Benny paused, while we patiently waited for him to continue. I saw how Benny was arming the bomb he was about to drop. Here it came.
“We also know that until 1988 the United States had been providing classified satellite intelligence to the Iraqi government during their war with Iran. Iranian agents in Iraq stole that information. Now the Iranians know what the U.S. can see, and therefore, how to deceive you.”
Phil Richards, Arthur Brown, and Eric Henderson didn't blink. “That was a strategic decision that was appropriate at the time,” said Eric.
“Some decision,” said Benny, with a hint of mockery. “Take this as an example: knowing the limitations of the U.S. satellites, the Iranians are building large disguised and dispersed bombproof facilities. They are fooling you.”
Eric was not deterred. “Let's work with what we have,” he said, completely undistracted by Benny's criticism. “We know that Iran's uranium-enrichment program is being pushed ahead. They are preparing to convert uranium to enriched uranium metal, a must for an A-bomb. Iran is also working on laser technology to enrich uranium. They are planning a highly advanced laboratory, the Jabr Ibn Hayan at the Tehran Nuclear Research Center.”
“Why uranium and not plutonium?” asked Benny.
“Because plutonium requires reprocessing spent nuclear fuel, which in turn requires a reprocessing plant.”
“How do we know that these planned facilities are not for energy-production purposes?”
Eric waved his hand. “Because if they were meant as an alternate fuel supply, why are they planning a heavy-water installation? The Bushehr plant will be operated by light-water reactor. But if they plan on using heavy water, with its extra hydrogen atom, that's an indication that they are making weapons-grade plutonium.”
“I‘ve always believed our own reports that Iran's nuclear weapons program is substantial,” said Benny. “They're not doing it as a public relations stunt. The Iranian clerics really want to export their Islamic revolution by force. With an A-bomb in their arsenal, more people would listen.”
Nobody responded. The room went silent. Brown and Eric were collecting their papers; it seemed that the meeting was ending.
Now it was my chance to turn up the heat. All this political and scientific detail was in my way.
“Eric, I have a question. How long did DeLouise work for you?”
Eric smiled in embarrassed surprise. “What makes you think he ever did?” he asked, while avoiding my eyes and arranging his papers.
“I guess it's true, then,” I said. I had known the answer already.
“Tell me about it,” countered Eric.
“DeLouise received a tourist visa to the United States on an expired Romanian passport. It's impossible today, and it was definitely impossible in 1957, when Romania was a part of the Communist Bloc. So I gathered the restrictions were deliberately ignored. Given DeLouise's identity, it's obvious who was interested in him. One plus one is two.”
“Not so fast,” said Eric. “It was a one-time deal. In 1957I was still in elementary school, but I recently looked this thing up. DeLouise wanted to emigrate to the United States but he didn't qualify for an immigrant visa because he lacked a sponsor. So he offered us information about recent French nuclear developments in exchange for permanent residence in the United States. The price was right and we agreed. That's the whole story.”
“But why did he receive the visa on his expired Romanian passport rather than on his valid Israeli passport?”
“He didn't qualify for a regular immigrant visa, so the only way to grant him a green card was through the asylum program. Under that program, it would look better to grant the status on a Romanian passport even though it was expired. In fact it even helped, because if ever questioned on that he could claim that his persecution by the government included a denial of a valid passport. Romania was a country with a dictatorial regime, which could explain to any probing eyes why he received asylum. We couldn't offer the same explanation with respect to a democracy like Israel.”
I took a step forward and ventured, “Was DeLouise doubled?” Meaning, was he recruited by the CIA to be a double agent.
“Definitely not,” said Eric. “It all happened after DeLouise had already left the Mossad, and he specifically conditioned the deal on the insistence that no questions concerning Israel or the Mossad be asked during his debriefing. For us, DeLouise was a ‘walk-in,’ a one-time informer.”
