Exit Plan

2. SEQUENCE

11 March 2013

Liberty Crossing Intelligence Campus McLean, Virginia

Ed Randolph walked into the conference room to find it jammed, buzzing with conversation. Thankfully, government buildings were nonsmoking, but it was still stuffy. With even the janitors cleared for Top Secret, classification hadn’t been much of a barrier to attendance. And there had been rumors. He quickly walked to the front of the room, past the two briefers setting up.

He held up his arms, and the murmur quickly faded. “There are too many people in this room. If you’re not a principal or designated representative, leave. If you’re not from the WMD, Near East, Military Issues, or Science and Technology Offices, leave.” One analyst rose to protest, but Randolph forestalled him. “Yes, Clark, you’re entitled, but not yet. This is only a preliminary meeting. The Office of Transnational Threats will get their chance to review and comment on the draft product.” He raised his voice. “And the fewer discussions I hear in the halls, the better.” There were no more arguments, and people began to file out of the room. As the National Intelligence Officer for Weapons of Mass Destruction and Proliferation, Randolph had the authority to limit the meeting’s attendance.

The Chairman of the National Intelligence Council, General Duvall, appeared in the door and the stragglers made a path for him, then hurried out. Randolph checked his watch: 1500 exactly. He checked the two briefers. One was now standing at the podium while the other tended the computer. They had dealt with the general before. Randolph knew what he expected.

As Duvall sat, the analyst behind the podium smoothly launched into his brief. “Good afternoon, General. My name is Todd Allison. I’m the senior imagery analyst assigned to the Weapons Intelligence, Nonproliferation and Arms Control Center, Central Intelligence Agency. This briefing is classified Top Secret, NOFORN, and contains information from a sensitive HUMINT compartment.” To emphasize that fact, the second slide listed not only the security classification, but all the categories of intelligence involved, and the classifying authorities.

“Next slide,” Allison directed. The bold lettering, “Key Judgments,” at the top of the slide was somewhat misleading, as there was only one short bullet.

“Sir, based on all source analysis, we believe with a high degree of confidence that the Iranians are preparing to test a nuclear device — no earlier than two weeks, but possibly in no more than a month.”

Randolph watched the reactions from those in the room. Gene Cooper, Allison’s boss and the head of WINPAC, sat to one side. He was nodding of course, as was Duvall, who’d been told the reason for the sudden change in his afternoon appointments. Everyone else, the other analysts and the department heads, sat up straighter. Some pulled out notepads. A few turned to speak to their neighbors, but were quickly shushed.

“We understand this runs counter to the last three NIEs, and we’ve taken care to verify both our analysis and sources.” The NIEs, or National Intelligence Estimates, are the official positions of the U.S. intelligence community on a wide variety of issues that affect the security of the United States. It was the National Intelligence Council’s job to draft, coordinate, publish, and update them as needed, combining the data and analytic talent from the entire intelligence community. It took a lot of hard work to get the intelligence community to make up its mind about anything. Changing it was even harder.

“The first indicator was found by Ken Akamatsu at the NSA.” He motioned to the analyst minding the computer. “Ken tracks Iranian construction companies, watching for activity that doesn’t correlate with known projects, or projects that are larger than they should be.”

“Khatam al-Anbia is one of the biggest construction companies in Iran,” Akamatsu broke in and explained. “One of their divisions, ‘Hara,’ recently opened a small office in Qermezin, 250 kilometers to the west-southwest of Tehran.” A map flashed on the screen.

“Information on this came from intercepts of commercial phone traffic we obtained. The Hara division specializes in tunnel construction.”

“The second piece was a sensitive HUMINT report,” said Allison, continuing the presentation. “CIA’s National Clandestine Service provided it to us six days ago after receiving it from a friendly nation.” Randolph knew which nation, and most of the audience might guess it was Israel, but Allison didn’t need to tell them that. “This source reported that Basij units in Markazi Province were ordered to provide troops to patrol an area in the northwest part of the province until regular IRGC units could arrive and set up proper security.”

The Basij was a militia force, first formed during the Iran-Iraq war in the 1980s. Consisting of young men armed with infantry weapons, it was a paramilitary arm that could serve as irregular troops, civic event organizers, or political enforcers as the occasion required. They were locally recruited and often commanded by an imam in the community they came from.

