Weapons of Mass Deception

by David Bruns

  They made camp in the Zagros Mountains, a remote site, barely accessible by their four-wheel-drive vehicle. They found the cavern one afternoon during their second week: a vast space at the base of a mountain, half the size of a soccer pitch, with a level, sandy floor and an entrance large enough for their truck. He could see his father and brother even now, standing in the glare of the headlights speaking about the formation of the natural wonder in hushed tones as if they might wake some sleeping giant. His father put his arm around Aban’s shoulders. At that moment, Hashem wanted nothing more than to be like his brother.

  That trip was the end of innocence for Hashem in so many ways. Within the next year, his father was dead, the Shah had fallen, and Aban’s always-present religious tendencies had bloomed into an obsession.

  And Hashem was alone.

  He entered university the next year, but he was not able to study overseas like his brother. By his sophomore year, he had been recruited by Ettela’at as an intelligence officer.

  Aban was nodding at him, still smiling, and Hashem shook his head to clear it of these random memories.

  “We have time, Hashem,” he was saying. “As the Americans say, we have many balls in the air. We must be patient while the situation clarifies for us. Patience and victory are twin sisters; one does not exist without the other. Our greatest asset is our secrecy, brother. Above all, you must preserve that—especially in your international dealings.” He placed his hand on Hashem’s knee. “We must be prepared to wait—years, if necessary—for the right moment.” Hashem met his brother’s eyes. The Friday sermon fire had returned.

  The plump hand tightened on his knee. “And above all, my brother, we must have contingencies. You have considered the possibility that our primary objective may not be possible?”

  Hashem nodded. Israel was a hardened target and getting worse with every passing month. Soon the Israeli Arrow system, an advanced version of the American Patriot surface-to-air missile defense system, would be operational. In truth, the Iraqi weapons were low-yield, his expert told him no more than four or five kilotons each. Poor by international standards, but enough to destroy a medium-sized city—assuming it reached the target.

  No, Aban was right: contingencies were needed to make a proper statement to the world.

  “I will call Rafiq,” he said. “Perhaps he can help.”

  Aban clapped his hands. “Hezbollah, an excellent idea!” His grin darkened and he narrowed his eyes at Hashem. “I’ll leave it to you as to whether or not the bastard can be trusted.”

  Aban stood, and just like that, he became His Eminence again. His features took on the gravity of his office and he even seemed taller, slimmer. Hashem knelt again. Aban placed his hand on Hashem’s head. “Rise, my brother. Please.” He stared into Hashem’s eyes, then kissed him on both cheeks. “You are an instrument of Allah, my brother. I have faith in you.”

  In spite of himself, Hashem felt a lump in his throat, and tears stung his eyes. He mumbled an inaudible reply, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. His brother was the only man who could draw such emotions out of him.

  Aban stepped away and called out. His bodyguard filled the doorway again. Aban snapped his fingers and pointed to the table. The bodyguard, a hulking man with a clean-shaven head and eyes set too close together, dropped an aluminum briefcase on the table with a thump. He stepped aside to let Aban pass, then followed the cleric out the door.

  Hashem had a cigarette out and his lighter fired before the door even clicked shut. He drew deeply, letting the smoke calm his lungs, allowing it to trickle out of his nostrils before he blew a long stream at the ceiling. He smoked the entire cigarette and started a second before he laid the briefcase flat on the table. He carefully dialed the combination on the lock. 4-30-80. The date of their father’s death. The locks made a loud clack in the empty room as he opened the lid.

  Green and white bills, neatly banded and stacked, filled the case. He pulled one stack and flipped through the bills, letting the flutter fan his face. Hashem took another deep drag on his cigarette as he felt the sides of his lips curl into a smile.

  American cigarettes, American dollars, American destruction. The symmetry was beautiful.

  He reached into his breast pocket for his mobile phone and sent a text to a cut-out number in Lebanon.

  While he waited, he stared at the silent TV screen, watching Saddam’s statue fall again and again.

