 
### BLIND SCORPION:

### IRAN'S NUCLEAR STING

BOOK 1

### (International Spy Technothriller)

### By

### Farsheed Ferdowsi & Mike Wells

© Farsheed Ferdowsi & Mike Wells All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, settings, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, settings or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

### For Aram,

### Kimia, and Donesh

### Chapter 1.1

Lying on his side with his left arm over a large pillow, Ross stared at the amber glow of the alarm clock as the digits declared 2:47 a.m. It had been a sleepless night. At times, he felt angry at the clock for not moving faster. Maybe it's stuck. The thought had occurred to him more than once. Then, as if the device could sense his desperation, it would dole out another minute, causing him to rejoice. But his relief would be short-lived, as the agony of waiting would quickly return. The appointed hour was inching closer.

Oksana was fast asleep on her side of the king-size bed. Surrounded by pillows, wearing an eye mask, and drowning all ambient noise in the whooshing sound of her noisemaker, she was dead to the world. He had listened to that machine for so long that it somehow sounded natural to him.

2:55 a.m.—it was time to go.

Ross quietly rose and sat on the edge of the bed. He felt exhausted. As he arched his back to stretch, his glance fell on Oksana. Her silhouette, in a long satin nightgown, was barely visible in the starlight. For a moment, he felt guilty. Danger loomed near, but she was in the dark. He had weighed the pros and cons of confiding in her time and again. And on every occasion, he had arrived at the same conclusion: it was better this way—at least for now.

I wonder if they can see us in the bedroom, he thought. With these people, anything's possible.

For twenty-five eventful years, Oksana had stood by his side. Her love for him was unconditional, as was his for her. Together they had weathered many storms, raised a beautiful family, and managed to develop stellar careers despite the obstacles that are part and parcel of being foreign-born citizens living in America. They had made it.

At seventeen, their daughter Marina was a delightful and serious teenager, methodically narrowing her list of university options. She was named after Oksana's grandmother, who had been a seamstress in the court of the last Russian Tsar, Nicolas II. A cross between her Caucasian mother and her Middle Eastern father, Marina was a stunning beauty and, like most daughters, she had a mystical grip on Ross' emotions that he could not explain.

Victor, fourteen, was a dashing young man with features that favored Ross more than Oksana. This pleased Ross greatly. To him, watching Victor grow up held a twinge of déjà vu. He loved to tinker and build model airplanes, much as Ross had in his teens. As a scientist, Ross saw in his son the continuation of his own life: an engineer in the making. And in spite of his sarcastic accusations to the contrary, Ross loved Victor no less than he did Marina.

They framed his existence.

Ross peered out of his second-floor bedroom window. The house on the other side of Gordon Street was completely dark. The Millers used to leave their porch light burning all night, but not the new tenants. Why did the Millers leave so abruptly? Ross wondered. And why rent a fully furnished house to three single men? The Millers didn't know these people nor did they need the money. It makes no sense. How were they talked into this? He shook his head. They must have been made an "offer they couldn't refuse."

Oksana was mystified by the three men; they were secretive and clearly out of place in a family neighborhood. Not Ross. He suspected who they were: Iranian agents, sent by MOIS—the Ministry of Intelligence and Security—to watch him.

Are they training invisible laser beams at our windowpanes to eavesdrop on our conversations? Ross thought. Are they using heat sensors to monitor our movements inside our home? Maybe they're using old-fashioned binoculars, bugs, and wiretaps? Ross had no way of knowing, but he assumed the worst. He felt their presence like one does a nagging rash. And it angered him.

3:02 a.m.—he put on his black jogging suit and stepped into a pair of loafers. Careful not to make any sound, he picked up his Oakland Raiders cap from the nightstand and tiptoed out of the bedroom.

He donned the cap as he crept down the stairs. Passing Victor's bedroom, Ross sneaked a peek. The boy was asleep on his stomach hugging a stuffed blue rabbit. Ross smiled, thinking, Habits are hard to break.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen tilting his head, Romeo greeted him with an inquisitive stare. Ross was never more grateful for the Shih Tzu being one of the quietest breed of dogs than he was at that moment. When he knelt to scratch Romeo's head, he laid on his back waving his paws in the air, begging him to rub his belly.

To buy his continued silence, Ross obliged.

* * *

Fear was all that Ross had known since the "message" had been delivered to him three days earlier. The horror it induced into his core was such that it rendered his many attempts at distraction useless.

Men are creatures of habit, and Ross was no exception. His Saturday routine began at dawn when he would drive across the Golden Gate Bridge, park on West Crissy, and set out for a five-mile run on the promenade. He usually finished the course in about forty-five minutes.

During his last jog, the morning chill felt particularly exhilarating to Ross. He loved the Bay Area, especially San Francisco. He found the scenery breathtaking. While he ran, he took in the reflection of the first light on Alcatraz as it glowed majestically against the white of the morning fog. It was poor visibility. When he approached the end of the pier, he noticed the silhouette of a burly man leaning against the rails. He seemed to be taking in the view like most people who showed up on the promenade that early. But when Ross got closer, the man turned to face him, as if he'd anticipated his arrival. Suddenly, Ross recognized him—it was Kazem, a man he had first met two weeks ago in Las Vegas. Seeing him now surprised him. What the hell is he doing here? he thought.

"What a glorious morning, my friend," Kazem called out.

"What is this?" Ross asked. "Are you stalking me now?"

He stopped in front of Kazem and bent over, panting to catch his breath. Without any attempt at disguising his contempt, he said, "Didn't I tell you . . . to leave me the hell . . . alone?"

"No, my good friend, I'm not a stalker," Kazem said. "I'm simply carrying a message."

"Okay . . . deliver it and . . . get lost."

"Your rejection of our invitation to visit Iran has angered powerful individuals."

Pushy people were as annoying to Ross as stupid ones. At that moment, he thought Kazem was insisting on being both. Less winded, Ross said, "First of all, I seriously considered the invitation and was willing to come to Iran." Ross paused to wipe the sweat off his face with a small towel. "But, as I clearly explained to what's his name, the Chairman?"

"Dr. Hakim," Kazem said, jogging Ross' memory, "the Chairman of the Physics Department at Shiraz University."

"Yes, Dr. Hakim. I explained to him that my position in the United States is somewhat sensitive, and it prevented me from accepting his invitation. I regret it, but that's the way it is." Ross then got into Kazem's face, staring into his eyes. "Second, I don't give a rat's ass who's pissed off in Iran. As far as I'm concerned, they can all go to hell."

"Ross," Kazem said calmly, "I'm your friend. Please reconsider. You must come. It's in your best interest."

"I told you, I can't."

With that, Kazem became quiet. Resting his arms on the guardrail, he turned to take in the view. Ross did the same. After a moment's pause, Kazem reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a manila envelope. He handed it to Ross without breaking his gaze.

"What's this?" Ross said.

"It's the message."

Ross ripped the seal open and impatiently pulled out its contents, which seemed to be photographs—glossy four by sixes. Suddenly, he felt nauseous. One was a close-up of Victor playing with Romeo in their front yard. The other was of Oksana and Marina carrying shopping bags at the mall.

"You son-of-a-bitch! Are you threatening me?"

"Take it as you wish. I'd rather call it motivation."

Ross grabbed Kazem by the collar. "Do you know what I can do to you?"

Kazem stood motionless.

"One phone call to my friends at the FBI and your fat ass will be in jail for an eternity."

"Do not shoot the messenger, my friend," Kazem said coolly. "I know you have powerful friends. I know you can go to the authorities and have me arrested. But, will that help you? Will that protect your family?" He paused to let Ross process what he had just heard. "You can't be that naïve. If I am arrested, they would simply send someone else, someone who may not be as friendly as I am, and someone who might be a bit impatient."

Ross let go. Kazem's lips continued to move, but Ross didn't hear anything else he said. The not-so-subtle threat was at once ambiguous and ominous.

What if I just broke his neck and threw him into the Bay? Ross thought. One glance at the prison island in the backdrop quickly dismissed the delicious notion.

Ross warily placed the photos back in the manila envelope, tapped it a few times, and then rolled the envelope into a baton. Without saying another word, he took a few steps back, turned, and took off running. The thought of his wife and children being harmed was revolting. Especially because he knew full well that this was not an empty threat. He had firsthand knowledge of their capabilities. He had witnessed their handiwork before.

As he ran, clutching the rolled manila envelope, for an instant he wished there was someone to whom he could pass this burden, as a relay runner would a baton. But he knew there was no one else. This cross was his to bear—his alone.

Ross hid the envelope in the trunk of his Lexus before getting behind the wheel. He was scared. So much so that he felt dizzy and nauseous. When he reached for the ignition key, he began to throw up. They were dry heaves.

* * *

Romeo had fallen asleep, snoring. Ross rose and proceeded to the den. Passing Marina's bedroom, he carefully opened the adjacent door that led to the garage.

The stairway was pitch black and cold. It felt as if it led to a medieval dungeon. He grabbed the emergency flashlight from the stairway wall and pointed the beam to his wristwatch as he went down. 3:08 a.m.

At the bottom of the stairs, he tiptoed to the trunk of his vehicle to retrieve the manila envelope—Kazem's "message." The rear entrance to the garage opened to Oksana's rose garden, her small, private haven. He laid the flashlight on top of a storage shelf, opened the door, and stepped outside. He felt confident that he had eluded their prying eyes—but he couldn't be certain.

All was quiet.

Even in June it was nippy at that hour of the morning. Ross always thought San Francisco should be called the Windy City, not Chicago. But the suburb of Mill Valley had been home for the past fifteen years, and he loved it.

He crouched as he walked briskly toward Roy Sullivan's house. Their backyards faced each other. Roy and Alice had moved into the neighborhood from Birmingham a year before Ross and Oksana did. Roy worked for the FBI, swiftly ascending the career ladder. He was the Special Agent in charge of the anti-terrorism task force in the Bureau's San Francisco office.

To Ross, the memory of his first encounter with Roy remained vivid. Ross and Oksana were moving in and by noon, they were dog tired. Roy, muscular and broad-shouldered, walked straight over into their backyard and invited them to lunch, urging them to take a break from the move. That simple gesture of kindness sealed their friendship.

It was ironic that the same people who made Ross and Oksana feel so welcome had received no such reception when they had moved into the neighborhood. Roy and Alice were black, and subtle racism raged back then—even in California. The past fifteen years had only strengthened the bonds of friendship between them. To Ross, Roy was family, a surrogate for the brother he'd lost.

Roy had left one of his garage doors open. Ross made his way across the yard to the opening. Before entering, he paused and looked around. There was no sign of life but the chirping of the crickets. As soon as he walked inside, he sensed that he wasn't alone. He made out Roy's shadow as he stepped forward from the dark and manually closed the garage door behind them.

Roy turned on a pencil flashlight and pointed the beam to the closed door of his woodworking shop. "He's waiting for you," Roy whispered, motioning his head toward the door.

"Who did they send?"

"One of their top dogs."

"You're kidding."

Roy shook his head.

"Who?" Ross said.

"Colonel Timothy Nash . . . The Deputy Director for Operations." Roy doled out the words one-by-one, punctuating each with a pause for emphasis. "I knew you had people in high places, but the DDO of the CIA? Shit . . . I don't know if I should slap you or salute you."

Colonel Tim Nash. Ross knew the name. Its mention unleashed a torrent of long-forgotten memories. "Did he say anything about me?"

"Not a word, man," Roy said. "Spooks don't talk, they just listen."

"How long has he been here?"

"About an hour."

"Thanks for setting this up, bro." Ross squeezed Roy's left shoulder and headed for the door.

"I'll wait upstairs."

"Why don't you just go to bed?"

"I have to take him to the airport in two hours. His plane is waiting. He has to get back to Langley for dinner."

"His plane?"

"Yup. A big-ass military Gulfstream," Roy said. "The man sure knows how to travel."

Ross nodded, composing himself. The light from under the door summoned him. He approached the door, grabbed the knob, and paused. This is it. Then he entered the room. The well-oiled door didn't make a sound.

### Chapter 1.2

He sat in an old, faded armchair facing the door near the center of Roy's workshop. A dilapidated brass lamp on a long-discarded nightstand dimly lit his profile, as a makeshift ashtray, heaped with cigar dust, sat within easy reach. Using a round, wooden coffee table as his footrest, Colonel Nash sat comfortably reading something that seemed official. He looked up as Ross entered but said nothing.

"Hello Colonel," Ross said. His voice was emotionless as he closed the door.

"Dr. Ross Shaheen, it's been a long time."

"Twenty-five years to be exact."

"It went by fast."

"It sure did."

Nash tossed the report he was reading on the table. Ross noticed the large red classification stamp on its blue cover: TOP SECRET/VLA.

As a physicist specializing in nuclear weapons research, Ross was no stranger to TOP SECRET documents. Plenty of them routinely crossed his desk, but he had never seen one with the VLA sub-classification. These were so rare and under such tight control that he had never even been in a room with one.

VERY LIMITED ACCESS materials were restricted to a few dozen people at the highest level of government. Numbered and hand-delivered, under the watchful care of armed couriers, VLA documents could not be removed from especially secured rooms. Ever! Yet, curiously, the "by-the-book" Colonel had taken such a file out of Langley.

What could be in that report? Ross thought.

"Sit down, take a load off." Nash motioned with guarded enthusiasm to the adjacent sofa, which like the rest of the furniture had seen better days.

Ross took a seat, positioned the manila envelope, the "message," to his side, and placed his cap on top of it. Then he turned and looked at Nash up close.

He had not changed all that much from their last encounter. Tanned and muscular, Colonel Nash still looked fit enough to lead a platoon of young Marines on a mission to Indochina, as he had done in the old days. Trading the uniform for the suit had not altered his commanding persona. His strong cheeks, piercing green eyes, and pointed jaw overshadowed the wrinkles. Why has he shaved his head? Ross thought. Is it to mask balding or graying? Probably both.

Ross said, "You've come a long way, Colonel—Deputy Director for Operations? I'm impressed."

"So have you, Ross. I understand they've named theorems, constants, and all kinds of crap after you. What's next? A federal building?"

"I've been lucky in the Lab, Colonel."

"Your modesty is insincere, Dr. Shaheen. We both know who you are and what you've achieved. You've served our country well."

How strange, Ross thought. Last time we met—at the American Embassy in Moscow—he questioned my loyalty, shouting at the top of his lungs. And now, he's flattering me with platitudes. Things have surely changed.

There was an awkward pause. Ross looked at the TOP SECRET folder on top of the coffee table while Nash stared at him with anticipation.

"Thank you for coming, Colonel," Ross said. "I didn't expect the CIA to send someone in your position."

"The Firm didn't send me. Your request for an urgent meeting was kicked up to me. When I saw your name, I decided to come myself—for old time's sake."

"I appreciate that."

"Besides," Nash said, shrugging, "consider this a professional courtesy to your father-in-law."

Ross smiled. "I see."

"How is the old bear anyway? Has he recovered from his by-pass surgery?"

"Colonel, you know the rules. You know I can't say anything about him. Why ask?"

"Times have changed, Ross. Despite Russia's saber rattling and their president's temper tantrums, we're no longer enemies. I speak to General Pugachov at least once a month. We're colleagues now, on the same side against Al-Qaeda." Nash leaned back in his chair, smiling. "Hell, I even sent the old bastard flowers when he got out of the hospital."

Ross chuckled. "I hope you remembered the Russian flower rules."

"You can bet your ass. Twenty one white gladiolas—by the book."

"You remembered."

"I think the Russians take their flower etiquette way too seriously."

"The General has recovered well," Ross offered. "Oksana calls him often. He loves the kids and gives them a hard time about their Russian."

Talking about his children was a painful reminder of why he was meeting in such secrecy with someone from the CIA. Ross placed his hand over the manila envelope.

"Do they speak Russian?" Nash asked, somewhat surprised.

"Oh yeah," Ross said. "But General Pugachov isn't satisfied. He expects his grandchildren to recite Pushkin and study Dostoevsky. They won't. They prefer rock and roll and Harry Potter."

"Kids will be kids," the Colonel said. Then he reached into his briefcase, retrieved a Cuban cigar, and proceeded to slice it with precision.

"I hope you don't mind," he mumbled, holding the cigar with his teeth.

"I don't, but Roy does."

The Colonel flicked a lighter on and sucked on the Cuban as he gave Ross an I-don't-give-a-damn look.

Some things never change.

Nash glanced at the wall clock. It was 3:35 a.m. He fished out a small digital recorder from his briefcase, placed it on the coffee table, and pressed a button. The device sounded a short beep as a green light on its top came on—blinking. Without missing a beat, he leaned back, took another drag, and turned to Ross. "So, tell me. What's going on? What's so urgent? Why such secrecy?"

"Why are you recording me?"

"Cuz I'm too old to remember and too tired to take notes."

"I don't know where to begin."

"Start from the beginning, leaving out nothing."

Suddenly a thousand thoughts rushed into Ross' head. Should I begin with my last encounter with Kazem? Or, start by telling Nash how desperately I need his help to protect my family? Maybe it would be more effective if I showed him the photos first.

He picked up the manila envelope and reached in to retrieve the photos but hesitated and left them inside. Maybe it's best to lay it all out from the beginning, "leaving out nothing." After all, details are the stuff of spy craft. He returned the envelope to its place on the couch. Nash noticed the envelope but didn't ask about it.

Ross gazed at the green light on top of the recorder, which was blinking a lazy rhythm. He took a deep breath, paused to collect his thoughts, and began to speak.

* * *

May 30th was my fifty-third birthday. For the first time I felt my age. To cheer up, Oksana and I went to Las Vegas for the weekend. The kids are old enough to stay behind, and Roy and Alice usually keep an eye on them when we travel. Vegas is our favorite getaway; we go there a few times a year. Oksana shops and spends long hours in the spa while I sit by the pool reading or when I feel lucky, shoot craps.

Obsessed to tame the cubed demons, I've tried every game strategy known to man. But the dice has always won. Not this time, I felt certain. After all, it was my birthday.

As soon as we checked in, Oksana went shopping, and I headed to the craps tables. It was a few minutes past five. I picked a half-crowded table and started to play. I was focused on the game and didn't notice the other players.

"New shooter," the stickman announced, as he shoved the dice toward me. I picked them up, paused to divine the outcome, and threw them across the table.

"Seven is the winner. Winner, seven," the dealer said. "Pay the line."

"That's a good start, let's make it last," I said to no one in particular. I threw the dice again; it came up seven.

"Bravo! Bravo!" a voice thundered from the opposite side.

His exuberance didn't mask his unmistakable accent. I looked up to acknowledge the cheer and confirmed my suspicion. He was Iranian. I've often wondered how I can pick out Iranians from a crowd. They look like any other Middle Easterner, but I can always tell the difference. I can't explain why. I guess it's intuitive.

Short, stocky, and boorishly flamboyant, which he made no attempt at hiding, he tossed hundred and five-hundred dollar chips on the table as if he were throwing crumbs at pigeons. The tailored black suit, maroon shirt, and the loud gold chain didn't make him look any younger. He seemed to be about sixty, and what was left of his balding curly hair had been dyed jet black. Basking in the attention that high-roller status afforded, he joked with dealers and flirted with the cocktail waitress who checked on him every five minutes.

The dice was pushed over to me again. I rolled another seven, followed by one more. Then came eleven, twice. I was on a roll. Suddenly, the table was crowded and the players went wild as I continued my winning streak. The adrenaline rush kicked in as I made the points time and again. The string of winning numbers seemed endless. I had never won that much in craps. Ever!

