13:40 / 1:40 P.M. IDT
Yossi sat at his workstation. Liora and Dafna stood next to him looking at his computer screen. Lahav remained at his workstation wearing oversized headphones, manipulating the schematics of some sort of machine on his own computer.
As Nir looked at Lahav, Liora said, “Leave him. He thinks he’s discovered an exploitable weakness in the steerable warhead mechanism of Iran’s Khorramshahr 2 ballistic missile.”
“I understood about every third word of that sentence,” he said, walking toward Lahav.
No doubt rolling her eyes, Liora called after him. “Lahav maybe make big bad missile go crash-y boom into ground.”
“That much I got.” He tapped Lahav on the head, startling him.
As the analyst slipped off his headphones, electronica music thumped at a volume far above any manufacturer’s recommended levels.
“Yalla. Let’s go. Yossi has something.”
“Sure, Ha’mefaked.” Lahav bounced to his feet.
“Quit calling me sir,” Nir said as he moved to Yossi’s workstation. “Ma nishma?”
The analyst turned toward them. “Okay, I’ll try to explain this in a way all of us can understand.” Nir noticed he was looking right at him as he said it. “Over the last year and a half, I’ve developed algorithms to learn and analyze repetitive words and phrases that exist in the enormous amount of chatter we pick up.”
“Yossi make computer smart-smart, listen to talkies out in sky,” said Dafna, putting her hand up to her ear.
“Okay, enough.” Nir resented the fist bump she got from Liora.
“I then divided those words and phrases into topics that seemed to be of particular interest to the bad guys. I’ve picked up subjects like convoy size, shipping methods, transport modes, plumbing repairs. But one topic they really like to talk about is bombs. Blast radius, to be more precise. It’s like a competition. My blast is bigger than yours.”
“Absolutely no comments from any of you,” Nir said.
“Typically, the numbers are within a certain range. I’ve seen anywhere from 50 to 300 meters.”
“Sounds about right.” Nir pictured that distance expanding all around from the epicenter. “Maybe even a little more with a large truck bomb.”
“Exactly. Then suddenly, I see this.” He pointed to the screen, where he had a number highlighted in red.
“Eight hundred meters?” Nir said. “Holy crap! Are you sure that’s right—not just a typo?”
“Wish it was, achi. It’s appeared three times in the chatter, and once it was bumped all the way up to 950.”
“Eight hundred meters. That’s…what? A full mile diameter? Can you think of any conventional explosive that can do that?”
“That’s what I’ve been looking for. But a semi full of fertilizer couldn’t even do that. I hate to say it, but it’s got to be nuclear.”
Nir shook his head. “And this is militia traffic you’re talking about. You’re saying Iran’s proxy militias have deliverable nukes, like a suitcase nuke.”
Yossi shook his own head vigorously. “No! Mamash lo! I only said it’s coming up in the chatter. Again, I’m trying to piece things together, like doing a jigsaw puzzle without the box photo for reference. Best I can come up with is that training is taking place for how to handle these kinds of bombs. Like they don’t have them, but they’re expecting them, and they want to be full-on ready when they do get them.”
“Give me a location, Yossi. Where are these guys?”
“I don’t know for sure, but best I can tell is there are three different sites—and they’re all involved.”
Nir started moving toward the door. “I’m heading to the ramsad’s office. By the time I get there, I want at least one location texted to my phone. And, ladies, I want enough satellite photos of the place that it kills my phone’s storage.” Halting before he stepped into the hallway, he added, “And, Lahav, when I get back here, you’re going to tell me everything I ever need to know about suitcase nukes.”
He walked out without waiting for a response. Slipping his phone out of his pocket, he said, “Call Efraim mobile.”
“Calling Efraim mobile,” his phone responded.
After one ring, he heard, “Nir, ma nishma?”
“What’s up is that I’m on my way to the ramsad’s office, and I think you ought to join me.”
He could hear a desk chair rolling back and hitting something. “Slow down. Let me meet you first so you can fill me in.”
“No time.”
“Achi, what is going on? Can you at least tell me on the way to his office?”
“Not over the phone. Meet me there.”
He ended the call because there really was no time to talk. He had to strategize how to overcome one major obstacle if he was to get in to see Ira Katz immediately, and her name was Malka Bieler. Over the last 20 years, the Mossad had seen three ramsads, but only one ramsad’s executive assistant. To get past her and into the chief’s office, you either needed an appointment, an act of the Knesset, or some firepower greater than your standard military-grade rifle.
