Weapons of Mass Deception

by David Bruns

  The bathroom was equally extravagant, with marble double vanities, a huge freestanding tub, and a glass enclosure with multiple showerheads lining the wall. He looked longingly at the shower but decided that would take too long. He stripped to the waist and ran a sinkful of hot water to wash his face and shave.

  The face that stared back at him in the mirror was tired, but there was a gleam of excitement in his red-rimmed eyes. He grinned at his reflection. Finally, his chance to make a difference in the real world.

  Refreshed, he followed Mrs. Juntilla through the wide halls lined with oil paintings and fresh flowers, his repacked roller bag clicking along behind him. She paused at the end of the hallway, outside a set of double doors that extended up at least nine feet. She rapped on the door with her knuckles, then pushed into the room.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said. “Mr. Riley has arrived.”

  The room must have been a ballroom at some point in its history. The ceilings were at least twenty feet high and finished with ornate plaster castings. The walls were a pale yellow, warmed by the sunshine streaming in through the French doors that lined the wall. Outside, Don could see a wide veranda and the frozen Vantaa River beyond.

  For the meeting, an area rug covered the beautiful honey-colored parquet floor, and two rows of tables faced each other separated by about six feet. All of the chairs, twelve on each side, were occupied—except for one. Don dropped his computer bag and stood behind his chair. He felt his face grow hot as he faced the room. “Good morning—afternoon, I mean, everyone. Sorry to interrupt. Flight delays . . .” He let his voice trail off.

  No one said anything, so he sat down.

  The meeting continued. Don pulled out his laptop and waited as it booted up. He scanned the opposite side of the table, trying to commit the names and faces to memory. He’d read the dossiers on most of them, and they were your typical bureaucrats: low-level career paper-pushers.

  The third man along the row of Iranians was an unexpected member of the delegation. Don read the paper nametag on the table in front of him: Reza Sanjabi. The man’s laptop—the only one in the row of Iranians—was closed, and he took sparse notes on a yellow legal pad. Don did not remember seeing this man’s dossier.

  He looked to be in his late forties, with a pudgy, clean-shaven face and large hooked nose. The man seemed to sense he was being watched. His liquid brown eyes met Don’s, and he offered a slight smile and a quick nod before breaking eye contact.

  Don stared down at his computer screen, and tried to find the spot in the agreement they were discussing.

  The day passed with mind-numbing slowness. Don now saw why no one else had volunteered to come to the meeting. The negotiators described this as a “trust-building meeting,” a gathering where they talked about how they might talk about an agreement. They’d spent a good portion of the afternoon on one paragraph of the potential draft document and the word nuclear had not even been used in any of the text so far. Don felt a headache building.

  After a break to freshen up, the attendees gathered back in the ballroom for cocktails before dinner. Don quickly realized that the entire US team had worked together before. They acted professionally toward Don, but they also made it clear he was not welcome for anything other than work matters. He got a Jameson at the bar and moved to the French doors overlooking the darkened river.

  In the brightly lit room behind him reflected in the darkened glass, the diplomats were arranged in small groups according to their rank. A figure broke off from one of the nearby groups and approached Don.

  “Hello,” he said in flawless English. “My name is Reza.” He had a trace of a British accent.

  Don turned and shook his hand. His palm was soft, but the handshake firm. The man’s molten brown eyes seemed to look right through Don. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Donald.” He made a broad gesture to the room. “This is a remarkable place, is it not?”

  Don nodded. He could see that a few members of the US delegation had noticed he was speaking with Reza. “Yes, I understand this building has quite a history as a location where the seeds of peace have been planted.”

  Reza smiled. “I have heard that.” With his drink hand, he motioned at the chandelier, a monstrous affair of crystal and gold. “Magnificent."

  “And this location . . .” Reza turned to face the darkened glass. “Such natural beauty.”

  Don followed his lead and faced the glass, away from the rest of the room.

  Reza spoke softly. “It must be a sight in the spring, when the snows melt and new life blooms.”

