SONNY'S SITE

Thomas Jefferson Greer took a seat in the conference room of the Central Intelligence Agency's headquarters in Langley, Virginia. He nodded to Burt Hooton, sitting across from him at the crowded table.

"Hi, Burt" the director of operations said. "What's up?"

"He’s been bugging me all week about Iran’s uranium enrichment program," the director of intelligence replied. "Says he needs more information. What’s he expect me to do? Pull a rabbit out of a hat? We don’t have an embassy there any more. No sources worth speaking of inside the country.”

"What about the Mujahedin-e Khalq?" the director of operations asked.

"What about 'em?"

"You've got contacts inside their organization, haven't you?"

"What makes you think they can provide reliable information? They're in exile in Iraq."

"But they've got a network in Tehran. They claim they're still in contact with high-ranking officials in the Iranian government."

"We don't have any way to cross-check what they tell us. You know that as well as I do, T. J."

David Walker, chief analyst in charge of the Agency’s satellite photography program, leaned forward in his chair.

"He’s been on my back, too," he said. "Just not satisfied with our data. Says it's not enough."

The director of operations turned to Jonathan Lambert from the National Security Agency, slumped against the back of his seat two places down from Burt Hooton.

"What about your agency, Jonathan?"

"You guys have access to everything we get. We've gone out of our way to be cooperative. But do you think the CIA recognizes what NSA does for it?"

"Porter's got nothing against electronic eavesdropping," the director of operations said. "He's sincerely grateful for anything other agencies share with us, but he thinks we never should have reduced our reliance on human intelligence. Looks like he may have a point. At least as far as Iran's concerned."

Walter Coleman limped into the room and took the vacant seat next to the director of operations.

"He isn’t here yet," Thomas Jefferson Greer told him. "Still having trouble from the hip operation?"

"That’s unusual," said the authority on 'loose nukes,' ignoring the question. "I’ve never known him to be late for anything."

"He had to go to the White House this morning. To meet with the new Director of Central Intelligence."

"George W’s pal? I’ll bet he’s none too happy about that. Reporting to John Negroponte is a step down from attending daily White House briefings." The nuclear scientist took several thick files from his briefcase and placed them on the table.

The door opened and an unprepossessing man in a rumpled business suit entered the conference room, his arms loaded with folders in brightly colored jackets. A smartly dressed redhead with a stenographer’s pad and yellow pencil in her hand followed in his wake. With a heavy sigh, he dumped the files on the table. Porter Goss, the man George W. Bush had chosen to replace George Tenet as Director of the Central Intelligence Agency smiled wanly and cleared his throat.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Gentlemen. I was held up on the other side of the Potomac."

The director of operations leaned toward Walter Coleman.

"Too pussy to say 'The White House'," he said sotto voce. "Grotesque."

"That’s why Bush picked him," Coleman whispered back. "Self-effacing. Too low-key to give him any trouble."

Porter Goss took a DVD from his briefcase and handed it to his secretary.

“Joyce, would you project this, please?”

Joyce Gochenour pushed her chair back and walked to the cubbyhole where the panel controlling the retractable screen was located, several pairs of eyes glued to her swaying hips and bouncing buttocks. The lights dimmed. The wall at the far end of the conference room lit up.

"Gentlemen," the CIA director announced, "what you are about to see is vital to our national security. Please pay close attention."

A deafening roll of drums and the harsh pounding of boots burst from the loudspeakers. Startled, a few of the men around the table quickly snapped to attention. Others, their curiosity aroused, leaned forward with wide-open eyes.

Figures in full color appeared on the screen. Uniformed men paraded before a grandstand occupied by civilians, high-ranking army officers and clerics in long robes and turbans. Raising their legs horizontally as they marched, the strutting soldiers advanced as one man in a stiff Germanic goosestep, their boots beating a tattoo on the pavement. As they passed the grandstand, their heads snapped right and they shouted an unintelligible slogan.

The ear-splitting noise was reminiscent of the sound tracks on old newsreels of Nazi parades filmed in Nuremburg prior to the Second World War. It sent shivers down the spines of some, and raw, irrational anger into the hearts of others. Not one man in the crowded conference room was indifferent to it.

