Exit Plan

13. CONVERGENCE

6 April 2013

0730 Local Time/0430 Zulu

The Persian Gulf Coast, West of Deyyer

A jeep met Rahim’s car at the first checkpoint and led it down to the beach. They had to stop when the ground became too soft and proceeded on foot down to the water’s edge.

The police lieutenant volunteered, “Fishermen spotted it this morning when they came down shortly after dawn. High tide was two hours before sunrise.” The body lay under a blanket, guarded by a pair of policemen. The police lieutenant escorting Rahim and Dahghan gestured to them, and one gingerly removed the covering.

A man’s body lay half-buried in a mudflat, facedown. He was wearing brown-patterned camouflage fatigues. It wasn’t an Iranian uniform, or from any of the Gulf countries as far as Rahim could tell. And in spite of the beard, he was sure this man was European or American.

Rahim stepped closer and examined his face. Matted black hair partially hid his features, but ugly wounds and discolored areas on his face and neck showed that he hadn’t died of natural causes. The major had seen enough injuries in his time to recognize burns. An accident? He’d also seen enough drowning victims to know he hadn’t been in the water long — two or three days, most likely.

Rahim said, “You say he washed ashore this morning. And nothing’s been touched? Nothing taken?” There could only be one right answer.

“Absolutely nothing.” The police lieutenant glanced at the two officers. Either they had clean consciences, or they were good actors.

“Get a dozen men, more if you need to. Search the shoreline for ten kilometers in either direction. Collect every piece of trash or debris you find. And then help Dahghan sort through it.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll have my forensics people help him.”

“Good. And do it again tonight and tomorrow morning as well.” The lieutenant nodded as he made notes.

A military ambulance had driven up, and two men carried over a stretcher. “Dahghan, go with them and oversee the autopsy. I want a preliminary report by noon and a final one by tonight. Nobody is to speak of this.” Rahim raised his voice enough so that everyone could hear him, and he met each man’s eyes as they nodded their understanding. “Lieutenant, in your report simply record this as an unknown corpse, too badly decomposed to identify.”

“Yes, Major.”

6 April 2013

0000 Local Time/0500 Zulu

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Lowell Hardy was hardly surprised by Joanna’s call. She’d been keeping crazy hours, and of course hadn’t been able to tell him anything except that she was an action officer, and it was national security work. She’d managed a few hurried calls, and he’d been patient with her absence, and secretly proud.

He’d been hoping she’d say she was coming home, and could he please cook her something? They could have a quiet meal together and not talk about work.

Instead, she wanted him to meet her at the White House. A car was already on the way to pick him up. When asked why, she said she’d tell him when he arrived.

The limo took him from their Georgetown apartment straight to the visitor’s entrance; his name was on the VIP access list and he was expeditiously processed through security. A staffer collected him and he was quickly escorted first to the West Wing and then down to the situation room.

Joanna was waiting for him by the door, and after he’d passed through another security check, they quickly hugged. She pecked him on the cheek and whispered, “We’ll be able to talk shop, now.”

He’d never been in the White House Situation Room, and was frankly a little envious of his wife. Of course, she’d never gotten to command a nuclear submarine, so that was probably fair.

It was less impressive than he’d thought, and actually a little cramped. There was the obligatory long conference table, wood paneling, and computer screens and maps lining the walls. Several civilian staffers and service members worked at desks in one corner. It wasn’t really about the room. It was about who came here and the decisions they made.

He’d taken all this in as he was almost hustled to one end of the long table. He recognized Alison Gray, the deputy chief of staff at the White House. A man sitting next to her rose as they approached. “Senator Hardy, I’m Steven Weiss, a collection management officer with the National Clandestine Service at CIA. I’m here to brief you into the Gemstone sensitive HUMINT compartment.” He offered Hardy a classified nondisclosure form.

