But he was not foolish enough to say this to the man standing next to him.
The man in question, Darian Moradi, was a relative newcomer to the MOIS. Prior to his appointment as Ashani’s deputy a month earlier, the young cleric hadn’t held an official position in government. Instead, he’d served as the adjutant to a ranking member of the Guardian Council.
A cleric who could very well be Iran’s next Supreme Leader.
Unlike Hoseini-Nassiri, Moradi’s boss seemed less focused on the never-ending quest to destroy Iran’s Jewish neighbor and more on stabilizing the regime through normalization with the rest of the world.
This made Moradi’s question both interesting and dangerous.
“Inspired by the magnificent vista?” Moradi said. “Or the giant man-made sinkhole?”
Ashani stood on the eastern side of the plateau. Behind him, the mountain continued skyward. The drivable trail that led from the mountain’s base ended at the plateau, becoming a rocky path passable only to donkeys or goats. The plateau’s other occupants were gathered at the western side of the terrain feature about seventy meters distant. Their jubilant voices carried across the open ground as they gestured toward the flames licking the metallic wreckage strewn across the valley floor.
No doubt the venue was chosen in part to showcase the clear night.
In part.
There were plenty of places in Iran that offered a commanding view of the sky along with the requisite room needed to catch large chunks of smoldering aluminum and plastic as they fell to the earth. The decision to hold the demonstration here undoubtedly had much to do with what had once been concealed beneath tons of cement and steel on the valley floor.
But agreeing and voicing that agreement were two different things.
Ashani eyed his companion.
At first glance, Moradi was nothing remarkable. His beard was the prescribed length, his circular turban sparkling white, and his gray qabaa robe elegantly tailored. Though he was ostensibly Ashani’s second-in-command, the cleric clearly maintained an open line of communication with his former boss. Even so, Moradi was respectful to Ashani and did not flaunt his obvious political connections. His thin frame showed none of the corpulence often associated with Iran’s ruling elite, and his short stature was not aided by platform shoes. Most importantly, the dark eyes present behind his clear framed glasses were sharp and thoughtful.
The eyes of someone who saw much but spoke little.
In their admittedly limited interactions, Ashani had yet to put the man in a box. Moradi asked intelligent questions, did not trade on his former boss’s influence, and wasn’t prone to ravings meant to demonstrate his religious fervor. He reminded Ashani of a particularly keen aide-de-camp. This was a man with whom it would be easy to let down one’s guard.
Which was why Ashani intended to do the opposite.
“It is a very nice evening,” Ashani allowed.
This was true.
April and May were two of the more pleasant months in Isfahan. The bitter cold of winter was a thing of the past and the spring rain briefly returned life to the desert. Only two weeks ago, Ashani would have needed a thick coat and gloves to survive the brutal winds that buffeted the cliff face, but tonight the temperature hovered around 18 degrees Celsius and the breeze felt gentle and warm.
“You are a cautious one,” Moradi said with a chuckle. “Willing to discuss the weather but no words for the sea of flashing red lights?”
The red lights in question winked from atop the type of portable barriers that normally heralded a stretch of road marred by construction. But the constellation of crimson beacons blinking from the valley floor had a different purpose. Ashani was not a civil engineer, but he didn’t believe anything would be built upon the concrete cairn the barriers ringed in this lifetime.
Or even the next.
The barriers were meant to prevent the unwary from venturing too close to a radioactive cavern. A cavern that had once contained the centrifuges and feeder reactor that were critical to Iran’s nuclear weapons program. Billons of dollars lay beneath the rubble.
Billions the Islamic Republic of Iran did not have.
Ashani sighed.
This was the second time the cleric had brought up the elephant in the room.
“What happened here was a tragedy,” Ashani said.
“How many died?”
Ashani turned from his contemplation of the massive crater to find the little cleric’s eyes on him. This time no merriment shone from their depths.
“Too many,” Ashani said.
“You were almost one of them.”
Moradi’s response seemed more statement than question, but Ashani knew he still owed the cleric an answer.
“Yes.”
“What do you think about the disaster?” Moradi said.
“The loss of life was tragic,” Ashani said. “The perpetrators should be brought to justice.”
“Yes, yes,” Moradi said, waving away Ashani’s answer. “You are suitably outraged, and we must swear vengeance on the Americans, the Jews, the Kurds, or whoever sabotaged our supposedly impenetrable nuclear weapons research facility. I will save us both the trouble and pretend that you regurgitated the appropriate rhetoric, but you’ve misunderstood my question. I want to know what you think about the site’s purpose—the development of an atomic bomb.”
This time Ashani didn’t have to fake his reaction.
Though the two men were standing apart from the huddle of figures gathered at the cliff’s edge, Ashani still couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Belief in the necessity of the Iranian nuclear weapons program was canonical in its fervor. Tens of billions had been spent on the effort, and the ensuing international sanctions had crippled Iran’s economy. Even so, continued adherence to this strategy wasn’t given any more thought than questioning why water was wet.
It simply was.
Moradi might as well have been asking Ashani if he believed that Muhammad was Allah’s prophet. Ashani hoped for a coughing fit or some other excuse not to speak. A burst of laughter echoed from the group of men clustered at the far side of the bluff.
