52

Arak, Iran

Jalal Zandi tried to tell himself to calm down.

He walked the floor of the 120,000-square-foot missile-assembly facility in the middle of a poverty-stricken neighborhood on the periphery of the Iranian city of Arak—a facility most locals thought built construction cranes because, in fact, half of the massive plant did—and tried not to hyperventilate. Looking scared would only make him look guilty, and looking guilty right now would be a death sentence. Inside, uniformed IRGC were everywhere. Outside, plainclothes agents acted like factory workers, truck drivers, and maintenance men, but they were all armed and beyond paranoid. They knew what had happened to Saddaji. And they knew what had happened to the nuclear facilities built by Saddam Hussein and Bashar al-Assad. They had all met the same fate, a fate none here was eager to share.

But telling oneself not to look scared or be scared hardly removed the fear, and Zandi was terrified. Hadn’t he given them everything they had asked of him so far? Hadn’t he done what he had promised? He hadn’t demanded or accepted much money, just enough not to feel like he was giving his valuable services away for free. After all, there weren’t a lot of people who did what he did or knew what he knew. All he’d ever wanted was peace of mind. He’d have done it for free, actually, if they’d asked him. All he’d wanted was not to be killed and for his family to be safe as well. It hadn’t seemed too much to ask. Until now.

He checked in with two shift supervisors and answered a few technical questions. He gave some instructions as they made final adjustments to the second of two Shahab-3 (or Meteor-3 or Shooting Star–3) ballistic missiles, an adaptation of the North Korean Nodong missile. The variant they were finishing was stronger and faster than its predecessors, with a speed of Mach 2.1 and an extended range just shy of 2,000 kilometers, or about 1,200 miles. Typically, the 2,200-pound warhead held five conventional “cluster warheads” that could break away from the missile upon reentry and hit five entirely different targets with standard explosives. But in this version, and in the others like it being finalized around the country, the standard nose cone holding the warhead was being retrofitted to hold a single nuclear warhead and all the electronics and avionics that went with it. They were using the Pakistani designs both for the nuclear warhead itself and for its attachment to the missile, the designs the Iranian regime had purchased from Tariq Khan’s uncle for a ghastly sum.

Now Dr. Saddaji was dead. Najjar Malik had defected. Khan was missing. Zandi feared for his life, but he wasn’t sure what to do next. He knew he was supposed to report any anomalies in the program up the chain of command. He had direct access, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, to Mohsen Jazini, commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps, on his personal mobile phone and on his home phone. And Jazini had been clear that if there were ever an emergency and he couldn’t reach him, he should immediately contact Ali Faridzadeh, the minister of defense, whose personal mobile, home, and office numbers Zandi had been given as well. But calling either man terrified him. They were under enormous pressure from the Twelfth Imam to deliver completed, operational missiles and to get them into the field, ready to be fueled and launched as soon as possible. It had been a miracle to get the first two missiles ready for the navy, but those were entirely different kinds of missiles and far easier to complete.

Zandi cursed himself. He should never have agreed to such an accelerated timetable. He and his men were barely eating or sleeping. They never saw their families and hadn’t had a day off in months. They were being driven too hard. They were about to break. In many ways, he had broken long before, and the news about Khan weighed heavy on his soul. He walked up the metal stairs to his temporary office overlooking the production floor and stared at the phone. What exactly was he supposed to tell Jazini?

* * *

Tel Aviv, Israel

Naphtali made another critical decision.

He had to start calling up the IDF’s Reserves. At the same time, he needed to confuse the enemy and cause them to think they had more time than they really did. To ensure this, he ordered the foreign minister to issue an immediate statement to the press that “the prime minister is pleased to accept the gracious invitation of the UN secretary-general to come to New York for a series of high-level meetings with other world leaders on how to achieve regional peace.” The statement would further say that “the prime minister will depart on Friday morning for the US, where he will appear on NBC’s Meet the Press on Sunday morning and address the AIPAC policy conference at their gala banquet on Monday night.”

At the same time, he instructed the foreign minister to leave immediately for Ben Gurion airport and fly to Washington and simultaneously sent the deputy foreign minister to Brussels. “On the way, tell any journalist who will listen that you and I believe there is one last chance for peace, but after this week there can be no guarantees.”

* * *

Lashkardar Protected Area, Iran

David’s phone rang.

It was Zalinsky. He was livid. He tore into David for the foolish risks he was taking and for having the temerity to request that the Predator over the missile base in Khorramabad be moved to save him. Who did he think he was? Zalinsky fumed. Was he more important than the national security of 300 million American people? Hadn’t Zalinsky taught him better than that?