I didn't say anything, but Eric's explanation seemed to answer the question I'd been asking myself since September, when I'd received David Stone's memo assigning me to DeLouise's case: why had DeLouise received a U.S. passport on an expired visa? – a circumstance so unusual that it had immediately set off alarm bells in my head. DeLouise's deal with the CIA may have been only a one-time deal but he'd left enough of a trail to help me make a breakthrough in my own case.
“That was why the Justice Department and the FBI couldn't locate him thirty-three years later,” I said. “There was no indication in his file that he had lived in Israel for a few years as Dov Peled.” Eric didn't respond. I knew why. CIA could not share the information with other U.S. government agencies.
We had to get back to the present. I was about to get up and leave but Eric stopped me.
“Here's what I want you to do. Call Guttmacher and ask to see him together with Armajani and Kutchemeshgi as soon as possible.”
“Why?” I asked, “I thought this thing was over.”
“Not yet. We asked you here and showed you the documents for a purpose. We need postoperation reconnaissance. We need to know their next move after the break-in. You're the only one who can do that. Tell them you want to report on your Moscow trip.”
“But you still have the transmitting pen on his desk. That should tell you what's going on,” I said.
“No. It stopped working the day after the break-in. Either they found it or the battery is dead.”
“So they'll be looking for anyone who had access to Guttmacher's office and could have put the pen there. Is that a wise idea, to return to the lion's den now?”
“There is some risk,” conceded Eric, “but you'll be wired again, and our men will be outside if the meeting gets ugly.”
“OK,” I said, not particularly liking the idea but nevertheless willing.
“Duty calls,” said Benny, who'd picked up my tone.
On Monday afternoon I called Guttmacher from a street pay phone. “I've just returned from Moscow and I need to see you and the Iranian gentlemen,” I said matter-of-factly.
“I'm glad you called,” said Guttmacher hastily. “There have been some developments and we're meeting tomorrow morning at ten o'clock in my office. Please be there.”
That was easy. I called Eric to report.
“Good, we'll come to your hotel at eight-thirty to dress you up.”
On Tuesday at 10:00 A.M., wired for sound, I walked into Guttmacher's office. Kutchemeshgi, Armajani, Guttmacher, and a somber-looking Iranian man in his early forties were waiting in the adjacent conference room. DiMarco, Broncotrade's president, wasn't there, as I'd expected.
“Good morning gentlemen,” I said, and sat down next to Guttmacher. I looked at the newcomer sitting across the table next to Kutchemeshgi and Armajani, waiting to be introduced. When that didn't happen, I said, “I'm Peter Wooten.”
The grim-faced man nodded, while Kutchemeshgi said briefly, “That's Colonel Kambiz Khabar; he's a member of our counterintelligence team.”
My heart skipped a beat. Iranian counterintelligence was infamous for its ruthless treatment of their targets; if prisoners survived their interrogation, they never needed a manicure. He looked like a soldier, definitely out of place in a tailored three-piece suit. The desert sun had given his face a harsh, implacable look. His presence here could mean only one thing: they thought that the Saturday break-ins were not simple burglaries, but intelligence operations. He said nothing.
“Where is Mr. DiMarco? Isn't he coming too?” I asked Guttmacher, in an obvious effort to show that Khabar's presence left me indifferent.
“Unfortunately there was an accident over the weekend,” said Guttmacher, “Mr. DiMarco was killed in a car accident in Milan.”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” I said. “What happened? Was he driving?”
“No, he crossed the street and a passing car killed him. It is so unfortunate.”
I tried to digest the news. DiMarco's death sure didn't sound like an ‘accident.’ Was it the Iranians, the Mossad, or the CIA? There were too many deaths in this industry. I resolved to move to the antique books trade.
The atmosphere in the conference room, which wasn't cheerful to begin with, changed abruptly when Armajani said, “There's a traitor.” I felt my stomach tightening. Nobody said anything. “Colonel Khabar is in Munich to investigate certain events. I demand that all of you cooperate with him.”
Apart from the Iranians in the room, only Guttmacher and I came under the definition of “all of you.”