“Senator, you’re being read into the Opal subcompartment of Gem-stone. By signing this form, you agree not to discuss or divulge any information within this subcompartment with anyone else unless that individual is also read in, and their status has been verified by the National Clandestine Service. There is no termination date on this agreement and it will remain in force for the rest of your life. Please check your social security number, then sign and date here.” Hardy quickly scanned the form and signed it, while trying to process the news.

He handed the completed form back to Weiss, but looked at Joanna and then Gray. In a dark gray suit, with her hair pulled back, she looked every inch a White House official. “I’m here to oversee this brief and address any questions that Joanna can’t answer.” She checked her watch, and then said, “We’re a little behind, Doctor. Please tell him what you’ve been working on.”

His wife began what was clearly a well-rehearsed brief, complete with graphics on her laptop. As she called up maps and photographs, she described Michigan and her mission, the Iranian assets, now known to be a married couple, the information they had provided, and the information they claimed to have. Then she described what had gone wrong.

Hardy took it all in silently, although he winced when Joanna mentioned the battery fire on the ASDS. When she finished, Weiss asked him if he had any questions regarding security or access procedures. Hardy shook his head “no,” his mind was halfway around the world, comparing what he knew with what he’d just been told. It didn’t compute.

“So the public bluff and bluster by Iran is just for show? Am I missing something?” Hardy asked.

Gray answered, “A lot of people don’t think it’s a bluff.” She outlined the Israelis’ actions of the past few days. “And there are some people over here who agree with them.”

“But our intelligence community says exactly the opposite.”

“The second file we received, about the reactor in Arak, confirms our information from independent sources,” Gray answered. She glanced at her watch again. “Senator, your wife has been managing the recovery of our people, but that is now one part of a much larger problem.”

“Which is why I need your help,” a new voice added.

Hardy turned to see President Myles, followed by Chief of Staff Alvarez and National Security Advisor Kirkpatrick. Old reflexes kicked in and the retired naval officer snapped to attention. Everyone else also rose and Myles reached out to shake Hardy’s hand. The junior senator from Connecticut sensed a photo opportunity, but there were no cameras present.

Myles seemed to read his mind. “Lowell, I’ve got a tough job for you. If you can make this happen, you will save a lot of lives and make me very grateful — much more grateful than a mere autographed photo.”

“I’m at your service, sir.” Hardy braced himself.

Myles sat down at the head of the table, with the others on either side. Weiss had disappeared, and Hardy tried to remember what form he’d just signed. “First, tell me about Captain Kyle Guthrie.”

Hardy smiled. “I served with Kyle on USS Kentucky. I was the main propulsion assistant, he was an assistant weapons officer. We’ve seen each other since then, occasionally. He’s a good officer. Thorough, takes care of his people. Not as independent as some submarine captains, but there are different opinions on the value of independence.”

Myles nodded. “And his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Mitchell?”

Hardy hesitated for a moment, then answered, “One of the best, sir. I’m sure he’s keeping Michigan running smoothly.” Why was the president interested in Michigan’s XO, Hardy asked himself. Subs were largely one-man shows, and Guthrie was the decision maker.

Myles saw the puzzled expression on Hardy’s face and turned toward Patterson. “You haven’t told him about Mitchell yet?” questioned Myles.

Joanna saw Hardy’s expression change from confusion to concern. “I was going to tell him about that later, sir.” She faced Hardy and took a deep breath. “He’s okay right now, Lowell, but Jerry’s in trouble. He was one of the pilots on the ASDS when it sank. He’s on the beach with the SEAL team and the two Iranians.”

Myles asked, “How will he do in that situation, Senator?”

Hardy hesitated as he absorbed the news. “Well, sir, he’s definitely out of his comfort zone.” He paused again before answering. “I meant it when I said Jerry’s one of the best. He’s intelligent, resourceful, and doesn’t give up.”

“Good.” Myles’s smile seemed genuine. “Now for your mission. Alison briefed you on the Israeli preparations?”

“Yes, sir. It sounds like they’ll be ready to strike in a day or two at the most.”

“You and Joanna are going to change their minds. The Israelis don’t give the files Opal sent the same weight we do, and I need you to convince them to wait. Buy us enough time to get at the rest of the information that the Iranian scientist is carrying.”

