I took Morshed’s lighter, reached into the bin, and set fire to the newspaper and several pieces of cardboard. Nothing fancy, but the orange flames skipped across the pyre and braided into a pillar of fire. I didn’t expect much damage, but I did expect a nice mess that would go straight into the back of a trash truck and then into a compacter.
I hurried down the alley and found a secluded spot between a brick tenement house and what looked like the rear entrance to a bakery. There was a light burning inside the bakery, but I didn’t see anyone inside. The air smelled of mildew and rain. It was chillier than I expected.
The iPhone’s screen told me it was 9:23 P.M.
I opened the GPS app, tapped in to coordinates 33°31′47″ North, 51°54′14″ East, and mapped out my route. The nuclear facility lay just short of twenty miles north-by-northwest of town at the foot of the mountains. My first task was to locate the truck Jeri had left for me near the train depot.
I thought about jogging, but a Canadian archaeologist jogging through a Natanz residential area didn’t sound like a wise idea. Especially one with a 9 mm pistol under his arm and a knife strapped to his leg.
So I started walking and thought about my target. This was what I knew about the Natanz plant: it was a hardened fuel enrichment facility. It covered one hundred thousand square yards. In other words, it was damn big. It was built twenty-five feet underground and protected by a concrete wall eight feet thick, which was protected by a second concrete wall. Serious business. The roof was built from reinforced concrete and covered with sixty feet of dirt. Overkill? Hell, they were building nuclear weapons. A little paranoia was in order.
The real work was done in two 75,000 square feet halls, and that’s where I was headed.
The Natanz warehouse district was really nothing more than fifteen or twenty brick buildings huddled around a railroad depot, just as Jeri had said. I found the small Daihatsu pickup truck parked behind a stout two-story building with four very impressive chimneys. The bed of the truck was stacked with asphalt roofing tiles. I found the key inside the back wheel well, resting on top of the tire. I unlocked the door and peeked in. The suitcase, identical to the one I had transported into Qom, was tucked neatly behind the passenger-side seat. I hauled it out and spent just under two minutes entering the codes that opened the case and the sequencing that armed it. I tied the triggers into my phone and replaced it behind the seat.
I slid into the driver’s seat. The truck started on the first try, and the engine sounded as if it had been tuned the day before. Thank you, Jeri.
Lights off, I eased down the street.
I decided not to risk the main highway. The back roads were dirt, but then desert sand was all you could see for miles. The road circled a hill and headed in the direction of mountains as black and ominous as a deep well. The sky was festooned with a million jeweled stars. The moon, shrouded in clouds, sprinkled tawny light over terrain that made Utah look like a tropical paradise, but it was just enough illumination to make navigating the dirt road manageable.
At the turnoff to the ruins, I continued north.
The truck crested one hill, then a tall ridge. On the other side, a smattering of lights sprinkled across a broad plateau. I eased the truck into a dry wash and kept the engine running. I climbed out. I found a vantage point that allowed me to peek over the bank of the wash. The facility was a half mile ahead and huge, but mostly what the eye saw was sand and dirt. I attached my Zeiss digital scope to the iPhone and did a preliminary scan. It was obvious the lights were coming from a cluster of administration buildings. Two ominous-looking concrete walls ran beyond my sight in two directions. A chain-link fence topped by razor wire surrounded the entire complex. Yellow lamps placed every one hundred fifty feet marked the perimeter.
More lights outlined a confusion of squat buildings that were part army barracks and part warehouses in appearance. Another building looked like a hospital or a prison, but maybe that was just the muddy, lackluster color. Another could have been a small factory by the look of the chimneys. Beads of reflected light followed shiny pipes clustered between a number of buildings, but I didn’t get too excited by this. Machinery groaned in the darkness. Guard towers rose up against the horizon like floating apparitions. I couldn’t see guards; that didn’t mean they weren’t there.
It was 11:17 P.M.
I turned the scope in the direction of the facility’s main entrance. It dead-ended with the two-lane highway that ran north from the city of Natanz. I was hoping for evidence that deliveries were made at this late hour. If they weren’t, all the paperwork in the world wouldn’t help me.
I watched for nearly thirty minutes, and my patience was rewarded. Two vehicles used the main entrance during this time. Both were allowed in after what looked like a less-than-diligent inspection at the hands of the guards at the gate. Several other cars veered away from the main entrance, turning in my direction, and skirted the complex to the east. These didn’t look like delivery vehicles. More likely they carried members of the night staff or workers returning from a night on the town in Natanz.
I’d seen enough. I got back behind the wheel again. I eased out of the wash and backtracked to the road that led to the ruins. I turned in the opposite direction. The road intersected the main highway not ten minutes later. I swung north on the highway, crested a low rise, and saw the entrance to the nuclear facility straight ahead.
I told myself not to hurry. I was 150 feet from the entrance when two guards materialized. They were armed, but their weapons were slung over their shoulders. I had my employee ID and delivery manifest in my hands as I eased to a stop. I held them out as the guard on my side stepped forward. He said something. I nodded and smiled and made eye contact. Always make eye contact. Never dip your head. Never turn away. Never let them see you sweat. Basic tradecraft. Don’t drum the steering wheel. Don’t lick your lips. Don’t act impatient. Even more basic.
I expected him to carry my paperwork into the guardhouse, but he didn’t. He positioned himself beneath the arc light at the entrance. He studied the ID first. Then he flipped through the three-page delivery order. He glanced into the bed of the truck, but that was the sum total of his inspection.
He returned to the ID again and was staring at my photo as he stepped up to the window again. Once again, he said something completely without meaning to a guy from New Jersey, and I responded by reaching out my hand. He looked bored, and I wanted to share his boredom, so I yawned. He laid the papers in my hands again. I nodded, turned in my seat, and put the truck in gear. I eased forward, an eye on the rearview mirror. Stay cool, guys. We’ll all live a little longer if you do.
I eased the truck down a wide lane that fanned in three directions. Right seemed to track in the direction of the administration buildings I had seen. Left curled along the innermost concrete wall and along the perimeter. I decided to stay with the main road and eased through a concrete portal that led to a slab of concrete that fifty or so cars were using as a parking lot.
I debated stopping here until I saw a van rolling through a gated entrance at the base of what looked like an underground parking garage. It took sixty nerve-racking seconds to reach the entrance. I rolled up to the keypad. When I touched the pad, the numbers turned red. I entered the code: 43-2-156. The numbers turned green. The gate unlatched. An electric motor scrolled it open.