The biggest cheers came from the loud tenor across the table. "What a shooter!" he exclaimed repeatedly.

Next to him stood what I thought to be a rare example of nature's perfection. Slightly taller than him, her short blond hair framed her round, striking face. She wore little make up—none was necessary—and frequently allowed a warm smile. Large green eyes, a delicate nose, and fair skin spoke of her European origins. She looked sexy, yet sophisticated in her short red leather jacket over a black silk shirt, with more than a few buttons undone. She calmly placed small bets, saying little. On occasion, she leaned over the edge of the table and cradled her chin in her hands, revealing a red bra. The table blocked my view of the rest of her. The Iranian would occasionally place his arm around her waist and pull her close, claiming possession of her.

I couldn't help thinking, Beauty and the Beast.

All heads turned at her striking appearance. I picked up the Russian accent in her "Well done" cheers. More than once my eyes wandered over to her, and every time she looked back with a smile.

"What is your name?" the burly man asked from across the table.

"Ross."

"I am Kazem."

"You're bringing him good luck," I said to her in Russian, ignoring him.

"I can bring you good luck just the same," she replied.

"No Russian-speaking on this table," Kazem ordered.

"I'm sorry, love," she said.

Looking at her red jacket and stealing occasional peeks at her red bra, I suddenly realized why Russians used to use the same word, "Krasnaya" for "red" as they did for "beautiful."

Finally, I rolled seven. Seven, the cursed! My winning streak was over. I had held the dice for over thirty minutes, which is as rare as it is memorable. It was a happy birthday after all. I was up. Fifteen thousand dollars up, and it was time to walk away.

"Let us hear it for my new friend—Mr. Ross." Kazem burst into applause. He hooted with excitement, egging on the other players. They all cheered—except for the Russian doll. Grinning mischievously, she simply lifted her glass of wine and gestured a salute. How seductive, I thought, while acknowledging her with a nod.

In less than an hour, I had made up for over five years of gambling losses. I couldn't wait to tell Oksana, but I had to stop at the cashier cage first. Minutes later, I put a thick stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills in my side pocket with my hand guarding them. I had not walked twenty yards when I felt an iron grip on my right shoulder. It was Kazem with his trophy girl on his arm.

"Why don't we have a drink and celebrate?"

"Thank you. But I must go."

"I insist. And so does Natasha."

"I do," she said, leaning forward from the other side of Kazem.

"Okay. But I can't stay long."

"Great! How about the Fontana?" Kazem pointed and said, "Right over there."

"Sure."

The bar was not crowded at that hour of the afternoon. And the band was on a break making the place conversation-friendly. We sat at a tiny round table in one of the alcoves. I could now see the rest of Natasha. She was, at most, twenty-five. With a matching short leather skirt, no stockings, and black, open-toe shoes, she looked flawless. She sat close to Kazem, facing me, and promptly crossed her long legs. I noticed that even her toenails were painted red. I strained not to stare.

"We have not been properly introduced," said Kazem, extending his hand. "I am Kazem Dowlat."

I squeezed his hand with a firm grip. "Ross Shaheen."

"This is Natasha."

"It's a pleasure," I said.

"You're Iranian?" Kazem asked.

"Yes—originally. I've lived here all of my adult life."

"Well, well. It's always great to meet a fellow hamvatan—countryman." Then he rose and gave me a bear hug. It was awkward.

"I was surprised you spoke Russian." Natasha smiled inquisitively. "How did you learn it?"

"I lived in Moscow for three years back in the eighties. My wife is also Russian."

"Oh how sweet." She clapped once, somewhat giddy. "What's her name?"

"Oksana. Oksana Pugachova."

"Is her family still in Russia?"

Apparently, Natasha didn't make the connection with General Viktor Pugachov. And I didn't care to tell her otherwise.

"Yes. They live in Moscow."

"Are they from Moscow?"

"No. They're from Tver. Her father was transferred to Moscow in the late sixties."

"Where do you live?"

"San Francisco."

"What are you drinking my friend?" Kazem asked, while waving to catch the waitress' attention.

"Just a soda. Ginger ale will do."

"Is that it?"

"Yes. I don't drink the hard stuff."

"What can I get you guys?" The waitress startled me from behind.

"Bring him ginger ale. She will have a glass of your best Merlot. And for me, Jack Daniels on the rocks." Kazem, characteristic of his personality, ordered for all of us and then turned to me.

"Ross is not a Persian name. What is your real name?"

"Rostam." I grinned. "I've Americanized it to Ross."

"Clever." He nodded as he laughed approvingly. "That was quite a performance." Kazem motioned in the direction of the craps tables.

"Yes, it was amazing," I said. "That has never happened to me before. It was as if I could do no wrong. I think Miss Natasha brought us both luck." I flirted a little too obviously.

"Indeed. It must have been her." Kazem paused and then changed his expression. "Do you come to Las Vegas often?"

"Not that often, maybe once or twice a year."

"What line of work are you in?"

"I'm a scientist. I do basic research in physics at LBL and occasionally teach a graduate course or two at U.C. Berkeley."

"LBL?"

"Lawrence Berkeley Laboratories."

Natasha seemed impressed. "Wow!"

"What about you?" I decided to turn the table. "What brings you here?"

The waitress arrived with our drinks. Avoiding my question, Kazem raised his glass and proposed a toast: "To newfound friends." Natasha and I both followed.

"Cheers."

Kazem said, "Natasha, why don't you go up to the room, start the Jacuzzi, get comfortable, and wait for me?"

"Sure, love." She took a small sip of her Merlot and left the rest on the table. She rose and said, "It was nice to meet you, Ross."

"The pleasure was mine."

On her way out, she stopped behind me, gently placed her arms on my chest, and whispered in my ear, "Pochemu bi vam ne prisoyedinitjsya k vam naverhu? Ya sdelayu tebye priyatno." I could smell her perfume.

With that, she walked away, giggling as her hips swayed to the silent beat of an erotic drum. I was startled by what she said and laughed a nervous laugh.

"What did she say?" Kazem asked.

"Nothing."

"I am curious. Please, what did she say?"

"She invited me to join you two upstairs."

"Why not?" Kazem suggested with enthusiasm.

"No thanks. I'll pass."

"You don't know what you're missing, my friend." He lowered his voice. "She has the tongue of a serpent and a body to die for. Three grand a day—that's what she costs me. She never says no to anything."

"I can only imagine. But, I'm not into that."

"What do you mean you are not into that? Every man is into that. Who are you kidding?"

"Well, I'm married and wish to keep it that way. In fact, I must be going. Oksana is waiting."

"So, you are monogamous?"

"Yes. I have been for over twenty-five years."

"So am I." Kazem chuckled. "I'm sequentially monogamous—I sleep with them one at a time."

Loving his own joke, he burst into an even louder laugh mixed with a nasty cough. I just looked at him, amused. At the same time, I was somewhat thrilled about Natasha's offer but tried not to show it. However, my face felt warm and my heart was racing. Kazem must have sensed my excitement because he gave me this "who-are-you-kidding?" grin.

* * *

The green light on the recorder stopped blinking. It turned solid red, accompanied by a muffled, short alarm.

"You're lucky you didn't fall for that bait," Colonel Nash muttered, chewing his cigar. Then he reached inside his briefcase searching for something.

"What do you mean, Colonel?"

"You would have been screwed twice—first in the Jacuzzi and then later when the video came out."

"You mean it was a setup?"

"Absolutely! It's the oldest trick in the book. And all intelligence services do it." Nash found a new battery pack and inserted it into the recorder.

"Did you think Natasha—or whatever her real name was—could actually be interested in you?" He placed the recorder back on the table. "I didn't know you to be vain, Dr. Shaheen . . . She was just doing her job, as she was told, to catch you in a honey trap."

Ross felt crushed. BEEP—the green light came back on, blinking its lazy rhythm. Ross continued. . .

* * *

Kazem lifted his glass and chugged it, slurping the last drops of Jack Daniels from the ice cubes. Finally, he decided to answer my question. "To be perfectly honest, Dr. Shaheen, I am here to see you."

"What?" I snapped. "We don't know each other." A bit agitated, I continued. "How did you know to call me Doctor? Is this a scam?" I was upset. "Are you following me?"

"No. No. No. Please . . . calm down." Kazem came closer, placing his hand on my shoulder. "I will explain everything. Trust me, I'm your friend."

I managed to compose myself. "I'm listening."

"The fact is, your reputation precedes you." He leaned back and reached for Natasha's leftover wine. "We are very proud of you and your accomplishments."

"We?" I narrowed my eyes. "Who are we?"

"Yes, we. The Islamic Republic of Iran, your people. You are famous among Iranian scientists."

"I'm flattered. But you haven't answered my question."

"I work for the Iranian government and was eager to meet you in person. I was told you would be in Las Vegas this weekend. So, I took a chance and came here in the hope of running into you."

Responding to my puzzled look he said, "You see?"

"No, not at all." I made no secret of my suspicion. "Who told you I would be in Vegas? There are only a handful of people who knew I was coming here this weekend, and I know you didn't speak to any of them—I would have known if you had." I had nailed his ass to the wall, and he knew it. "So, how did you know to find me here?"

Kazem took a deep breath. "Ross . . . " He smiled ingratiatingly. "May I call you Ross?" He didn't wait for my response. "We're getting off on the wrong foot. I'm here simply to extend a formal invitation to you to visit Iran and possibly lecture at one of our fine universities." He paused to gauge my reaction. "You will find a lot has changed in Iran. How many years is it since you left?"

"Thirty-five years. But you probably knew that already."

"I knew it's been a long time."

"You're not going to tell me how you knew I would be here—are you?"

"That's not really relevant. But if you insist, I got a sheet of paper from MOIS telling me I could find you here at this time." He shrugged. "How they got the information is beyond me."

"MOIS?"

"Ministry of Information and Security."

I didn't like the sound of that, not one bit. Dozens of questions flooded my mind. What did MOIS want from me? Were they spying on me? They must be. How else would they have known about my travel plans? After all these years, why would they send someone—from seven thousand miles away—to meet me in person? "Lecture at one of our fine universities." What a crock! How lame! Was Kazem himself an MOIS agent? I sat there, dazed, processing these questions.

Kazem interrupted my thoughts. "What do you think, Ross?"

"I can't lecture in Farsi. I'm not fluent in the scientific terms."

"You can lecture in English at Shiraz University."

"Where's that?"

"In the city of Shiraz." He laughed. "You remember Shiraz. Don't you?"

"Is that the old Pahlavi University?"

"Yes. But we no longer call it that."

"Oh yeah. I forgot the former Shah's name was taboo in the new regime."

I assessed the situation quickly and decided it was best to buy a little time. "Will I be able to leave Iran after I am through?"

"Of course you can." Kazem appeared surprised by the question. "Why not?"

"I assume you know that my family was out of favor in Iran in the early eighties."

He stared with a poker face, waiting for me to finish.

"My father and brother were thrown in prison, our family assets confiscated, and ultimately my brother was executed—he had done nothing wrong. With this history, I'm not eager to go back home. I could wind up in a trap."

"That's silly." Kazem dismissed my fear with a wave of his large hand. "Certainly you will be free to leave—guaranteed! You will be the honored guest of the Islamic Republic. What happened to your family is most unfortunate. I know about your brother—you were twins. But, all that is in the past, ancient past." With a lowered voice, he became philosophical. "Believe me, Dr. Shaheen, the history of political revolutions throughout the world has been written with the red ink of martyrdom." He took a sip of wine. "In the early eighties, the beast of the Iranian revolution had a feeding frenzy. It turned on its own, spilling the blood of its finest. Many people lost their lives and countless others were imprisoned. They were mostly innocent. Your brother was more unlucky than he was guilty." He paused, looking down. "I am truly sorry about him."

"He has no gravestone, you know."

"Pardon?"

"There is just a number marking his grave. The government, your Islamic Republic, has never permitted a tombstone to be placed on his grave. This is the ultimate insult." I shook my head in disgust. "They even made my mother pay twenty tumans for the four bullets they used to kill him. And that, my friend, was the ultimate injury."

Kazem appeared sympathetic. "That is shameful," he said. Whether he was sincere or putting on an act, I'll never know. We sat there in awkward silence for a few minutes looking in different directions.

"I must be going," I finally said. "We have dinner reservations at eight." It was 7:15 p.m. "And, you've got someone waiting for you in the Jacuzzi."

"So, what's your answer? What do you think about the invitation?"

"I need to talk it over with my wife." I stood up to leave. "I'll get back to you later."

Kazem got up also and said, "How about dinner?" He added enthusiastically, "You and Mrs. Shaheen—of course."

"Thanks. But I don't think so." I stretched my hand and shook his goodbye. "I'm sure I'll bump into you at the craps tables."

"How about twelve noon, tomorrow, right here?"

"I'll see you then," I said, as I walked away.

* * *

Wearing a long, sleeveless black dress, Oksana was ready and waiting. Her light brown hair was drawn back. The emerald necklace and earrings complemented her green eyes. I've always thought Russian women were masters of creating visual poetry by combining their natural beauty with an impeccable ensemble of clothing.

"How do I look?"

"Breathtaking."

I hugged her and apologized for being late. While changing, I told her about my once-in-a-lifetime winning streak. She was thrilled.

Our dinner reservation was at Picasso, the famed French/Spanish restaurant at the Bellagio. The limousine ride was a rare treat and felt excessively lavish. But I didn't mind. After all, we were celebrating.

I must have been a bit quiet over dinner. Oksana sensed I had something on my mind but, confident that I kept no secrets from her, she just waited patiently for me to come out with it. Right after our salad plates were taken away, I said, "Something strange happened tonight."

"What?"

"I met an Iranian guy. I think he's an intelligence agent."

Oksana looked at me with concern. "Okay."

"He knew all about me and was sent here—to Vegas—specifically to see me."

"For what?"

"To invite me to go to Iran."

"Why?"

"As a guest speaker at one of their universities."

"That doesn't require a face-to-face invitation."

"Exactly."

"You didn't accept—did you?"

"No. Not without talking it over with you first."

Our entrées of filet mignon arrived. The waiter interrupted our conversation by offering fresh pepper and then refreshing our drinks.

Oksana returned to the subject as she calmly cut her filet. "What do you think about the invitation?"

"I'm uneasy." I put my fork down and looked at her. "First of all, after what happened to my brother, Sohrab, and my father, I feel nervous about going back—who knows what might happen to me the moment I set foot in Iran? Second, someone in my position with my level of security clearance and all the stuff I know can't just waltz out of LBL and into the 'Axis of Evil.'" I took a sip of my water. "If I did, the FBI, the CIA, DIA, DOE, and the rest of the alphabet soup of Federal agencies would want to know what the hell I was up to—or if had lost my frigging mind."

Oksana touched her lips with her finger, gesturing for me to lower my voice.

"As is, I already have to file a stupid 'Foreign Agent Contact Report,' which I hate to do."

"People are staring," Oksana whispered.

I turned my volume down and continued. "Third, of all the countless Iranian scientists in exile, why contact me?"

"So, what's the problem, honey? Just say no."

"It's not that simple. There's an upside."

Oksana looked puzzled.

"They would probably pay me a lot of money for a couple months of easy work. With Marina starting college next year, we sure could use the extra cash."

"That makes it more interesting, but you know how little I trust the Iranians." Oksana squeezed a lemon wedge into her water.

"Not any more than I."

"Then what're you going to do?"

"Tomorrow I'll give him a list of conditions to buy time. While they chew over my conditions back in Iran, I'll test the waters with Lance."

"Who's Lance?"

"Lance Vanderjack, the lab's general counsel."

"See what Roy thinks also."

"Good idea, he ought to know what these guys are up to."

"Okay, now forget about it." She came close, kissed me, and whispered, "Happy birthday, old man. I love you."

"Thank you. I love you, too. Do I get a present?"

"Yes you will . . . In the Jacuzzi."

"This old man can't wait." I smiled thinking, I'm probably the only guy in all of America who was invited by two beautiful Russian women to join them in the hot tub in one night.

* * *

It was a few minutes before noon the next day. I sat on the same chair at the same table in the same deserted bar sipping ginger ale and waiting for Kazem. He showed up thirty minutes late. Obviously, he operated on Persian time, whereby being late is considered not rude but fashionable. Natasha dutifully accompanied him; she was dressed casually in a long white t-shirt and flip-flops. In bathing suit and sandals, Kazem was ready for the pool.

"Did you have a nice dinner last night?" Natasha asked.

"Yes. Memorable."

"You want to join us at the pool?" Kazem asked.

"Maybe another time." The man just didn't get the hint.

"So, did you think it over?"

"Yes." I handed him a folded sheet of paper. "Here's what I must have to even consider your invitation."

"Great!" He opened it and began to read aloud. "Three thousand dollars per day for six weeks plus expenses. That's about a hundred grand plus expenses—no problem." He continued. "I'm an American citizen and insist on traveling with my American passport. I don't want any bullshit about having to obtain an Iranian passport because I was born in Iran. This is tricky, but we can manage."

I thought, Two down, three to go.

Kazem continued reading my list aloud. "I will be guaranteed safe passage and no hassles at the airport. This I personally guarantee." He looked at me for added assurance. "I can only travel during the summer months. Of course." I waited anxiously for the last one. "And most important of all, I will not meet nor interact under any circumstance with any clerics."

Kazem hesitated. "Ross . . . you're being unkind. The clerics run the country. Iran is an Islamic Republic, a democratic theocracy. You're returning to Iran as a long-lost son, a world-renowned physicist. It would be insulting and scandalous if you didn't meet with any government officials—most of whom are mullahs."

"I'm a scientist. I will visit Iran for scientific exchanges, not theological debates." I stood up. "The fact is, the mullahs ordered the cold-blooded murder of my brother—I can't stomach them."

Looking frustrated, Kazem sighed. "Okay, we can limit your interactions to the academic community. Done!" He reached out to shake my hand. Instead, I shoved my business card in it.

"Please ask the Chairman of the Physics department at the Shiraz University to e-mail me a formal invitation—with these five points spelled out—and suggest dates and topics of interest."

"I'll take care of the invitation, my friend. This is wonderful." Kazem turned around and walked away with Natasha on his arm. The girl looked back and blew me a kiss. I took a deep breath in a feeble attempt to quiet the butterflies in my stomach.

That was the last time I saw Kazem in Las Vegas. I looked for him and Natasha at the craps tables that evening, but they didn't show up. Curious, I called the hotel operator to see if he was still checked in. He was not.

* * *

Sunday was our last day. Oksana was still asleep when I left to get some coffee. The whooshing sound of her ever-present machine ensured her slumber as I dressed.

Sipping a café latte, I walked into the hotel's business center to check my e-mail. A few keystrokes later, I was connected to LBL's mail server. There were over a hundred e-mails waiting in my non-secure mailbox. Any classified messages would be encrypted and could only be accessed from the secure PC in my office.

I scanned the list for anything important. There were e-mails from the kids wishing me a Happy Birthday. I was pleased that they remembered.

Then I noticed it: s.hakim@shirazu.ac.ir. I was astonished. How could it be? Kazem could not possibly have turned it around that fast. I clicked on the e-mail hyperlink and sure enough, as I had requested, there was a formal invitation from the physics department at the Shiraz University. It was signed by the Department Chairman, Saeed Hakim, Ph.D. Attached to the invitation was a one pager titled, "Terms of Engagement." It meticulously listed my five demands, reworded for political correctness. He wanted me to arrive in Shiraz on the last Wednesday in June and be ready for work two days later on Saturday. I remembered that the workweek starts on Saturdays in Iran, as in all Islamic countries. I thought, That's only three weeks away.