Akamatsu pressed a button and the map zoomed out. “Qermezin is in the northwest part of the province.

“Based on these two reports, and with Mr. Cooper’s approval, we asked NGA to survey the imagery of all Basij barracks in the area.” He clicked again, and a circle appeared surrounding Qermezin, then small crosses appeared inside the circle.

“These are the locations we’ve checked over the past week. We saw increased activity at these five—” Some of the crosses changed color from white to red. “This led to a wide-area search for new construction. Our initial suspicion was a new underground facility was being started — purpose, unknown. What we found was this.”

The map was replaced by a satellite image. “This is a low-resolution shot taken yesterday evening.” It showed a collection of jumbled shapes scattered across a rocky surface.

Picking up a laser pointer, Allison systematically worked his way across the image. “This framework looks like a tower with a rectangular cross section. Measuring the components assembled nearby, its final height could be as much as twenty meters.” He moved the light. “This is probably where they’re going to be erecting the tower, over what looks like drilling equipment.” Pointing to different places on the slide, Allison said, “These trailers appear to be typical construction offices, brought in to manage the work, but there are other trailers over here, almost a kilometer from the rest of the site. They aren’t big enough to house the number of workers who would be working at a job like this, nor do they provide any services like meals or a dispensary. And they’re bulldozing a berm between the trailers and the drilling site.”

Duvall spoke for the first time. “And you think they’ll hold instrumentation for monitoring an underground nuclear test.” His tone was flat, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

Allison answered, “The layout closely matches test sites we’ve seen in India, Pakistan, and North Korea. Khatam al-Anbia is owned and operated by the IRGC, the Pasdaran, who also control the Basij, and the nuclear program. There’s nothing out there to drill for that we know of, neither water nor oil, and they’re not close to any settled location. In addition to being sparsely populated, it’s also very mountainous.” He pointed to a wavy line that began at the work site and extended off the edge of the photo. “We traced this ‘road,’ if you want to call it that, back to the nearest paved highway. They just bulldozed any obstacles out of the way, and have made no effort to improve it. This implies that whatever they’re doing, it’s not a permanent installation.

“This area was last photographed several years ago, so there’s no way to say when work started, but based on my experience, it all looks recent, and it also looks like they’re in a hurry.”

“And the time line?” Duvall asked.

Akamatsu pressed a key and a diagram appeared on the screen. Allison answered, “Typical underground test bores are drilled down to a depth of three-hundred-plus meters. Allowing for time to set up the drilling equipment and drill to that depth, then place a device and instrumentation in the hole, they could be ready in as little as two weeks. Four is more likely. I’m making two assumptions: First, they will make the shaft deep enough to fully contain the blast; they don’t want anything going into the atmosphere that we could collect. The second assumption, and biggest variable, is the size of the device.”

Allison shrugged. “The bigger the boom, the deeper the hole they have to drill. They can’t make it too small. They don’t have the technology, yet. And they won’t make it too big, because they don’t have that much material. My estimate is in the twenty- to thirty-kiloton range.” He nodded to his partner, who turned off the projector, and Allison sat down.

The chairman looked to the side. “Gene, your people have done good work.”

Cooper smiled. “Thank you, sir. Todd really pulled it all together. But we had a lot of help from the nuke folks and NSA and NGA as well.”

“And that’s why I’ve asked Dr. Mizrahi to join us,” Duvall answered. He turned to the NIO for Science and Technology. “Maurice. Do you or your people have any additional dots we could connect to this?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but we’ll begin a complete review immediately.”

“Do it quickly, but quietly, Maurice,” Duvall instructed. “Too many people with clearances have reporters on their speed-dialers.” His tone mixed frustration with contempt.

Duvall stood and walked to the front of the room and addressed the entire group. “We may have the ‘whether’ and ‘when’ to one of the biggest intelligence questions of this decade. The only problem is, it goes against everything we’ve been saying. Everybody here understands how thoroughly we have to nail this down. I’ve asked Dr. Mizrahi here because his office has the in-depth technical expertise, but I will be asking other NIOs, like Military Issues or South Asia to follow the thread that Todd Allison has described.