“What did they say when you showed them the two files?” Hardy asked.

“They pointed to the IAEA report and imagery of the test site. Our ambassador didn’t make a lot of headway, and Andy Lloyd didn’t push him very hard.” The president paused for a moment, and added, “While Andy and I get along on many things, this isn’t one of them. I must depend on your discretion.”

Hardy wasn’t a political animal, but Joanna was, and had spoken of Lloyd’s long relationship with the president. He asked, “How closely do we work with the State Department?” The nature of their trip was becoming clearer.

“Not at all. You are my personal envoys with sensitive information that is to be discussed with their intelligence people. With luck we can keep this below the Cabinet level on both sides. If Mossad or Military Intelligence can be convinced that the Iranians are not close to assembling a weapon, they can convince their leaders to wait.”

“What do you think about the other evidence: that the Iranians are getting close?”

Myles leaned back in his chair. “I agree with Dr. Kirkpatrick. There’s a mystery, but I’m not ready to throw away everything we’ve done before. Normally I’d wait and let the intelligence agencies sort it out, but we can’t sit on the fence, not with the Israelis ready to fly.”

Alison and Alvarez were both looking at their watches. Alvarez started to lean forward as if to speak, but Myles waved him back.

“If the intelligence supported it, I’d wish the Israelis Godspeed. But I’m convinced it doesn’t, and we” — he pointed to Hardy and Patterson — “meaning you two, have to convince them they’re wrong.”

The president stood. “You two are going to stop a war before it starts. Go home and pack. You leave in eight hours.”

6 April 2013

1200 Local Time/0900 Zulu

Kangan Police Barracks

“It’s confirmed, Major, he didn’t drown.” Deyyer was only twenty kilometers by road from Kangan, so Dahghan had chosen to give his report to Rahim in person. “There was no water in his lungs, and the doctor said he died from electric shock and severe burns. There are traces of exotic chemicals on his skin and clothing, which they are analyzing. He carried no identification. He was wearing an American-made watch.”

Dahghan was smiling now, and Rahim asked, “What else did you find?”

The young agent unwrapped an object. It was a thin piece of red plastic the size of a large book. One side was ragged, where it had been torn from a binding or notebook.

Rahim spoke English, and could easily read the lettering:

“They found that two kilometers southeast of the body’s location. I called our headquarters in Tehran. The Advanced SEAL Delivery System is a U.S. Navy minisub that can be used for commando missions. It has a crew of two and can hold at least six passengers. It’s carried by a larger sub. There is only one vehicle known to be in service. It is currently carried by USS Michigan, a Special Operations and cruise missile submarine, which was reported to be exercising with the Pakistani Navy last week.”

The major worked it through. “So an American submarine entered the gulf and sent a minisub in to contact two traitors on a beach southeast of Kangan. They wouldn’t send a sub unless they intended to exchange something or someone. Some time during that trip, the sub experienced an electrical fire” — he pointed to photos of the corpse—”killing at least one crewman and” — holding up the cover of the logbook—”likely causing it to sink.”

Rahim smiled. “Allah is good to us. But now he gives us another test. Where is the wreck of the submarine? Did survivors make it ashore? What was their business with the traitors?”

The major sat silently for a few minutes, got up and paced, studied the map, then started firing orders to Dahghan. “Expand the search. Alert every police station, Basij unit, and VEVAK office along the coast and from here north to Shiraz. Increase the number of checkpoints.

“I’m changing the traitors’ status as well. They are no longer to be captured. Pasdaran Captain Yousef Akbari and the nuclear engineer Shirin Naseri are dangerous traitors and should be shot on sight. If they are taken alive, they are to be held incommunicado until they can be turned over to VEVAK.”

The major continued, “The captain’s only living family member is his mother, but she is in a vegetative state. Naseri’s father is dead, but arrest her mother and uncle. Question them both thoroughly.”