My last day in Las Vegas usually feels strange. I am there but don't want to be. I generally don't feel like gambling or doing much of anything else. I just want to go home. So it was that Sunday. We checked out by noon, but our return flight wasn't until 4:00 p.m. Walking around the Venetian's Canal shops, which surround the gaudy Disney-like gondola ride, was a good way to kill time.

I didn't tell Oksana about the e-mail without having any particular reason not to. But, it weighed heavy on my mind—it was all too strange. Oksana caught me talking to myself while I rehearsed the conversation I might have with Lance, the General Counsel at the Lab. At the same time, this whole episode made me feel privileged as never before—a privilege I didn't necessarily covet. All along, I sensed trouble brewing.

It was dusk when we pulled into our garage. Oksana ran inside. I followed her, carrying the bags. All was normal at home. Victor, playing a video game, looked up to greet us. Romeo went nuts and began running around the living room in circles. Marina, busy chatting with a dozen cyber-boyfriends, listened to her iPOD while typing at warp speed. She just smiled and waved hello.

Oksana hugged and kissed Victor and told him about our weekend. Leaving the cocoon of her headphones, Marina temporarily joined the brief reunion. They howled, hooted, and screamed, "Way to go, Dad!" when they heard of my winning streak at the dice table. I just sat there on the couch, taking it all in, feeling that if there was a heaven this was it. I must be the luckiest man alive, I thought.

We ordered Chinese for dinner. Looking out the kitchen window at the Sullivan's house, I noticed that Roy and Alice were watching TV in their den. I decided to go over and tell Roy about my encounter with Kazem. Perhaps he would have advice.

When I arrived, Alice greeted me with a warm hug. Roy simply said, "'Sup man? Welcome home."

After some small talk, Alice sensed that I wanted to speak with Roy alone. So, she served us coffee with generous slices of homemade apple pie and left the room.

Roy listened to my story attentively while sipping coffee. Stingy with facial expressions, he had assumed the persona of the FBI Special Agent. He didn't say much until I was through. "What're you gonna do?"

"I don't know. What do you think I should do?"

"It stinks. I wouldn't touch it with a long stick."

"Why not?"

"Ross! Where's your head, man? Up your butt?" Roy sat on the edge of the sofa. "The bastards wanna lure your ass to Iran and pump you for information. Don't you see? They're all over the world buying technology shit for their nukes. I've busted a few of them right here myself. Besides, the Lab won't let you go—rest assured. They'll be on your case like white on rice. And your security clearance would be gone!" He snapped. "Just like that."

"Roy, you know I wouldn't give them anything."

"Yeah. You're big talking now. But you're gonna sing like a bird when they wire your nuts to electricity and light 'em up like ornaments on a Christmas tree." He laughed heartily.

"I'm glad I provided you with some amusement," I said, cracking up. "You son-of-a-bitch."

"Seriously, man, forget about it. Don't go anywhere near it. You'll get burned."

"So, what do I say? Just decline their invitation?"

"Yup. Make up an excuse and say no."

"Okay." I stood up to leave. "Thanks for nothing."

Roy walked me to the door. "Later, man."

Leaving the house, I turned and said, "Roy, why don't you check your database? See if you can find out anything about Kazem. Kazem Dowlat."

"Will do. I'll see if he's on the Watch List."

* * *

The following day, I filled out the Foreign Agent Contact Report, with sufficient detail, and set out to hand deliver it to Lance Vanderjack, the Lab's General Counsel.

Lance was rather eccentric. He had two Ph.D.'s—one from Stanford in theoretical physics and the other from Yale in computer science. But, he did not stop there; he went on to obtain a degree in corporate law from UC Berkeley and joined the Lab as Special Adviser to the Director. Within two years, he was named the General Counsel. At thirty-seven, he was known as the resident genius. Yet, the informal atmosphere of the Lab did not deter him from wearing bright red bow ties with starched shirts and tailored suits every day.

That Monday afternoon was no different. I walked into his dark-paneled corner office and handed him the report. Lance was not fond of small talk and spoke as if he was dictating a legal brief. Pacing back and forth in his office, I rushed through the story of my encounter with Kazem. With his feet propped on his antique desk, he listened and occasionally glanced at the report without reading it.

Afterwards, he asked a few questions, the last of which was, "How do you plan to respond, Dr. Shaheen?"

"I'll decline the invitation, of course."

"Excellent."

"Should I do anything else?"

"No, sir," Lance said. "I shall brief the Director. Please let me know how they react."

"I will."

* * *

Roy's basement workshop was filled with smoke, and Ross' eyes were watering. Colonel Nash had worked his Cuban down to a nub. Ross had been talking for over an hour, and the blinking recorder had not missed a beat—it was 4:45 a.m.

"Did Kazem show up on the FBI Watch List?" Nash wondered.

"No. Roy didn't find anything."

"Did you take Roy's advice?"

"Sure did. Right after my meeting with Lance Vanderjack, I sent an e-mail to Dr. Hakim at the Shiraz University and politely declined the invitation."

"Did you give any particular reason?"

"I told him the truth. That I worked—indirectly—for the U.S. Government and therefore needed approval from my superiors as well as certain federal agencies to travel to Iran. And, in the present political climate, such approval was not granted."

"How did they take it?"

"Not well . . . Not well at all." Ross picked up the manila envelope and said, "Kazem personally delivered this 'message' to me last Saturday." Ross handed the envelope to the Colonel. "It was essentially, reconsider . . . or, else."

Nash retrieved the photos from the envelope and examined each one closely before moving to the next. He was deliberate, yet calm.

"I take it that these are snapshots of your children and Oksana."

"That's correct."

"Can I borrow these?" He waved the photos.

"Sure."

"Was there a note?"

"No. Just the subtle threat."

"There's nothing subtle about this. It's rather blatant—'You do what we say or else, harm will come to your family. And, we can readily get to them. The camera could have easily been a rifle.'" Nash spoke unemotionally. "That's what they're saying."

"I guess you now see the sense of urgency I felt when I requested this meeting and why such precautions for secrecy were necessary."

"I understand, Ross. Did you say this 'message' was delivered last Saturday?"

"Yes. Three days ago."

"Okay. Who knows about this?"

"Only Roy Sullivan."

"Has he filed a report?"

"No."

"Good, let's keep it that way. Now, let's see, what are you thinking? What are you planning to do?"

"I don't think I have a lot of practical choices." The scientist in Ross took over the evaluation of his options, checking them off one by one. "I could go to the FBI and have Kazem and his goons across the street arrested—they'll promptly send another crew with the order to kill us all."

"Goons? What goons?"

"Sorry. I left that part out. A few weeks ago, three Iranian grease balls moved in across the street from us. It's a strange coincidence. Roy is quietly investigating, but I think they work for MOIS."

"Let me know what he finds out."

"Okay. Where was I? I was reviewing my options. I could take an extended leave of absence and disappear to Russia for a year or two—we'll be safe there. But, I'd have to pull the kids out of school and sit on my ass in General Pugachov's dacha doing nothing. I'd die of boredom. I could do what they want: accept the invitation, take my chances, and go to Iran, defying every rule and regulation I've sworn to obey. I'd lose my job and security clearance. And I'd never recover from such a thing."

Nash reached over and turned the recorder off. "You'd lose more than your job and security clearance if you went to Iran." He took a puff from his cigar. "You might buy a bullet in the back of your head."

"How's that?" Ross asked. "If I do as they wish, why would they kill me? That doesn't make any sense."

"I didn't mean the Iranians."

"You lost me."

"The Mossad."

"The Mossad?" Ross said, with a trembling voice. "What about the Mossad?"

"What's your clearance level?"

"TOP SECRET. Ever since I was assigned to the NSA Advisory Board, I've also been cleared for UMBRA, CRYPTO, and GAMMA—the basic derivatives from Signal Intelligence." Pointing at Nash's file on the coffee table, Ross said, "Of course, I can't see VLA files."

"There are maybe twenty, twenty-five people in the entire government, all above my pay grade, who are VLA authorized," Colonel Nash said. "Hell, the only reason I get to see them is because I write half of them. It's all too complicated."

"Why are you interested in my clearance level?"

"I was wondering what I could tell you about the Mossad."

"Colonel, if the Mossad has got me in their crosshairs, I suppose I should know why. Don't you think? Damn the clearance, let's have it."

"Well . . ." He scratched his bald head. "I'll tell you. But, whatever I say will not leave this room." He stared intently at Ross. "If you repeat any of it, you won't have to worry about MOIS or the Mossad, I'll kill you myself, you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

With that blunt warning, Nash picked up the secret file and began to thumb through it.

Ross was anxious. He could feel his own heartbeat. Seconds felt like minutes as minutes seemed like hours. He could hardly bear it. What the hell is he looking for?

"Here it is." The Colonel pulled out a sheet of standard printer paper, folded it so that Ross could only see the top half, and laid it on the coffee table. "Check this out. Does it look familiar?"

The picture was a grainy black and white taken by a security camera. Ross came closer. It didn't take long for him to realize what he was looking at.

"This is Kazem and me in Vegas. The picture must have been snapped by the casino's eye in the sky." Ross pointed up.

"That's right."

"So?"

"This photo was part of a secret message we intercepted from the Mossad Station in DC to Tel Aviv . . . We're not supposed to spy on our friends, but we do. That's why this file is classified VLA."

"Is the Mossad following me?"

"No, they're tailing Kazem."

"Is the CIA shadowing him also?"

"No. The Mossad shares their intelligence about Kazem with us. And whatever they hold back, we get from intercepts—like this message about you."

"Who is Kazem? What's his angle?"

"Kazem Dowlat is a deal-maker. You could say he's a specialized purchasing agent. His cover is some made-up position at the Ministry of Mines and Natural Resources, but he spends eight months out of a year crisscrossing the world in search of equipment, technology, material, and expertise for the Atomic Energy Organization of Iran. And, apparently, he now fancies you."

"Okay, the Mossad has a photo of Kazem and me having a drink. So what? That doesn't mean anything."

"Ross, you're missing the big picture." Nash paused to collect his thoughts. "Hell, go ahead; look at the second half of the page. Read the damn text. I've already broken all the rules by letting you see this intercept. I might as well go all the way."

Ross unfolded the paper.

The text below the photo was all in caps, with every nonessential word and punctuation removed. It was a typical coded message. As part of his consulting work for the NSA, Ross had seen many such specimens before.

"MERCHANT MADE CONTACT NEW PERSON STOP." Ross began reading the message under his breath. Nash interrupted. "MERCHANT is Mossad's codename for Kazem." Ross continued reading the cryptic stream of words without acknowledging the helpful hint. "NEW CONTACT DR ROSS SHAHEEN RENOWNED PHYSICIST SENIOR OFFICER LBL SCIENCE ADVISOR NSA STOP STATION VIEWS DEVELOPMENT SIGNIFICANT SHAHEEN IRANIAN NATIONAL US CITIZEN WIFE DAUGHTER NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISOR RUSSIAN PRESIDENT STOP DETAILED PROFILE WILL FOLLOW END"

It was beginning to sink in. Ross slumped back and stared at the ceiling, thinking. His silence spoke plenty. After a few minutes, he said, "Has there been any more traffic about me?"

"Just one," Nash said, as he placed another sheet of paper on top of the old one. "EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY GO SILENT ABOUT DR SHAHEEN END"

"What does this mean?"

"It means the Mossad will have no further transmissions about you. No phone calls, no e-mails, and no letters—coded or clear. Nothing."

"Why?"

"The Mossad knows we're listening, and they don't want us to know what they're thinking about you. They're no dummies. They'll be using couriers instead."

"That's comforting," Ross said with sarcasm.

"You now have the unenviable privilege of appearing in the most secret files of our government as well as the Israelis." Nash grinned. "Congratulations, Ross!"

"How did I get here, Colonel? What did I do wrong?"

"You merely succeeded. You're a big fish in America, and that's a huge whale to the rest of the world. And now, friends and foes you didn't know you had want a piece of you. That's all."

"Let me see if I have this right. MOIS wants me to go to Iran, and the Mossad is nervous about me going. Is that about it?"

"It's much bigger than being nervous," Nash said. He then proceeded to paint the big picture for Ross.

* * *

Iran has sought entry into the nuclear club for nearly thirty-five years. It all started with the Shah when he bought two reactors from the Germans. In 1974, Siemens, the contractor, began the construction of the 1200-megawatt reactors near the port city of Bushehr in southern Iran.

While they were being installed, the Shah sent thousands of students to America, Europe, and Russia to get the necessary training. To qualify for financial assistance, the students had to major in certain subjects such as physics, material science, thermodynamics, nuclear engineering, or a whole host of other specialties. In return, they would be guaranteed employment at the Atomic Energy Organization of Iran upon their return.

The reactors were eighty-five percent complete prior to the 1979 Islamic Revolution and were scheduled for completion in 1981. But after the Shah's fall, construction of both reactors was halted. The instability associated with the hostage crisis and the subsequent war with Iraq took Iran off the fast track to building its nuclear industry; yet the dream of the nuclear Iran lived on.

During the Iran-Iraq war, Iraqi warplanes struck the Bushehr reactors repeatedly. One of the reactors was severely damaged, with the structure sealed and the containment dome covered in sheet metal and subsequently mothballed. After the war, Iran sought to rebuild the Bushehr reactors, and asked the Germans to resume work on the facility. The Germans, however, under intense pressure from the United States, refused Iran's request to complete the project.

In January 1995, Russia and Iran signed an $800-million contract under which Russia would build a 1,000-megawatt reactor at Bushehr using the existing structures. The agreement also called for the spent fuel from the reactor to be shipped back to Russia for reprocessing. This clause was specifically put into the agreement to appease the United States. If the spent fuel were sent back to Russia, there would be no danger of it being converted and used for an Iranian nuclear weapons program. The CIA, however, had reason to believe that the Iranians were planning to renege and keep the spent fuel.

To guard against a surgical air strike by the Americans or the Israelis, the Iranians have bought a vast arsenal of surface-to-air missiles from Russia, which include Tor-M1s, and the deadly S-300s with a 48-mile range. To defend against a naval attack, they have purchased C-801 anti-ship cruise missiles from China.

* * *

"The place is a damn fortress," Colonel Nash said. "So, the Israelis will probably not attempt an air strike. Instead, they'll do everything in their power to prevent Iran's nuclear facilities from going operational."

"How?"

"Subversion, supply disruption, sabotage, anything other than overt military action," Nash said. "And this includes eliminating anyone who could provide them with technical assistance in perfecting their enrichment process or help them in building a bomb."

Ross looked at the floor as he processed what he had just heard.

"And that's you, Dr. Shaheen." Nash paused for emphasis. "That's why the Iranians want you alive, and that's why the Israelis would want you dead."

"What are my chances?"

"I'd place my bet on the Israelis—they never miss."

"Then why am I still alive?"

Nash said matter-of-factly, "Because you haven't yet bought your plane ticket to Iran."

"But I'm an American. The Mossad can't just whack me. Are they that stupid?"

"Listen son." Nash leaned forward. "As hard as it might be to imagine assassinating the son-in-law of the Russian National Security Adviser, and as farfetched as it might seem for the Israelis to harm an American scientist, I assure you the Mossad won't let you set foot in Tehran alive."

Ross became quiet. His fear had given way to anger. He didn't want any of this—who would? He was anxious and emotionally exhausted, yet determined to find a way out of the impasse in which he found himself. But he didn't know how. He looked at Nash and said, "How do I get out of this jam, Colonel?"

"The way I see it, you've got one choice, and only one choice."

"I'm listening."

"You go to Iran as a CIA informant," Nash said. "It's dangerous, but not as dangerous as your other options."

"What about LBL? What do we do about the Mossad?"

"I can tell the Lab to let you go. And I think I can talk the Mossad into getting off your back, at least for a little while."

"And, in return, I do what?"

"You go to Iran, do as they wish, look around, talk to their scientists, find out what they're up to, and assess their technical capabilities. The bottom line is we know they're after nukes; what we don't know is how close they are to building one."

"I'm not James Bond, Colonel," Ross quipped. "I'm a scientist. What the hell do I know about espionage? Being a science advisor to the NSA is one thing, but being a CIA agent? Even the thought of it is frightening. I have no training in your world—I can't do it. Even if I did, I have made a commitment to General Pugachov never to get mixed up in spy craft."

"Unusual circumstances require unusual action," Colonel Nash said. "Think of your family."

Ross became contemplative. After a minute of silence, he said, "Do I have to come to the Farm for training?"

"No. That's for Case Officers, not informants. You'll need minimal training and some communication equipment. I'll send someone to brief you in your office later this week."

"What about Oksana and the kids? Do I leave them behind with the MOIS goons across the street?" Ross asked. "They're not safe here."

"I'll have the FBI secretly cover them around the clock."

Ross sat there, statue-like, without the strength to move a muscle. I'm in a trap, he thought. Nash is pointing the only way out, but where would that way lead? Freedom or the firing squad? He closed his eyes and reluctantly whispered, "Okay. I'll do it."

Nash snapped back in his chair. "Now listen, and listen good." He got Ross' attention. "Like it or not, you're sucked into a deadly game of hide-and-seek where those who hide are often found dead; and those who seek are cold-blooded killers who usually find their mark."

Ross listened.

"You're hiding, Ross. And your only cover is a cloak of secrecy. Take everything we discussed tonight—I mean everything—put it in a box, nail it shut, and bury it six feet deep. No one needs to know, unless they have a need to know. That includes Roy Sullivan, your wife, your boss, and your mistress—if you have one."

"Not even Oksana?"

"Especially her. She may panic, call her father, and then all hell would break loose."

Ross said, "What would happen if General Pugachov found out?"

"Beats me." Nash shrugged. "You know him better. What would he do if Oksana and his grandchildren were in danger?"

"General Pugachov is a mean son-of-a-bitch when he's in a good mood, let alone when he's angry," Ross said. "And, he's crazy about Oksana. He still hasn't forgiven me for taking his 'little girl' away. No telling what he'd do. He'd do everything in his power to protect them—I have no doubt."

"Therefore, tell no one, including Oksana."

"What about LBL? How do I leave without permission?"

"Leave them to me," Colonel Nash said. "I'll take care of everything. You can travel to Iran with special permission from the State Department under the people-to-people or cultural exchange or some other bullshit program. Vanderjack or the Lab Director will get the necessary instructions from Washington as early as tomorrow."

It was 5:45 a.m. The feeble rays of the morning light trickled into the room from a dusty porthole. The two men stood. With a firm grip, Nash shook Ross' hand. "Take care, Ross. And try to relax. I have your back."

Ross found his words comforting. All he could get out in response was, "I appreciate that, Colonel."

Goodbyes were not exchanged.

Ross picked up his Oakland Raiders cap. Wearing it loosely, he walked out of Roy's workshop into his garage and then onto their common backyard.

The cool morning breeze was refreshing after the stuffy basement. Ross inhaled the clean air as he walked toward his house. The neighborhood dogs were barking. Ross couldn't help being anxious about the road ahead. He was about to journey into the murky world of spies, a world he knew little about and understood even less. Yet, amidst the haze of his worried thoughts, he kept hearing the reassuring voice of Colonel Nash.

"Relax, I have your back."

