Isfahan. Ayin (ע)

The Underground Truth

30 Dey 1401 (January 20, 2023)

Fordow wasn’t just a facility. It was a wound in the body of a mountain, reaching ninety meters deep into the granite. A place where the human mind had forced stone to serve the most secret and terrible of its ideas. The air in the tunnel leading to the central hall was cold, with a taste of ozone and concrete, and felt as dense as water. Long rows of fluorescent lights on the ceiling hummed with a monotony that bored into the subconscious, crowding out all other thoughts. The walls were oppressive. There was no day or night here, only an eternal, artificial twilight. A Ministry of Truth, where reality was being rewritten in real time.

At the entrance to the main sector, a procedure awaited them that was honed to the point of absurdity. They, the top scientific personnel, were searched with the same thoroughness as enemy saboteurs. Metal detectors, scanners, retinal scans. Even their pens were taken, replaced with standard-issue ones. The security check at the entrance was methodical, humiliating in its meticulousness. Even Rezai, whom almost every guard here knew, went through all the procedures. The paranoid symmetry of security recognized no exceptions.

Before entering the negotiation room, Dr. Rezai pulled Zahra aside.

“Dr. Musavi,” his voice was quiet, but in the echoing silence of the tunnel, it sounded like a command. “When you enter, immediately offer them refreshments. Say this verbatim: ‘Will you have coffee, or tea without cardamom?’”

Zahra looked at him in surprise.

“Why without cardamom?”
“It’s a signal. It shows that we are considerate of Western tastes, but not fawning. A small detail, but they notice such things. A female scientist offering tea—it creates a domestic atmosphere. It reduces tension.”

He explained no more. He just turned and disappeared into the depths of a side tunnel, leaving her with this nonsensical, yet clearly significant, phrase. A password? A sign? Or just another detail in the theater of the absurd they were staging?

The IAEA inspectors were already waiting for them. The same faces as in Tehran. But here, on foreign territory, they seemed slightly different. Not guests, but surgeons, ready to open up a patient. They wore blue vests with the Agency’s emblem. On the table next to them lay their equipment: portable gamma spectrometers that looked like futuristic weapons, containers with kits for swipe samples, and tamper-evident seals that resembled strange amulets. The head of the delegation, a German named Klaus Weber, held a tablet with an open DIQ—Design Information Questionnaire.

Zahra took a deep breath.

“Gentlemen, before we move on to technical matters, allow me to offer you some hospitality. Let’s first sit down and get acquainted. Will you have coffee, or tea without cardamom?”

Weber froze for a moment. His eyes scanned Zahra’s face, as if searching for a hidden code.

“Tea, thank you,” he replied. “Without cardamom—that’s unusual for Iran.”
“We are scientists,” Zahra smiled. “We value the purity of the experiment.”

The others also chose tea.

“Our data,” Weber began, pointing to his tablet, “indicates a recent reconnection of the IR-6 cascades in Sector B-7. A change in the linkage. Can you comment on that?”
“Change in the linkage” was a euphemism. It meant “creating a cascade to enrich uranium to weapons-grade levels.”
“We were conducting a scheduled reconfiguration,” Rustam answered. “Testing a new schematic to increase the efficiency of medical isotope production. This is reflected in our operational logs.”
“However, this ‘reconfiguration’ coincided with an anomalous spike in power consumption,” a female inspector with a French accent intervened. “Your logs do not explain that.”
“Any complex system has its fluctuations,” Zahra countered. “We are not dealing with an ideal mathematical model, but with real equipment. Resonance effects are possible. We are, in fact, studying this very problem. It is a purely scientific question.”
“A scientific question that has led to the production of several kilograms of material enriched to over 80 percent,” Weber noted dryly. “That is no longer a fluctuation. That is a result.”
“The result of an experiment that was immediately terminated after the data was obtained,” Zahra said. “The material has been placed in storage under your control. You may take samples. We are hiding nothing.”

They spoke of kilograms and percentages, of linkages and fluctuations. But in reality, they were discussing one thing: how much time Iran needed to build a bomb. Every word was a lie wrapped in truth. Every number was both a fact and disinformation. Zahra felt like a translator in the Tower of Babel, where everyone speaks the same language but invests the words with opposite meanings.

“We need to take samples in Sector B-7,” Weber finally said.
“Sector B-7 is undergoing scheduled maintenance,” Rustam replied, a little too quickly. “But we can provide you with the monitoring data from the last month.”
“Data is not samples,” the Frenchwoman insisted. “We need physical access.”
“Tomorrow,” Zahra promised, knowing that overnight the sector would be cleaned to the sterility of an operating room. “After the technical work is completed.”

The inspectors exchanged glances. They knew they were being given time to destroy evidence. But an open conflict was not part of their mandate.

“Very well,” Weber nodded. “Tomorrow at 9:00. And we will install tamper-evident seals on all entrances to the sector. Today.”
“Of course,” Zahra agreed.

In the evening, in the sterile, impersonal guesthouse on the facility grounds, Rezai summoned them. He sat in an armchair, his face a mask in the dim light. He wanted to know everything.

“Which of the inspectors specifically insisted on Sector B-7?”
“The Frenchwoman, Marie Dubois,” Rustam answered.
“What else did she ask?”
“About the isotopic composition of the waste. About temperature anomalies in the IR-2m cascade.”
“And the German?”
“Weber was more interested in the documentation. He asked to see the power consumption logs for the last three months.”
“Did you give them?”
“Only the general data. We said that the complete information required authorization from Tehran.”

Rezai nodded, making notes in a small book.

“And the other two?”
“Mostly silent. One was photographing schematics on a tablet, the other was measuring something with a portable spectrometer.”
“Measuring what?”
“Background radiation, it seemed. But he held the device strangely, pointing it at the ventilation grilles, and then taking wipe samples.”
“They’re looking for traces of hexafluoride,” Rezai muttered. “What else?”

It went on like this for another hour. Every detail, every word, every gesture of the inspectors was dissected and analyzed. Zahra felt like an accomplice to a crime she was simultaneously committing and investigating.

“Be even more careful tomorrow,” Rezai concluded. “They are not just checking the centrifuges. They are checking us.”

And after a brief silence, he added:

“Remember, this is a private conversation, Dr. Musavi and Dr. Yazdi. Information about it must not leave this room. Do you understand?”
“But this is a standard procedure…” Rustam began.
“As of today, there are no more standard procedures,” Rezai cut him off. “There are only orders. You are dismissed.”

They stepped out into the corridor. His words hung between them. “Information must not leave this room.” It wasn’t a request. It was a threat.

Alone in her room—four walls, a narrow bed, a window with a view of a concrete wall—Zahra thought about how she had become part of a machine that devoured truth and excreted lies with the efficiency of an industrial reactor. And the most terrifying part was that she could no longer tell where her lies ended and someone else’s began.

Outside, a January blizzard howled, covering the entrances to the underground complex with snow, where 174 centrifuges—or more—continued their monotonous dance, separating isotopes and fates.