“Yes, sir. The mother lives in Shiraz, but her uncle lives in Bandar Charak. We don’t have an office in such a small town. They’d have to come from Bandar Abbas.”

“We can’t wait,” Rahim insisted. “Go ahead and tell the Bandar Abbas office to send a team, but tell the local Pasdaran to make the arrest immediately. He should be held incommunicado until our people arrive and take custody. We know where these people live,” he added. “I want them both in our hands an hour from now. Move.”

After Dahghan left, Rahim placed a secure call to Moradi. He’d briefed the general earlier about the discovery of the body, but the new evidence confirmed his suspicions, and raised new concerns. The general answered immediately.

“They have been in contact with the Americans,” Rahim reported. He described the cover to the logbook. “If nothing else but to arrange a meeting. There is no way to know what information the traitors have passed to the Americans. At a minimum, they could provide a great deal of information on the actual status of the program.”

“Which could delay an attack,” Moradi concluded.

“The greater risk is if they had knowledge of our immediate plans.” Even on a secure line, Rahim was circumspect.

“Have you found any evidence that they do know?” Moradi’s tone was carefully neutral. They both understood the implications if the couple had revealed their plan.

“I am concerned that the date of their disappearance coincides with the commencement of our operation. I never assume coincidences.”

“Once they are captured, we will know how much they told the Americans.

“I disagree, General. That is irrelevant. We are on a short time scale, and there is nothing we can do to reverse what has been done. Our best course is to limit any further spread of the information. If they have the secret, it will die with them. I’d also like to withhold information about the discovery of the body.”

“You’re asking a lot. There are several ways we could publicize this that would badly damage American prestige.”

“I understand, sir, but it also warns the other side. I don’t like telling them what we know.”

“Concealment is not always the best course.”

“General, this is about more than merely embarrassing the United States. Because the Americans were meeting with Akbari and Naseri, there may be a link to our operation. Questions will be asked by both sides. If we can find them before news is released, then that link will be broken.”

“All right. I am convinced, and while we wait, I will use the time to plan how to use our dead friend to the best effect.”

“Another question arises. Was he alone?” Rahim asked.

“You think there was more than one American aboard the submarine?” Moradi asked.

“Two is likely, more is possible. But are they entombed within the wreck, or will they float ashore tomorrow? Or are they already on our shores, and alive?”

“In which case our traitors would not be traveling alone. Live Americans would look even better on television than a dead one,” Moradi observed wistfully.

“If there are Americans here, then their sub is still offshore, waiting for them,” Rahim said. “They will be trying to reach it,” he reasoned. “We must find it and sink it.”

“Only Pasdaran units can operate in gulf waters,” Moradi reminded him. “The navy operates east of Hormuz.”

“I understand that, sir. But only the navy can find and kill an American submarine, which, you can remind them, they let slip through the Strait of Hormuz unmolested.”

“If you’re suggesting we ask the navy for assistance, that will not sit well with my colleagues,” Moradi said, “I’m sure you remember how hard the Pasdaran had to fight to get sole control of the Persian Gulf.”

“Yes, sir, I do. But can you think of another way to find and kill an American submarine? No disrespect, sir, but the Pasdaran Navy is not equipped to hunt down a submarine. And finding that submarine not only helps us find their friends on land, but will interfere with their attempts to escape.”

“All right,” Moradi conceded. “You’ve made your point. I’ll speak to the commanders of both navies immediately.”

The Outskirts of Bandar Charak

1215 Local Time/0915 Zulu

Highway 96 left the coast halfway to Bandar Charak, bending north, then east again, skirting around a mass of rough rocky hills between the highway and the coast. Following Shirin’s instructions, north of Charak they turned right onto another paved road that would take them straight into town. The road lay between the hills to the west and an eroded flat plain to the east. Neither showed many signs of man.

They stopped a couple of kilometers north of town. A grove of trees on a low hill gave cover, and after they’d unloaded everything from the van, Ramey and Phillips drove it back north half a kilometer. A dirt road ran at right angles into the hills from the paved highway, and they hid the van there, sanitizing it like they had the Peykan.