  CHAPTER 4

  United States Naval Academy Graduation, Annapolis, Maryland

  23 May 2003 – 1400 local

  Liz Soroush air-kissed her mother’s cheek, careful not to let the older woman’s makeup mark her dress blues.

  The limo driver stood to one side, hand on the car door, a permanent half-smile on his lips. Liz’s mother, elegant in a pink suit from some famous designer, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear.

  “Congratulations, Elizabeth. I know you worked very hard.” Her voice was soft, and Liz bristled at the unspoken regret in her tone.

  We’re not going to do this today.

  Liz smiled at her own reflection in her mother’s stylish smoky glasses. The US Marine Corps eagle, globe, and anchor insignia on her lapel and the second lieutenant bars on her shoulders gleamed in the May sunshine.

  I did it. I graduated. I’m a Marine.

  “Thank you, Mom. That means a lot to me . . .”

  As usual, her father saved the day. He slid his arm around her, pulling her close. “Lizzie, you did it! I’m so very proud of you.” His accent was still heavily salted with the tones of his native Iran. She folded herself into his thick arms, letting the scratch of his beard scrape her cheek.

  Whereas her mother towered over both of them, she and her dad were the same height and build, thick and strong.

  “Thank you, Papa,” she whispered.

  Fatima and Ahmad Soroush had left Iran in the late 1970s with their three sons in tow. Ahmad, an engineer, settled his family in Los Angeles, and through the Iranian expat community he found a good job with a local real estate developer. Within a few years, he was running the company. Money had never been an issue in the Soroush household, and Liz could have attended any university in the world.

  She chose Annapolis.

  Her closest brother was just finishing high school when Liz was born. Fatima Soroush might have had visions of her perfect little girl dressed in the latest fashion, but Liz might as well have been born a boy, for all the good it did her mother.

  Liz let her father go. “You’re going to miss your plane, Papa.”

  The old man’s eyes were misty under his bushy eyebrows. “I know. I just wish we had more time.”

  She pushed him gently toward the open car door. “I leave for Quantico in the morning and I have a million things to do before then. Now go.”

  She waved as they drove away. She didn’t really have that much to do, but she was looking forward to the graduation party at Marjorie’s this afternoon, and five days with her parents was more than enough togetherness for one visit.

  The parking lot outside the Navy-Marine Corps Stadium, where the US Naval Academy Commencement Ceremony had been held, was still a saluting madhouse from the thousand or so newly commissioned ensigns and second lieutenants filling the area.

  She’d seen a few silver dollar salutes—it was tradition that a newly commissioned officer flipped a silver dollar to the first person who saluted them—and it made her smile. In a place like the Academy, tradition sometimes felt like a mindless repetition of outdated acts, but silver dollar salutes held a special place in her heart.

  Liz finally made it to her car, still parked on the Academy grounds, her arm tired from all the salutes. Brendan leaned against the hood, his lean body clad in the US Navy service dress white uniform. An overnight bag lay at his feet.

  “I left my car parked over at Marje’s. Mind if I get a ride?”

  “Sure,” Liz replied. She searched his face, looking for some clue abou
t how he was feeling. He met her gaze, but gave her nothing.

  Liz got behind the wheel of her 1999 Honda Accord. Both the trunk and the backseat were packed with her gear for her drive to Quantico early the next morning, so the front seats were moved forward. She drove down Admiral’s Row, the Academy housing for senior officers, and past the chapel. A newly minted ensign was just coming down the wide stone steps with his bride on his arm.

  “And so it begins,” Brendan said, watching the couple walk through a sword arch. Naval Academy midshipmen were not allowed to marry, but that restriction was lifted once they graduated. The Academy Chapel would be doing weddings every hour for the next week to keep up with the demand.

  “They’ll be divorced in a year and you know it,” Liz replied.

  “Maybe.”

  Liz made the turn past the parade ground, toward the back gate.

  “Ever wonder about us, Liz?”

  She let out her breath in a rush. Did she ever.

  “We’ve been through this, Bren. You’re a SEAL, I’m a Marine. We’re going different places . . . and we’re not going to get there together. Maybe someday, but we owe it to ourselves to make the most of our separate lives first.”