“Look for information that confirms or refutes this analysis, and ways for us to improve our knowledge. My intention is to have an intelligence community brief on this for the president within forty-eight hours. Our next meeting on this topic will be at eleven hundred tomorrow. Do your best work, everyone.”

The meeting broke up quietly. Randolph was pleased, but wondered how long their restraint would last. He walked with the general back to his office, just a short distance. Once Randolph’s door was closed, Duvall sat and took the china coffee cup Randolph offered.

“Here are my recommendations for retasking satellites and aircraft.” Randolph didn’t wait to be told what to do.

Duvall said, “Thanks,” studied the document, and smiled. “This will keep everyone busy. I’ll send it up the chain.”

Randolph asked, “I wonder what the Israelis will do with this.” The same agreement that allowed the U.S. to receive Israeli intelligence data required that the fruits of that data be shared with the Israelis.

“Shoot, Ed, I don’t know what we’re going to do with it.” Duvall replied. “This is counter to everything we know about the Iranian program. That’s why everybody was so shocked in there.”

Randolph nodded. The U.S. had devoted considerable effort to tracking the Iranians’ nuclear progress, and he’d seen plenty of both “technical intelligence,” meaning satellite photos and communication intercepts, and “human intelligence,” meaning agents on the ground. It all said that an Iranian bomb was years away. Now everything they knew was suspect.

“I’ll review what we’ve got and look for holes or hidden assumptions,” Randolph promised the general.

“See you at eleven tomorrow.”

Officer’s Quarters, Natanz Nuclear Enrichment Facility

They tried to eat together at least a few times a week. Between Shirin’s long hours in the lab and Yousef’s air defense duties, it was often hurried, with a return to work for one or both of them, or a solitary meal while the other worked through the evening hours. And sometimes, rarely, they both had the evening free.

Married only a few years, separations made evenings together all the sweeter. Shirin was out of her first trimester, and her appetite had partially returned. The meal was simple — kebabs, vegetables, and Lavash bread — and the maid had used a southern recipe, reminding Shirin of home. They avoided shoptalk, sticking to office gossip and plans for the baby’s arrival. They discussed plans to visit Shirin’s mother in a few weeks.

After dinner, over Shirin’s protests, Yousef insisted on an evening walk. “It’s mild enough with a coat, and the baby needs the exercise.”

“Then let the baby do the walking. I’m tired.”

“You sit in a laboratory all day.” Strong-willed in so many things, she let her husband usher her out the door of their dormitory apartment. It was nice enough, suitable for a middle-grade Pasdaran officer, but not large.

They walked quietly for a while. In spite of what Yousef had said, the air was chilly, but there was no wind to speak of, and both were warmly dressed. They were alone on the street.

There were few places to go. The Natanz facility had been built for one purpose, and had few amenities. There was a mosque, of course, and a canteen and dispensary, and housing for the workers. So they strolled along the sidewalks, not going anywhere.

“Major Sadi says they’re bringing in more guns, several batteries of fifty-seven millimeters.”

“Those are smaller than the ones you command, aren’t they?” Yousef was in charge of the heavy antiaircraft weapons, ten batteries of 100mm guns, four guns to a battery. They were updated copies of an older Russian design.

“The major says they’ll close the gap between all the light stuff and my weapons.” Her husband sounded unconvinced.

“You don’t think it’s a good idea.” Shirin sounded a little worried.

“If the Israelis or Americans attack, they will probably use GPS-guided weapons. They can loft them from twenty or thirty kilometers away, well beyond the range of my guns, much less the smaller ones.” The captain sounded disgusted. Ten batteries of radar-guided heavy guns sounded deadly enough — if you were dropping dumb iron bombs. His guns didn’t even reach out to ten kilometers. “My only hope of shooting down anything is if our attackers display gross stupidity.”

“What do you know about the work they’re doing to the south wing?” Shirin asked. The pilot plant where she worked was shaped like a plus sign with one building in the center and four others laid out from it in the cardinal directions. “We have some offices in there, and Moham says we have to be out in two days. He also said they’re setting up a new department, just like the centrifuge program, with its own director.”