Yousef and Shirin had wanted to take the van into town, but both Ramey and Jerry had decided against it. “By now the patrol’s been missed, and they’re looking for their vehicle.” That meant Shirin and Fazel would have to walk into town, and her uncle’s house was at the southern end of town, near the water.

While the two SEALs hid the car, the others under Lapointe’s guidance worked on setting up what would be a layup position at least until that evening, and quite possibly for a day or two. It was nearly 1230 by the time Ramey and Phillips returned. After inspecting their newest home, Ramey pronounced it acceptable. “Time for phase two.”

Shirin looked at Harry in the stolen Basij uniform. They had a pair of pants and a uniform shirt that more or less fit him, but they hadn’t taken any boots from the corpses. “I wouldn’t change these anyway,” he told her. “Nobody will notice the difference, especially after we’ve been walking for a while.”

The American had left all his equipment behind, except for his radio, which he’d hidden in a pocket. Reluctantly, Yousef handed him the Iranian-made pistol and gun belt. They had the rifles they’d taken from the Basij soldiers, but they’d all agreed a rifle might draw unnecessary attention from the authorities. Basij normally wouldn’t carry one unless they were on duty.

The American also had the identity papers for the dead Basij corporal, a Qassem Molavi. The photo, height, and weight were wrong, but they might pass casual examination.

Together, they worked on a legend, with “Corporal Molavi” escorting his sister-in-law “Miryam” to visit her family in town. Shirin’s husband was away on duty with the Pasdaran, and no self-respecting Iranian woman, especially a pregnant one, would travel unaccompanied by a male relative. It was also true that no self-respecting Iranian husband would let his wife be accompanied by a stranger, but Yousef could see no alternative.

“I wish you didn’t have to do this,” Yousef had told her. He was looking at the American while he said it.

“I don’t want to do this either,” she’d answered. “I hate the thought of walking that far. But it won’t be bad. And I’m looking forward to seeing Uncle Seyyed. I know he will help us.”

“I also wish I knew something about the Charak Basij Brigade,” Yousef complained. Looking directly at Harry, he warned, “Remember, you’re wearing an Iranian corporal’s uniform now. Show some discipline. If you act the same way you do with your own officers, they’ll either spot you as an impostor or throw you in jail for insubordination.”

Anger flashed across Fazel’s face and into his voice. “You don’t have a clue about what it means to be a professional soldier. It’s going to be easy to pretend I’m Basij. I’ll just act like a thug. Oh, no, wait, that’s if I want to be Pasdaran.”

Shirin threw herself between the two men, and while the other Americans may not have understood Farsi, they knew trouble when they heard it. Lapointe and Phillips were closest. They managed to move so that while they discouraged Fazel from saying anything else, they stood with their teammate, facing Yousef. “That’s enough,” Lapointe ordered. Looking at Ramey and Jerry, he said, “It’s time to go.” Both officers nodded.

Embracing Yousef one last time, Shirin sighed and followed “Qassem.” They waited briefly, made sure the highway was empty, and hurried out to the roadside. Although it was early April, in the south it was already in the low twenties of degrees Centigrade. This close to the water, the southerly breeze was humid, but thankfully cool.

The Bandar Charak Road ran almost straight north-south here, two lanes of asphalt bordered by wide shoulders that blended with the surrounding landscape, sometimes almost seamlessly. It seemed flat, but as they walked, Shirin could see that the road cut through a series of low, gently sloping dunes.

Harry explained, “It’s a little less than two kilometers to the edge of town. We should get there in half an hour or so.”

“Fine, Qassem. So tell me about yourself. How old are you? Do I have any other in-laws?” Her tone was humorous, but she knew she was right. They were supposed to be family, even if only by marriage.

They walked in silence for a few minutes before the American answered. “We are not supposed to share personal information with the people we meet, but we are also taught that if we have to construct a legend, it’s best to stay close to the truth. I am twenty-eight.”

