The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,112

That was the answer he had expected. That was the reason the CIA had gotten out of the sabotage business. It was too damned difficult, it took too long, and it cost too much. And it was vulnerable to any asshole scientist who had been recruited for the mission but got pissed off and decided to tell someone about it. But intelligence work was the art of the possible; you used the tools you had in hand. And Harry’s hands were not empty. Sleeping in the nearby safe house was a human key that could unlock the door that Atwan thought was impassable.

“Kamal, I want you to do a little thought experiment with me, okay? I want you to imagine that you had access to the research lab at Mashad. Assume you could get in and out safely. Is there something you could put in play, into the neutron generator, or into the computers, that would achieve the desired result?”

“Meaning to poison the project?”

“To poison it, but without a trace. So that if the Iranians turned to that facility, assuming that it was clean, they would end up screwing themselves. But they wouldn’t know it for years. Do you think that would be possible?”

“Oh yes. I mean, my dear sir, that is what we do. We need only a few minutes’ access to the equipment to do our little business.”

“Would you sabotage the neutron generator?”

“Oh no. They would build another. Or buy one. The oil companies use them now, you know, for seismic work. No, the better way would be to manipulate the computer that does the simulation of the imploding core and the operation of the neutron generator. That’s how they test a bomb without actually testing it, you see?”

“How in the hell would you do that?”

“We have ways to delete bits of code, pieces of chip, slices of memory. We can do brain surgery without ever cutting open the skull. We just have to be nearby. But it is access that is the problem. So you are asking me, if I could fly, could I fly to Mashad? And I answer yes. But of course, I cannot fly.”

“Maybe I can,” said Harry. “Or maybe I can put wings on someone.”

They talked into the evening. The tea and biscuits were replaced with whiskey, and to Harry’s surprise, even Kamal Atwan had a drink.

And Harry told Atwan about Karim Molavi; he tried to say as little as possible about the boy’s background, but the Lebanese had a way of filling in the gaps. He seemed almost to know the story as Harry was telling it.

It would work, Atwan said. There was a special tool his people used, when they had proximity to a computer but couldn’t get inside. It used an electronic pulse to alter computer circuits. It needed a lot of power to do its work, but that could be arranged, too. Atwan hadn’t brought this gear with him, but he knew where it was in London. He sent an encrypted email message to his senior technical assistant back home. He told him to gather the necessary components and then fly that night to Ashgabat on another of Atwan’s ubiquitous GasPort Ltd. jets.

Harry asked if the sabotage could be done remotely, without Karim having to take the risk of inserting a flash drive or rewriting code.

“As you like,” said Atwan. “We need to have someone inside with our device. It is better than rewriting code. Your boy will not have to plug that device into anything. But he must plug himself back into Iran. Do you think he will do that?”

Harry’s brow furrowed. He didn’t like to think about this part.

“He’ll do it if I ask him. That’s my problem. He will do whatever I say.”

Once the London technical team was on the way, they could all relax a little. Harry had a plan—a complicated and risky one, but not an impossibility. He nursed his Scotch; he still had a lot of work to do, and not many hours left. He had already begun thinking through the details in his mind, and he’d had one side talk with Adrian, when Atwan was sending his emails to London and ordering up his private air force. But it was still very much a work in progress, and Atwan knew it.

“You will need help getting the Iranian boy back in,” said the Lebanese.

“Adrian has his team. They are multitalented.”

Harry shot the British officer a look, and he could see that Adrian winced.