  Did she really believe that? Brendan McHugh was her best friend and sometimes boyfriend, but more than anything he’d been there for her for all of the last four years. The familiar scenery of the parade ground slid by the car window, maybe for the last time. No one made it through the Academy on their own, and she couldn’t remember a day in her time here when she hadn’t at least talked to Brendan for five minutes. Was she really willing to give that up? Her head said yes; her heart . . . she wasn’t sure what her heart was telling her.

  On the other hand, she knew this was her moment. The 9/11 attack had changed everything for them, and her path lay in a different direction than Bren’s. They laughingly called the Academy the Boat School, but behind the chuckles, the mission was deadly serious. They were professional military officers now, and they owed it to their country to repay their training with dedicated service.

  Brendan punched her on the arm. “You’re such a hard-ass, Liz. You’ll make a good Marine.”

  Marje met them at her front door. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I need some help setting up. Get out of those uniforms and meet me in the kitchen.” She wagged her finger at them. “No fooling around, you two. I need your help now.”

  Another benefit to her and Brendan’s friendship with Mark had been the fact that his mother lived in the Annapolis area. The Academy had a sponsorship program that paired midshipmen with local families, and Marje had been glad to sponsor Brendan, Liz, and Don Riley.

  Their bond only deepened when Mark was killed in Iraq. Her son’s death had taken its toll. Her beautiful auburn hair was shot with gray, and the deep lines that radiated from the corners of her eyes and lips looked permanent.

  But at least she was happy today. It was probably the first time since the funeral that Liz had seen her really smile. She kissed Marje on the cheek. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  Liz retreated to a spare bedroom and carefully hung up her service dress uniform. She slipped on a pair of cutoff jeans and a white bikini top, and she finger-combed her hair as she made her way back to the kitchen.

  “What can I do?” she asked.

  Marjorie looked up from a plate of cold cuts she was fussing over. “Don just got here with a whole pack of people. Can you get a badminton game started? Anything to keep them out of the house while I get the rest of the food ready.”

  Liz trotted down the lawn to where a group was crowded around a cooler of beer and soda. The Severn River sparkled at the base of the property and she could make out the Academy buildings on the opposite side of the river.

  “Alright, who’s up for some badminton?” Quickly, she organized two sides and got the game underway. By the time Brendan and Marjorie showed up, the other team was losing badly.

  “Ensign McHugh,” she called, “I think that team could use some help.”

  Before Brendan could answer, a tall blonde girl reached out and snagged his arm. “You can play on my side,” she said with a smile. “I’m Milli, by the way, with an i.”

  Liz rolled her eyes. “Twelve serving three,” she called and swatted the birdie.

  Having Brendan on the opposing team definitely helped even the score, but it soon became clear to Liz that “Milli with an i” was playing her own game—and it wasn’t badminton. She stuck to Brendan’s side and seemed to be always touching him. Liz felt a spark of . . . what? Jealousy? She’d just spent that last week telling Brendan they needed to live their own lives; she was not jealous.

  On the next rotation, she found herself opposite Milli on the net. The girl was tall, with an easy elegance that reminded Liz of her mother. Her full breasts were barely held in check by her pink bikini top and her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail that ran halfway down her long back. The hint of a sneer on Milli’s model-perfect face made Liz want to duck under the net and use her racket as a weapon of opportunity.

  Brendan stepped in front of Milli. “C’mon, Lizzie,” he taunted her with a wicked grin. “Let’s see what you got.”

  Liz ignored him, biding her time. It took a few volleys before Don could feed her the perfect set-up shot. The birdie arced high, coming down right where she needed it. Brendan went airborne, trying to get his racket over the net, but it was out of his reach. Liz waited until the last second, then leaped and spiked it across the net as hard as she could. The birdie flashed past Brendan’s shoulder and nailed Milli right on the forehead.

  Liz smiled through the net at Brendan and shrugged her shoulders.

  “Sorry.”

  Liz relaxed into the worn cushions of the sofa and closed her eyes.