Porter Goss pressed a button on the remote control in his hand to turn the sound down.

"Gentlemen," he said. "this is the Iranian Army, photographed September twenty-third, 2005. Just last week, south of Tehran. A parade celebrating the anniversary of the beginning of the war against Iraq.

"The soldiers you are looking at are pasdarans, elite troops similar to Nazi stormtroopers. Official guardians of the Revolution.

He turned the sound back up.

"The goosestep shouldn’t surprise you," he shouted above the ninety decibels. “The Wehrmacht used to train the Iranian Army.”

The director of operations sat up and focused on the film. The pasdarans’ olive uniforms were darker than those worn by the regular army. The sound of marching faded away.

Other troops passed in front of the grandstand, marching with a skip on every fourth step, as if choreographed. Their trademark.

"The ones passing the grandstand now are basijis," Porter Goss said, "the national militia. Many of them are illiterate and radically fundamentalist, blindly obedient to the mullahs. During the war with Iraq, the government considered them expendable. The ayatollahs fired them up with propaganda, told them if they died in battle they'd be national heroes, martyrs that go straight to paradise. They were largely responsible for keeping the Iraqi Army at bay. They threw themselves on mines, so the pasdarans could advance and push the Iraqis back. When the war ended, they were given police work and assigned to enforce the sharia, Islamic law. By and large they're convinced the West is the home of the devil. They're a formidable force supporting the Islamic theocracy. Theoretically, they report to the pasdarans, but some of them carry out secret missions for the clerics. The more fanatical ones are easy for the mullahs to manipulate."

The camera switched back to the grandstand. Thomas Jefferson Greer recognized a small, swarthy man in a short beard, wearing a shabby suit. Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, a former pasdaran, had taken office as President of the Islamic Republic of Iran in August of 2005.

Porter Goss focused the light beam from his pointer onto the screen.

"Rabidly anti-western and deeply religious," he said, "with an unquestioning allegiance to Islamic clerics. He was co-opted by the current Supreme Leader of the Revolution, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei."

The rumbling of heavy motors filled the CIA conference room. Armored trucks, tanks, cannon rolled by on the screen. The Iranian Army’s heavy equipment consisted mostly of obsolete Soviet material. The director of operations stifled a yawn.

"Why is Porter Goss boring us with this?" he murmured, leaning toward Walter Coleman. "Every military attaché in Tehran has already gone over this film with a fine-tooth comb and half of them have already passed their assessment on to us."

The nuclear scientist shrugged.

"How would I know, T. J.?"

Distractedly, the director of operations followed the parade of ground-to-ground, sea-to-sea, sea-to-ground, ground-to-air missiles, all of them old hat, without any military significance. Until huge missiles pulled by tractors appeared on the screen. He recognized a Shahab, the only Iranian-produced ballistic missile. The film stopped short on the picture of a gigantic Shahab. The voice of Porter Goss rang out through the conference room.

"Gentlemen, do any of you still think the Islamic Republic of Iran is a peaceful nation?"

It suddenly dawned on the director of operations why the CIA Director had shown this uninformative film. He tapped Walter Coleman on the shoulder.

"I get it," he murmured in Coleman's ear. "This is just part of a pep talk. He's getting ready to announce orders from The White House."

"Think so, T. J.?"

"Just wait. You'll see."

Porter Goss let the impact of his question sink in. All eyes focused on the picture of the big missile on the screen. After a brief silence, he addressed his audience in a grave voice.

"I called this meeting to transmit the prevailing thinking in The White House. The President is concerned about what’s going on in Iran."

The director of operations nudged Walter Coleman and raised his eyebrows in a what-did-I-tell-you grimace.

"For about a year now," the CIA director continued, "since October of 2004 to be exact, we have known that the Islamic Republic of Iran is developing a ballistic missile capable of delivering a nuclear warhead. He paused to let his audience digest his words."

Porter Goss pointed to the picture of the Iranian missile and turned to the director of operations.

