Blind Scorpion: Iran's Nuclear Sting, Book 2

By Mike Wells and Farsheed Ferdowsi

The BLIND SCORPION is a Top Secret computer program for simulating nuclear weapons explosions and the catastrophic havoc they wreak. The most advanced technology of its kind, the BLIND SCORPION requires such intense number crunching capability that it runs on a dedicated mind-numbing 1,400 teraflop IBM Blue Gene supercomputer burrowed underground at the National Energy Research Computing Center in Oakland, California.

Dr. Ross Shaheen, the developer of the software, is living the American dream. Between his internationally-recognized nuclear weapons research career at the prestigious Berkeley Lab and his picture-perfect family in the San Francisco suburbs, it's a good life that can only get better...until he is lured into lecturing before an elite group of scientists in the country of his birth: Iran.

The seven thousand mile trip takes Shaheen back to the land of the lion and the sun, yet it also delivers to Iran's very doorstep an important American citizen with Top Secret security clearance. It soon becomes clear what the Iranians are really after: the BLIND SCORPION. The coveted software is the key to advancing their clandestine nuclear weapons program without the rest of the world being able to prove its existence. Shaheen becomes entangled in a twisted web of espionage, corruption and survival, putting to the test not only his secret knowledge but also the very core of his allegiance to the land he now calls home.

If he lives, Ross Shaheen could walk away a hero.

The question is, for which country?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Wells
• Release date: Jun 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311385406

Mike Wells

Urgentiste, Professeur et consultant, Division of Emergency Medicine, University of Witwatersrand, et Netcare Union Hospital Emergency Department, Johannesbourg, Afrique du Sud

Book preview

BLIND SCORPION:

IRAN’S NUCLEAR STING

BOOK 2

(International Spy Technothriller)

By

Farsheed Ferdowsi & Mike Wells

© Farsheed Ferdowsi & Mike Wells All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, settings, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, settings or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For Aram,

Kimia, and Donesh

Chapter 2.1

With a burgeoning population approaching twelve million, Tehran, the capital of Iran, is one of the largest cities in the world. Its name means warm slope, probably because it is situated on the southern foot of the Damavand Mountain, the highest peak in the Alburz range. And, since the sprawling metropolis is sandwiched between the snowcapped mountain to the north and an arid desert to the south, Tehran—except for a month or two in the winter—has a temperate climate.

Yet, it was a starless and oppressively hot night when Dr. Ross Shaheen, after an absence of thirty-five years, returned to his birthplace, the warm slope that was Tehran.

The black Mercedes snaked its way north through the chaotic traffic, which was heavy even at midnight. While the tinted windows of the car concealed the odd mix of passengers from the curious onlookers, an invisible veil of secrecy kept their true loyalties hidden from each other.

Kazem played tour guide to Ross. Extolling the virtues of the Islamic Republic, he enthusiastically pointed to the new buildings and elevated superhighways that had been constructed since the Revolution of 1979. Ross had trouble paying attention to what Kazem said. Preoccupied, he nodded to be polite while thinking about the yellow note that Reza had swallowed earlier. He felt uneasy about the listening devices in the car and the ones awaiting him at the hotel.

Reza negotiated the traffic in a determined manner and continued to head north on the Niyavaran highway while Kazem, like a bore at a cocktail party who doesn’t know when to shut up, babbled on. Meanwhile, Ross gazed into the distance, wondering what other secrets lay hidden in the darkness. He struggled to find recognizable landmarks but, other than the Azadi Tower, didn’t find any. Nothing looked familiar, not even the street names—they had mostly been changed to either commemorate some Shaheed (Martyr) or a variety of mullahs (Muslim priests).

Oddly, it all seemed strange to him.

Fearing guilt by association after his twin brother’s execution, Ross’ immediate and extended family had emigrated abroad into voluntary exile. There was no one left to visit. His childhood friends and high school buddies had all vanished to North America, Europe, or Australia for their pursuit of happiness. There was no one left to call.

Slowly, a cruel fact began to dawn on Ross: he had become an alien in his own land.

Kazem stopped talking when the car pulled into the portico of the Shams Grand hotel. He accompanied Ross into the lobby. Please stay here while I get your room key. You are already registered.

Ross obliged without saying much and lingered in the lobby. Equally exhausted and anxious, he strolled around admiring the majestic space, the high ceilings, and the ornate chandeliers. The entire floor was white marble with inlaid brass, which created geometric patterns. In the center, a large blue Persian rug sprawled beneath a massive granite round table. Two enormous silk rugs—so exquisite, they appeared as if they were tapestries—adorned the walls on each side of the registration desk. Several sofas and loveseats, in stark blue leather, were positioned in various corners and alcoves of the lobby. At first glance, the five-star hotel lived up to its name: grand.

Reza entered the deserted hall carrying Ross’ suitcase and stood a respectful few steps away. Ross approached him casually and whispered, Can we talk here?

Reza nodded.

I’m free tomorrow. Ross looked back to see where Kazem was. Can you take me around town in a car that has no ears?

I’ll see what I can do, Reza said. What time?

Late morning.

With nervous movements of his eyebrows, Reza signaled that Kazem was approaching.

