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  Although Operation Torchlight didn’t include the protocols for making contact with anyone in Iran’s nuclear community, I was excited about the possibility of getting to know Amir Madani.

  My excitement was motivated by the incompetency of the CIA’s Nuclear Security Division (NSD), the department responsible for providing intelligence on countries capable of producing nuclear weapons.

  The NSD had an abysmal track record in Iran.

  For years, the NSD’s administrators had defended their failure by insisting it was impossible to make contact with any of Iran’s nuclear scientists, primarily because the Iranian regime maintained an extremely tight rein on these individuals.

  However, Mossad, the Israeli intelligence agency, had been sharing intel with the CIA on Iran’s nuclear program for several years now. More often than not, they had identified those secrets as having come from scientists in Iran who were eager to hand over information on Iran’s nuclear weapons program.

  According to Carlton, this glaring discrepancy in the intelligence-gathering capabilities of the two agencies was fast becoming an embarrassment to the suits on the seventh floor.

  The best intel the CIA had ever been able to obtain on Iran’s nuclear program had come from the recruitment of Komeil Haddadi, one of Iran’s premier nuclear scientists.

  However, his recruitment hadn’t been the result of any effort on the part of the CIA.

  Five years ago, Komeil Haddadi had eluded his security handlers at a World Nuclear Association Conference in London and made his way over to the American Embassy, where he’d surprised everyone by asking for asylum.

  Even though no one had seen that coming, Carlton, along with several other Agency personnel, had been on a flight to London within twenty-four hours to begin debriefing him.

  When I was introduced to Komeil a few years after his defection, he was quick to let me know he’d been planning his escape from Iran for years.

  As part of my preparation for Operation Torchlight, Support Services had arranged for me to meet regularly with Komeil at his home near Washington, D.C. I’d requested the meetings because I wanted to familiarize myself with the peculiarities of the Iranian culture and to perfect my fluency in Farsi, the language spoken in Iran.

  Since I’d never had any formal training in Farsi—having only picked up the basics from an Iranian exile living across the hall from me during my stint in Pakistan—Komeil had spent several hours a day schooling me in the finer points of Farsi grammar.

  During our time together, he’d also briefed me on some of the more prominent people in Tehran, people he thought might be sympathetic to an overthrow of the Iranian regime. Most of these individuals were bankers and lawyers, but some of his scientific buddies had also been included.

  To make it easier for me to identify these people, we’d spent hours sifting through stacks of photographs prepared for us by the Agency’s counterintelligence analysts.

  One day, near the end of our time together, Komeil had shown me a photograph of some of his colleagues. It was a group shot taken at a conference on nuclear physics. Among those attendees was Amir Madani.

  Now, the man himself was sitting across from me.

  * * * *

  I was eager to learn how Farid and Amir Madani had met, but when Farid referenced a series of lectures Amir had delivered during a symposium at Tehran University, I realized they must have met at the university.

  Farid’s mention of the symposium seemed like the perfect opening for me to show some interest in Amir. I asked him, “What was the subject matter of the symposium?”

  “It focused on the role of science and technology in government. My lectures primarily addressed the responsibility scientists have to use their research for the betterment of society.”

  Farid had never shown any interest in either science or the betterment of society, so I was mystified as to why he had attended Amir’s lectures in the first place. However, a few minutes later, when Amir brought up Farid’s girlfriend, I realized she must have persuaded him to attend the lectures.

  “I enjoyed talking with Chaman at the symposium,” Amir told Farid. “Your girlfriend asked me some very thought-provoking questions.”

  Farid’s latest girlfriend, Chaman Bijan, was the daughter of a wealthy telecom executive, but, like Farid, she had a bit of a rebellious streak in her. In fact, a few weeks ago, when Farid had introduced us, Chaman had told me she preferred to think of herself as an activist, although she wasn’t specific about the causes she supported.

  Farid said, “I hope you didn’t think Chaman was being disrespectful when we attended your lecture, Amir. She never passes up an opportunity to challenge the status quo.”

  Amir assured Farid he hadn’t been offended by Chaman’s questions, and, as if to prove his sincerity, he asked Farid some questions about her.

  Soon, those questions turned into more questions, and before long, Amir appeared to be interrogating Farid instead of having a conversation with him.

  Farid didn’t seem the least bit concerned he was giving Amir a lot of information about Chaman; instead, Farid appeared flattered by Amir’s interest in his girlfriend.

  By the time I was able to steer the conversation on to a different topic, I felt certain Amir knew what restaurants Chaman frequented, where she shopped for her clothes, and even the name of the apartment building where she lived.

  While I found Amir’s questioning of Farid unusual, I attributed his information-gathering technique to his scientific mindset, and I dismissed any thought he could be a threat to Farid.

  A few minutes later, Amir asked me a question.

  “Tell me, Hammid; are you originally from Iran?”

  To prove my theory about Amir’s inquisitive nature, I proceeded to give him a few short answers about my background to see if my answers piqued his curiosity.