  Don’s reflection nodded.

  “Not unlike countries,” Reza said. “They come through a winter of hardship, and new leadership creates new growth, new alliances . . . even peace where before it was not possible.”

  Don could see the head of the US delegation glancing in his direction. He looked like he might be about to come over.

  “New leadership can make all the difference,” Don said.

  “We have such a leader in Hassan Rouhani,” Reza replied. He was watching the gathering behind them in the glass, and seemed to sense they were about to be interrupted.

  Don knew Rouhani’s name, but consensus in the US was that his chances in the election were slim.

  “Mr. Sanjabi, is it? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” The head of the US delegation held out his hand. “Richard Welker.”

  “Mr. Welker, the pleasure is mine,” Reza replied in a warm tone. “I was just remarking to Mr. Riley about the beauty of this place.”

  “Yes.” Welker’s tone said he didn’t think much of the beauty of Finland in winter or Donald Riley. “I suppose if you enjoy snow and cold, it’s fine. Why don’t I introduce you to the rest of the US delegation and freshen that drink for you?”

  “Of course, that is very kind of you,” Reza replied. He turned to Don, extending his hand. “Mr. Riley, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Please enjoy your stay in Finland, and I hope you see this beautiful country in the bloom of spring.”

  His hand closed around Don’s, and Don felt something press between his ring finger and middle finger.

  A slip of paper.

  He curled his fingers around the paper and thrust his hand in his pocket.

  He tilted his glass in Reza’s direction and smiled. “To spring,” he said, and drank off the last of the Jameson.

  CHAPTER 19

  Estancia Refugio Seguro, Argentina

  13 June 2012 – 2200 local

  Rafiq could see Javier’s face illuminated briefly as he lit his cigar. The flame jumped erratically as the old man puffed on the Cuban, his features hazy in the smoke.

  In the orange glow, Rafiq could make out Javier’s neatly trimmed goatee, his square jawline and hooded eyes. He wore his hair long, like the locals, gathered at the nape of his neck in a ponytail. On any other man, the ponytail might seem pretentious, but on Javier it looked distinguished.

  It was the perfect disguise, Rafiq realized, and the perfect trap. The same trap he was walking into.

  Javier. That wasn’t his real name, of course; it was the name he chose when he came to Argentina in 1983, shortly after the bombing of the US Marine barracks in Beirut. Javier’s part had been large enough that he was sent to South America for a cooling-off period.

  That was thirty years ago, and Javier was still in Argentina.

  Thirty years . . .

  As Javier told the story, he’d met Consuela, the only daughter of a wealthy rancher, during his first week in the country. There were various versions of the story—some involving Consuela riding up on a pure white stallion, others in which he helped her across the street, and even one where they met at a costume ball and kissed at midnight—but they all ended the same way: Javier married Consuela, became a wealthy landowner, and never went back to his homeland.

  I’ve been here four years, Rafiq thought. Is this how I will spend the rest of my days, drinking wine and smoking cigars in the
dark? He reminded himself again that he was performing a sacred duty for his brother, a task that only he could perform.

  That excuse was wearing thin on his conscience.

  In truth, Javier’s role in the Tri-Border Region did more for the cause of Islamic freedom than anything he might accomplish in the Middle East. In addition to the safekeeping of Rafiq and his “cargo”—that was how they referred to Rafiq’s mysterious charge—he provided a steady stream of funds for Hezbollah as well as the occasional recruit from the local Lebanese diaspora.

  Rafiq kept his own name but otherwise maintained a low profile. The Tri-Border Region was well known for Hezbollah operations, and the lack of presence by the Israelis and the Americans still surprised Rafiq. He knew it was due to men like Javier, Lebanese immigrants who had grown up in the community and knew who to pay, and when, and how much. He supposed the odd overlapping of Brazilian, Argentinean, and Paraguayan responsibilities in the area allowed the authorities to defer to local control—or no control.