“So you’re Yousef’s older brother. Yousef is twenty-four. You have” — she paused for a moment—”had another brother, three years younger than Yousef, Ali. He was at university, but protested the 2009 elections and was arrested. He was killed in prison, by the Pasdaran.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been hard on Yousef and our parents.”

“Your father passed away several years before that. Your mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease earlier in 2009, and the loss of her younger son accelerated her decline. Ali was the only family Yousef had. That is why it is so important that the two remaining brothers should get along.” Her plea came from her eyes, as well as her voice.

Harry walked silently for several minutes. “Alright. Thank you for telling me about Ali. But why would Yousef join the Pasdaran if he felt that way?

“He was already in, and stayed because of me, and because leaving the Pasdaran without good reason is not always easy, or safe.”

They walked and worked out several more details of his life. She and Yousef had met in Shiraz, so it made sense that “Qassem” lived there. He was an army veteran who had joined the Basij, and was studying to be a paramedic.

“I’m probably in charge of giving first aid classes to my fellow Basij fighters.”

“Don’t take them lightly,” she warned sternly. “They don’t, and they’re a law unto themselves. Yousef wasn’t wrong about being careful.”

She was telling Harry about Shiraz when they reached the edge of town, with scattered houses stretching away from the road. The city limits were officially marked by a small traffic circle, busy but not crowded with traffic in the middle of the day. The center island was filled with carefully tended greenery.

A policeman stood at the edge of the circle, watching the traffic. He noticed the couple and waved. Fazel waved back and Shirin nodded politely.

Another road headed east from the circle, and they turned that way, doing their best to look like locals. Walking east past a soccer field, they turned south again. One- and two-story buildings, all built from the same tan brick, lined the street. The bare ground was dotted with dark green scrub, but no grass. Trees often grew in the houses’ courtyards, with the houses built to surround them.

She discussed the route as they walked, with the American always steering her toward the largest crowds. It was well into the lunch hour, and her stomach complained.

On a street lined with shops and small businesses, they bought kebabs at one stall, and fruit drinks at another, always alert for anyone following or even showing interest in them. There were places to sit and eat, and Harry offered to let her rest, but she was too impatient to see Seyyed. And they couldn’t linger. Yousef and the others were depending on them.

As they headed south, Shirin began to see familiar places, and told Harry stories about Seyyed and the rest of her family. Her feet no longer hurt, and she began to rehearse how she would introduce the American to her uncle. “Uncle, this Basij corporal is actually an American commando.” There had to be a better way to say that.

Only a few blocks from his house, they saw a traffic barrier across the street, and two policemen waving traffic away. Like the one at the traffic circle, they were dressed in dark fatigues and ball caps, and carried submachine guns. Pedestrians tried to pass or spoke to them, but they were all turned away. Nobody argued with the officers, but several small groups had congregated across the street.

Alert for any sign of authority, they’d both spotted the police at the same time. Shirin’s cheerful mood vanished. “What do we do?” she whispered. Already walking south, they were in a residential neighborhood. Stopping or turning away would look suspicious.

The American simply said, “Peace, Miryam. We’ll turn at the corner. Our destination is to the east of here, remember?” They were so close. She could almost see Seyyed’s house from where they were.

“Yes,” she answered mechanically. Then she remembered something from her visits. “The old Al Ali Castle, down near the water.”

“And I forgot the camera again.”

His response almost made her laugh, and she relaxed a little. But why was the street blocked?

As they neared the intersection where the barrier was placed, Harry surprised Shirin and spoke to an elderly man standing at the corner. “He didn’t let you pass?”

“No,” the old man grumbled. “I wanted to visit my friend Farrokh, but they are not letting anyone by. They won’t tell me why, or how long it will be there. I don’t have a car, and my home is six blocks from here. We play chess every day, and smoke together.. ”

Another man came up, followed by a pair of women in burquas. He asked Fazel, “Do you know what this is about?”

“No, no,” he answered. “We’re just visiting.”