### Chapter 1.3

It was daybreak. Roy Sullivan opened the passenger door of his silver Jeep Cherokee for Colonel Nash. He climbed in, fastened his seatbelt, and promptly started reading a thick briefing book. Awkward silence filled the air as they set out for the San Francisco International Airport.

Ten minutes into the drive, Roy couldn't take it anymore. Too many questions were swirling around in his head. Before merging east onto I-380, he said, "I didn't know you had a history with Ross."

"Yeah." Nash looked up without turning his head. "I knew him back in the 80s. I was the CIA Station Chief in Moscow and he was teaching physics at MSU—Moscow State University—in some cockamamie scientific exchange program. . . . God, I hate those things."

Roy reduced his speed to stretch out the travel time. During their drive to his house earlier that morning, Nash had been quiet. Now he seemed to be more forthcoming, and Roy was eager to hear his story.

Nash continued with his recollections. "Ross was an amazing young man. Everyone told me he was a genius. But I didn't understand why and quite frankly, could not have cared less. To me, he was a huge pain in the ass."

"That's where he met Oksana," Roy said. "At MSU, she was one of his students."

The Colonel looked at Roy. "I know. I was there."

Roy swerved around an empty bucket that had blown onto the road and said, "Sorry. Please go on."

"Genius or not, Ross was a strange bird. As a grad student at Berkeley, he had developed a system for modeling nuclear fission using super computers." Nash turned to look at Roy. "Can you believe that shit? He was only a kid when he did this! He named his model, 'The BLIND SCORPION.' Don't ask me why."

Nash paused to adjust his seat for more legroom. Then he continued. "Anyway, the moment LBL learned about it, they hired him, got him a Green Card, and fast tracked his citizenship so that he could get security clearance. You see, Ross couldn't work on his own project—the BLIND SCORPION—without clearance. The Lab had grabbed it and classified it TOP SECRET."

Roy knew most of the story but listened closely for any new details. He merged onto US-101 going south.

"It might interest you to know," Colonel Nash said, pointing to Roy for emphasis, "that the techniques Ross pioneered in the BLIND SCORPION were later used to simulate nuclear blasts, making underground explosions unnecessary. That's why we agreed to sign the Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty in 1996."

"I didn't know that," Roy said.

"Then, in the summer of 1980, Ross arrived in Moscow for a three-year teaching stint. The Russian intelligence services—both the KGB and GRU—immediately got major erections for what he knew," Nash said. "They tried every trick in the book to squeeze him for information. His apartment, his office, and his classroom were all bugged. They listened to his phone calls and read his mail. You name it, they did it. They even had a lip-reader watch him through binoculars while he walked around the campus talking to himself—as was his habit then—but they got nothing. You know why?"

Roy shook his head as he pulled down the sun visor.

"Because I was his babysitter. I had him come to the embassy every week for debriefing. Then I would tell him what to say and what not say, who to avoid, where to go, and what to watch for. As long as he listened, he had a shot at staying clear of the Russian spooks.

"Then, one day, I got word that Ross was dating a Russian girl—a total no-no in those years. As bad as that was, I soon discovered that she—that's Oksana—was the daughter of Viktor Pugachov, a senior KGB officer back then. I was petrified. I called Ross into my office and bore him a new asshole. I told him he was a security risk and that I had to revoke his clearance. I even called him unpatriotic. It got ugly, real ugly. After my tirade, he looked at me and said, 'Colonel, I love her and I love America. I assure you, I can love both without betraying either.' And, then, he walked out of my office . . . I'll never forget that day."

"When was that, Colonel?"

"Spring of 1982. After that blow up, I saw him at a few embassy functions, but we didn't speak to each other. Ross soon married Oksana and returned to California. As a condition for his consent to let Ross marry his daughter, Viktor Pugachov made him take an oath never to get involved in the intelligence business. And, as a rule, Ross has kept that promise."

Roy drove toward the San Francisco International Airport. Immediately before the domestic terminal, he turned right onto the access road that led to the protective chain link fence. He rolled to a stop in front of the gate and flashed his FBI badge at the guard. He waved them through. Slowly driving on the tarmac toward the "big-ass" military Gulfstream, Roy said, "Colonel, what did you and Ross decide this morning? How do we proceed from here? Is there something I can do to help?"

"Glad you asked." Nash proceeded to let Roy know the absolute minimum. "Here's what we're gonna do. Ross will go to Iran under some cultural exchange program. While he's gone, without alarming Oksana, you and the FBI will have to provide protection for his family twenty-four-seven."

"Will do."

"What do you know about the mystery men across the street?"

"They're Iranian nationals with Canadian citizenships claiming to be real estate investors. Aside from that, we know nothing. I suspect they are Iranian spies, but I can't prove it. We've asked for wiretap authorization, which hasn't yet been granted."

"I'll rattle some cages at the Justice Department when I get back to Washington," Nash said. "The Attorney General can authorize the wiretap by Executive Order for special circumstances, which this certainly is."

"That'll be great," Roy said. "We'll know a lot more when we get our ears and start listening."

Roy rolled the Jeep to a gentle stop in front of the stairway of the jet. The silhouette of the sleek fuselage, wet with the morning dew, shimmered in the feeble rays of the daybreak. The car was suddenly dwarfed by the imposing presence of the Gulfstream. Both men left the vehicle. Before climbing up, Colonel Nash told Roy, "Make damn sure the goons don't get wise that we're onto them. It's much safer that way."

Clasping his hand into the Colonel's, Roy nodded.

Nash was halfway up the stairs when Roy called him. "Colonel Nash?"

He stopped and turned.

"I'm just curious. What was Ross saying to himself as he walked around the campus? Back in Moscow."

"He recited poetry from some thirteen century mystic. I believe it was Rumi." The Colonel grinned and continued his climb.

Roy just shook his head.

### Chapter 1.4

After being up all night with Colonel Nash, Ross stayed home the next day to catch up on his sleep. Oksana didn't suspect anything and let him stay in bed until noon. To wake him, she crawled in bed and gently placed her head on his chest. He began caressing her hair, thinking about how she made the ordinary feel enchanted. A cup of Russian tea, brewed on a samovar, with two sugar cubes on the side awaited him on the nightstand.

Ross sat up in bed, sipping his tea while holding a sugar cube in between his teeth, Persian style, delighting in the intoxicating aroma.

The sight of the Miller's house, with the curtains drawn cloaking its occupants, no longer evoked the same emotions. His fear and anger had surprisingly given way to a strange calm. Ross had crossed the Rubicon and was resigned to what lay ahead.

Oksana smiled. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes. I needed that."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, darling—I'm fine."

"Roy stopped by to see you."

"Oh yeah? I'll call him later."

But he didn't. Ross wasn't ready to rehash what had transpired between him and Colonel Nash. Besides, he needed time to determine how much he would tell Roy.

Later that afternoon, Ross drafted the e-mail he planned to send to Dr. Hakim at Shiraz University, reversing his previous message and accepting his invitation. However, he delayed sending it. First, he had to make sure that Colonel Nash had made the necessary arrangements with Lance Vanderjack at the Lab.

The next morning at dawn, before heading out to work, Ross took Romeo for his morning walk. It was Friday, and he looked forward to the weekend. He left for Berkeley before 7:00 a.m. to beat the traffic.

Ordinarily, he took the Richmond Bridge from San Rafael to Contra Costa and onto Berkeley. Traversing the five and a half mile span over water used to be awe-inspiring, but it was now routine. However, the view of the other two wonders, the Golden Gate and the Bay Bridge, was never routine. Ross loved them both.

The Golden Gate, with its towers rising high above the blue waters of the Bay, is a unique blend of beauty and grace whereas the Bay Bridge, over eight miles long, manifests raw power with dignity. Both structures look especially majestic as the sun rises or sets behind them. And, when the fog blankets the Bay, they are indescribably romantic.

Ross felt different that day—somewhat vulnerable. It had been a strange few days. The car seemed to drive itself while he was transported to another era on wings of vivid memories. He was thinking of his brother, Sohrab.

They had been inseparable. Ross recalled how they used to claim the landmark bridges as their own. The Golden Gate was Sohrab's and the Bay Bridge, his.

Andrea Bocelli sang on the car's CD player as Ross sped over the Bay, oblivious to the wind blowing through his hair. The prospect of returning to his birthplace evoked an odd feeling of melancholy, which he didn't want to explore. Recalling the carefree summer months of his youth in Iran and the precious college years he had spent with Sohrab here at Berkley were painful. Ross recalled how fearless and rich with promises they'd felt; the world was theirs to conquer. Who could have predicted how things would turn out for the two of them?

They had been born together—eight minutes apart—in the northern outskirts of Tehran. Here he was, fifty-three years later, on the other side of the planet, a well-known physicist, a high-ranking officer of one of the greatest research labs in the world, married with children, and living a picture-perfect life. There was Sohrab, buried unceremoniously in his blood-soaked clothes in an unmarked grave, only a few miles away from where they were born. The brutality of the way he died was only surpassed by the cruelty of dying at the age of twenty-seven.

Deep in thought, Ross continued to drive toward Berkeley. However, the melancholy lingered as Bocelli's voice soared.

Lawrence Berkeley Laboratory, named after its founder, Ernest Orlando Lawrence, is the oldest national laboratory in America. Even though it has a broad scope, it is best known as the Mecca of particle physics. Equally referred to as the "Berkeley Lab," "LBL," or simply, "the Lab," it is a sprawling campus of over one hundred buildings spread over a square mile, where nearly 4,000 employees and researchers toil in relentless pursuit of the most esoteric of nature's secrets. LBL is situated in Berkeley on the hillside directly above the campus of the University of California at Berkeley.

The meteoric rise of Ross' career from a promising graduate student in applied physics to the lead researcher on a TOP SECRET project was a tale that resembled fiction. Soon after receiving his doctorate, followed by a teaching stint in Moscow, he joined LBL and was catapulted onto the Lab's behemoth organization at a level that far surpassed his experience. Twenty-five years later, his journey had brought him to where he was today: the Director of Nuclear Science—merely two organizational levels below the Lab's Director. Ross was fond of saying, "Only in America could this happen to a foreign-born citizen, especially when the government ruling his native land is a sworn enemy of the state and part of the Axis of Evil."

The elevator door opened to the seventh floor lobby of Building 50 with a single ring of the bell.

"Morning, Ross." Pam Carlisle, his executive assistant for the past ten years, greeted him in her typical jovial manner. "I hope you're feeling better."

"I'm fine," Ross mumbled, as he walked by her desk toward his office. Not feeling particularly sociable, he said, "Cancel all my appointments for today."

He inserted a magnetic blue badge into the slot on the right side of the doorknob. The familiar green light flashed, and the door silently cracked open. The nameplate on his door simply read, "R. Shaheen, Division Director."

TOP SECRET clearance was a requirement for being elevated to one of the seventeen Division Directors at the Lab. Working with sensitive technologies and serving on various government advisory boards, with access to classified information, mandated strict security precautions. This was especially true for Ross. He had only recently been appointed to the NSA—National Security Agency—Science Advisory Board. At the NSA, the greatest global information vacuum cleaner ever devised, secrecy is not merely an occupational necessity; it is an institutional obsession.

"Mr. Vanderjack wants you to call him as soon as possible," Pam said, as Ross entered his office.

What the hell does Vanderjack want this early in the morning? Ross thought. He rarely calls me anyway. Surely it couldn't be because of Colonel Nash. The government never moves at this speed.

Ross closed the door and flipped the light switch. He took a step toward the phone but stopped short when his feet touched something soft and unfamiliar. A Persian rug had appeared out of nowhere. He smiled. Oksana had tastefully redecorated his office, and the rug she had ordered—the last touch—had finally arrived. Ross paused to admire the overall effect now that everything was in place. To the left of the entrance, two suede couches, separated by a glass coffee table, faced each other. The oversized maroon Russian box on the table complemented the furniture. Panoramic windows spanned two adjacent sides of the corner office, resulting in a breathtaking view of the campus. Where the two walls of glass met stood a square granite conference table surrounded by eight black chairs.

Ross' workspace to the right of the entrance was rather elaborate. Two leather chairs, used informally by visitors, faced the large, cherry wood desk and side table. Two flat-screen monitors were carefully positioned—one on each corner of the desk—where they wouldn't obstruct his view of the guests across. The monitor to the left, connected to an ordinary PC, was for routine work and un-secure e-mail. It also connected Ross to the incomprehensible processing power of NERSC, the National Energy Research Scientific Computing Center. The Oakland-based NERSC operated some of the fastest computers and largest storage systems ever invented, and provided non-classified processing service to scientists around the world.

Unbeknownst to the public, NERSC also operated a clandestine supercomputer for the exclusive use of a select few. The IBM's Blue Glacier—codenamed, "BLIND SCORPION," after a system Ross had originally developed in graduate school and had continuously enhanced ever since—was capable of processing 1,050 teraflops per second. The BLIND SCORPION needed all that power to carry out its mission, to simulate the explosion of a nuclear device and calculate its yield.

Ross used the monitor to the right of his desk for classified work, secure e-mail, and most importantly, to access the BLIND SCORPION. Connected to a diskless PC, the flat-screen recognized his face through the vigilant eyes of a tiny camera at the top corner. If the digitized image matched the sparse database of authorized users, a virtual corridor to the secret supercomputer would open and allow access—secure, encrypted, and immune from any hackers—otherwise, an armed guard would walk into the office within five minutes.

The BLIND SCORPION had never been breached.

Ross walked to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.

"That's right, Dr. Shaheen," Lance Vanderjack explained. "Yesterday, the Director received a call from the Undersecretary of DOE green lighting your trip to Iran. It's my understanding that the State Department considers the invitation you've received as a positive gesture by the Iranians and doesn't wish to snub them. Any concern the Director and I may have regarding your security is secondary. So, it's up to you. If you want to go, you may."

"I plan to go," Ross said. "And, I expect to spend the entire summer there."

"Good luck, and be careful, Dr. Shaheen."

Colonel Nash had come through. Ross sat down and quickly retrieved the e-mail he had drafted to Dr. Hakim at the Shiraz University. He paused to read it over one last time before clicking SEND.

Then, he leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

### Chapter 1.5

The Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) exists, in broad terms, to serve a single strategic customer: The President of the United States. True, dozens of other government agencies and countless officials benefit from the CIA's efforts. But its primary mission continues to be providing the Commander-in-Chief with the necessary intelligence and analysis to make informed decisions. The agency's Director—also known as the DCI—has a standing early morning appointment to brief the President every day of every week. The DCI controls untold secrets and enjoys unprecedented access to the President, which in Washington means only one thing: unparalleled power.

Established in 1947 by an act of Congress, the CIA, in its simplest form, is divided into two main divisions called Directorates. The Directorate of Intelligence (DI) is made up of thousands of analysts, experts in every conceivable discipline, who make sense of the flood of information that flows into the agency every day. The Directorate of Operations (DO) encompasses the information collectors, the worldwide network of spies and secret agents. Romanticized as mythical figures, these are the Case Officers, primarily stationed overseas, who gather information from local informants and human assets. As the Deputy Director of CIA for Operations (DDO), Colonel Timothy Nash was America's spymaster.

After September 11, the CIA has had more spies stealing more secrets in more places than any other time in its history. They go to the back alleys of hellholes in the far away corners of the world in search of forbidden and tightly guarded knowledge.

And Dr. Ross Shaheen was their latest recruit.

* * *

The sign on the third handball court read, Reserved for DDO, 7:00 – 10:00 a.m., Saturday, June 16th. The sprawling exercise and fitness complex was built on the CIA campus at Langley, Virginia for the exclusive use of agency personnel.

Colonel Nash, wearing a sleeveless military sweatshirt, khaki shorts, and white sneakers, was on the court thirty minutes early to stretch and warm up. After all these years, he still wore his dog tags. It was the Sabbath for his long-time friend, Evrom Rafael. Formerly a wing commander of the Israel Defense Forces, Evrom was now the Mossad's station chief in Washington, under the cover of IDF military attaché. Commander Rafael rarely broke Sabbath unless it was for an important reason. And the Colonel rarely called him otherwise.

Every square inch of the glass wall separating the gallery from the court was covered with sheets of opaque brown paper. Colonel Nash considered his ferocious handball duels with Rafael as private affairs, closed to spectators.

The door to the court opened promptly at seven, and Commander Rafael walked in. Dressed in black state-of-the-art gear and donning a pair of bright yellow goggles, he looked hip and half his age.

"Ready to get beat, old man?" Rafael gloated in his deep, Israeli accent.

"Sweet dreams."

"I believe it's your serve," Rafael said.

"Yes. I remember kicking your ass last time."

The irreverence was the only way they knew how to show affection. Nash was much more concerned about what he wanted to bring up with Rafael than he was with the game—not that beating Rafael wasn't important.

The old warriors, now spymasters, played handball according to their own simple rules. There were no sets. They counted points endlessly until one of them collapsed from exhaustion. Fight to the finish. Their legendary games used to take three hours or more to conclude. Nowadays, both in their sixties, they could barely manage into the second hour—although, like Nash, Rafael was athletic and remarkably fit. The two went at each other like Roman gladiators.

The quiet panting of the aging soldiers punctuated the shriek of the ball's ricochet. Toiling for the invisible spoil of conquest, which is pride, they only spoke to announce the score.

Shortly after nine o'clock, Nash and Rafael were both exhausted. At 177 to 181, they were neck and neck. Ten minutes later, Nash threw in the towel. Drenched in sweat, he leaned against the wall and slowly slid down it, his eyes closed. Rafael, barely audible through his heavy breathing, said, "You're slowing down, old man." He collapsed on the opposite side of the court. Nash shot him the bird without opening his eyes. For the next few minutes they just rested.

Finally, Nash cut to the chase. He lifted his sweatshirt to wipe the perspiration off his face and said, "Evrom . . . Ross Shaheen is clean, lay off of him."

Rafael got off the floor, squatted against the wall on the opposite side of the court, and shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about, Colonel." Nonchalantly, he picked up the ball and began throwing it against the wall, catching it on the rebound.

"That's exactly what I expected you to say," Nash shot back. "We're done with the game, Evrom. Now let's get real." Nash turned up the volume. "Ross is going to Iran as a CIA informant. I want you to send an urgent message to Tel Aviv that he's got a pass from me." Nash jabbed his chest with his right thumb. "And hands off."

Rafael caught the ball and began to look at it closely while squeezing it in his right hand. After a short pause he said, "It's not that easy, Colonel."

"And why the hell not?"

Rafael looked back at Nash. "He's the missing link in their nuke program. If he sets foot in Iran, they'll squeeze him for bomb designs, for enrichment techniques, for neutron triggers, and God knows what else. They'll gain at least five years, Colonel. Besides, it's too late . . . the order has already been given."

Nash squinted. "What order?"

"How should I put it delicately?" Rafael threw the ball against the wall. "He's never to reach Iran alive."

"Rescind it for God's sake! I told you, he's mine."

Thinking, Rafael continued bouncing the ball against the wall. After a few rebounds he said, "I'll see what I can do."

"That's bullshit, Rafael. I want your personal assurance, here and now, that the Mossad will cross Dr. Shaheen from its hit list. Period!"

"And if we don't?"

"There'll be hell to pay." Nash focused his stare on Rafael like a bullet in flight. He didn't need to shout to make his point. "I swear, if any harm comes to Ross Shaheen, if he slips on a banana peel, if his plane crashes, if he so much as chokes on a damn fishbone—I'll blame the Mossad. And as God is my witness, I'll see to it that you pay. I don't mean 'an eye-for-eye,' Commander. That's your law. I'll take ten pairs of eyeballs for a single one. That's my law. Do we understand each other?"

