Isfahan. Tzadi (צ)

The Geometry of Distrust

29 Farvardin 1402 (April 18, 2023)

Spring came to Isfahan, but its arrival was a deception. The sun shone but gave no warmth; the apricot trees bloomed with a desperate, doomed beauty. The three months after Fordow passed like one long, gray day. Their report on the “unintentional singularity” had been accepted. The world pretended to believe it. But something had broken. The air in the research center had grown thick, viscous with distrust.

The control became total. It wasn’t in crude searches, but in the small things. Sudden inspections of work logs. New encryption protocols for email. Unfamiliar faces in the canteen who spoke to no one and only watched. The cameras seemed to monitor not actions, but thoughts. They had even appeared in the corridors between labs. ID cards were checked three times. It was a geometry of fear, where every point in space was under observation.

“They’re watching us like lab rats in a maze,” Rustam said once, as they were drinking tea. He spoke in a whisper, though no one was around. “Studying our reaction to stress.»
“A maze we built ourselves,» Zahra replied. “After Fordow, we all became suspects. It’s just a matter of degree.”
“Have you noticed? Are they following you too?”

She nodded. It wasn’t just the silver Saipa or the gray Peykan anymore. Others had appeared. “Foot-followers” near her home. Sometimes she felt she was being followed by two different tails—one from the IRGC, and the other… the other was a shadow, a ghost, whose presence she felt more than saw. Who was he? Fakhravadi’s man? Or her own fear, made flesh?

Twice she went to the mosque. She entered the library, sat at a table. She breathed in the dust of old books. But she did not move the bookcase, did not touch the netbook. She felt like a sapper who knows there is a mine in the room but doesn’t know where it is or what it looks like. Any careless move could trigger an explosion.

At work, conversations in the break room had become like reading encrypted dispatches.

“They say several inspectors are going to have their accreditation revoked,” one of the engineers threw out. “The ones who were at Fordow.”
“All of them?” someone asked.
“Several. The ones who were at Fordow. They’ll be declared persona non grata.”
“That’s an escalation,” Rustam noted.
“It’s a response to an escalation,” Rezai corrected. “They were the first to break protocol by publishing preliminary data without consultation.”
“And the JCPOA?” Zahra asked, referring to the 2015 nuclear deal.

Rezai shrugged.

“For now, we stay in. Leaving would mean complete isolation. Remember what happened in Natanz in ’20 and ’21?”
“Yes,” Rustam agreed. “It’s like a move in a chess game. We remove their queen from the board, but we don’t flip the board itself. We can’t leave the Agreement. That would be tantamount to declaring war.”

Everyone fell silent. The memory of the incidents at Natanz was too fresh. It was a scar on the body of the program. July 2020—an explosion that destroyed the centrifuge assembly workshop. April 2021—an “accident” in the electrical system that paralyzed the facility for days. Unofficially, everyone knew it was Mossad.

A few days before their next trip to Natanz, Amirkhan started a strange conversation. In the evening, when the children were already asleep, he sat down next to her on the sofa.

“You’re going with Yazdi again.”
“Yes. Routine data verification.”

He was silent for a long time, staring at the patterns of the Persian rug as if trying to read an answer in them.

“You spend a lot of time with him. Business trips, meetings.”
“We’re working on the same project.”
“What do you think of him? As a person?”

The question was asked calmly, almost lazily, but Zahra felt a chill run down her spine. This wasn’t a husband’s curiosity. Was it an interrogation?

“He’s… smart. A good physicist. We talk about science.”
“Only about science?” Amirkhan turned and looked her straight in the eye. “Do you trust him?”
“Within the bounds of professional duties, yes. Why?”
“Nothing,” he turned away. “Just be careful. In these times, you can’t trust anyone. Not even those who drink tea with you. Proximity to anyone can be misinterpreted.”

Or interpreted correctly, Zahra thought. Was he jealous? Or warning her? Or testing her?

“Rustam is a colleague. Just a colleague.”
“I know,” he said, a little too calmly.

The trip to Natanz was like a journey into the past. The same vast complex in the middle of the desert, the same hum underground. But now everything was different. During a meeting, one of the facility managers confirmed the rumors.

“Yes, the decision has been made. The accreditation of Weber, Dubois, and two others will be revoked. This is our response to their provocation at Fordow. But we are not leaving the JCPOA (Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action). Tehran believes it’s premature. The agreement gives us room to maneuver. Leaving would take that away. We don’t want to give Israel a pretext for a strike.”

This was the information her handlers had been waiting for. Valuable. Strategic. It revealed a split in the Iranian leadership: the hawks demanding a rupture, the pragmatists urging caution.

Returning to Isfahan the next evening, she told her husband she was tired and wanted to take a walk. He nodded, but she saw the questions in his eyes.

The Jameh Mosque was full of worshippers—Friday prayers. She joined the women’s rows, mechanically repeating the movements. After the prayer, as the crowd began to disperse, she slipped into the library. Took out the netbook. Turned it on. Her hands were trembling, but her mind was cold and clear.

VPN. India. Forum.

She wrote a message for JagdpanFer_83.

“They will not leave the JCPOA. Fear increased sanctions and sabotage. But accreditation of several inspectors, incl. Weber and Dubois, will be revoked as a ‘symmetrical response.’ Leadership is not united.”

And she hit “Send.”

She turned off the netbook, hid it again. Leaving the library, she felt a gaze on her. She turned—no one.

At home, Amirkhan was watching the news. On the screen, a debate about the nuclear program.

“Where did you walk?”
“In the park. Then I stopped by the mosque.”
“The mosque?”
“To pray. For peace.”

He gave her a long look.

“For peace… I’m afraid your prayers are too late. We are already at war. It’s just a cold one for now.”

For now, Zahra thought. The key word was for now.

Qoph (ק): The Last Friday