The two quickly moved on before they could be drawn into the discussion. Now that she could see down the cross street at the intersection, Shirin saw barriers at the streets on either side of this one, also manned by police, all blocking passage south. They walked quickly east. “Qassem, I’m worried. This can’t be a coincidence.”

“We’re still walking to the castle,” he reassured her. “See, the next intersection is not blocked off. We can use that street to head south.”

When they turned south, they did find more barriers, this time blocking access back to the west. Again, three streets were blockaded, and the center one passed near Seyyed’s home.

“We can turn west down there,” she said, as they walked by the barriers.

“No,” he replied. “We can’t risk showing too much interest…

The gunfire interrupted him. It came from their right, where Seyyed’s house should be. She heard a single shot, then a burst of fire, followed by several more. Then an explosion. All the fear and worry inside her wrapped itself around her heart.

The pedestrians on the street, and even the policemen at the barriers, ducked at the sound. The police kept their positions, but went to one knee, and kept turning and looking behind them. The civilians, some calling or shouting, fled.

Feeling Harry’s grip on her arm, Shirin let herself be hurried south. The shooting continued, and even Shirin could distinguish the sounds of different weapons. Single shots with different sounds, perhaps from pistols and rifles, mixed with a deeper boom. A shotgun? And laid over them was the chatter of automatic weapons. It was a full-blown gun battle.

They’d crossed two or three streets when Shirin stopped, leaning against a wall, almost gasping. “No farther. Please.” She drew a few breaths, hearing the sounds of battle and wishing Yousef could tell her what was going on. But Harry was a soldier, too. “What’s happening?” she asked.

Harry shook his head. “A barricaded neighborhood.” He nodded toward the firing. “And Seyyed’s house is in that direction?”

“Yes,” she answered unhappily.

“They may have tried to arrest him. It looks like he decided to put up a fight.”

The ice around her heart remained, but she said, “I have to see. I have to know what’s happening.”

The streets were virtually empty now, and she started west. “Nahil Street is almost straight. We may be able to see.”

Harry’s expression told her he wasn’t happy with the idea, but she was already walking, and he reluctantly turned to follow. A few fast steps and he took the lead, hugging the walls of any buildings, looking around each corner before crossing any gaps between buildings.

A loud explosion, then another, made the American flatten against a wall, but Shirin hardly slowed. “Those were RPGs. Rocket propelled grenades,” he said softly.

The gunfire slowed, then stopped, and she started to walk faster, afraid that she would not know, and afraid of what she would find out.

One street over from Nahil, Harry paused to look north toward Seyyed’s house, and pointed. A tangled column of smoke was rising, its source still hidden. It had to be a fire. She felt numb. What had happened?

They crossed the next block quickly, without fear of stray rounds, at least. Again, Harry looked around the corner first, then turned and nodded to Shirin. They stepped around the corner and began walking north. “If anyone stops us, we were curious about the smoke,” he said.

That made sense to her, but her mind only noted it in passing. The roadblock at the intersection ahead was unmanned, which allowed them to get closer without fear of being questioned. Bullet holes in the wooden barriers explained why the post was vacant.

Her uncle’s house was visible, but only between two army trucks. Soldiers in Pasdaran uniforms stood in clumps, weapons slung or held casually.

She heard sirens, and one of the trucks moved, giving a clearer view of the structure. The front of the building was a jumble of blackened brick, and smoke streamed out of both the front and the roof.

“It’s his house,” she confirmed, almost to herself more than the American.

Two white ambulances pulled up and soldiers in green fatigue uniforms were loaded inside. The paramedics worked on one for several minutes before putting his stretcher inside.

She watched the activity. “I don’t see my uncle,” she told Harry. What did that mean?

“I only see uniforms,” the American replied. “I see three lightly wounded, two incapacitated.”

The ambulances pulled away, and for a moment she could see more activity. A uniformed figure, probably an officer, was pointing and giving orders, while other soldiers did things with their weapons.