Yousef didn’t answer for a moment, then said, “I think it’s for bomb assembly.”

“What?” She stopped suddenly, and he took a few steps past her before turning back to face her. He looked around, but there was nobody in sight.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, and continued in a softer voice. “I was just surprised. That goes against every plan I’ve seen since I joined the program. Fabrication was supposed to take place at Isfahan. They already have a shop that works with exotic metals, and it’s close to Moradi’s headquarters.” Shirin paused, and Yousef could imagine her working through the information, trying to fit the pieces together.

Finally, she started walking again. “What makes you think they will assemble the weapon here?”

“It’s why they’re improving the defenses. Sadi says there may be other ‘secret weapons,’ brought in as well. I think he’s talking about some GPS jammers. He said ‘the final stages of our jihad will happen here.’”

“And Moham said the new department head was coming from Isfahan, along with specialized equipment. This explains why I saw Dr. Sabet so upset yesterday. He was complaining about ‘arbitrary decisions.’ First the test site, and now an assembly facility. Those were supposed to be built at the last minute, after we had enough material for several bombs. In fact, we weren’t going to test the first bomb we assembled. We’re confident enough of the design that we were going to make three, then test one.”

Yousef nodded. “You can hide a bomb-making lab from satellites, but not a test site — or the test itself. That’s why it was going be done last, and quickly. The period of greatest danger is when the Israelis think we are close, but haven’t actually detonated a device. The Jews have already said that is when they will attack. Once we actually have a bomb, they won’t dare strike.”

They’d discussed all this before, of course, but academically. “My friend Assef went up to Qermezin to help set up the equipment at the test site. Are we really that close?” Shirin asked incredulously. Hope flared for a moment, but reality pushed back. If their lack of progress with the centrifuges and the Arak reactor was to be believed, completion was still a long way off.

“Could we have acquired a weapon from somewhere else? Or fissionable material perhaps?” she wondered aloud.

“Maybe… that would be consistent with why he needs the assembly facility,” Yousef replied. “But what country would give us a kit for an atomic bomb? And if it’s a complete bomb, why do we need to test it?”

“And that still doesn’t explain why they will assemble it here instead of Isfahan,” she persisted.

“Better security, maybe? That bloodhound Rahim’s been all over this place. Perhaps he doesn’t trust someone at Isfahan.”

Shirin laughed sarcastically. “I don’t think so. You know what happens if you lose Rahim’s trust.”

He smiled grimly in agreement, but demanded, “Do you have an answer, then?”

“No, but I have friends and contacts throughout the program. I will find out,” she declared.

“Regardless of the explanation, we are now in real danger.” Yousef’s tone was intense. “We can’t hide that test site. The Israelis will see it. We all know it’s a provocation, and we’re not ready to use it. What is the general thinking? I know there’s a bomb shelter in the basement of the pilot plant, but we need to find a safe place for you near our quarters.”

“I’m more worried about you, Yousef. If there’s a raid, won’t the command post be a target?”

“Not likely. They won’t waste bombs on a military target. The centrifuge halls, the labs, and” — he patted her shoulder—”engineers are their targets. Besides, if there actually is a raid, I’ll probably be out untangling the ammunition supply for one of the batteries.”

“In the open?” She stopped walking again and struck a pose of mock anger. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better!” She punched his shoulder, maybe a little harder than she needed to.

“Ouch,” he said softly. Deliberately changing the subject, Yousef asked, “So will you chat with your uncle tonight?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Should I mention the new guns?”

“No,” he replied sternly. “Definitely not! I am a loyal Iranian military officer, and I will not compromise our defenses.”

“But you will send information about our nuclear program out of the country.”

“You’re the one doing the talking,” he pointed out. “You believe it is a waste of resources, and a path leading to disaster. I do it because our leaders, however pious they may be, should not possess nuclear weapons. They are too eager to use them.” A moment passed, and he added, “They are unfit.”

“Your brother made you believe that,” she commented softly. Yousef’s younger brother, Ali, had still been in graduate school when the protests broke out after the June 2009 elections. Both brothers, like many Iranians, had believed the election was stolen by Ahmadinejad, but Ali had taken to the streets, part of the “Green Revolution.”

