Mark wondered whether this was another of Daria’s double-cross deals.
Within minutes of getting to Ashraf, she and the squat, bespectacled woman — who turned out to be the camp commander — left to meet privately while he was taken to the other side of the camp, possibly as a prisoner, to have tea and cookies with a couple of grim-faced MEK soldiers.
They sat in the shade on a concrete patio, just outside an all-male residential unit.
The soldiers were jumpy, glancing at Mark then scanning the perimeter of the camp, as though they expected to be attacked at any minute. In the distance, across an expanse of flat, burnt desert, stood an Iraqi guard tower.
“Did my friend say when she was coming back for me?” asked Mark.
“No.”
Just past the patio lay a vegetable garden. After sitting in silence for a few minutes, one of the soldiers explained with aggressive pride how they grew much of their own food, and that the MEK had built this camp up from nothing over the years and that the Iraqis would never succeed in shutting it down. Did Mr. Sava know there was a swimming pool?
Mark had gotten a fleeting glimpse of the “swimming pool” on the way over. All the water had been drained out, and weeds were growing out of cracks in the concrete apron that surrounded it. And the vegetable garden in front of him consisted of little more than a feeble collection of green beans and rows of what looked like wilting lettuce.
Even the soldiers looked wilted. They were too slender and their uniforms hung too loosely on their frames.
No, there was nothing in this refugee camp to be proud of, thought Mark. It was a pathetic, dusty, miserable shithole-under-siege in the middle of the desert. And the people who lived here were deluding themselves if they really thought they could topple the regime in Iran. It was a testament to the folly of hanging on to a dream for too long.
He found the occasional mixed-gender squads of MEK soldiers marching by on a nearby road, going double time — as if it mattered — to be dispiriting, as he did the framed photo of Maryam Minabi, which hung from a post on one corner of the patio. She had green eyes, and her broad smile was framed by a green headscarf. Mark recalled that she’d taken over the leadership of the MEK after her husband had disappeared in the wake of the Iraq War. Now she hung out in France at the MEK headquarters, giving speeches that hardly anyone listened to.
He gestured to the photo. “She ever leave France to come visit you guys here on the front lines?”
His question was met by silence and a glare from the soldier closest to him.
“It must be difficult, not being able to leave the base,” Mark offered a little while later, after he got tired of sipping his tea in silence.
“One must be willing to pay the price for freedom,” said the soldier, sounding a bit like a robot.
“Hmm,” said Mark agreeably.
“I will show you something.” The soldier left and returned with a three-ring binder. Evidence, he said, of atrocities the mullahs had committed against the MEK and the people of Iran. The soldier flipped through photos of gruesome executions and clear evidence of horrific torture: mangled bodies, burnt limbs…
It was all true, Mark knew, all of these awful tragedies. And every one no doubt was a mini-holocaust for the families involved. But he’d heard so many similar stories coming out of Iran — and Iraq, and Armenia, you name it — that he’d become numb to the misery.
He wished Daria would show up.
50
A half hour later she did, moving quickly.
“Follow me.”
Daria started walking off at such a fast clip that Mark had to jog a few steps to catch up.
“Where are we going?”
“So the original camp commander, the guy who might have really known whether the uranium ever made it to Ashraf, was shot by a sniper three days ago. People are blaming the mullahs and the Iraqis. Everyone is in a panic.”
“Anybody got any evidence?”
“No. They just always blame the mullahs and Iraqis when something goes wrong.”
“This time maybe they’re right.” Mark wondered whether the sniper was still around, and whether his and Daria’s arrival had been detected.
“Anyway I explained to the new commander why we’re here and got her to check Ashraf’s records. Turns out that the day after I brought the uranium to Esfahan, one of the unit leaders here was smuggled out of Ashraf.”
“To pick up the uranium.”
“Maybe. All we know is that he came back the next day, was smuggled out again a week later, and then disappeared. In between he apparently spent a lot of time at the repair shop. It’s our one lead.”
She gestured to the large steel-sided warehouse in front of them. “We’re here, now.”
Mark and Daria stepped into a large bay, where a few disabled armored vehicles and stripped-down Brazilian Cascavel tanks were stored, the sad remnants of what had once been a sizable battalion. One of the armored vehicles was up on a hydraulic lift. Around the perimeter of the bay were tool shelves, a large drill press, a milling machine, welding equipment, and a large waist-high electroplating bath.
Two machinists, looking slightly disheveled and apprehensive, stood in front of the tanks. Next to them the new camp commander slouched on a tall three-legged stool. Unruly strands of hair stuck out from under her headscarf and her mouth was set in a deep, tired frown.
She ordered the machinists to share everything they knew about the unit leader who’d disappeared, and in particular to explain why he’d been visiting the weapons shop in the week prior to his disappearance.
One of the machinists stepped forward. In Indian-accented English, he recounted that this unit leader, acting under the authority of the old camp commander, had ordered him to help create two replicas of a heavy block of metal.
“What kind of metal?” asked Daria.
“Depleted uranium, my sister. He brought it with him.”
“Depleted uranium?” said Mark.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
The machinist shrugged. “He told me it was depleted uranium. And it was very, very heavy. I could barely lift it.”
“It was just a block?”
“No, it had six holes in it, I think to accept bolts. Around this big.” With his hands, the machinist indicated it had been about the size of a large tissue box.
Mark looked at Daria. “Did the package you brought to Esfahan have holes in it?”
“No.”
“Sir, it also had the name Lockheed Aeronautics stamped onto it. This means it is from a military airplane, no? Made by the Americans?”
Depleted uranium was used in armor-piercing bullets and armor plating because it was dense, cheap, and only mildly radioactive, but Mark hadn’t heard of a use for it in planes. “Was this depleted uranium kept in a lead case or anything?” He still wondered whether it was actually the highly enriched uranium.
“No, it was just wrapped in a towel.”
“And the unit leader handled it himself?”
“He did.”
“And you did what he asked you to? You made the replicas?”
“Yes, out of lead, as I was ordered to do. And since the block of depleted uranium was plated with cadmium, I plated the lead replicas with cadmium too.” He pointed to the electroplating bath and added, “We used to use cadmium to refinish old weapons that take rust. And molds for lead, they are easy to make.” Almost as an afterthought he said, “The only difference between the original block of depleted uranium and the lead replicas I made was that the replicas were hollow, with a cover that was easy to screw on and off.”
“Can you draw us a sketch of what this block of depleted uranium and your replicas looked like? To scale?”