“T. J., can you tell us what we know about these missiles?”

Thomas Jefferson Greer opened a yellow folder labeled 'Project 235'.

"The Iranians seem to be in a hurry to get hold of a long-range ballistic missile. They've been developing one copied from the North Korean Nodong, a spin-off of Russian technology. Their latest model, the Shahab, seems to be operational. It was successfully tested in October of 2004 and again on May 20th, 2005.They claim it has a range of 1,500 miles, enough to reach Cyprus. Western analysts estimate its range at a little over a thousand miles. And that's without a payload. But that's still enough to hit Israel. Its limited range is probably why Iran bought twelve KH-55 missiles from the Ukrainians back in March of this year. The KH-55 has a range of about twelve hundred miles."

"Where does that information come from?" Porter Goss asked.

"Ukrainian intelligence, sir. Since the Orange Revolution, they’ve been cooperating with us."

"How effective are the Ukranian missiles?"

"Not very, sir. They’re useless without an adequate carrier. They have to be launched from aircraft. The Iranians tried to mount them onto old American planes inherited from the Shah – Orions. The tests were inconclusive. They seem to be counting on the Shahab since its last successful trial."

"What is 'Project U-235'?"

"It’s a program designed to develop a long-range missile capable of delivering a nuclear warhead. Ayman Daneschou, an expert on ballistics, heads that part of the program."

"What other part is there?"

"The development of a nuclear warhead."

"Who runs the overall program?"

"The pasdarans."

"In a memorandum you said there's reason to believe the Shahab can deliver a nuclear warhead," Porter Goss said. "Can you expand on that?"

“Yes, sir. According to the information we have, the tip of the Shahab can accommodate a weapon of some sort. It’s thought to be a spherical shell composed of two steel hemispheres with a high degree of thermal conductivity. The head of Project U-235 has asked his agency's engineers to calculate a trajectory which would keep the temperature at sixty degrees centigrade or less during re-entry. They also asked about exploding the device at an altitude of five to eight thousand feet. They’ve installed radar altimeters. They’re harder to scramble than those relying on a global positioning system. In other words, all specifications for the Shahab point to a nuclear implosion device, like the Fat Man bomb dropped on Nagasaki in 1945."

The room was silent. The picture of the Shahab on the screen suddenly seemed to loom over the conference room, threatening annihilation.

"Do you have any more information, T. J.?" the CIA Director asked.

"Not really. Just some points brought out by cross-checking. Project 235 is very expensive. It’s unlikely the Iranians would strain their budget just to deliver classic explosives. It wouldn’t improve their strategic position one bit."

"Exactly," Porter Goss approved. "It’s reasonable to infer, then, that Iran is developing a ballistic missile capable of delivering a nuclear warhead. And that the ballistic part of the program is pretty well completed."

"Right, sir."

"Walt," continued the CIA Director, turning to Walter Coleman, "can you brief us on Iran’s known nuclear capabilities?"

The Agency’s nuclear advisor opened one of the files on the table in front of him.

"In their own country, the Iranians exploit uranium mines in Talmissi and Gchine. The mining operations are handled by the Kimia Madan Company, which is controlled by the pasdarans. They also import uranium ore from South Africa and Niger. This ore contains less than one percent uranium oxide. A plant in Esfahan processes it into uranium nitrate, 'yellow cake,' which is converted into UF6, uranium hexafluoride. This is enriched, that is, its content in U235 is increased. Officially, this process only has industrial, non-military applications. Until August of 2002, Iran always claimed it didn’t plan to make military use of uranium. As a matter of fact, moderately enriched uranium isn't suitable for military applications.

Walter Coleman closed the file and opened another.

"In August of 2002, he said, "the Mujahedin-e Khalq claimed that Iran already has over a hundred and sixty first-generation centrifuges in a plant at Natanz, near Esfahan."

"What organization is that?"

"The Mujahedin-e Khalq or MEK are an exiled Iranian group opposed to the mullah regime. Islamic leftists in favor of a secular Iranian government."

"Explain to us what part centrifuges play in uranium enrichment?"

