Brigadier General Adel Moradi of the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps, the
Smoothly slipping on his uniform cap, Moradi returned the salute. His hat was a dark olive green ball cap, matching his fatigues and emblazoned with the emblem of the Pasdaran in gold thread. The symbol was repeated on his breast pocket.
In his late fifties, Moradi was trim, almost athletic. His aide, Hejazi, was taller, but Moradi was still six foot one. Solidly built, his physical presence had always been an asset, both on the battlefield and in politics. Trimmed close, his beard was only lightly threaded with gray. It outlined a broad, weathered face that seemed to settle naturally into an impatient scowl.
Nadali didn’t wait for Moradi to speak. Shouting over the helicopter’s slowing turbines, the colonel reported, “We’re ready for you, sir.” He pointed to a line of jeeps, and Moradi got into the lead vehicle without saying a word.
As Colonel Nadali climbed in the backseat, Moradi asked him, “Is there anything worth seeing at the pilot plant?”
Nadali shook his head sharply. “No, sir, and as a matter of fact, they’re encouraging us to keep clear of the area while they make another sweep for radiation and toxicity.” He saw Moradi’s expression and continued. “When they spot-checked the first survey results, there were several errors — all underreporting.”
Moradi’s scowl deepened. “When will they be done?”
“They couldn’t start until it was daylight this morning. It will be late this afternoon.”
“Wonderful,” Moradi rumbled. “I wonder how many other mistakes they’ve made.” His tone made it clear that he was sure there were more. The other jeeps were pulling away, and Nadali ordered their driver to head for the administration building.
Nadali took the general to a conference room. Pasdaran sentries, armed with automatic weapons, flanked the door, and Nadali led the staff inside. When one of the civilians tried to go in the room, Nadali waved him back. “The scientists will brief the general in half an hour. We just have some housekeeping and organizational issues to go over.” The civilian nodded nervously and hurried away.
As soon as the general was seated, a middle-aged major looked over at Nadali, who nodded. “The room has been swept, and is clear,” the officer reported. “The spaces on all sides of us, and above and below, are occupied by my people.” Major Hassan Rahim was Moradi’s intelligence and counterintelligence officer. He also belonged to VEVAK, the Ministry of Intelligence, but although everyone knew it, nobody ever mentioned it.
“It was a careful sweep, Rahim? There are some clever people here,” Nadali observed.
“Not from what I’ve seen,” Moradi countered. “What have you found, Hassan?”
Rahim was a small officer — short, and older than would be expected for a major. There were rumors that his real rank was much higher, but changed to match the assignment. His glasses gave him a professorial look, but his gaze was hard, and his tone cold. “The centrifuges failed on their own, sir. I can find no sign of sabotage, either from foreign agents or someone inside.”
“It’s hard to prove the absence of something,” Moradi offered.
Rahim pulled out a notepad and flipped through the pages. “This is already one of the most secure installations in Iran. My people have enhanced those measures. We’ve been able to correlate the movements of everyone on base that day with the entrance and exit logs for each building. Dr. Sabet has helped us with scenarios for sabotage, and who would have the knowledge to perform it. Everyone on the list is being watched. Most have been questioned.”
Moradi nodded as he took in the information. He’d expected this result. If Rahim had found anything amiss, the perpetrators would have been arrested instantly. VEVAK might have different masters than the Shah’s SAVAK, but they used the same methods.
“Could it have been that damned computer worm again?”
“Unlikely, sir. I had every computer on the installation checked, as well as all personal computers in the dormitories. Every CD and flash drive was also examined. There was no sign of the Stuxnet worm. As you recall, we found this worm on dozens of computers when the cyber attack was first discovered three years ago,” remarked Rahim.
Stuxnet was a devilishly effective piece of malware that sought out and attacked the motor controllers on the centrifuges, causing them to undergo wild variations in speed. This greatly reduced an infected centrifuge’s performance, and even caused damage to the main support bearing. But even though the worm destroyed itself after completing its dirty work, numerous computers were infected as the malware worked its way from its original source to the centrifuges.
“Have any of the staff suffered a family tragedy, or had some other personal crisis?” Moradi knew he was reaching, but he had to ask.
Rahim shook his head. “No, sir. I’ve reviewed the local security officer’s records, and confirmed their accuracy with my own sources, as well as the reliability of the officers themselves.”
“Thank you, Major. You’ve removed the possibility of malign influence. Unfortunately, that would have been the simpler answer.”
The next meeting was the important one, with the physicists and engineers who had failed in their fourth attempt to create an improved centrifuge design. Iran had built a working centrifuge, but it was primitive, “first- generation” technology, and it was based on a design provided by a Pakistani nuclear scientist, A. CX Khan. Centrifuges separated two uranium isotopes from each another by spinning uranium hexafluoride gas at tens of thousands of revolutions per minute. One isotope, U-238, was marginally heavier than the other, more desirable U- 235. The difference of three neutrons pushed the heavier, unwanted U-238 toward the outside. The gas near the center, slightly richer in U-235, was removed.
But the increase was infinitesimal. Natural uranium contained less than 1 % U-235 by weight. This had to be increased to about 4 % to be used as reactor fuel, and to 90 % for a weapon. And each centrifuge only enriched the gas by a few hundreds of a percent.
So the centrifuges were ganged together, each one taking the product of the one before and increasing the concentration of U-235 by some tiny amount. The sixty-four-centrifuge test cascade that had torn itself apart produced a trivial increase. The buried halls at Natanz had thousands of centrifuges installed in series, but even then the product had only just exceeded 4 % thus far.
And that was the problem. It was taking too long to produce even small amounts of reactor-grade material. Iran needed to move quickly from reactor-grade to weapons-grade levels, and in large quantities. They could not build just one bomb. They needed several, at least a half dozen, to have a viable nuclear weapons capability.
Unfortunately, the Pakistani first-generation centrifuge design was inherently inefficient, and the Iranian versions didn’t even reach that low mark. That meant an improved centrifuge design was absolutely essential. But it had to work before they could begin production, and they needed to produce them in the thousands.
Although they didn’t fill the auditorium, it was a sizable group. Moradi saw Colonel Zamanian and his staff seated together on one side, then in a separate group, the scientists and engineers, with Dr. Moham, the head of the centrifuge program, fidgeting in the front row.
Davood Moham was young, brilliant, and outspoken. He’d been picked for the job three years ago, after the “second-generation” centrifuge design had failed. The physicist had been critical of the attempt, correctly predicting how it would fail. Now, after two major failures of his own, he was looking over his own shoulder. Only in his thirties, he looked much older, his hair thinning, and his face drawn. It looked like he hadn’t gotten a lot of fresh air.
Dr. Rashid Sabet, the civilian who managed the entire nuclear weapons program, had flown in last night from Arak, looking for his own answers. If Moham represented youth and energy, Sabet was experience and wisdom. Even hardened war veterans knew Sabet’s reputation. The Iranian government and people treated him almost like a national treasure. In his seventies, thin and almost frail, he projected a presence almost as strong as Moradi’s, and while Sabet technically reported to the general, Moradi sometimes felt like a university student, and found himself deferring to Sabet almost automatically.
Moradi heard the chatter die as he approached the stage. They would be scared, defensive. They knew his