  “No, I was born in Geneva, Switzerland.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Yes, my mother is a Swiss national.”

  “But your father’s an Iranian, right?”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Did they meet in Iran?”

  Since the pace of Amir’s questions had picked up, I decided it was time to flesh out my answers a little more. By adding a few details, I was hoping to make a connection with Amir that would eventually lead to a friendship. If I became friends with one of Iran’s nuclear scientist, the payoff could be enormous, especially if I managed to recruit him as my asset.

  Of course, that was a big if.

  “No,” I said, “my parents didn’t meet here in Iran. They met at a jewelry exposition in Geneva. My father was at the expo looking for new markets for his watchmaking, and my mother was at the expo representing her father’s jewelry business.”

  Amir gave a short laugh. “Which came first? The business relationship or the personal one?”

  I felt certain Amir’s lighthearted question was a good sign our conversation was headed in the right direction, so I smiled and said, “My mother insists it was purely business at first, but my father claims it was a little of both.”

  Amir nodded. “Everything depends on perspective, right?”

  At this point, I fully expected Amir to ask me some follow-up questions about growing up in Switzerland or, at the very least, quiz me about what I was doing in Iran. Instead, he glanced down at his watch.

  “I really need to get back to work now. I didn’t realize it was getting so late.”

  “Perhaps you need a new watch,” I said, handing him my business card. “Whenever it’s convenient, I’d be happy to drop by your office and show you our new line of timepieces.”

  He chuckled when he took my card. “It was nice meeting you, Hammid, but I don’t believe I could afford a Salimi watch.”

  As I watched Amir Madani walk away from the table, I wondered if I’d been wrong about him. Had I been too quick to attribute his interrogation of Farid
to his scientific mindset or was his real motivation his desire to learn more about Chaman?

  Whatever his motivation was, I couldn’t deny the nuclear scientist had just spent the last thirty minutes gathering intel on Chaman Bijan.

  Now, I was determined to find out why.

  * * * *

  As Farid and I watched Amir making his way across Zafaranieh Plaza, I was tempted to lecture my asset about the need to be more judicious in his conversations with people, but then I decided that wasn’t such a good idea.

  Farid’s friends and acquaintances saw him as an easygoing, free-wheeling kind of guy, and if I tried to stifle his exuberant nature, his contacts might become suspicious of him or stop communicating with him altogether.

  I wanted Farid to be seen as a rich, harmless playboy because people shared secrets with rich, harmless playboys.

  I gestured at Amir’s retreating figure. “He’s an interesting guy.”

  Farid shook his head. “He may be interesting, but I could barely stay awake during his lectures.”

  “How did Chaman feel about his lectures?”

  “She found them fascinating, but she was disappointed in their content. She said she expected Amir to offer a few more progressive ideas about Iran’s place in the world.”

  “What does Chaman consider progressive?”

  He shrugged. “With Chaman, it’s hard to tell.”

  I prodded him. “Did she object to the way Amir presented Iran’s nuclear program?”

  “No, she didn’t care about that. What bothered her was Amir’s failure to address the issue of how dependent we are on Russia for research in the nuclear energy field. She said she knew he felt strongly about our scientists conducting their own research, and he wasn’t happy about Iran relying on Russia for that data.”

  “I’m guessing she made her views known to Amir.”

  He nodded. “They discussed it during the question and answer period. She didn’t back down when he told her he was rethinking his position on Russia.”

  “Why was Chaman so certain they were on the same page when it came to nuclear energy?”

  “Her father serves on the AEOI Board of Directors with Amir, and he told her it was something he and Amir had often discussed.”

  Several years ago, Iran’s Supreme Leader had established the Atomic Energy Organization of Iran (AEOI). Its purpose was to develop applications for the use of nuclear technology in commercial ventures, but I was surprised to hear Amir was a member of their board. According to Komeil, the AEOI Board was made up of wealthy businessmen, not underpaid nuclear scientists.

  “Are you sure Amir’s on the AEOI Board?”

  “I’m positive. According to Chaman, Amir is heavily invested in a nuclear power plant south of the city. I’m sure that’s why they asked him to be a member of their board.”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise at this revelation, and Farid immediately commented on it. “You look surprised, Hammid. I thought you knew about the power plant.”

  I nodded. “I knew about the power plant, but I was surprised to hear a government-paid scientist could afford to invest in it.”

  “I don’t believe Amir’s salary could be the source of his investment funds.”

  “What then?”

  “I’m guessing his money comes from an inheritance.”

  “So if Amir has capital to invest, why did he say he couldn’t afford a Salimi watch?”

  “Amir had to be kidding about that. He has plenty of money.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  Farid nodded. “During his lecture, he mentioned he lived in Shemiran, and I know apartments there don’t come cheap.”

  I knew all about Shemiran. It was a luxury apartment complex north of Tehran. Before I left Langley, when I was being briefed by Support Services about where Hammid Salimi would be living in Tehran, I’d suggested buying him an apartment in Shemiran.