"They separate uranium isotopes," the nuclear specialist explained. "They spin round at fifty thousand revolutions per minute. They’re extremely delicate instruments. They frequently break down. We think Pakistan sold the technology to Iran in 1990. And since then maybe even the more powerful second-generation technology as well."

Walter Coleman interrupted his exposé to take a sip of water. The CIA Director pressed on.

"Officially," he said, underlining the word with his voice, "the Iranians only have a hundred and sixty centrifuges at Natanz?"

"Yes, sir. One hundred and sixty-four to be exact."

"Can that many centrifuges produce nuclear weapons?"

"Hardly. It would take a hundred and sixty-four centrifuges about a year to produce approximately five pounds of enriched uranium. It takes around fifty pounds to make a nuclear weapon. The Iranians would need ten times as many centrifuges as they currently have to produce just one nuclear arm per year."

Porter Goss turned to David Walker, the satellite photography expert.

"Dave, have our satellites detected anything in this area?"

"No, sir. But it’s difficult to pick up on centrifuges. One of them is no bigger than an average-sized wastepaper basket. Two thousand would fit into a space no larger than a tennis court."

"In other words," Porter Goss went on. "Either the Iranians are far from being a nuclear power… or they’re close and they're lying to us. Any leads?"

“A long tunnel near the Esfahan plant. We just don’t know where it goes."

"Thanks, Dave." The Director faced the director of operations again. “T. J., do we have any concrete evidence that the Iranians are lying to us?"

"No hard evidence. Just a few clues," the director of operations said. "First of all, they concealed the fact that they’ve been enriching uranium for a long time. Enriched uranium can be used for military as well as commercial purposes."

He paused briefly. Porter Goss nodded for him to continue.

"There are a few other disturbing facts. The International Atomic Energy Agency spotted a suspicious site in the Lavizan area of Tehran. When IAEA inspectors were finally allowed to visit it, the buildings had been bulldozed and earth had been excavated to a depth of fifteen feet and removed. That would have been enough to eliminate any trace of radioactivity.

“We have several other indications the Iranians may have an ongoing clandestine uranium enrichment program. They’ve bought beryllium and plutonium – neutron sources – from China. By roundabout means, they’ve bought two hundred tons of fluorohydric acid from Spain. Fluorohydric acid is necessary for producing uranium tetrachloride. On November 15th, 2003, they secretly imported parts for twenty centrifuges. They produce more hexogen and octogen than they need. They’ve procured instruments for measuring tritium, in other words for tracing radioactive contamination.”

"Thanks, T. J." Porter Goss turned back to Walter Coleman.

"Walt, is a detectable nuclear explosion necessary before Iran has nuclear capability?"

The nuclear expert shook his head.

"No, sir. They could get by with 'cold' tests. They’d only need to explode the triggering device. Once that’s up to scratch, the rest is just the application of the laws of physics."

"But the Pakistanis carried out a nuclear test, didn‘t they?"

Walter Coleman smiled.

"That was just political posturing, window dressing for the benefit of India. Technically, they didn’t need to."

"Thanks, Walt."

Porter Goss placed both hands on the table. He scanned the faces of the men in the room.

"Gentlemen, everything you’ve told me here today confirms what the President of the United States suspects. In spite of its denials, Iran is developing a nuclear weapon - and the means to deliver it. It can’t do this without the ability to enrich uranium. That means we have to locate those centrifuges and maybe even neutralize them. Otherwise, the Iranians will have missiles with nuclear warheads within three years."

The silence that followed the CIA director’s summing-up was ruffled only by the heavy breathing of the men seated at the table. The director of operations hunched his shoulders and leaned over the yellow folder lying on the table in front of him. Porter Goss’s voice forced him to look up.

"T. J.," the director said. "That’s your department."

"I don’t know what we can do. We don’t have any reliable contacts in Iran. All we've got is the MEK."

Porter Goss looked Thomas Jefferson Greer squarely in the eye.

"Get on it, T. J. The President wants results - quick."

~End of Chapter Two of Project 235~