"You're bluffing, Colonel."

"If I am, you can't afford to call it, Commander. And quit throwing that damn ball."

Rafael caught the ball and quickly pondered his options. He wasn't about to piss off the CIA and his old friend, Nash. Besides, he knew full well that the Mossad would ultimately back off from pulling the trigger on Pugachov's son-in-law. In the final analysis all people—and governments alike—act in their self-interest. Killing Dr. Shaheen would serve a lesser interest than being in the good graces of the CIA. Not to mention the second most powerful Russian alive, General Viktor Pugachov.

"All right. We'll stand down," Rafael said. "I trust the CIA will reciprocate by sharing any intelligence that Dr. Shaheen may provide."

"Haven't we always?"

After a long pause, Rafael said, "Colonel, I don't need to tell you that if the Iranians ever get their nukes, Tel Aviv and Haifa will be their targets, not Washington and New York."

"I know, Evrom . . . I know."

The two men grimly gazed at each other. The nightmare of an Iranian nuke heading for Israel on top of their Shahab III missile was one of the few scenarios that kept both men awake at nights.

"You know," Evrom said, "we might both burn for letting Dr. Shaheen go to Iran."

"We just might," Nash said, nodding. "But it's a risk worth taking to fill in any intelligence gap we have about their capabilities. All the same, I'll buy us an insurance policy."

Evrom nodded approval. He knew what Nash meant. "Buying an insurance policy," in spy lingo, means hiring a standby assassin.

### Chapter 1.6

Around noon, Pam Carlisle walked into Ross' office carrying a plate in one hand, a bottle of water in the other, and cheerfully announced, "Lunch time."

"What do we have?"

"Your usual: avocado, provolone, cucumbers, sprouts, and sour cream on rye bread. Happy?"

"What would I do without you, Pam?" he said, without looking away from what he was reading.

She placed the food in front of Ross. "You'd be lost." Then she said, "By the way, someone named Peter called and said he was in town and needed to see you. That the Colonel had sent him."

Ross looked up. Suddenly eager, he said, "Where is he?"

"I don't know." Pam shrugged. "I told him you were busy. Who's the Colonel anyway?"

"Someone from the Pentagon who wants me to look at a project," Ross said. "Did Peter leave a number?"

"Yes. His cell. I'll get it for you."

Within the hour, Pam ushered Peter into Ross' office and closed the door behind him. He was a small man carrying an oversized briefcase. About thirty, he barely stood taller than five feet. He wore blue jeans with an open-collar white shirt under a navy blue blazer. A pair of black-rimmed glasses sat on a large nose, which dominated his expressionless face. Other than looking nerdy, and a bit awkward, he was clean cut.

"Hi, I'm Peter." He stretched his hand a little too early as he walked toward Ross. "Colonel Nash sent me."

"Peter who?"

"Peter Erwin."

Ross suspected that wasn't his real name. It sounded too pedestrian. But he understood. After all, the man worked for the CIA, and they live in aliases. Ross stood and introduced himself. "What brings you here, Peter?"

"Colonel Nash sent me to brief you. I'm a regional analyst and mostly cover Iran."

They walked to the conference table and sat on adjacent sides. Peter placed his briefcase on the table and opened it. It was full of neatly organized files and papers with a few stamped CLASSIFIED in blue. Ross noticed the edge of a thick red envelope, which was visible from the inside pocket of the briefcase. Red envelopes usually mean TOP SECRET, he thought, but he couldn't be sure.

"How much time do you have, Dr. Shaheen?" Peter asked.

"As much as you need."

"I've briefed countless people on Iran, but never an Iranian. This is a first for me. I'm afraid you may already know a lot of what I'm about to tell you. So, I apologize in advance for any redundant information."

"Don't worry," Ross said. "I've been out of Iran and out of touch with its politics for so long that I might as well be a stranger."

Peter pulled out a small map and placed it on the table. It showed Iran and her surrounding neighbors. He also handed Ross a thick, spiral-bound book titled, The Islamic Republic of Iran: Geo-Strategy, Internal Politics, and Markets. "Read this at your leisure. It has a wealth of information. Nothing classified, but it should be treated as confidential. I wouldn't take it with you on your trip."

So he knows about my plans, Ross thought.

As Peter shuffled the files in his briefcase searching for something, Ross noticed a Yale ring on his pinkie. Finally, he produced a small yellow pad with a numbered, hand-written list on the front page and placed it before Ross. To his surprise, it contained entries in Farsi, the principal language spoken in Iran. Without looking at Ross, Peter said, "Let's take it from the top."

He waved his hand over the map. "The Middle East is arguably the most valuable real estate on the planet, and Iran is at its center. Two-thirds of the known oil reserves in the world are controlled by the countries surrounding the Persian Gulf." Peter pointed to the small body of water South of Iran. "This tiny Gulf, only 600 miles long, narrows to a trickle at the Strait of Hormuz, here." With his finger tapping the spot, Peter looked at Ross for added drama. "It's only thirty-four miles wide. And twenty-eight percent of the world's oil supply must pass through it. Obviously, it's in our national security interest for the Strait of Hormuz to remain open. But Iran is in a position to close it."

Peter continued. "Take a careful look at this map, Dr. Shaheen. The countries in the region are predominantly Arab states. All of them except Israel, Turkey, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and of course Iran. Now look, the only democracies—functioning or in name only—in the area are these non-Arab states." He looked at Ross. "Isn't that interesting?"

"Now that you mention it," Ross said, "it just dawned on me that no Arab country has ever produced a democracy."

Peter nodded. "Except for Lebanon and Iraq, and theirs was imposed by us."

"Do you consider Iran a democracy?" Ross asked.

"Yes. But Iran's democracy is unique and is more form than substance. Iranians vote. But as witnessed in the 2009 elections, their vote is not always counted properly. They elect their President and their representatives to the Majlis—the Iranian parliament—where a protracted power struggle between the conservatives and the reformists has raged for decades. And the reformists have been steadily losing ground."

Peter paused to make sure Ross was following him. "The problem with the Iranian democracy lies in their constitution. It doesn't give any real power to the elected President or the Majlis. They are, more or less, window dressings. The real power rests with the unelected Supreme Leader—the Grand Ayatollah of the time—whose consent is necessary for any decision of significance; and the appointed Council of Guardians, who has to approve candidates' Islamic credentials before they can run for office. The Supreme Leader and most members of the Council of Guardians are Muslim cleric hardliners. They preside over an entrenched religious establishment and enjoy the support of the conservative segment of the population—mostly the rural and the underclass. The clerical regime keeps a tight lid on the moderates and reformers through their security apparatus and other enforcers, such as the Revolutionary Guards, an independent paramilitary force, and the Basij, an army of young thugs who go around terrorizing people.

"The moderates and the reformers, in turn, have the support of some members of the Majlis, the underground and often exiled independent media, the women, the urban middle class, and the intellectual elite, including most university students—nearly a million strong. In the summer of 2009, this segment of Iranian society flexed its muscle after the presidential election seemed to have been rigged. The massive protest marches have permanently upset the byzantine structure of Iran's power structure.

"Any questions?" Peter added.

"No questions. But, what you're describing is a political tinderbox ready to explode."

"In light of their economic difficulties, that's the way we see it also. In fact, Iran is ripe for another revolution, and the 2009 protests were only a prelude. But, this time around, the people won't stand for a theocratic democracy. There's widespread disgust with the clerical regime—people blame them for making Iran a pariah nation in the world, worthy of the demeaning label, Axis of Evil. They demand, and will eventually get, separation of Mosque and State. The tectonic political forces at play in Iran are moving the country toward reform. All we need is time."

Ross knew most of this but was fascinated by Peter's account mostly because of his analysis. His encyclopedic knowledge of the region and spot-on pronunciation of Farsi words were impressive. Pondering what he had heard, Ross said, "It seems to me the leaders in Tehran have a lot on their plates internally. Why antagonize the world by pursuing nuclear weapons?"

"The appetite for nukes is simultaneously fed by insecurity and their burning desire to re-establish the Persian Empire, Dr. Shaheen."

"Are you suggesting that Iran feels insecure?"

"Very much so. Here is where their insecurities come from: The Iran-Iraq War was very bloody. It lasted eight long years and took nearly a million Iranian lives. The Iranians threw everything they had at Saddam Hussein, yet they couldn't beat him. Granted, we were secretly helping the Iraqis with battlefield intelligence and satellite imagery, but even without our support, Iran couldn't dominate Iraq. Then, three years later, Saddam's million-man army was decimated by the U.S. military inside of forty-five days—flat. This shocked and scared the hell out of the Iranians. So, they concluded that an accelerated WMD program was the surest way to achieve security. During the last fifteen years, they've fully developed their chemical and biological weapons. After 9-11, they've intensified their uranium enrichment program and, we believe, nuclear weapons are now within their reach."

"How else does 9-11 figure into all of this?"

"Let's look at the map again. What happened to the region afterward? We cleared Afghanistan of the Taliban and the Al-Qaeda and installed a friendly government. We now have bases and a military presence in Afghanistan. And we're there to stay. In this effort, Pakistan threw its lot in with us as well. So, the Iranians stare at the U.S. forces and a U.S. ally when they look at their Eastern front. We have two aircraft carriers on permanent patrol in the waters to the south of Iran. Additionally, we have major bases in Oman, Qatar, Bahrain, and Saudi Arabia. Kuwait owes us big time after we saved it from the clutches of Saddam Hussein back in 1991. And tens of thousands of our troops are stationed there. In Iraq, the U.S. has a major military presence, which is expected to remain for the foreseeable future. Turkey, a NATO member and by default a U.S. ally, is located on their northwest border. To the north lie the tiny republics of the former USSR. Most of them have elected to side with us as a counterbalance against Russia and to fend off Iran's export of Islamic fundamentalism. This leaves Russia to the north as Iran's only ally and refuge."

"They're surrounded," Ross said.

"Yes. Directly or indirectly, by the U.S. or our allies, and they know it."

"So, they really view the U.S. as their enemy? It's not just hot rhetoric for the masses?"

"Yes, and that explains their support for Hezbollah, Hamas, and Al-Qaeda."

"It's war by proxy," Ross said.

Peter nodded. "Look, you're Persian and grew up in Iran. You know that there's no love lost between the Iranians and Arabs. They dislike Arabs! Their loathing is at the DNA level and dates back over a millennium. So why do they shed crocodile tears for the Palestinians? To stick it to Israel and by extension to the U.S. of A."

"All right," Ross said. "I understand their motivation for going after nuclear weapons. But how close are they?"

"Well, you're the expert, Dr. Shaheen; you tell me. The reactor in Bushehr will go live in a few months, and we believe their uranium enrichment plant in Natanz is already operational." With a red pen, Peter placed an X on the map. "As you well know, Natanz is a small city in central Iran." Peter looked at Ross. "So, how close are they to a bomb?"

"Very close," Ross said. "If these facilities are all operational, they'll have what's necessary to make a nuke within a year or two. All they need is a bomb design that works."

"I believe that's exactly what makes you so interesting to them, Dr. Shaheen. You've spent a career perfecting nuclear bomb designs and fission technology. You can catapult their program five years ahead."

"I see." Peter was telling Ross what he didn't want to think about, yet it was a chilling fact. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, sir. I've brought you a few special gadgets, communication gear, mostly."

Peter pulled out the red envelope from the inside pocket of his briefcase. As Ross had suspected, it was stamped TOP SECRET. Peter ripped open the seal, looked inside, and retrieved a small padded pouch wrapped in thick plastic. He tried to tear it open, first with his hands and then with his teeth. He couldn't. He asked for scissors, which Ross produced from the pencil drawer of his desk. Peter opened the pouch. To Ross' surprise, it contained an ordinary-looking Berkeley class ring—class of '77. He handed it to Ross and said, "Put this on."

"What is it?"

He allowed his first smile. "It's the class ring you never knew you had. But it's a whole lot more."

Ross took the ring and tried it on. It fit his right middle-finger, and that's where he left it. With its bright ruby stone, it looked at once gaudy and beautiful. They had intentionally soiled and scuffed it so that it wouldn't appear brand new.

Ross's curiosity was peaked. "So, what exactly does it do?"

"Underneath the stone, there's a small red tablet. You can get to it by prying it out. We call it the X-pill. It's a derivative of dioxin but fifty-thousand times more lethal than cyanide. It kills within seconds . . . Quick and clean."

"Am I supposed to kill someone, or is it for me?"

"Use it if you must, Dr. Shaheen." He raised an eyebrow. "Any way you see fit."

The intentional ambiguity didn't disguise his clear and cold message. Ross knew what he was being asked to do—if caught, kill yourself.

Peter continued. "The ring is also a micro-transmitter. It sends a signal once a minute that lets us pinpoint your location. The batteries will last over a year."

"Is it waterproof?"

"Of course."

Again, Ross glanced at the Yale ring on Peter's right hand but said nothing. Peter turned the thick red envelope upside down and shook it. Out fell an ordinary looking silver-colored cell phone followed by a plastic bag containing a few Band-Aids. He picked up the cell phone, turned it on, and presented it to Ross.

"Here's your new cell phone, Dr. Shaheen. It's preprogrammed for your existing number."

Ross took the phone and quickly noticed that it was an exact copy of his present one. He was amazed. How did they know the model and color of my cell phone? He wondered aloud, "Okay, what's special about this phone?"

"This little jewel works anywhere in the world. From Sydney to Paris and from Johannesburg to New Delhi, if you dial any U.S. phone number, it will connect you. It links up with one of our military satellites. And we've got them all over the world."

"So, E.T. can phone home. How's that going to help me?"

"You can call Colonel Nash directly at any time, and from anywhere in the world." Peter looked at Ross for emphasis. "That's the real reason for giving you this capability. The number he wants you to use is, 900-TIM NASH. It is private and secure. And when you call him, the phone automatically goes into the encryption mode scrambling the signal. So no one can eavesdrop on your conversation. The rest of the time, it operates in the clear. It's important you don't part with these devices, Dr. Shaheen. Especially the cell phone—it's full of classified technology."

"I'll do my best."

"Now, the good stuff." Peter picked up the plastic bag of Band-Aids, opened it, and retrieved one. "This ordinary looking Band-Aid is a powerful eavesdropping device. It's a microphone, transmitter, and battery all in one. The circuitry is so miniaturized that it's not visible to the naked eye."

Ross took the specimen from Peter for a closer look. Impressed, he nodded, smiling. Peter continued. "It activates when you peel its cover open. You can simply stick it under a chair, behind a frame, or on top of a closet. Then you can listen to any conversations in the room, using your magic cell phone, up to a mile away. Simply press, STAR-STAR-FOUR-ONE-ONE and select the bug you want to listen to in the display area. They're numbered one through six."

"How long do their batteries last?"

"About a week."

Ross put the Band-Aid he was holding back into the plastic bag and zipped it shut.

### Chapter 1.7

Signals Specialist, Army Sgt. Emmit James Mangrum, affectionately called, "Jimbo" by his close friends, worked the graveyard shift in the palm-lined city of Larnaca on the Eastern shores of Cyprus. The hot humid summer days of June, in the middle of the Mediterranean, made the night shift highly desirable.

Jimbo was born and raised in Fairview, a suburb of Nashville, Tennessee. He often complained aloud, "What the hell am I doing on this God-forsaken island? I should be back home, taking out the johnboat, running a trout line and fishing with night crawlers. Instead, I'm sitting here with these big-ass headphones, turning dials and listening to gibberish." Jimbo worked for the super-secret NSA—the National Security Agency—and was assigned to serve a two-year tour at the crucial listening post in Cyprus.

The NSA, in partnership with the United Kingdom and other allies, has succeeded in creating the greatest eavesdropping and surveillance enterprise ever established. The global spy system, codenamed ECHELON, captures and analyzes virtually every phone call, fax, e-mail, and text message sent anywhere in the world. The basic design of ECHELON is mind numbing in scope, yet quite simple: position intercept-stations and listening posts throughout the world to capture all satellite, microwave, radio, cellular, and fiber-optic communications traffic. Then, sift through this ocean of data in real time, using a vast array of supercomputers, and look for keywords or phrases—present in the ECHELON "Dictionary." Any match, in one of 800 languages monitored, would prompt the computers to isolate the conversation or document for further review and analysis by intelligence officers.

The windowless two-story building sat atop a hill about ten miles south of Larnaca. It was surrounded by thirty acres of rocky land, festooned with hundreds of antennae. The grounds were cleared of all trees for maximum reception. The shadowy compound was protected by two rows of chain-link fence, complete with electrified razor wire coiled in between. Armed personnel, assisted by two dozen video cameras, guarded the compound in a manner to avoid attracting attention. Few Cypriots knew what the real purpose of the station was. Yet, most suspected it belonged to the Americans, and no one seemed bothered by it.

Inside, a platoon of operators manned their stations in the dim open space on the second floor. The air was filled with the chaotic bleeps, buzzes, whistles, and talk of frequencies and bandwidth. And Jimbo was in the middle of it. He was assigned, among other things, to monitor the UHF—Ultra High Frequency—signals originating from Iran, especially from MOIS, the dreaded Iranian Intelligence Service.

To counter electronic interception, MOIS had devised a clever technique for communicating with their foreign operatives. What they thought was foolproof. They would insert encrypted messages in the middle of innocent radio broadcasts in the form of microbursts, which sounded like occasional static to the ordinary listener. The secret agents abroad knew exactly when and where to tune in for their instructions. Their special receivers would pick up the illusive radio noise, isolate it, and convert it into an encrypted text, which would in turn, be decrypted on a laptop computer running the customized decoder software. As clever as this scheme was, it was hardly original.

The Romans used a similar method for their secret communications. They tattooed the Caesar's instructions, intended for one of his far-flung Legion Commanders, on the shaved head of a messenger. Once his hair had grown sufficiently to disguise the secret message, they would dispatch him to the recipient. If stopped by unfriendly forces, they could never discover the covert message buried under a full head of hair. At the destination, the messenger's head would be shaved in front of the Legion Commander who would read the dispatch. The Romans were as cunning as they were ruthless.

At three minutes before 2:00 a.m., and after listening to the radio chatter of some Iranian field commanders stationed in the Bekka Valley in south Lebanon, Jimbo turned the dial to the designated UHF frequency and began to listen to the Iranian radio broadcast in progress. He understood Farsi fluently but had trouble speaking it. The southern drawl didn't mix well with the impossible sounds that anchored the ancient language. And, even though he was embarrassed to admit it, the Johnny Cash fan had developed a taste for Persian music.

At precisely 2:00 a.m., Cyprus time, the radio broadcast was interrupted with a two second burst of static. The TOP SECRET equipment, built to NSA specifications, promptly detected and snatched the hidden message. The chorus of blinking red and green lights seemed to celebrate the successful intercept.

Jimbo dutifully logged the date, time, frequency, and duration of the intercept into a computer monitor and clicked on an icon labeled UNPACK. The text box on the monitor suddenly filled with what seemed to be a stream of random numbers, letters, and special characters.

fpZ23h8wCRVUbKwxEgCnqAJW8w9R1GNA3K7

NlJUQk2Q/zPUGzyrRllgOFSs3uO1O0LlU9FKgDM

s7G/O5yrL25QansZkIlfmIu2O2N0j2ykVLy1IwgTo

XTBhNlK7ydmH+wmleDNud/2s0l5q2nbOo5TqOgw

Following standard operating procedures, Jimbo clicked DECRYPT for a first glance at the secret communication. A minute later, the warning UNABLE TO DECRYPT, SENDING TO HQ FOR CRYPTANALYSIS blinked in red on the screen. MOIS had introduced a new encryption algorithm, a frequent practice.