  Marjorie’s den was cool and dark, lit only by one floor lamp with a dim bulb. The party was done and it was just the four of them now: Brendan, Marjorie, Don, and Liz. Apart from the whisper of the ceiling fan, the only sound in the room was the occasional clink of ice in their glasses.

  Marjorie raised her glass toward Mark’s picture on the wall, his Marine officer portrait. A wooden triangle with a folded flag under glass anchored the collection. “What is it you military types always say? ‘To absent friends?’”

  “To absent friends,” they all echoed softly.

  Liz’s gaze roamed over the photographs, settling on the picture taken on Mark’s graduation day. In typical Mark fashion, he’d managed to modify the silver dollar tradition to suit his needs: the picture showed him flipping two coins, one each to a saluting Liz and Brendan.

  Liz nudged Brendan with her toe and nodded toward the shelf. He lifted a square gift box from one of the lower shelves and pulled his chair closer to Marjorie.

  “Marje?”

  Her gaze still rested on the picture of Mark. She started when Brendan called her name.

  “We have a gift for you,” Brendan said.

  “Oh!” Marjorie sat up quickly. The ice clinked in her glass as she set it on the floor. “For me? You shouldn’t have.” Her fingers plucked at the bright ribbon. “It’s almost too pretty to unwrap.”

  Liz laid her hand on Marjorie’s. “Take your time, Marje.”

  The older woman ripped off the paper to reveal a jewelry box. She snapped the lid open, and stopped. The room was silent for a long moment.

  Don tugged his chair closer. “It’s a—”

  “I know what it is, Don,” Marjorie said. “It’s the silver dollar from Mark’s first salute.” She looked at Liz and Brendan. “Which one of you did this?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Marje,” Liz said gently. “We gave the other one to Don.”

  “I can’t accept this, guys,” Marjorie said. Her finger ran across the polished face of the coin. Liz bit her lip. That coin had been in her pocket since the day Mark had flipped it to her, and her fingers had worn the features smooth. She sneaked a glance at Brendan. Just another thing she was giving up to follow her dream.<
br />
  “Just try it on,” Liz said. They’d had the coin set in a handsome circular setting with an eyelet at the top for a chain. She lowered the necklace over Marjorie’s head. The older woman held it up in the light, her eyes tearing up.

  She reached out and pulled Liz and Brendan close. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll stay safe and come home in one piece,” she whispered.

  Behind Marjorie’s back, Liz found Brendan’s hand and squeezed it hard.

  CHAPTER 5

  Abu Hamam, Syria

  15 June 2006 – 1715 local

  The land greened around them as they neared the Euphrates River. Hashem cracked open the window of the Range Rover. He could smell the moisture in the air now, a foreign scent after the unending dust of the desert.

  “How much longer?” he asked the driver.

  The driver consulted his dashboard GPS unit. “Fifteen minutes, Colonel.”

  Hashem nodded and shut his window, the interior of the car suddenly quiet again. He turned to his passenger. The man stiffened. Hashem pretended not to notice.

  This was the best they could send him? This bundle of nerves was an explosives engineer? He took a deep breath to calm himself. He knew the man was probably more nervous about meeting a Quds Force colonel than about the training assignment, but still the man’s nervous energy filled the air with tension.

  The driver turned off the main highway to a rutted side road. He hit a pothole, the impact ringing through the car. The man beside Hashem lashed out with a curse.

  “Slow down, you idiot!” the man screamed. “Do you want to blow us all to hell?”

  The driver’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Hashem smiled to himself. Maybe this engineer would work out after all.

  The road wound through a short stand of trees, the driver taking extra care to avoid the deep ruts. They rounded a bend and the narrow thoroughfare opened onto a broad meadow. In the center of the clearing, atop a small rise, sat a two-story house, white paint peeling from the concrete in patches. Hashem grunted in satisfaction. Rafiq had chosen well. The sight lines were clear in all directions for at least three hundred meters and there were no neighbors nearby. He saw the shape of a dish antenna poking above the facade. They even had Internet.