He’d been arrested, taken to Evin Prison, and had disappeared. Inquiries about Ali’s welfare had brought questions about the family’s loyalties, and threats about their fate if they pressed the matter too strongly. Later, after word of the deaths at Evin Prison leaked out, Ali’s name appeared on a list of those who “died resisting arrest” released by the Ministry of Justice. The family was never officially notified, and his body was never returned.

“Yes, at first, that was my reason, but it isn’t just about Ali anymore, or the others that died.” They came to a corner and Yousef paused for a moment, looking as if he was choosing which direction to walk. There were a few people on the street now. They were all at least a block away, but he turned nervously, taking her down an empty street. “We’ve said enough.” He kept his voice so low, that Shirin could barely hear him.

A chill found her, and she said, “It’s time to go back.” She kept her arm tight around Yousef, pulling him close as they walked quickly back. Venturing one last comment, she said softly, “I miss Ali, too. And I think you are being very brave.” She patted his shoulder, and they didn’t speak until they returned to the apartment.

General Moradi’s Headquarters, Isfahan

Moradi may have been a general, and handpicked by the Supreme Leader to command Iran’s nuclear program, but when he wanted to speak with Rahim, he went to the “major’s” office.

Rahim’s part of the building had been purpose-built, with the entire intelligence section enclosed in a “screen room.” Electrically grounded metal sheeting built into the walls shielded the area from electronic eavesdropping, and prevented unwanted transmissions from computers or other electronic devices from going out. If one had private matters to discuss, this was the perfect venue.

Moradi was sure his conversations there were being recorded by Rahim, simply because Rahim taped everybody, including himself. The general wasn’t worried about Rahim possessing a record of their conversation. He was VEVAK. If they wanted to accuse him of a crime, they could easily make up any charge they chose, with evidence to match.

Even Moradi didn’t know Hassan Rahim’s actual rank, if such things mattered in VEVAK, but he’d been assured by Khamenei himself that Rahim was their best man — efficient, thorough, and utterly ruthless. Thankfully, Moradi found Rahim shared his views on many things. That had been important before, but it was utterly vital now. His plan could not work without the intelligence chief’s cooperation. And with it, he was almost assured success.

Moradi returned the guard’s salute, turned in his cell phone, and signed in. Instead of a conventional door, the entrance to the intelligence section was bare metal, with security warnings in bright colors. Moradi pulled on a lever to open the door, as if he was stepping into a refrigerator. It even made the same kind of noise.

Inside, another guard greeted him and logged his entry. The hallway inside was unremarkable, lined with filing cabinets, with gaps for doors to the offices on either side. Space was at a premium. Above the cabinets, portraits of Supreme Leader Khamenei and President Ahmadinejad in different poses were mixed with other religious leaders.

The door to Rahim’s office was flanked by an oversized image of Grand Ayatollah Khomeini. The door was open, and as Moradi entered, Rahim’s aide sprang to his feet and greeted the general. Moradi noticed the assistant’s right hand moving down, away from his sidearm. “The major’s waiting for you,” the young soldier reported. Knocking once lightly on the door, he quickly opened it for the general, then stepped aside.

Rahim was standing, almost at attention. Gesturing, he invited the general to sit. A fresh pot of tea was already waiting, and as Moradi sat down and accepted a cup from the major, he heard the door close and lock behind them. He knew Rahim’s aide would make sure they were not interrupted.

As Moradi sipped his tea, Rahim reported, “The information was sent, but there has been no reaction from the Americans or Israelis. It may still be in transit.”

Moradi was silent for a moment, considering. “Will we be able to tell when the information has been received?”

“Only by their reaction. We know it was sent.” Rahim smiled grimly. “Our ‘friend’ is watched very carefully. He’s been well trained by his handlers, but tradecraft is designed to help someone avoid notice. If you’re already watching, and expecting him to act, then it’s trivial to watch him send a message.”

“So when will the enemy react?”

“You really mean, will they believe and act on it?” Rahim asked. “I understand your eagerness, but we could paint a sign on the roof that said ‘nuclear weapon being built here!’ and they still might not respond.”

Moradi nodded. “They won’t believe it’s worthwhile unless they steal it from us.”