Jimbo continued to listen as the Persian music played on. There were five hours left in the graveyard shift.

### Chapter 1.8

Deep inside the Grand Palace, within the triangular, brick-walled fortress of the Kremlin, General Viktor Pugachov, the National Security Advisor to the President of the Russian Federation, was alone in his ornate office sipping his morning tea. He had just received the daily briefing from the Federal Security Service (FSB), formerly known as the KGB, and the Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) about the latest domestic and foreign intelligence. The Military Intelligence Agency (GRU) briefed him separately, alone, in the evenings. He preferred it that way.

The heart of Russia, the symbol of her greatness for nearly nine centuries, has been and remains the Kremlin. It is at once the cultural, political, and ideological center of the ancient empire. Built on the north shore of the Moscow River, it is a unique example of European medieval fortifications. The Kremlin is surrounded by twenty feet wide brick walls that soar sixty feet high over the riverbank. The sixty-eight acres of enclosed space is filled with imposing palaces and gothic cathedrals.

Traversing on top of the three walls of the Kremlin, one may look down on the Red Square and the Lenin Mausoleum on the northeast, face the Moscow River on the south, and view the peaceful Aleksandrovsky Gardens on the northwest. From this same stronghold where the Tsars lived in brazen luxury, Lenin and then Stalin ruled the vast Soviet Union with an iron fist.

The Kremlin, the heart of Russia, is also her soul. However, not even the Kremlin could intimidate Viktor Pugachov. The General and the Kremlin were an integral part of each other. Graying and grave, yet, vigorous and larger than life, the heavyset powerhouse was a walking paradox. He instilled fear in others by speaking softly, in a deep baritone voice, while staring into their eyes and scarcely blinking. Yet, he tenderly doted on his only child, Oksana and his grandchildren, Marina and Victor, who didn't fear him in the least. During his long career at the KGB, countless people were sent to Siberia by a cold stroke of his pen. Yet, he raised homing pigeons, in an aviary that he had personally built at his palatial dacha. His encyclopedic knowledge of Russian history, born out of fierce nationalism, and his ability to recite Pushkin from memory for hours at a time were legendary. He expected and received flawless results from his subordinates who knew that anything less than perfection would not suffice. Few loved him; most respected him; and everyone feared his wrath.

Viktor Pugachov embodied his own favorite maxim: "One who has power must wield it, or else lose it altogether."

Sitting behind a massive antique desk in his stately office, generously decorated with red carpets, priceless furniture, and European masterpieces, the General mulled over how to prioritize the issues for the President. His standing 8:30 a.m. meeting with the Russian leader was only twenty minutes away.

The General usually wore dark blue suits and white shirts tailored for him in London. The small white, blue, and red Russian flag pinned to his left lapel matched the French red ties he donned. There were four old-style telephones, in different colors, on top of a massive credenza behind his chair. The bank of telephones enabled him to have instant and secure access to the various instruments of Russian power—except the white one.

The white phone was different. It wasn't secure. It was installed for a single purpose. And only one person in the world knew the number. At 8:15 a.m. Moscow time, the white phone rang. It was the 18th of June.

"Da!"

"Papa, eto ya—Papa, it's me."

"Oy, Oksanochka, zdravstvuj, devochka!—Oh, my Oksana, hello little daughter!"

It was 9:15 p.m., the previous evening in San Francisco. Oksana had driven Ross to the airport early that morning as he set out on his long journey to Iran.

"Hello, Papa."

"How are you, little girl?"

"Not well, Papa."

"What's wrong?"

"Ross has gone to Iran."

"What?" the General thundered. "Has he lost his mind?"

"No, Papa. Don't be angry. He's gone there, by invitation, to lecture. He left this morning."

"I would've advised against it."

"I feel a bad premonition, Papa."

Despite his visceral reaction and the genuine concern he felt, General Pugachov skillfully removed any trace of apprehension from his voice. "It will be all right," he said confidently. "Don't think bad thoughts."

"I need a favor, Papa."

"Sure. Anything for you, darling."

"Since America doesn't have an embassy in Iran, could you ask the Russian embassy in Tehran to look out for him?"

"Of course! I'll send word immediately." Pugachov picked up his writing pen. "When will he arrive?"

"He'll arrive in Tehran on KLM flight 433 on the 18th. It gets in at midnight."

"That's tonight. Where will he stay?"

"At the Shams Grand Hotel. It's spelled: S-H-A-M-S."

General Pugachov took down the information and tried again, ever so awkwardly, to comfort Oksana. "Would you like me to send someone to stay with you?"

"No, Papa. That's not necessary. I've told you about our neighbors, the Sullivans."

"Yes. I remember . . . The FBI agent."

"I feel safe with them next door. Besides, Victor is a strong young man," Oksana said, laughing nervously. "He'll look after us."

"Okay, then. It's all set. I'm late for a meeting. Call me often, little girl. And hug the children on my behalf."

"I will, Papa."

The General stood and picked up the stack of TOP SECRET material from his desk. Then, he lifted the red phone on the credenza to his ear and waited.

"Yes, Comrade General," the Foreign Intelligence Service liaison officer answered from the 19th floor of the FIS building on Yasenevo Street. Ironically, he stood at attention while speaking with the General on the phone.

"I have some urgent instructions for our embassy in Tehran. Send someone to my office at 11:00 a.m. to pick them up."

* * *

At the NSA headquarters in Fort Meade, Maryland, the encrypted message intercepted by Jimbo in Cyprus was unceremoniously received, along with tens of thousands of similar wordless babbles from around the world.

The vast NSA facility is a sprawling crypto city that knows how to keep its secrets. Not until recently did it even have a sign. Security guards in unmarked vans promptly stop hapless tourists who make the mistake of snapping distant pictures of the facility and confiscate their cameras. No questions, no answers, let alone arguments, are allowed. An old joke refers to the NSA as, No Such Agency. Another: Never Say Anything.

The jokes don't stray far from the truth.

Tucked away in a wooded corner of the secret city, nearly a mile's distance from the NSA operations complex, the Tordella Supercomputer Facility boasts the largest collection of supercomputers assembled in one place anywhere in the world. A Cray XT Jaguar, pumping out 1.64 quadrillion mathematical calculations per second, is but one of nearly 150 supercomputers the center operates. Its mammoth computer room is measured not in square feet but in acres. At last leak, the environmentally controlled palace of the giant number crunchers topped ten acres.

The supercomputers at the Tordella facility chew up high-grade ciphers of foreign governments and break them with uncanny ease.

In room A-301 of the operations complex, code-breaking Group M was busy assessing the previous night's catch. Dedicated to the analysis of electronic intelligence to and from the Islamic Republic of Iran, the sixty-person team of mathematicians, cryptographers, and linguists sifted through thousands of intercepts daily. The recorded voice conversations, marked by a supercomputer for containing words that matched the ECHELON's Dictionary, were reviewed by Farsi-speaking linguists. Others busily evaluated intercepted e-mails and fax messages. All encrypted text was sent through an underground fiber cable to the Tordella facility for deciphering.

Among them was the message from Cyprus.

Fariba Mehraban, the twenty-seven-year-old daughter of Iranian immigrants, was born and raised in Bethesda, Maryland and had joined the NSA after September 11. She had lost her best friend, a flight attendant, when American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the Pentagon. Grief-stricken and stunned by the horror of that fateful day, Fariba had thought that her fluent command of Farsi, which, to her chagrin, was one of the prevalent languages of terror, could be useful to the NSA. She had reasoned that working for the secret agency might somehow avenge the cruel death of her close friend. So, she filled out the long application and, with much hesitation, sent it to the NSA. Little did she know that the agency was desperate to expand its Farsi-speaking personnel and would eagerly welcome her. After passing the grueling background screening, she was hired with TOP SECRET clearance and posted to Group M.

She was thrilled with her new job at the secret agency; it had spiced up her mundane life. The only downside was that she couldn't tell anyone what she did.

The slightly overweight and likable Fariba was glued to her computer monitor as she sat in one of the cubicles in the windowless expanse of room A-301. She had a habit of chewing bubblegum, often noisily, as she submitted the encrypted messages—which appeared in red on her screen—to the Tordella facility by clicking DECODE. Within seconds, the supercomputers would swallow the unintelligible gruel and spit back the dark secrets they contained. She would then read the plain text, which appeared in blue, and determine where to route it for further analysis or action.

Just as the encrypted message from Cyprus came up on her screen, Fariba left her station to join a few friends for lunch in the basement cafeteria.

### Chapter 1.9

Air turbulence didn't agree with Ross. It made him nauseous and tense. Fortunately, the United Flight 950 from San Francisco to Washington DC was comfortable and blissfully calm. He was relaxed and spent most of the time reading. The plane landed ahead of schedule at 3:35 p.m., giving him a little more time to stretch his legs and make a few calls before crossing the Atlantic.

Ross used the CIA-issued phone to reach Oksana. The concern in her voice was palpable, and yet, she said nothing of her fears. Ross, however, knew what she was thinking—they had talked it to death. Once again, he tried to reassure her that he would be safe in Iran and there were no reasons for concern. Still, he wasn't certain if it made any difference.

He wandered to a nearby bookstore and purchased three magazines. As he waited in line for the cashier, he dialed 900-TIM-NASH.

"Hello, Ross. Welcome to Washington."

How does he know I'm here? Ross pictured a blinking dot flashing over a map on a huge flat-screen in Colonel Nash's office. "I guess the cell phone works."

"Yes, it does. And make sure you don't ever get separated from it."

"I'll try not to. Do you have any last words?"

"Not really," Nash replied casually. "Just keep your eyes open. Find out all you can. Never admit your connection with the CIA. And, get the hell out of Dodge as soon as your time's up."

"Am I still marked by the Mossad?" Ross whispered.

"No, sir. You're clear."

"What if I get into trouble? Who do I call?"

"Me."

"Any local assets I should contact?"

"They'll contact you."

"Do I need a code word or call sign?"

"No, Ross." The Colonel chuckled. "You've watched way too many James Bond movies."

Colonel Nash was right. Ross had seen them all.

"Okay. Wish me luck."

"Be careful, you'll do fine."

Ross noticed that he had lingered too long, and there was little time left before his flight. So, he picked up the pace and was out of breath when he arrived at the gate in the international terminal. As luck would have it, he was randomly selected—or purposely profiled—for additional security screening. While the inspectors thoroughly examined the contents of his pockets, Ross was concerned about the special CIA gear he was carrying, but the agents didn't seem to notice anything unusual. By the time he walked into the plane, most of the passengers were already buckled in. The Business Class flight attendant showed him to an aisle seat with much deference. There were only thirty-four seats in the front cabin.

As the colossus Airbus 330-300 taxied to the runway, the head stewardess welcomed the passengers to the North West Flight 8652 and informed them that they would arrive in Amsterdam at 7:15 a.m., the next morning. Ross settled in for the long night over the Atlantic.

* * *

Earlier that afternoon, back in San Francisco, a brown windowless van arrived at Roy Sullivan's house, with Roy in the passenger seat. The van slowly backed into the garage. The moment he closed the garage door, the driver, an unusually tall man, left the van and opened the rear hatch. Two more agents in blue FBI windbreakers emerged from the cargo area carrying large metal suitcases. Without saying a word, Roy walked into his woodworking shop, turned on the lights, and called the men inside. "Here boys . . . You can set up in this room."

The Bureau's request for wiretap authorization had finally been granted. And Roy didn't waste any time. The special surveillance team from the CTT—Counter Terrorism Taskforce, Roy's own outfit in the FBI—was about to set up shop in his basement to electronically monitor the three suspicious Iranians living across the street from Ross and Oksana.

At six feet six, Special Agent Lem Konarski towered over his boss, Roy Sullivan. Lanky and quiet, the Polish American barely weighed 180 pounds, which is why most of his friends called him "the Broom." Agent Konarski was an authority in electronic surveillance, a skill he'd honed by fixing all sorts of gadgets as he grew up in the south side of Chicago. He joined the FBI in the eighties and soon found his niche—eavesdropping.

Tapping a phone was an easy task in the old days. All calls ran over copper wires that belonged to a monopoly—Ma Bell. To listen in, the FBI simply requested that the phone company isolate the suspect's wire and record any calls made or received. A single phone company that operated one network simply had to flip one switch.

That was another era.

Today, in addition to ordinary telephone and cellular communications, dozens of new technologies needed to be monitored, such as e-mail and text messaging. And thousands of new service providers were now in business. The most difficult communication method to intercept was VOIP, which stands for Voice Over Internet Protocol. The FBI's solution for monitoring voice or data traffic over the Internet was the CARNIVORE technology. It sucks up and filters all data traffic to and from the target address and delivers to investigators only packets, which they're specifically authorized to obtain.

The super-secret CARNIVORE was just one of the tricks that Agent Konarski had up his sleeves. Another device, even more hush-hush and sinister, was the TEMPEST.

Plenty of people fret about their online privacy. But, only a scant few know that someone may be eavesdropping on what they're typing into their PCs, even when it's offline. This could be accomplished with the magic of TEMPEST, the codename for technologies developed by the NSA to intercept and decipher the faint electromagnetic signals that all computers emit.

A few hours after their arrival, Roy, who had left the team alone to set up their equipment, returned to check on their progress. "Is there anything else you need, Broom?"

"Yes, Boss." Agent Konarski handed a small Plexiglas dish to Roy. "Could you take the TEMPEST antenna upstairs to one of the bedrooms and point it to the house? I can't get a good signal down here."

Roy obliged and positioned the antenna inside the guest bedroom on the second floor, pointing it through the shutters at the Miller's house. If the Iranians happen to use a PC, whatever appeared on their monitor would be captured, displayed, and recorded in Roy's basement. Alice looked on with puzzled amusement as her husband adjusted the tripod beneath the antenna.

"Dish is up, Broom," Roy announced eagerly. He peered at the monitor over Agent Konarski's shoulder. "Got anything?"

"Nothing yet, but we will," Agent Konarski said quietly, without looking back. "We're able to intercept whatever they use to communicate."

"What if they use pigeons?" Roy asked, snickering.

Not amused, Agent Konarski turned around and gave Roy a cold, have-you-got-nothing-better-to-do stare.

* * *

At the NSA, Fariba Mehraban was upset when she returned from lunch. She had spilled mustard on her new skirt, and had been unsuccessful in removing it with water. Now, she was left with an ugly yellow stain surrounded by a large wet patch. She spewed profanity in two languages at no one in particular.

She flung her purse on the side table, slumped into her swivel chair, and shook the left-handed mouse next to the keyboard. The monitor came alive. The encrypted message from Cyprus was waiting in red on the top half of the screen. She clicked DECODE and again looked at her skirt with dismay. Still angry, she tried to rub off the stain with a wet handkerchief. It didn't work. Exasperated, she popped a piece of grape bubble gum into her mouth, chewing with ferocity.

Twenty seconds later, the plain text version of the scrambled message appeared, in blue, on the bottom-half of her monitor. She began to read.

JADOOGAR APPROACHING NEST STOP MAY NOT BE HELPFUL STOP PREPARE HOSPITAL FOR PATIENTS STOP STANDBY FOR GO FOXHUNT END

The plain text was written in coded language. Fariba was a triage specialist and still too inexperienced to assume the full responsibilities of intelligence analysis. But she had sorted through enough coded traffic to feel the menace in the latest message.

Ordinarily, after the Tordella facility deciphered a secret intercept, Fariba—or another member of the triage team—graded the message according to its importance. This was affected, among other factors, by its source and/or destination. It was then routed to the appropriate department for further analysis. In case of any ambiguities, Fariba could invoke the CODE TRACER software. This was a revolutionary tool that enabled her to instantly uncover patterns and hidden clues within each coded message by comparing every word and phrase with the colossal intelligence databases at the Tordella facility.

Fariba read the short message a second time. She hadn't seen JADOOGAR—meaning "the Wizard" in Farsi—used in any previous messages. She highlighted the word and clicked CODE TRACER. A window popped up and offered a number of suggestions, including the meaning of the word, which Fariba already knew; that it was probably a codeword for someone important; and that it had never been used before.

"Duh!" Fariba said to the computer. Curious and impatient, she used both these traits in her job. She proceeded with the rest of the message, one word at a time, like an archeologist unearthing a priceless find. But instead of a brush to remove layers of dust from a buried artifact, she used the CODE TRACER to peel off the cloak of secrecy from the message. CODE TRACER proved more helpful with the rest of the words.

Iranian intelligence services routinely used HOSPITAL in code-talk for prison and PATIENT for prisoner or hostage. FOXHUNT, according to the omniscient software, was likely the name of a preplanned operation assigned to a clandestine cell awaiting the GO order. The message was gradually beginning to make sense, but Fariba wasn't sure about the big picture. She highlighted the entire text and asked the computer to analyze the whole thing. In a matter of seconds, she read the assessment of the cyber guru: FOXHUNT IS A PLANNED KIDNAPPING OPERATION.

"But, where? It's a big world," Fariba mumbled. "What does JADOOGAR have to do with it? Who the hell is he?" She picked up a pencil and nervously tapped it on the edge of her desk, thinking. She blew a bubble—pop!—and without wasting any more time, she clicked ROUTING. A list of twenty or so departments and destinations appeared. She highlighted CTC—CIA's Counter Terrorism Center—marked it URGENT, and clicked SEND.

The next encrypted message—to or from Iran, intercepted somewhere in the world—appeared in red, on the top-half of her screen.

Pop!

### Chapter 1.10

Shortly after takeoff, a sumptuous dinner of filet mignon and wild rice, complete with an assortment of French pastry, was served. The wine and champagne bottles kept coming; Ross drank his usual ginger ale.

It was pitch black outside. Across the aisle to his right, a familiar looking woman sat in the window seat. Once dinner trays were removed, she retrieved a sleek laptop computer from the empty seat to her left and began to work. She struck the keyboard too hard—as if she were angry—making a stream of click-clack noise at an amazing speed. Every now and then, she removed a pen from behind her ear and ticked off something on a yellow pad resting on the tray in front of the empty seat to her left. Wearing a loose, black v-neck blouse over faded blue jeans and white socks, she looked comfortable. Her sneakers were removed and neatly laid on the floor. She used a pair of sunglasses as a makeshift headband, keeping the dark brown hair out of her face.

Ross kept watching her and thought, God, I know this woman . . . but from where? He could only see her stunning profile, which in the absence of any glitz or glamour was even more alluring.

It was two hours into the flight when Ross noticed the nametag dangling from her laptop carrying case. Oh my! She's Leila Conner, the CNN International reporter and superstar.

Ross was a fan of the thirty-something beauty because of her extensive and accurate reporting on the Middle East and because her mother was Iranian, which made him especially proud. His pal, Roy Sullivan, on the other hand, was in love with her. He always spoke of how "fine" she was and that "She has it all going on." He made these remarks right in front of his wife, Alice, who took it in stride.

It's amazing how different she looks in person, Ross thought. "Excuse me, Ms. Conner; may I take a minute of your time?"

She looked at Ross and smiled. "Sure."

"Like you, I was born in Iran, and I want you to know that I'm really proud of your achievements."

"Thank you. And what do you do?"

"I'm a physicist—boring stuff." He handed her his business card. "I work at Lawrence Berkeley Laboratories."