David was caught off guard by his mentor’s rant—and infuriated as well. He was risking his life every day. A little gratitude might be in order. But he held his tongue. There was no point arguing with the man when he was like this. All he could do was ride it out.

“You finished?” David asked when the tirade began winding down.

“Are you being sarcastic?” Zalinsky shot back.

“I have something for you, but I don’t want to interrupt.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“Then what?”

David took a deep breath and forced himself to stay focused. He was excited about what he’d accomplished, proud even, and he wasn’t going to let Zalinsky ruin it all now.

“Got a pad and a pen?” he asked calmly.

“Why?” Zalinsky countered.

“Do you have a pad and pen?” David repeated.

“Hold on. Okay. What is it?”

“Take this down; it’s a list. Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Natanz—two. Arak—two. Khorramabad—two. Med—two. Plus the one already tested.”

Zalinsky didn’t respond.

“Jack, you still there?”

It was quiet for another few moments.

“Yes, I’m here,” Zalinsky finally replied. “Is this for real?”

“As real as it gets,” David said.

“You’re sure.”

“I’m just telling you what Khan told me. But I’m still pointing a pistol at his good knee. If you don’t believe him, just say the word.”

David wasn’t smiling. Khan’s eyes went wide. David put his finger over his mouth and made it clear Khan should remain silent.

“Give me more,” Zalinsky demanded. “What else did he say?”

“He confirms that he and Zandi and Saddaji and their team built nine nuclear warheads using the designs from his uncle. He confirms that one of the warheads, as we thought, was tested in Hamadan.”

“When you say ‘confirms,’ do you mean you’re telling him what we know and he’s confirming that, or what?”

“No,” David said. “I haven’t told him anything. I just told him I was going to blow off a second kneecap and expose him to his friends as a Mossad agent, and he started spilling his guts. But those first pieces are consistent with what we were learning from our other sources.”

“This is incredible. Keep going.”

“He says that he and Zandi worked closely with the IRGC’s missile engineers to attach two of the warheads to an Iranian variant of the Russian KH-55 cruise missile. Obviously the 55 is typically air launched, but he says last year the Iranians adapted some 55s they originally bought from Ukraine in 2006 to be fired off Iranian missile boats. He says as far as he knows, the two they worked on are currently on either the Jamaran missile frigate or the Sabalan frigate, both of which he says are part of the Iranian naval presence in the Med.”

“Those are the two lead ships that passed through Suez yesterday,” Zalinsky said. “We’re hoping to confirm in a few hours whether they’re carrying nuclear warheads, but the circumstantial evidence is certainly adding up.”

“It is,” David said. “He says the adapted cruise missiles have a speed of Mach 0.75, are GPS guided, and are accurate to between twenty and thirty feet of their target. He says he doesn’t know precisely what target package was loaded into them—that wasn’t under his purview—but Tel Aviv and Haifa were the cities that kept getting mentioned most. And there’s more.”

“Keep going.”

“He says he was overseeing two nuclear warheads being attached to Shahab-3 missiles at the facility in Khorramabad. He said they were initially having some technical problems with part of the trigger, but that he got that resolved even before they left Hamadan. He said the warheads are being attached to the missiles now and are supposed to be finished by Saturday morning, or lunchtime at the latest.”

“And the others?”

“Two are at the Iranians’ main nuclear research facility in Natanz. They’re supposed to be attached to their missiles by Friday night at the latest. Two more were under Zandi’s supervision in Arak. As far as Khan knows, one was to be fully operational by nightfall and loaded onto one of the mobile launchers. He wasn’t sure where they were going to take it. Another is supposed to be ready by Saturday morning. He’s given me all kinds of technical details on the warheads and the missiles and a quick rundown on their schedule to produce more warheads within the next month. I don’t know how much you want right now. You tell me.”

“Do you have a laptop handy?”

“No, why?”

“I need you to write up everything you have—especially the precise facilities, buildings, and sections of buildings where Khan says the six warheads and missiles are located, the ones not out at sea—and get that all to me ASAP.”

“Jack, I’m in the middle of nowhere. I need to give it to you over the phone.”

“Not right now. I need to get the basics of this to Murray and Allen and then to the president.”

“Fine,” David said. “Put Eva on. I’ll dictate the rest to her.”

“That’s not possible. She can’t. She’s doing something else for me right now. I’ll get someone else—hold on.”

Doing something else? This was everything they had trained and prepared for. What could Eva possibly be doing that was more important than this? But just then, he heard two vehicles pulling up the dirt road.

“Jack, I’ll call you back in five minutes. I need to go.”

David hung up the phone and crouched low. He made it clear to Khan that he needed to keep his mouth shut. Then, keeping the pistol close to his chest, he moved to one of the windows and peeked out.

They had company. Lots of it.