You have a penthouse suite, my friend, Kazem declared with obvious delight, dangling the key. I had to pull a lot of strings to get this for you.

Thanks, Ross said, thinking, Yes, lots of strings along with a bunch of wire taps.

You must be tired, Dr. Shaheen. Let me show you to your room.

Okay, Ross muttered. After you.

Kazem entered the spacious suite on the ninth floor with Ross in tow. Reza followed, carrying the suitcase. Immediately, Kazem began to admire the room and the panoramic view from the spacious balcony. It was well past 1:00 a.m. Ross kept yawning and couldn’t wait to go to sleep. After a while, Kazem got the hint. On his way out, he went over Ross’ schedule for the next few days and gave him his business card. Call my mobile if you need anything.

Ross was mostly quiet until then. He took the card and said, I don’t know my way around Tehran. Can Reza drive me tomorrow? I mean later on this morning, and also on Friday?

Absolutely, my friend. He is at your service. Go around the city, Dr. Shaheen. See how much we’ve accomplished. Enjoy yourself. Get some rest and acclimate. And on Saturday, bright and early, your work will begin.

With that, Kazem and Reza left.

Alone and barely awake, Ross collapsed on the bed and dialed his home number in San Francisco. On the fourth ring, Oksana picked up. She was ecstatic to hear his voice. They chatted for a while, and Ross assured her that he was fine but exhausted. After a few minutes and with controlled excitement, Oksana said, Guess what?

I’m too tired to guess. Tell me.

We received a wire transfer today.

From Iran?

Yes. Where else?

Great. They kept their promise.

But, it’s for ten times the amount you requested.

You mean . . . a million!?

Yes.

It’s a trap! The bastards are trying to set me up.

Set you up? Oksana said. What are you talking about?

Ross caught himself. He had said too much. After all, Oksana was not aware of his true mission. Nothing, honey. I’m just tired; don’t mind me. It’s obviously a mistake. Some idiot must have punched an extra zero into some computer. I’ll look into it later.

It was a brief conversation. Ross tried to sound normal even though he felt awkward knowing that some grease ball was listening in. For a while, he wondered if besides the microphones, there were also hidden cameras in the room. But before long, he dismissed the thought and walked out onto the balcony for some fresh air. He leaned against the handrail staring at the ocean of flickering lights while twisting the Berkeley ring on his middle finger.

* * *

On a giant flat-screen, mounted on the wall of a dimly lit room one floor beneath Colonel Nash’s office, a new bright green light was flashing. This was the Command Center of the Directorate of Operations of the CIA—the forbidden control room of America’s worldwide spy network. There were eighteen such screens on the wall. Some two-dozen controllers, wearing headphones and mouthpieces, sat behind high-tech workstations and carefully monitored them. Hundreds of such green lights, blinking on every monitor, pinpointed the locations of CIA operatives in various regions of the world.

A unique codename appeared to the right of each light. And SPIKER was the word that marked the latest blinking dot over the map of Tehran. No one in the Command Center, not even the manager, knew who SPIKER was. In fact, the true identities of covert agents in the field were the most tightly held secret in the CIA. The information was so sensitive that a comprehensive list or database was never maintained in one place and, other than the Director of the CIA or his deputies, no one had access to the entire list.

At 4:35 p.m., sixty-three hundred miles west of Tehran and nine time zones earlier, Colonel Nash was notified that SPIKER was in position. He knew who SPIKER was.

Chapter 2.2

It was mid-morning on Thursday when Ross woke to a hard knock on the door. Thinking it was housekeeping, he moaned, Come back later. But there was another knock. He dragged himself out of bed, put on a bathrobe, and opened the door until the chain link snagged. He looked out and saw Reza standing there ready to knock again.

Oh, it’s you.

I tried to call from the lobby, but you would not answer.

Ross let Reza in and mumbled, It’s unplugged.

Once again, Reza gestured silence by placing his right index finger over his lips. Where do you want to go today?

Mindful of the hidden microphones, Ross said, Just drive around the city, and visit some old spots. I feel like a tourist.

I’ll wait for you in the lobby. Wear something cool; it is a scorcher outside.

Ross stepped out of the elevator into the lobby where Reza was engaged in an animated discussion with one of the bellboys. When he saw Ross, he came over.

Ross said, Let’s get some lunch, and headed for the door without waiting for an answer. Reza dutifully followed him outside and led him to his car. It was his personal vehicle, an ancient white Paykan, assembled in Iran. He had made up an excuse for his boss at the ministry—that the official Mercedes was out of order.

Almost immediately after Reza drove out, Ross began to sweat profusely. The Paykan was not air conditioned, and the temperature was in the nineties. It was dry heat but still uncomfortable. Shams Grand Hotel was located in the elite Niavaran neighborhood, north of Tehran. Reza drove south and then west toward the city center on the Hemmat highway. Moments later, he said calmly, We’re being followed.

Ross froze.

Don’t look back, Reza said, looking in the rearview mirror. There’s a red motorcycle with two riders behind us. They’ve been tailing us since we left the hotel.

Who are they?

I don’t know for sure. But I know the bike.

How can you know the bike?

"There are only two BMW motorcycles like this in the entire city. And they belong