  Not that there weren’t mistakes. Only three months ago, a group of Hezbollah brothers had arrived in the area. They’d committed an unauthorized attack on Israel and were seeking safety from the wide net of Mossad. Javier and the rest had welcomed them with open arms.

  But the men were young, restless, and stupid. Within a few weeks of their arrival, they were caught planning an attack on a local Jewish community center. Javier had enlisted Rafiq’s help to deal with the situation.

  There were now five unmarked mounds of earth in the pampas one hundred kilometers south of Javier’s ranch. The role Javier played in the area, and the funds sent from this place to support operations back home, were far more important than the lives of five young men with more zeal than common sense. Their families would be well cared for.

  “Are you going to let an old man smoke alone?” Javier’s voice was rich and suave, exactly as one might expect a wealthy rancher to sound.

  “Throw me the lighter, old man.”

  Javier laughed as he lobbed the silver lighter across the veranda. His laugh was gentle, like a grandfather’s laugh, or the father Rafiq had never known.

  Even in the poor light, Rafiq caught the lighter one-handed. He smiled to himself as he snipped the cigar end and sparked a flame. He’d worked hard to stay in shape, to keep the edge on his combat skills. He insisted on daily hand-to-hand sessions with his men and brought in locals as sparring partners. He’d even tried his hand at Gracie-style jiu-jitsu, a Brazilian invention, but he preferred not having to fight on his back all the time.

  He stared at the glowing tip of his cigar. Still, four years was a long time. How much longer would he have to wait to return to the real fighting?

  Rafiq checked his watch, the glowing face of the timepiece telling him he had another hour before his monthly check-in with Hashem. Even the watch had been a gift. A Rolex, no less, a present from Nadine on his thirtieth birthday. Paid for with Javier’s money.

  “How’s the cargo?” Javier asked him in a lazy voice. He heard the man take a sip of wine, and the clink of the glass as he rested it back on the end table.

  Rafiq laughed out loud in spite of himself.

  It was their private joke. When Rafiq had first arrived at Estancia Refugio Seguro, he’d overseen the placement of Hashem’s special cargo in the deepest wine cellar of the plantation, a dry cave with heavy iron bars, an ancient lock, and oaken wine racks. At Rafiq’s request, Javier had added a secret compartment complete with steel door, cypher lock, and state-of-the-art security system.

  During the entire time the secret bunker was being constructed, the “cargo,” as Rafiq referred to the crate, was under constant guard by Rafiq and his men. Rafiq always checked on the night watch before he turned in—with Nadine to keep him company. Within weeks they were lovers, a state of affairs he felt sure Javier would frown on. One night, after months of sneaking away late at night to “check on the cargo” with Nadine, Javier called to Rafiq as he crossed the veranda.

  It had been a night much like this one, with the old man smoking and drinking his wine in the dark. Rafiq had squirmed and shifted his feet like a schoolboy who’d been caught stealing from the local drugstore.

  “Why do you always check the cargo late at night, Rafiq?” Javier asked.

  Rafiq tried to read the voice, closing his eyes to concentrate on the old man’s tone. “It’s my duty,” he said finally.

  “Hmmm.”

  Rafiq tensed.

  “Maybe you should think about checking the cargo in the comfort of your own bedroom. I don’t like Dean out late at night.”

  Nadine had appeared at the entrance to the veranda at that point, her face a pale glimmer in the gloom. “Papa, stop it,” she said with a low laugh. The huskiness in her voice made Rafiq’s breath catch in his throat. She glided across the flagstones and grasped his hand, pulling him gently back into the house. “And I don’t like being called ‘cargo,’ Papa,” she said over her shoulder.

  The old man’s laugh chased them through the dark halls.

  Rafiq checked his watch again. Thirty minutes until his call with Hashem.

  Tonight was the night. Tonight, he would tell Hashem that he had to come home to Lebanon. He had been away too long, away from the fight, wasting his life in this . . . paradise.

  As if on cue, Nadine appeared in the doorway.

  “What are you two doing out here? Smoking your nasty cigars and telling lies about me?” she said.