  Robert Ira, the Agency’s Deputy Director of Operations, had immediately nixed the idea. He said the cost of purchasing an apartment there would put Operation Torchlight over budget, and he didn’t believe my presence there would yield enough intel to offset the extra expenditure.

  Now, I wondered if the DDO might change his mind about that, especially if he knew setting me up in an apartment in Shemiran would put me in close proximity to one of Iran’s nuclear scientists.

  Before making such a proposal, though, I needed to know more about Amir Madani, particularly why he’d shown so much interest in Chaman Bijan.

  Right now, I was betting his interest in her was purely personal.

  I understood that.

  Chaman was a beautiful woman, extremely intelligent, and not shy about expressing her feelings—a combination most men found irresistible.

  I know I did.

  However, that wasn’t the reason I decided to pay Chaman a visit. I did it for operational purposes only.

  Really.

  Chapter 3

  Chaman lived in an apartment building on Maryam Street, in the affluent Elahyieh district of northern Tehran, not far from the Russian Embassy. Her building, Shahre Tower, was one of several high-rises in the area.

  One of the assets I was running, a banker named Omid Askari, lived in a three-story house about a mile from Chaman’s apartment. I’d been inside his luxurious residence once, but no one was home at the time.

  The sign outside Shahre Tower indicated there was parking available in an underground garage; however, I opted to park my black BMW directly across the street from Chaman’s building.

  After squeezing my vehicle between a Peugeot and a Mercedes, I pulled a pair of binoculars out of the glove compartment and did a quick recon of the area just to make sure no one living at Shahre Tower had drawn the attention of VEVAK.

  Along with several apartment buildings, Maryam Street was home to a couple of high-end boutiques, an art gallery, and a restaurant with patio seating.

  While no one on the busy street particularly drew my attention, a man and woman seated at one of the restaurant’s outdoor tables momentarily sparked my interest, especially after I noticed the man was occasionally glancing over at the entrance to Shahre Tower.

  After watching him for several minutes, I realized his eyes were only drifting in the direction of Chaman’s apartment building when the woman seated across from him wasn’t speaking to him. I finally decided his sporadic activity was an innocent reaction to the conversation they were having.

  From what I could tell, he was looking away from the woman before he responded to her, as if he needed to compose his thoughts by staring off in the distance for a moment or two.

  As a processor, I understood what he was doing—he was buying himself a little extra time to consider things and to anticipate how the woman might react to what he was going to say to her.

  After a few minutes, I put away the field glasses and exited my vehicle.

  By the time I’d entered the lobby of Shahre Tower, I’d already scripted out what I was going to say to Chaman when she answered her doorbell. I knew I couldn’t use the I-was-just-in-the-neighborhood excuse to explain why I was paying her a visit, because Chaman knew I lived in an apartment near the Kharazi Expressway in western Tehran.

  Instead, I’d decided to go for the straightforward approach.

  * * * *

  There was no mistaking the surprised look on Chaman’s face when she opened the door to her penthouse apartment and saw me standing there.

  “I’m sorry, Chaman,” I said. “I know I should have called before I showed up on your doorstep.”

  “Do you even have my number?” she asked, motioning me inside.

  “No, I don’t believe I do. Would you mind giving it to me?”

  She tilted her pretty head slightly to the right and smiled at me. “And why would I do that, Hammid?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, returning her smile. “What if Farid had an emergency when we were ou
t together, and I needed to call you?”

  She didn’t respond until we’d entered her living room. It was a room filled with expensive furnishings and decorated in pale ivory and shimmering gold, a color combination I’d often seen used in the homes of other wealthy Iranians.

  After pointing me toward an ornate sofa, she sat down in a high-back chair opposite me. As she positioned her legs modestly in front of her, she said, “You’re right, Hammid. You should have my phone number.”

  I waited a beat or two, expecting her to recite the number for me, but then, when she didn’t, I said, “You’re probably wondering why I dropped in on you like this.”

  “It does seem a little out of character for you.”

  Since we barely knew each other, I wasn’t sure why she thought I wasn’t the spontaneous type, but I agreed with her assessment anyway. “You’re right. I like to plan things out well in advance, but a matter has come up unexpectedly, and I couldn’t wait to discuss it with you.”

  She leaned forward in her chair. “What is it?”

  “I’m sure Farid told you I’m seeking investors for my parents’ jewelry business.”

  She nodded. “Farid tells me everything.”

  I knew that wasn’t true, but correcting her wasn’t in my best interest, so I let it go.

  “I’m only interested in investors who are committed to our product, and who are well positioned to make a long-term investment. When I—”

  “Is that why you’re here, Hammid?” she asked, leaning back in her chair. “Do you want my father to invest in your—”

  “No, Chaman, of course not,” I said, interrupting her. “I’m here to ask your opinion about someone. I’ve seen how Farid values your judgment, especially about people, and I’d like to get your take on someone who has expressed an interest in becoming an investor in Salimi watches.”

  A smile returned to her face. “I’ve been told I have a gift for reading people.”

  “I don’t doubt that.”

  She pushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “Okay, so tell me about your investor.”