"What a—"

The flight attendant interrupted by stopping the service cart in the aisle, blocking their line of sight. Ross strained to continue their conversation but couldn't see her. So, he rose, squeezed by the cart, and stood in the aisle facing Leila. "You were saying . . ."

Leila removed her things from the empty seat next to her, piled it on top of her laptop, and pointed. "Come sit over here."

Ross was pleasantly surprised by how friendly and approachable she was. He sat next to her and started by introducing himself. After a few minutes of small talk, he told her about Roy's infatuation with her and said, "May I ask you to write a note or something to Roy? I'll frame it and give it to him on his next birthday."

"I'll do better than that." She retrieved an eight by ten publicity photo from the side pocket of her laptop case and, with a thick red permanent marker, wrote in the margin: To my dearest Roy, I miss your hugs-n-kisses! All my love, Leila. She handed the photo to Ross and with a mischievous grin said, "This ought to light his fire."

Ross thanked her profusely. "I won't take up any more of your time. What are you working on anyway?"

"I'm going to Iran to do a documentary." Pointing to the yellow pad, she said, "The outline my producer wrote needs some work."

"What a pleasant coincidence. I'm going back to Iran also . . . for academic stuff. What's your documentary about—if I may ask?"

"It's about Iran's nuclear weapons program; a hot topic these days."

Ross didn't pursue the subject. He had already told her he was a physicist but hadn't hinted at his area of expertise. He decided to cut the conversation short.

"Perfect timing, Ms. Conner. I can't wait to see it. When will it air?" He stood up in the aisle way.

"It'll air in the fall." She handed Ross her business card. "Please e-mail me and let me know if you liked it."

"Be glad to. What will be the title of the program?"

"The working title is Mushroom in the Sand."

Ross nodded approval. "That's really clever. Good luck to you." He returned to his seat, holding her autographed photo. He looked at it again, read the note, and smiled as he carefully placed it in his briefcase.

The click-clack sound of the keyboard resumed. Instead of watching the in-flight movie, Ross busied himself with reading the latest Scientific American. Even though Iran was still thousands of miles and a dozen hours away, he felt his level of anxiety steadily rising as the plane flew east. Reading helped him relax.

The movie was almost over when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. It was Leila Conner standing in the aisle.

"Excuse me, Dr. Shaheen. Could you help me with something?"

"Of course! And please, call me Ross."

"Come sit by me, will you?"

After they got situated, Ross said, "You're lucky to have an empty seat next to you."

"Luck has nothing to do with it. I always buy two seats when I travel so that I can spread out."

"I guess being a superstar has its perks."

"And its curses."

"I wouldn't know, I can only imagine."

She placed her yellow notepad on the tray in front of Ross and placed a pen over it. "You're a physicist. We've got four hours left on this flight and another five on the next. Could you explain to me, in plain English, how an atomic bomb is made? What makes it explode?"

"Well, that's not quite my area of expertise," Ross lied. "But I could review your briefing material and try to explain it, if you wish."

Leila handed him a one-inch-thick, spiral-bound book, which was stamped CONFIDENTIAL. "Here it is—mostly gibberish. Be my guest."

Ross thumbed through the material looking at the diagrams, reading chapter titles and section headings. He thought it was a fairly comprehensive manual of how to enrich uranium and make a crude nuclear bomb. Mostly available on the Internet, the material did not contain any secret information.

"CNN must have a good research department, Ms. Conner." Ross looked up after fifteen minutes of speed reading. "This is quite good."

"Call me, Leila," she said, smiling. "Yes, they're very competent, but they provide me with too much detail and use technical lingo, which is hard to digest and impossible to use on air." She pointed to the briefing book. "You see, I understand the politics of it but don't have a good grasp of the underlying science. And this is too much to master in a few days."

Ross hesitated. "That's a tall order."

"Please . . ." she pleaded, grabbing his arm.

Ross felt uneasy. Even though the information was public knowledge, the terms of his security clearance prevented him from discussing such topics openly. He turned, looking at the passengers behind them—an odd couple: a middle-aged woman who looked like a Hollywood socialite and a punk-looking young man with slick hair, wearing reflective shades. They seemed clueless. He leaned forward, eyeing the people sitting in front of them—elderly men, fast asleep. Why not? he thought. No one can hear us. The material is harmless. It's a good way to break the monotony, and knowing a celebrity like Leila Conner could be useful in Iran. She will certainly interview senior Iranian officials, which might uncover some helpful information. Besides, how could I possibly refuse a stunning beauty like her?

He picked up the pen and started sketching simple diagrams and writing notes as he spoke in a low voice. "How much physics do you know?"

She grinned. "Basic 101."

"Do you know what nuclear fission is?"

"Why are you whispering?"

"I'd rather not draw any attention to what we're talking about."

"Why not? This is all public knowledge."

"Trust me," Ross continued in a low voice. "Even though this information is public, it's very hard to come by. Besides, my clearance prevents me from discussing it. So, it's better not to draw anyone's attention."

Leila seemed impressed. "You have security clearance?"

"Well," Ross downplayed it, "at the Berkeley Lab, most scientists do."

"Okay," she said, nodding.

"Before we start, you must promise never to use my name."

"I assure you whatever you say will be off the record."

"All right, then. Where were we?"

"You asked about fission," Leila said. "That's where the nucleus of an atom splits, releasing energy."

"That's right. And fission is the basic principle behind nuclear reactors that produce electricity as well as nuclear bombs. In nuclear reactors, fission is controlled and occurs in an orderly manner to generate heat, which is used to boil water, which makes steam that runs turbines that produce electricity. In a bomb, the same fission is accelerated and allowed to happen in an uncontrolled manner, releasing enormous energy in a fraction of a second, which simply detonates."

"Can a nuclear power plant explode?"

"Never. They're not designed to explode. In case of a malfunction, where fission gets out of control, the core material overheats, causing a meltdown of the fuel, which releases radioactivity, wreaking havoc with the environment."

"Is that what happened at Three Mile Island?"

"More or less, which is one of the reasons why they build these giant concrete domes at nuclear power plants—to prevent any radioactivity from escaping."

"Okay, tell me about plutonium and uranium. What's the difference? Which one is used in a bomb and which one in a reactor?"

"Let's start from the top. Fission occurs best in two metals: uranium and plutonium. Like most other metals, uranium is mined. But plutonium does not exist naturally anywhere; it must be created."

She looked confused. "Created?"

"Yes. I guess I skipped a few steps." Ross turned to a clean sheet of paper. "Let me explain."

He drew a diagram to illustrate the benchmarks in the nuclear fuel cycle. "It all starts at a uranium mine where uranium ore is dug out of the ground."

"Does Iran have any uranium mines?"

Once more, Ross paused to look around, ensuring no one was listening. He whispered, "Yes. Huge deposits were discovered in the Saghand mines in the Yazd province."

"Are they mining uranium?" Leila asked in a low voice, as she scribbled notes in a small reporter's notebook.

"I really don't know." In fact, Ross knew the answer, but couldn't reveal it to a civilian because it was highly classified. "That's a good piece of information for you to uncover."

"I thought their deal with Russia included the uranium fuel necessary to get the Bushehr reactor started."

"That's true, but the Iranians desperately want to be in full control of the entire fuel cycle and not depend on Russia. They have said as much publicly."

"Okay, we've got uranium ore out of the ground. Then what?"

"The ore is milled into fine dust and then leached with acid to separate out the uranium. It's actually uranium oxide."

"Is that what's called the yellow cake?"

Surprised that she knew the technical term, he said, "That's right. You seem to know more about this than you claim."

"Not really. Yellow cake was all over the news when Saddam Hussein allegedly tried to buy some from Nigeria. Remember?"

"Vaguely."

"Go on please. What next?"

"The uranium found in nature consists of two isotopes: U235 and U238. The U235 variety is what is needed for fission and energy production. The heavier U238 is useless. The problem is, the uranium ore is less than one percent U235 and not usable unless its concentration is increased."

"Is that what you call 'enrichment'?"

"Exactly. We need mildly enriched uranium—where the U235 concentration is increased to about four or five percent—to power nuclear reactors. And highly enriched uranium—with ninety percent or more concentration of the lighter isotope—is necessary for atomic bombs."

"Tell me about enrichment. How's that done? What makes it so complicated?"

"Enrichment is the most difficult technological challenge in the nuclear fuel cycle. That's because the two isotopes have the exact same physical properties—you can't use any chemical procedures to separate them. The only difference between the two isotopes is their weight, where U235 is about one percent lighter than U238, because it has three fewer neutrons in its nucleus."

Ross paused and looked at Leila to make sure she was following him. She nodded attentively as she took a sip from the glass of chardonnay she was nursing. Enchanted by his accidental VIP student, Ross continued the physics lesson.

"The most common method to enrich uranium is called Cascade Gaseous Centrifuge. Here's how it works: The uranium oxide—the yellow cake—is combined with fluoride and turned into a gas. This gas—uranium hexafluoride or UF6, commonly referred to as 'hex'—is fed into a series of vacuum tubes, each about six feet long and eight inches in diameter. At the center of each tube, there's a rotor. When the rotor is spun rapidly—at twice the speed of sound—the heavier gas molecules with U238 congregate toward the cylinder's outer edge. There's a corresponding migration of U235 gas molecules near the center. This enriched gas is siphoned off from the center and moved forward to the next centrifuge while the depleted gas is sucked out from the edge of the tube and sent back to the previous one. The process of moving the material from one centrifuge to the next and on to another is known as 'cascade.' At each stage, the hex is slightly enriched over the previous one. It takes about twenty stages to achieve four percent enrichment, which is suitable for nuclear power plants."

"What about weapon's grade?"

"The exact same process, if repeated over and over again, will produce ninety percent enriched uranium, which is ready for prime time."

"Can the Iranians enrich uranium?"

"There's an underground facility at Natanz, about four hours drive south of Tehran, which is suspected by the CIA to be a uranium enrichment plant. Not much is known about it; the Iranians have kept a tight lid over it until recently. I believe CNN first broke the story about its existence. That's where I first learned about it."

This was a lie.

Ross had known about the Natanz installation from the day the earthmovers began to excavate the site. As one of his first assignments on the NSA science advisory board, the agency had provided him with the plant's blueprints and satellite imagery for analysis. It was clearly a uranium enrichment plant based on standard Russian designs.

"Has anyone seen the inside of this plant?" Leila asked.

"Not that I'm aware. Maybe you'll be the first, Leila."

Intrigued by his suggestion, she said, "I'll try. They've promised me full access to all facilities."

Again, Ross wasn't quite truthful. He had seen photographs taken from the inside of the plant at Natanz. How these pictures were taken, he wasn't told. But they clearly showed at least one thousand centrifuge tubes installed with twice as many on the floor awaiting installation. The Iranians were preparing for high volume enrichment.

It must have been midway over the Atlantic when, suddenly, the plane began to vibrate and shake violently. Ross despised air turbulence; it made him feel unbearably helpless. The monotonous voice of the pilot came over the intercom asking the passengers to fasten their seatbelts. Ross dutifully obliged, then clenched the armrests and leaned back, silently praying for a quick end to his agony. Leila appeared relaxed and unbothered, but she noticed Ross' distress. After a few minutes of quiet endurance, she placed her left hand over his right and with a comforting voice said, "It'll be over soon."

Leila was right, but to Ross "soon" seemed like an eternity. Yet, he thought the kind gesture was at once comforting and awkward. When the plane passed through the rough air, Leila let go of his hand. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Turbulence doesn't agree with me."

"Would you like to continue or take a break?"

"No." Ross unbuckled his seatbelt. "Let's proceed. Where were we?"

"We've enriched uranium to ninety percent purity in gas form. What's next?"

Ross quickly gathered his thoughts. "Then metallic uranium, which is now weapons' grade, is extracted from the gas and fabricated into bomb cores."

"So, a country in search of—" She made the double quotation mark with her fingers "—'the bomb' doesn't necessarily need a nuclear reactor. All they need is the uranium ore and the enrichment facility. Right?"

"Right."

"Then why has Iran paid a billion dollars to Russia to build one for them in Bushehr?"

"Two reasons: First, it offers their nuclear weapons program a 'peaceful use' cover and keeps the IAEA—International Atomic Energy Agency—off their backs. Second, they need a reactor to create plutonium, which makes even more powerful bombs."

"How does that work?"

"In a reactor, the fuel rods—filled with low-grade enriched uranium—are grouped in clusters and placed in an airtight water tank. The energy released by the controlled fission, inside the fuel rods, heats the water that eventually produces electricity. During the slow chain reaction, some of the uranium atoms absorb neutrons and transmute into plutonium. Once the fuel rods are depleted, they can be reprocessed to extract the plutonium, which is a relatively simple chemical process."

"Isn't that what the North Koreans are up to?"

"Exactly."

"How much of the stuff do you need to make a bomb?"

"You need to have enough fissionable material to sustain a rapid chain reaction."

Leila listened attentively.

Ross wrote the basic fission equation on the notepad. "Look here: when a neutron hits a uranium atom, the impact shatters the nucleus causing fission, which releases energy plus two or three new neutrons. If these extra neutrons find new atoms to shatter, a chain reaction will start. If not, they escape into the atmosphere and the process fizzles out. So, there's a minimum amount of fissionable material necessary to start a chain reaction, called the supercritical mass. It's about fifteen pounds of plutonium or thirty-five pounds of uranium—roughly the size of a large grapefruit."

"The size of a grapefruit?"

Ross nodded.

"How do you make such a huge bomb out of so little material?"

"The simplest bomb design, pioneered in the Manhattan Project during World War II and subsequently dropped on Hiroshima, consists of a gun type mechanism that fires one piece of U235 at another piece of U235, instantly creating supercritical mass."

Ross sketched a long enclosed cylinder on the note pad. "In other words, suppose you take a grapefruit-size amount of enriched uranium, cut it in half, place each half in a tube about a foot apart, then place a hundred pounds of high explosives—such as C4 or Semtex—behind each half and then detonate them simultaneously. You'll have a crude nuclear explosive device."

Somewhat surprised, Leila said, "That's it?"

"Basically, yes. However, actually building it, making it detonate on demand, maximizing its yield and delivering it to the target, one and all, poses formidable technical challenges. For instance, once the two pieces of uranium are brought together, you need an 'initiator' to introduce a burst of neutrons to jump-start the chain reaction; sort of like a fuse. How do you protect the initiator from the violent initial explosion? A well-designed bomb assembles its supercritical mass extremely fast, and it shrouds that mass in a shell that prevents it from exploding until most of the atoms have had time to shatter—about a millisecond. What material do you use that has this much strength? A crude bomb like this is the size of a Volkswagen; how do you reduce its size so that you can put it on top of a missile? Bottom line: before it can actually work, there are countless engineering problems that need to be solved."

"Do the Iranians have the necessary know-how? Do you?"

"I don't really know what their capabilities are. The answers to most of these questions aren't readily available; most of them are closely held secrets. And I have no idea what they are."

He lied again.

Ross knew the answers perfectly well. In fact, he had solved some of the engineering puzzles himself. But, these were all TOP SECRET.

"That's all right." Leila shrugged. "I think I have enough material for now. Just one more question: how destructive are these weapons?"

"The smallest nuclear bomb yields about fifteen to thirty kilotons of TNT. That's equivalent to fifteen thousand tons of dynamite, at a minimum."

"From a grapefruit size of uranium to fifteen kilotons of TNT . . ." Leila was stunned. "How is that possible?"

"What's behind it is one of Einstein's basic laws of nature." Ross wrote: E=MC2.

She nodded as she scribbled something in her notepad. Then she squeezed Ross' hand and said, "You have no idea how helpful you've been. I don't know how to thank you."

"Glad to help . . . you seem tired. Why don't I go back to my chair and let you take a nap?"

"Okay. See you in Amsterdam."

Soon after Ross returned to his seat, the turbulence started again. He wished he hadn't moved.

### Chapter 1.11

The CIA's immaculate grounds, encompassing two hundred and fifty-eight acres of fenced-in and impenetrable land, were originally envisioned to resemble a college campus. Fifty years in the making, the designer's vision had become reality. Strolling down the tree-lined pathways, one could not readily grasp the real purpose of the cloak-and-dagger campus—not unless one was privileged enough to roam the forbidden hallways of the imposing Headquarters Buildings.

The CIA compound was located near the city of Langley and was about eight miles from downtown Washington, DC. At the center sprawled the mammoth Headquarters Buildings. The complex of six-story structures boasted two and a half million square feet of secure office space swarming with an army of nameless people. Popular wisdom set the number of permanent staff at thirty thousand.

Etched into the wall of the central lobby was a biblical verse from the book of John. It read, And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.

Original works of art purchased or on loan from private collections were on display throughout the Headquarters Buildings. Oil portraits of each Director lined the walls of one hallway. At the end of this hallway was the suite of offices assigned to the Deputy Director of CIA for Operations—or DDO—the Agency's spymaster.

And now this position was occupied by Colonel Timothy Nash. As one approached his office, the palpable aura of power became conspicuous and the trappings of authority increasingly visible. The last one hundred feet of the hallway leading to his doorstep were covered with hardwood flooring, and the drab painted walls suddenly sported lavish wallpaper. Fluorescent ceiling lights gave way to recessed light fixtures, and staffers milling about were dressed more formally—either in dark business suits or military uniforms rather than business casual.

Colonel Nash expected it.

The grand mahogany double doors opened to the spacious lobby of the Director's suite. Tastefully decorated in shades of maroon and blue, the space was dominated by the large emblem of the Directorate of Operations, conspicuously inlaid into the floor.

A phalanx of seventy-five elite staffers supported Colonel Nash as he reigned supreme over the largest intelligence gathering and espionage operation in the world. A female marine sergeant in full regalia welcomed visitors, verified their appointments, and ushered them to their destinations. The select few who were privileged to have an audience with Colonel Nash sat on one of the navy blue couches while the marine sergeant announced their arrival to the Colonel's private secretary. Within minutes, Mira Cordoba, the Colonel's administrative assistant of Cuban ancestry, would appear from a side door to guide the guest to the inner sanctum. The Director's enormous office opened to a small, yet elegant, private lobby—at the center of which Mira's desk was situated.

Those who arrived late for an appointment with the Colonel—even five minutes, unless they were one of his few superiors—learned a bitter lesson: their appointment was abruptly cancelled. No one was ever late.

Inside his office, picture windows, specially designed to counter every known eavesdropping technique, provided a breathtaking view of the campus. A small conference table at one end of the room was separated from an antique desk on the other end by a set of leather couches. A wall-mounted flat-screen, next to the conference table, was used for secure videoconferences. On the side table adjacent to the desk sat a sleek black computer monitor.

Leaning back in his massive chair, Colonel Nash read a seven-page report, produced by the CTC, which had been hand delivered to him by special courier. The TOP SECRET/GAMMA classification required hand delivery of each numbered copy to each recipient. The report epitomized the institutional frustration of the intelligence community. It contained the plain text of raw intercepts, snatched during the previous twenty-four hours, that appeared menacing but couldn't be deciphered by the CTC. The enigmatic catalogue of code-talk comprised the dots that America demanded be connected together . . . somehow.

The message snatched by Jimbo in Cyprus, decrypted by Fariba at the NSA, and forwarded on to the CTC, was buried in the middle of page five.