  “Deanie, my dear, come give your poor old papa a kiss.” The old man’s voice was drowsy.

  In her flowing white nightdress, she looked like a dark angel crossing the veranda. Rafiq heard her plant a kiss on her father’s forehead and a slight clink as she took away his wineglass and the bottle.

  “You look so like my Consuela, Deanie. So beautiful . . .” Javier mumbled.

  “Yes, Papa.” She crossed to Rafiq and, after depositing the glassware on the table, slid into his lap. He felt himself respond as her backside nestled into his groin. Nadine ran her hands over his hair, pushing her satin-clad breast against his cheek. Her nipple, erect beneath the material, rubbed against his lip. He nipped at her and she pulled away, teasing him.

  Across the room, Javier let out a loud snore.

  “Come to bed,” she whispered in Rafiq’s ear. Her breath was warm against his neck and full of promise.

  Rafiq’s eyes dropped to the glowing face of his Rolex. Twelve minutes.

  “I need to—”

  “Shhh.” She put a finger to his lips and shifted her body so she straddled him in the chair. Rafiq dropped his cigar to the stone floor in a shower of sparks. She ground herself against him, and Rafiq stifled a moan. He slid his hands down her sides until they rested on the small of her back. In front of his face, her breasts trembled under the satiny material.

  “No,” he said, more roughly than he intended. He pushed her off him. “I need to get ready for a phone call. Now.”

  Nadine shivered in the night air, wrapping her arms across her chest. “I’m sorry. I thought—”

  “No, I’m sorry, Nadine,” Rafiq whispered, drawing her close. “I shouldn’t have started anything. I—I have to go now.”

  Nadine kissed his cheek. “Brush your teeth before you come to bed,” she said with a low laugh. “I’m not making love to an ashtray.”

  Rafiq hurried to the office, feeling strangely guilty at having let Nadine down, and at the same time angry with himself for this feeling of tenderness. He was a warrior, fighting a battle that required his full attention. Nadine was a distraction—a distraction he needed to get away from.

  Tonight’s the night. Tonight I tell Hashem I am coming home.

  He locked the study door and booted up the computer. The Windows theme music echoed loudly in Javier’s study as he logged into his phantom email account.

  The room was comfortable, rich with mementoes of Javier’s life as a ranch owner. Rafiq settled into the deep leather armchair and cursed the slow
ness of the computer. He wished now he’d brought his cigar with him.

  He opened the Deleted Files section of his email and searched for the spam message that had been sent to him at exactly noon on the fifth of the month. It showed a link to a XXX porn site, which Rafiq clicked.

  A plain text chatroom with a five-minute countdown clock in the lower corner filled the screen. Hashem was already logged in.

  By the time they had completed the prearranged script to verify their identities, there were less than four minutes remaining.

  How is our package? Hashem wrote. Even in this secure environment, they spoke in vague terms.

  No change, Rafiq typed back. How much longer must I stay here?

  Hashem took a long time to respond. As long as it takes. Be patient.

  Rafiq wanted to scream. It had been four years! His fingers shook as he typed.

  I need an end date.

  Another long pause. Was Hashem deliberately running out the clock to avoid the conversation?

  Your mission is to be the hidden sword, the blade of death they never see coming. Be patient.

  The countdown clock was less than a minute now.

  I need to get out!

  I have faith in your strength. WE have faith in your strength. You will not let us down.

  The screen went black as the timer ran down to zero. The program automatically erased his web session and wiped his deleted files clean.

  It had been like this every month for the last four years. Is the cargo safe? Stay in place. When would it end?

  Rafiq shut down the computer, and switched off the desk lamp. He eased back into the soft leather of the chair, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. The only sound in the quiet of the ranch house was his own breathing.

  You have a good life here.

  The thought came to him unbidden, and the truth of it hurt. He liked his life—no, he loved his life here on the ranch. But he could not shake the thought that if he didn’t leave now, in thirty years he’d be like Javier, getting drunk every night, missing the only woman he’d ever loved.