“Exactly!” Rahim almost exploded. “And they won’t move quickly. Even the Israelis will argue for a while, and we both know how long it takes the Americans to make up their minds.”

“It will be the Israelis,” Moradi insisted. “They are our true enemy. They want to strike us.”

“It is as God wills,” Rahim replied. “But imagine it: Their intelligence agencies collecting, analyzing bits of information, just as we do. Some will become convinced that we are in the final stages. Others will not. We must supply the enemy with enough evidence, from different sources, to convert even the most cautious doubters. We will give them more than one ‘smoking gun.’ “

“Like the IAEA inspectors,” Moradi said.

Rahim nodded. “A week from tomorrow, on their regular monthly inspection, they will find traces of uranium enriched to much higher levels than is needed for any reactor. The amounts will be minute, but within their analytical capabilities.

“They are looking very hard for evidence of our progress, so we will give them exactly what they are looking for. And they will decide they have to stop us. As if they have the right to decide our actions.” There was anger and defiance in Rahim’s words.

“And they will strike Natanz, brutally and thoroughly,” Moradi continued. “The pilot plant, the buried centrifuge halls, anything connected with the nuclear program will be completely destroyed.” Both of them had seen the accuracy and destructive power of modern ordnance delivered by a first-line air force. And they had no illusions about the effectiveness of Natanz’s air defenses — or the national air defense organization. The raid might suffer casualties, but it could not be stopped.

“The world, and especially our enemies, will believe they have stopped our nuclear program, but they will start a war,” Rahim declared with finality. But after a pause, he asked, “Is this really the only way?” His question had a reluctant tone.

Moradi reassured him. “Our leaders want a war. They always planned to strike Israel, to deal it a mortal blow. I am convinced that under the current conditions, we will never be able to produce a nuclear device. And if we can’t, then we have to find some other way. A cold-blooded attack by Israel or America will rally all the nations in the region to our side. Even the Saudis would have to acknowledge that we were the aggrieved party. We will lose Natanz — which will finally justify its existence — and some lives, which is regrettable but necessary.

“And what if Israel attacks unilaterally, without informing America? They’ve done it before.” Moradi smiled at the idea. “The damage to their relations would be catastrophic — for them. Dissention among our enemies.”

“At the very least, Israel would be crippled, too weak to ever recover,” Rahim agreed. Then he asked, wondering, “But what if it isn’t enough? What if the Twelfth Imam is waiting for the actual destruction of Israel before he returns?”

“Insh’Allah,” Moradi replied. “As God wills. And nobody knows. You know the hadiths better than I do. They say ‘a time of chaos and civil war.’ Some people say we live in a time like that right now. But if we are, why hasn’t Muhammud Al-Mahdi returned?”

Moradi raised his hands. “I do not question Allah or his will, but we all await the Imam’s return, and are commanded to do all we can to hasten it. The Israelis or Americans could attack tonight, and I would be a happy man.”

“They won’t,” Rahim replied. “It will be as least a week, maybe two. The information I fed to our tame traitor and the IAEA report will take at least that long to percolate through the spy agencies. And then our enemies will have to gather their courage.”

“What about Dr. Sabet?” Moradi asked. The program’s scientific leader had not been brought into Moradi’s plan and had recently found out about construction of the site near Qermezin and the changes at Natanz.

“He was definitely not pleased when he discovered you had changed the plan and given orders behind his back,” Rahim answered. “He is being watched. His questions are being deflected to your office. And you’ve been ‘difficult to reach.’”

“It would be best if we could share our plans with him,” Moradi suggested.

“We can’t, and we’ve discussed this.” Rahim’s tone was firm. “His piety is beyond reproach, but I do not believe he would be willing to make the sacrifices required by your plan. And he would not agree with your assessment that the program is doomed to failure. He is too emotionally committed to its completion.”

“I agree,” Moradi replied, “but he has access to a great many people outside the program. If he reaches out to them—”

“Which is why he is being watched.” Rahim assured him. “If he does reach out, he will be detained.” Forestalling Moradi’s protests, he quickly added, “He will not be harmed. I would never permit such a thing. If our plans are successful, he would only be held incommunicado for a short while, until the attack.”

“They will attack,” Moradi answered. “And soon.”