Colonel Nash retrieved a Cuban cigar from a hand-painted Russian box, an old memento from his years of service in Moscow, and lit up. The strict nonsmoking rule of the CIA Headquarters Buildings was obviously unenforceable in his chambers. He occasionally circled or underlined a word as he patiently read the TOP SECRET report. JADOOGAR was one of the words that piqued his interest. As he circled it, Mira walked in and said, "I've got Pugachov's secretary on the phone. The General wants to speak with you. Are you available?"

"Yes, put him through."

After a few seconds of static, the instantly recognizable voice with the deep Russian accent came on line. "Colonel Nash?"

"Hello, General. What gives me the pleasure?"

Not used to the small talk foreplay, the General went right to the point. "Did you know Ross Shaheen was going to Iran?"

"Yes. I knew."

"And you did not stop him?"

"This is a free country, General. And he's a civilian. How could I stop him?"

"I am puzzled, Colonel. Your actions are confusing."

"How's that, General?"

"In each and every official meeting between our two governments, your side brings up American concerns about Russia's nuclear cooperation with Iran. Check your intelligence records, you will find that we have never sent a nuclear weapons expert to Iran. You, on the other hand, manage to send one of your top weapons researchers over there. I wonder why? Do you not find this odd?"

"With all due respect, General, your son-in-law is a respected scientist. I'm not aware of his areas of research." Skillfully avoiding any acknowledgement of what the General had alleged, Nash continued. "You probably know more about what he does than I do. All I can say is that his trip was by invitation from some university in Iran, and the State Department approved the request. And he's on his way. I'm sure you're aware of our desire to improve diplomatic relations with Iran."

"And will he be safe?"

"We have no reason to think otherwise."

"Do you have your Mossad friends under control?"

Nash paused in order to formulate his response before answering. "They won't be a problem, General."

"I would appreciate any extra safety precautions you might think of, Colonel."

"I will certainly try, General."

"How about my daughter and grandchildren? Are they receiving any special consideration?"

Continuing the deception, Nash said, "To the best of my knowledge, they're not in any danger."

"Colonel Nash," Pugachov said. "Please permit me to be blunt: if any harm comes to my family, it will have an adverse impact on our bilateral relationship. I will see to that."

"So noted, General."

"Good day, Colonel."

It wasn't the best conversation they'd had, and it wasn't the worst either. Colonel Nash continued to study the TOP SECRET report, desperately looking for clues—any clues. He put out his cigar, picked up the phone, and said, "Call Evrom Rafael." The voice recognition system automatically found Commander Rafael's private number and dialed it. Seconds later, the top Israeli spook in Washington was on the phone.

"How about a game of handball, Evrom."

"Are you itching to get beat again, old man?"

"I need to run a few words by you."

"Saturday?"

"Saturday."

The Colonel was certain Evrom knew what he wanted. The two often exchanged information. Fortunately, such professional courtesy was commonplace among friendly intelligence services, above all between the CIA and the Mossad.

After Nash completed his review of the TOP SECRET report, he transferred the key words he had underlined or circled to a plain five-by-seven card, and placed it in the top drawer of his desk. He then walked to an innocuous-looking closet in the corner of his office and opened it to reveal a massive metal safe. To its right was a retina scanner. The Colonel placed his chin on the apparatus and stared into a dim blue light. Dual green laser beams vertically scanned both his retinas and immediately recognized him. The immense steel door automatically opened—the sound of the hydraulics barely audible—to reveal a space twice the size of a large, walk-in closet. Inside, shoulder-high beige filing cabinets covered the walls.

The Colonel entered the safe, filed the TOP SECRET report in one of the drawers, and walked out. The immense steel door automatically closed behind him.

The voice of General Pugachov still ringing in his head, he walked back to his desk, sat in his oddly modern chair, and picked up the phone. "Call Roy Sullivan."

Roy took the cell phone off his belt holster and looked at the Caller ID. It said, "Out of Area." Unwilling to interrupt his quiet dinner with his wife, Alice, he returned the phone to its holster and continued devouring the thick meatloaf. Two minutes later, it rang again. Once more, "Out of Area." This time he answered. "Roy Sullivan."

"Tim Nash here."

"Hello, Colonel." He rose from the kitchen table and walked out onto the balcony. Alice knew too well that it was FBI business.

Once outside, Roy said, "What can I do for you, sir?"

"Careful what you say. This is in the clear."

"Yes, sir."

"Have you picked up any gossip from the neighbors across the street?"

"No, sir. Nothing out of the ordinary. All we hear is real-estate talk."

"Have you got all the bases covered?"

"Yes, sir. They can't burp without us hearing them."

"That's good. Just got a call from the big grandpa, squeezing me for the safety of his daughter and grandkids."

"I understand, sir. We're looking after them."

"Have a couple of plainclothesmen quietly escort the kids to school."

"School is out, sir."

"Then to wherever they go. Tell your boss I requested the coverage."

"Will do, sir."

"If anything happens to them, my ass is grass. You follow?"

"Yes, sir."

"Give me a shout if you hear anything."

"Yes, sir."

Back inside, Roy looked at Alice with resignation and said, "Business." Then he walked past the kitchen table toward the door that led to the basement and muttered, "Gotta check on the boys." Roy barely noticed that Alice just kept eating in silence. After twenty-five years of being an FBI wife, she was numb to the interruptions.

Roy entered his dimly lit woodworking shop where Special Agent Konarski and his team were manning the state-of-the-art surveillance equipment. "Anything interesting?"

"Nothing." Agent Konarski removed his headphones. "Condos in Van Ness, property in San Jose, and soccer games."

"What about the Internet?"

"Escort services. And they're quite picky."

"Cell phone activity?"

"Routine shit."

"Has TEMPEST picked up anything?"

"Just an offer to buy some condos—three million for four of them. Can you believe this?"

"Stay with 'em. Something's bound to turn up."

### Chapter 1.12

Ross wasn't thrilled about the nine-hour layover in Amsterdam. They arrived at 7:15 a.m., local time, but his body clock read 9:15 p.m. San Francisco time. He was tired and would have kissed a pig for a comfortable bed.

As he aimlessly walked through the terminal looking for a quiet place to sit, he heard a familiar voice. "Hey stranger, you seem lost."

It was Leila Conner, ever so perky, pulling a suitcase with one hand and carrying her overstuffed laptop case with the other.

"Not lost, just looking for a spot to park."

"I'm going to the VIP lounge," Leila said. "Wanna come?"

Well, she's definitely interested, Ross thought. If I don't watch it, she could get me into serious trouble with Oksana. "Thanks, but I'm not a member."

"Come on, I can take a guest."

What the hell. She's inviting me to the VIP lounge, not her hotel room. "In that case, sure."

The lounge was a welcome refuge filled with amenities. Large comfortable armchairs, countless television sets, and complimentary drinks. Above all, it provided peace and quiet.

Once inside, Leila promptly went to a workstation, plugged in her laptop, and set up office. Ross wondered how she found the energy. He proceeded to a deserted alcove and quickly fell asleep on a sofa.

It was around noon when he woke up. He poured himself a cup of coffee and walked into the business center to mail Leila's autographed photo to his secretary, Pam, for safekeeping. Then he wandered over to where Leila was pounding away at the keyboard. "You're gonna break that computer."

"No worries," Leila said, without missing a beat. She turned to face Ross with a smile. "CNN buys me a new one every year."

"Aren't you tired?"

"I slept on the plane. Besides, I get hyper when I'm on a deadline."

"What're you working on now?"

"The intro to the fifth segment of my show. Check it out." She pushed back on her swivel chair, making room for Ross to see the screen. "What do you think?"

With one hand on the armrest of her chair, he leaned over and began to read.

Historically, Iran has a tradition, stretching over two and a half millennia, of being an independent powerhouse with projection capabilities. Iranians—known as Persians prior to 1935—have fought for centuries against the Babylonians, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Byzantines, Mongols, Moguls, and Turks. In these wars, they conquered more frequently than they suffered defeat. And when vanquished, they still managed to preserve their cultural identity and ultimately subdued the invaders through perseverance and tenacity.

There was some jargon for blocking and camera angles in between paragraphs that made no sense to Ross. He skipped them and continued reading.

This regional dominance, severely diminished after the Islamic Revolution of 1979 and subsequently discredited due to its anti-Western policies and support of international terrorism, is what Iran hungers to restore. The Islamic Republic knows it can be destroyed in this power game—but only by the United States or Israel.

There was more video lingo and some reference to a wide-angle shot revealing the missile and her walking toward it.

Enter Iran's not-so-covert support of the Islamic Jihad, Hamas, and Hezbollah, which is nothing other than power projection against Israel as proxy for America. And add into the mix this missile—named, Shahab III with a thousand-mile range that can easily reach every major city in the Middle East including, Tel Aviv—and you will understand why Iran's nuclear cooperation with Russia is creating such alarm in Washington. And more ominously, in Tel Aviv.

"Well written," Ross said, standing up. "I'm impressed."

"You should've seen the trash my producer had written. It's amazing how ignorant, and worse, naïve, Americans are about the Middle East and its intricate nuances. Even the so-called professionals don't understand the half of it. The Brits, on the other hand, know the area and its intrigues quite well. They better—they created most of the mess."

As she packed up her laptop, she mentioned that she was ready for a break. They still had four hours before their flight to Tehran. Quite familiar with the airport, Leila suggested Café Amsterdam for lunch.

Over a plate of smoked salmon and goat cheese salad, she launched into a remarkable analysis of the geopolitics of the Middle East that would have made Dr. Kissinger proud. As they walked back to the VIP lounge, the conversation became more personal. She shared the anguish of her recent and very public divorce and child custody battle, the perils of living in a fish bowl, and told Ross about her future aspirations. Ross reminisced of the senseless execution of his twin brother, Sohrab, and what it meant to him. He told her about his work at the Berkeley Lab and about his wife and her very famous father, General Pugachov.

Her reaction to the revelation that Ross was the son-in-law of Viktor Pugachov was priceless—a Kodak moment. She stopped in her tracks, looked at him with her eyes opened twice the normal size, and with a startled voice said, "Pugachov is your father-in-law?"

"Yes," Ross said. "It's an open secret that my wife and I don't advertise."

"This is huge! I'd love to do a story on you and your family."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. I hope you understand."

She shook her head, grinning. "You're a waste of a great story, man."

KLM flight 433 left Amsterdam for Tehran at 4:10 p.m. On this leg of the journey, Ross had a window seat three rows behind Leila Conner and her customary extra seat. She didn't invite him to sit with her and, as pleasant as their conversations were thus far, Ross was tired of talking. He needed some time to himself to deal with the emotional turbulence he felt inside.

He was edgy. Twirling the CIA-issued Berkeley ring on his right middle-finger, he wondered if the satellites were able to track him while he was seven miles up in the air. There were no technical reasons why they couldn't, but he wondered anyway. He wished Oksana and his children, especially Victor, were with him. This was a trip he had always imagined taking with them. It would've been wonderful to play tour guide to his children around the country and city of his birth. He missed them already.

Dinner and a movie made the five-hour flight more bearable. Before he knew it, the giant Airbus A-300 began its descent to Tehran's Mehrabad International airport. Soon the ocean of flickering lights that was the metropolis of Tehran was spread out beneath him like an exquisite Persian rug.

As the plane approached the airport, the city lights grew brighter, revealing more detail. The marble-clad Shahyad Tower—renamed Azadi (freedom) Tower, after the Islamic revolution—was the only familiar landmark. Drowned in floodlights, the majestic gateway to Iran glowed like a precious ring stone.

It was a hard landing. The plane rolled to a stop about a quarter of a mile away from the main terminal. Ross noticed that the old building had changed a lot. It looked much bigger and had been totally renovated. So much so that he barely recognized it.

The airport was not equipped with skyways. Passengers had to walk down the stairs to the tarmac and then pile into large busses that would transport them to the main terminal.

As the travelers queued up in the aisles to exit the plane, Ross observed that Leila remained in her seat, looking back. She smiled and waved when they made eye contact. It took a while before he reached her row. She rose and said, "How does it feel, Ross?"

"Just fine," he lied. In fact, he felt nauseous. The butterflies in his stomach were dancing to a chorus of fear, anticipation, and melancholy.

Leila walked in front of Ross as they slowly made their way toward the exit. Watching her hourglass figure provided him with a fleeting distraction. When he stepped out of the plane and onto the landing, he felt as if the dry heat of the Tehran summer had slapped him in the face. Even after all these years, somehow, the air he was breathing felt familiar.

Ross was sizing up the three large busses that were lined up on the tarmac when he saw a black Mercedes with tinted windows slowly drive up and stop a few feet away to the right. He glanced at Leila. "Is that your ride?"

"No way," Leila said. "There must be some government heavyweight on board."

Ross and Leila started down the steps, side by side. Leila nonchalantly asked, "By the way, where are you staying?"

"Shams Grand."

"What a coincidence," she said, grinning. "Me too."

The butterflies in his stomach suddenly picked up their tempo. This is great! Ross thought. I can see her again. Then, he said, "Let's do lunch sometime." But he hesitated. This is a slippery slope, man. Don't get too close.

"That'll be wonderful," she said.

He took a deep breath.

Suddenly, Ross felt lost in the moment, as if he were in a trance. It was a month shy of thirty-five years since he and Sohrab had left Tehran as teenagers. Now, over fifty, he had returned alone. With each step, a fresh memory of his brother flashed in his memory.

As soon as he set foot on the pavement, the passenger door of the Mercedes flung open and a familiar face emerged. Walking toward Ross, with open arms as if expecting a hug, the man said in Farsi, "Khosh amadeed! Welcome, my friend! Welcome home."

It was Kazem.

Ross froze, loathing the sight of him.

Leila Conner tapped Ross on the shoulder and whispered, "I'm impressed, big shot."

He shrugged. "So am I."

"Find me at the hotel tomorrow," Leila insisted. "I want to hear all about this."

"If I make it to the hotel, I will."

Leila continued strolling toward the first bus with her head turned to watch the scene. Everyone stared. Kazem walked up to Ross and gave him a bear hug. Ross just stood there—speechless.

"Did you have a nice flight, Dr. Shaheen?"

"I didn't expect to see you here."

"Like it or not," Kazem pointed to the car, "I'm your host and this is your ride."

"No," Ross protested, trying not to make a scene. "I'd rather go with the others."

"But that's impossible." Kazem put his arm behind Ross, gently guiding him toward the car. "All the arrangements have already been made for you—the customs clearance, the transport to your hotel—everything is prearranged. Please come, this way." He then opened the door behind the driver and let Ross in.

Kazem sat in the passenger seat, barked an order to the driver, and tried to kiss up to Ross by heaping the exaggerated compliments which, combined with profuse pleasantries and half-hearted gestures of hospitality, constitute an ancient Persian custom known as taarof.

Ross ignored him.

From a side entrance, the Mercedes drove into the restricted area of terminal operations.

Ross looked around. Airport workers and baggage handlers were milling about doing their jobs. Uniformed guards carrying AK-47 Kalashnikovs were everywhere. They stared at the Mercedes but didn't seem to be bothered by it.

The driver stopped the car in front of an iron door, guarded by a soldier. Kazem turned to Ross. "May I have your passport?"

Ross handed it to him. He gave it a cursory look and left without saying anything. The soldier, obviously familiar with Kazem, opened the metal door, letting him through. Strangely, they didn't acknowledge each other.

Ross asked the driver. "How long will this take?"

"For Mr. Dowlat, fifteen minutes, max."

Using his Persian name, Ross introduced himself to the driver. "My name is Rostam Shaheen. What's your name?"

He hadn't spoken even one word so far, but he acknowledged Ross by making eye contact through the rearview mirror. "My name is Reza. I'm a chauffeur for the ministry."

"What ministry?"

"Ministry of Mines and Natural Resources."

"Is that where Kazem works?"

"Yes, sir."

As they engaged in small talk, Reza casually removed his hat, retrieved a small yellow piece of paper that was hidden inside, and handed it to Ross without looking back. Ross took the paper and glanced at him in the mirror. Reza gestured silence by placing his right index finger over his lips and continued talking about the intolerable gridlock on the streets of Tehran.

Ross opened the paper and was stunned to find a hand written note in Russian. I work for your friends at the Russian embassy. Be careful what you say; this car is bugged. Your hotel room is also bugged. I will look out for you. Don't trust anyone.

Without a pause, Reza continued to speak his nonsense. With his right hand, he reached over his shoulder and motioned for Ross to give the note back to him. He obliged. Reza then promptly stuffed the note in his mouth and—ever so calmly—started to chew.

Silence.

With a gleeful smile, Kazem emerged from the metal door and headed toward the car. This time he climbed into the back seat and instructed Reza to proceed to Shams Grand hotel. He then handed Ross' passport back to him. "It's all set, my friend."

"What about my luggage?"

"All taken care of."

As the Mercedes sped out of the operations building into an enormous access road filled with countless cars buzzing about, Ross remembered a line that CIA's legendary mole hunter, James Jesus Angleton, once said:

"Espionage is a wilderness of mirrors."

### (END OF BOOK 1)

To download Book 2,  click here.

### About the Authors

Farsheed Ferdowsi was born and raised in Tehran, Iran. He entered the United States in 1973 to pursue higher education. Mr. Ferdowsi holds a master's degree in structural engineering from U.C. Berkeley and a bachelor's degree in civil engineering from Vanderbilt University. Following a year of postgraduate studies at Vanderbilt University, Farsheed Ferdowsi founded a business software development firm in 1979. This was followed by a string of other companies in the information technology industry including PayMaxx which was ranked among the top-10 payroll service providers in the U.S. Farsheed Ferdowsi was recognized by the Nashville Business Journal as the Entrepreneur of the year in 2002. Throughout the years, he has served on the Board of Directors of several for-profit as well non-profit organizations in Middle-Tennessee. Mr. Ferdowsi has two children and resides near Nashville, Tennessee with his wife Aram. Follow Mr. Ferdowsi on Twitter here.

Mike Wells is an American bestselling author of over 20 "unputdownable" thriller and suspense novels, including Lust, Money & Murder and Passion, Power & Sin. He is also known for his young adult books, such as The Mysterious Disappearance of Kurt Kramer, The Wrong Side of the Tracks, and Wild Child, which are used by English teachers in high schools and colleges worldwide. Formerly a screenwriter, Wells has a fast-paced, cinematic writing style. His work is often compared to that of the late Sidney Sheldon, with strong and inspiring female heroes, tightly-written scenes, engaging action/dialogue, and numerous plot twists. Mike was educated at Vanderbilt University and has a Ph.D. in engineering. He currently lives in Europe and has taught in the Creative Writing program at the University of Oxford. Visit Mike's website here.

### Acknowledgements

### (From Farsheed Ferdowsi)

Many wonderful individuals played valuable roles in making Blind Scorpion (originally published as Mushroom in the Sand) a reality. The lion's share of my gratitude goes to my writing consultant, Michael Wells, Ph.D. Without his support, encouragement, and guidance the story would not have been told.

Joyce Jackson provided the first round of edits. Stephanee Killen, senior editor at Integrative Ink, performed the final review. Daniel Middleton of Scribe Freelance completed the layout for the cover based on the original concept proposed by Brian Ruscio. Allen Clark's keen eye composed the author's photograph. Skeeo Creative designed the website. Jeremy Garza brought his promotional and marketing skills to bear. More than a dozen friends and family members read the early drafts of the manuscript and provided valuable feedback. And finally David Collins of Wingspan Press brought it altogether.

I am grateful to all of you.

(From Mike Wells & Farsheed Ferdowsi)

The authors wish to express their thanks to Peter Illidge for his excellent copy editing, proofreading and formatting for the serialized digital version of this book.

