mark could think. It occurred to him that he was now, too. “And where did this uranium wind up?”
“It was supposed to have been transferred to the International Atomic Energy Agency. The MEK wanted to use it to prove that the Iranians were lying about not developing nuclear weapons.”
“This transfer to the IAEA, was it actually made?”
“I have no idea. All I did was bring the physicist and the uranium from Tehran to Esfahan. The MEK contact I met in Esfahan was supposed to have smuggled it outside of Iran.”
“But the IAEA never broke the news,” said Mark.
“No. And now it’s been six weeks.”
“Which suggests the uranium didn’t get from Esfahan to where it was supposed to go. You stole a bunch of uranium from the Iranians and now it’s disappeared.”
“Yeah, you know, I figured that much out.”
“So have you tried to call the MEK leadership?”
“I’ve tried my uncle ten times today. He’s not answering or returning my—”
43
Mark put his hand up, silencing Daria as the sound of the helicopter started up again.
After a minute of listening to it wax and wane in the distance, Decker said, “They’re searching for us.”
The sound of the helicopter faded, to the point where it was almost inaudible, but then gradually it grew louder. And louder. Until suddenly it was within a few hundred feet of them, sending gusts of wind whipping down through the trees.
Mark could see portions of its black silhouette through the leaves but couldn’t make out any identifying marks. He wished he’d piled up more branches on top of the car. Then it was gone, off to circling in a new area.
Until a cell phone started ringing.
“Shut that thing off,” snapped Mark, thinking it was either Daria’s or Decker’s.
“Not me, boss,” said Decker.
“It’s not mine,” said Daria. Then she stared at Decker. “It’s Yaver’s. You forgot to turn it off.”
“No. No, tell me you didn’t,” said Mark.
“Fuck me.”
“I told you. The signal can be triangulated.”
Decker pulled out Yaver’s cell phone from his front pocket and shut it off.
“Fuck me,” said Decker again.
“Maybe they weren’t tracking it,” said Daria.
“Guys, I’m sorry.”
“Maybe they didn’t have time to get a lock,” said Mark.
Moments later the helicopter came screaming back toward them.
Decker jumped out of the car and grabbed the equipment bag. “You guys blow.”
“No one gets to play the martyr,” said Mark. “We ditch the car and run together.”
Decker unzipped the equipment bag and pulled out the Heckler & Koch MP5 machine pistol. “I’m not planning on a suicide mission! I’ll just keep them busy for a few minutes and then bolt. There’s plenty of tree cover — I’ll be fine. You guys take off.”
Mark quickly calculated that his best chance of finding out who’d attacked the CIA in Baku was to first find out who had stolen Daria’s uranium, because it was a near certainty that whoever had done it would be at or near the center of this mess. And that meant retracing the uranium trail, starting in Esfahan, Iran. He estimated the times and distances involved in getting to Esfahan.
To Decker, he said, “If you make it out of here, go to France.”
Decker was dragging Yaver back to the Land Cruiser. Mark saw the helicopter through the trees.
“I’ll make it.”
“Find out what happened to Daria’s uncle. I’ll call you sometime after you get there. Daria and I will be in Iran.”
Mark handed a $10,000 bank bundle to Decker, who quickly stuffed it in his pocket.
“You’ll find my uncle at the MEK compound in Auvers,” said Daria. “On Saint Simon Road a mile out of town. His name is Reza Tehrani. There’s a photo of him on the MEK’s website. He’s an advisor to the leader of the MEK, a woman named Maryam Minabi. She should be on the website too. Are you going to remember all this?”
“Auvers, Saint Simon Road, Reza…”
“Tehrani. Tehrani. Like the city.”
“Tehrani. Got it.”
“Advisor to Minabi, who’s the head of the MEK.”
“I’ll remember.”
“Just go to the website if you forget.”
Decker took Yaver’s cell phone, switched it back on, and threw it into the front seat of the Land Cruiser. With Mark’s help, he heaved Yaver’s dead body into the driver’s seat.