“There, on the right. Between those two men.” Harry couldn’t point, but she saw two soldiers standing, with their rifles held at the ready, as if guarding something. Between them, on the ground, were bundles that she’d seen earlier, but dismissed as debris. Now she saw they were man-sized. There were four of them, partly covered with blankets, but she could see civilian clothes beneath.

Tears blurred her vision, and she started crying. Harry tried to shush her, and even put his arm around her shoulder, but he was not Yousef, and it held no comfort.

“Are you people all right?” Absorbed in her grief, she hadn’t noticed the policeman’s approach. Harry seemed surprised as well. “Is your wife injured?”

“She’s my sister-in-law,” Harry answered softly. “She’s just upset.”

The policeman nodded. “Women should not see such things. Why did you bring her here?”

“We were on our way to visit the Al Ali Castle when we heard the shooting. After it stopped, we were curious about the smoke.”

“And look what it got you,” the policeman’s tone was critical, almost angry. “This is none of your business, anyway. Go now.”

“Yes, Officer,” he answered, and Shirin let herself be led away. They walked through town back west and north. Fighting for control, she stopped her voice, but not her grief. The walk back seemed shorter. They were not stopped or questioned again.

Along the way, Harry tried to get her to talk, but she waved off his questions, thinking and trying to deal with her grief, and new fears. How would they get out of Iran now? Could they even get out? And if they didn’t, what about what they knew?

They reached the layup in late afternoon. She didn’t realize how exhausted she was until she saw Yousef, and almost collapsed in his arms. She began weeping again, completely losing the control she’d worked so hard to maintain.

While Yousef tended to his wife, Fazel explained to the others what had happened. Ramey took it hard, suddenly sitting down like he’d had the air let out of him. “We are so screwed,” Phillips complained.

“They’re hunting us for sure; chasing us,” Lapointe observed. “They’re rolling up her family, maybe people they know.”

Jerry felt badly for Shirin and her husband, and he really wasn’t sure what they’d do next. “We need another plan. What if we find a really good spot to hide and wait for a few days?”

“For the ‘heat to die down?”‘ Ramey asked. He started to say something else, but Shirin interrupted.

“No. There is no more time.” Wrapped in a blanket, holding a nearly empty water bottle, she looked like an accident victim, but her voice was strong. “I had hoped that Seyyed would be able to get us out soon, even tonight.”

Yousef said something to her, and she nodded, answering him in Farsi. “We must tell you something. I know it will sound fantastic, unbelievable. That is why we wanted to prove ourselves before saying anything, but that is not possible now. You must set up the radio and warn your government. The people in charge of the nuclear program, maybe the Iranian government itself, is trying to provoke an attack by the Israelis on Natanz.”

Jerry heard the words, but they didn’t make sense. “You’re saying they want the Israelis to attack? That’s insane! Why?”

“Because they are impatient for the confrontation, and the weapon isn’t ready. We won’t have it for years, if we get it at all. A public admittance of failure would be a colossal embarrassment for our leaders. If Natanz is destroyed, it’s not Iran’s fault anymore.”

Nobody said anything for a minute, and finally Shirin continued. “We don’t have proof — none of the files on the flash drive say anything about this, but what we know, what the files prove, is that their recent actions are completely at odds with the facts. There is no bomb to test.”

“Hundreds of my friends and coworkers will be killed, and a war will start because of pride and greed and fear of what will happen if they fail.”

“How soon?” Jerry asked.

“I don’t know exactly. The contingency planning I saw assumed that once we prepared to test a weapon, America, the Israelis, or both would attack within a week, or less. That’s why we weren’t going to test the first device we built, but the third or fourth. Any attack on us would be followed by the destruction of Israel by nuclear-armed ballistic missiles.”

Jerry told Lapointe, “Get the SATCOM radio set up. This is way beyond my pay grade. We’ll send this on and let the higher-ups sort this one out.”

“No,” Shirin insisted. “Do not just pass this on to someone else. We risked everything to get this information to the West.”

“And that’s what we’re going to do,” Jerry answered. “It’s all we can do, that and try to find bus tickets back home.”