Nir had none of these at the present time.
He stopped at the entrance to Malka’s office. Through her open door, he could see the pathway to the ramsad.
“Want me to distract her so you can make a run for it?”
Nir jumped. Efraim stood behind him.
“It will never work. There’s one of her and only two of us. We’re hopelessly outnumbered.”
Just then the door to the ramsad’s office opened, and the man himself stepped out. He was holding a file folder.
“Ramsad!” Nir called out, rushing through the open doorway. “I must speak with you.”
With remarkable speed for her age, Malka was on her feet blocking Nir from reaching the head of the Mossad. “Excuse me, young man. I don’t know what you think this place is, but I can assure you it’s not a rock concert or a playground.”
Nir was so taken aback by the two incongruous and out-of-context comparisons that he lost his train of thought.
Efraim jumped in. “I’m so sorry, ramsad. I’m not sure what this is about, but I do know barging in unannounced is not typical Nir behavior. It must be important.”
Malka took a step closer to them. “It’s so important that you can’t go through protocols and establish a meeting? Three members of the Knesset are scheduled to be here in seven minutes. So if you’ll excuse—”
“Thank you, Malka. Let them through, please.”
To her credit, the woman didn’t argue. Instead, she stepped aside and contented herself with staring daggers at Nir. “Seven minutes,” she hissed.
The men followed the ramsad into his office, and Efraim closed the door. Once their leader sat behind his desk, he motioned for them to sit in the two chairs positioned in front of him.
“Now, Tavor, what is so important that I’m going to have to deal with an angry Malka for the rest of the day?”
“I’m sorry, Ha’mefaked, but this couldn’t wait. I have strong evidence that Iran is training members of their proxy militias in the handling and deployment of suitcase nukes.”
The ramsad sat up straight. Never before had Nir seen this man, who was always so calm and cool, look shocked.
“You what?” asked Efraim.
“Show me your evidence,” the ramsad said—a demand, not a request.
Nir walked the two men through Yossi’s algorithms and the numbers his intel had registered. Neither man responded.
“So?” Nir finally prompted.
The ramsad settled back into his chair. “I’m afraid your definition of strong evidence and mine are quite different. Is there anything else? Do you know what militias are involved? Do you know where they are?”
Nir felt a text vibration from his phone. Looking down, he read, “They’re at 33.092 latitude and 36.361 longitude.”
“Not surprisingly, that helps me not at all.”
The phone buzzed again, and Nir read, “It’s about three kilometers southeast of El Sharayah, Syria, in the Daraa Governorate.”
“Within spitting distance of our border. That’s not ominous at all,” Efraim said.
“Do we know who they are?” asked the ramsad.
Nir’s phone buzzed again, and he hoped for another fortuitous answer. Instead, he got a satellite photo, then another, then another. Soon his phone felt like an electric razor with one photo text after another popping up.
Efraim held up his phone and spoke. “Just got a text from Yossi. He said the ladies are blowing up your phone with satellite pics, so he tried me. He believes the militia is Liwa’ Al-Arin. He sent me some facts. About six hundred members. Leader is an up-and-comer named Waseem al-Masalma. Used to be called Brigade 313.”
“Heard of them,” said the ramsad to himself.
“Tightly allied with Hezbollah. Heavily involved in their drug trafficking. Fights for the regime when called upon.”
“Okay, enough,” the ramsad said. “This is interesting and certainly concerning. If it’s true, it changes the nuclear game and ups our timetable for finding a long-term solution to Iran’s nuclear program. I can’t, however, take one analyst’s algorithm to the prime minister.” He leaned toward Nir. “I need definitive proof that they’re prepping militias for receiving and deploying suitcase nuclear weapons. Can you find it for me?”
“I can, Ha’mefaked. And I know right where to look. About three kilometers southeast of El Sharayah.”
Efraim shook his head. “Achi, I knew you were going to say that.”
“Okay, Tavor, approved. Liaise with the military through Efraim for any equipment or transport you need. Good work. Now get out of here and apologize to Malka on your way out, not that it will do me any good.”
“Thank you, Ha’mefaked,” Nir said as he stood.
Once through the door, he found Malka sitting behind her desk. She glared at him. Putting on his best smile, he said, “I’m very sorry, Malka. I promise to make an appointment next time. By the way, has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?”
But what had worked so well with the Houston bartender had probably just made the situation with Malka exponentially worse. She didn’t move a muscle, not even to speak.
Nir hurried away, Efraim close behind.