Free The Once and Future Spy by Robert Littell Page B

only thing that keeps me chained to my desk is my appetite for the pension I get
     in two years, three months and twelve days.”
    He pulled a fresh pack of menthol cigarettes from a desk drawer, slid the cellophane wrapper off it and placed it on the blotter
     halfway between himself and his guest. “I don’t remember if you smoke,” he remarked.
    The Weeder said he didn’t and never had.
    “Neither do I anymore,” Linkletter said with sudden enthusiasm. “But my victory over the weed is meaningless if there is no
     temptation. In order to feel superior to cigarettes you have to lust after them.” Linkletter swiveled impatiently toward his
     intercom and stabbed at a button. “Where, where, where in God’s name is my tea?” he cried plaintively.
    “Tea,” an aggravated voice replied, “requires boiling water. Boiling water requires the application of heat. The application
     of heat requires time.”
    Turning back to the Weeder, Linkletter spread his hands in embarrassment. “You would think they were bringing it all the way
     from India,” he said. “Well, now, to what whim of wind do I owe the pleasure of your calling at my port?”
    “I was passing through,” the Weeder said. “I thought I’d stop by and say hello.”
    “Old time’s sake, that sort of thing?”
    “Old time’s sake,” the Weeder agreed.
    “There’s nothing you’re looking for? No tidbit of information you want to get your hands on without going through channels?”
    “Now that you mention it—”
    Linkletter sighed again; it came across as a long drawn-out comment on the human condition. “I have not been a Company archivist
     for twenty-two years, eighteen months and eighteen days—and head archivist for the last eighteen years, seven months and no
     days—for nothing, my young friend.”
    The Weeder leaned toward Linkletter. “Have you ever come across a reference to something called Kabir?”
    “Are you thinking of applying there for a teaching position?” Linkletter asked with a small guttural laugh that sounded like
     a hiccup. “I’m not sure you speak the language.”
    “What language would that be?” the Weeder wanted to know.
    “Persian, some Kurdish, some Arabic, various strains of Turkic. You are talking about Amir Kabir College, formerly the Polytechnic
     College of Tehran University. As a matter of fact, the Company has been keeping rather close tabs on this particular institute
     of quote unquote higher learning for some time now. The dossier would take you a week to speed-read through.”
    “What’s so special about Amir Kabir College?”
    “Why, it’s a nuclear research center—the only one in Iran. That’s what’s special. It houses a five-megawatt research reactor,”
     Linkletter added. “If my memory serves me, and I will be the first to concede that it almost always does, the reactor has
     a fuel load of five kilograms of enriched uranium, which is enough to construct a nuclear weapon if the ayatollahs can get
     the technology right. Which so far, thanks to God, they have shown no signs of doing.” Linkletter lowered his head as if he
     intended to butt it against something. “Amir Kabir College is crossfiled under the heading ‘Islamic bomb.’ You see what I
     am driving at?”
    In the Weeder’s experience there was a magical moment when you were working out any puzzle—it came when a single piece fitted
     in that suddenly allowed you to see the entire picture. This was such a moment. He saw what Linkletter was driving at, all
     right, and more. He saw what Wanamaker was up to. He saw what Stufftingle was all about. He saw why American nationals wouldn’t
     be warned. In his mind’s eye he saw the Nagasaki-type bomb and the Nagasaki-type explosion, and the mushroom cloud spiraling
     up into the sky over Amir Kabir College in Tehran.
    “I’ll bet,” the Weeder told Linkletter, “the ayatollahs have lasers to separate weapons-grade uranium from ordinary uranium.”
    “As a