Weapons of Mass Deception

by David Bruns

  Don knew the Israelis had both the capability and the willpower to strike Iran if they felt cornered, but in the US, it was a different story. The public was done with war in the Middle East; “war-weary” was the new Capitol Hill buzzword. Iraq was finally over—at least as far as the US population was concerned—and it was time to start getting out of Afghanistan as well.

  The silent TV screen divided, Netanyahu on one side and Obama on the other. The irony of it made Don grimace. It seemed that one man was doing all he could to avoid a war and the other doing all he could to get into one.

  And now this last-minute meeting with Iran to screw up his three-day weekend. It had always been on the schedule as a possible event, but it was also expected to be canceled. There were formal P5+1 negotiations planned in Geneva less than six weeks away, and everyone expected the new Rouhani administration to make a statement there about their plans for the nuclear talks.

  This was only a working group meeting, and Rouhani had been in office less than three weeks. The man was probably still learning where the bathrooms were located. The P5 members, or the permanent members of the United Nations Security Council—namely the UK, US, China, Russia, and France—were joined by Germany—the +1—to make up the official negotiating team for the Iranian nuclear talks. The Finnish meetings were true working sessions, staffed by a core group of third-level technical experts tasked with hammering out pre-meeting language and rules. The tier-one negotiating team ignored these meetings as nothing more than bureaucratic grunt work.

  The gathering today was expected to be even more sparse than usual. With the end of summer in the northern hemisphere, the US Labor Day holiday, and the expected reset from Iran in October, everyone had expected this meeting to be canceled. Even the most hardcore staffers were deserting the meeting like rats fleeing a sinking ship.

  Not that Don hadn’t tried. He’d put in for leave, which was promptly denied by Clem with a bullshit “outta my hands, buddy” excuse. Don thought about going to his CIA supervisor, but he finally decided to take the trip. His stomach rumbled, and he belched gently into his fist. Minor food poisoning from the meal aboard the plane was just the icing on the cake for what looked like a total fucking waste of his weekend.

  He glanced at his watch. Time to get ready. With one last longing look out the window, he snatched his tie off the bed and faced the mirror.

  The French doors of the ballroom were open, filling the room with fresh air and the warm scents of late summer. Birdcalls filtered in from outside.

  The tables were arranged as before, two rows facing each other. Of the dozen seats on either side, only about two-thirds of the places had name tags. Don wondered if he had enough time before the meeting started to call the airline about getting an early flight home.

  The US delegation leader was there with a few of his cronies. He nodded to Don but didn’t bother to come over to say hello. They’d found out he was CIA and that made him persona non grata to the career bureaucrats.

  Don claimed his assigned seat on the far end of the table—they always put him on the end, as far away from the action as possible. He filled a coffee cup from the urn and wandered out onto the veranda. The sun seemed like a pale imitation of the sunshine in Washington, DC, but he closed his eyes anyway and angled his face upwards. His stomach burbled and he suppressed another burp.

  “May I interrupt you, Donald?”

  Don turned to find Reza Sanjabi, the Iranian diplomat he’d met during the winter meeting.

  “Reza, what a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know you were coming this time.” Don held out his hand.

  Reza took a quick look over his shoulder back at the meeting room. “I think you will find many surprises at this meeting, Donald.” He hesitated, taking another look around them. “I need you to listen very carefully. I work for President Rouhani in a . . . special capacity. I see that his wishes are fulfilled in the real world. Do you understand what I am saying, Donald?”

  Don nodded. Reza worked for MISIRI, the Iranian equivalent of the CIA. He’d suspected as much after their last meeting, but this was confirmation.

  Reza gave him a tight smile before continuing. “My new president wishes that today’s meeting be the start of a new page in the Iranian nuclear negotiations. I am here to make sure that happens . . . and I hope you will join me. There are entrenched interests on all sides who are very concerned about maintaining the status quo. President Rouhani means to overcome these special interests, but he cannot do it alone. I believe your own president faces similar challenges.”

  Reza’s liquid brown eyes stared at him with intensity. Don swallowed hard.

  “I believe I can trust you, Donald Riley,” Reza said. “Can I trust you?”

  “Of course.” Don realized his coffee cup was trembling in his grip. He wrapped his other hand around it and pressed it back against his chest.

  “In our last meeting I gave you a way to contact me,” Reza said.

  Don nodded again. The number had been untraceable, probably a cut-out number.

  “Do not hesitate to reach out to me, Donald. Our interests are aligned.” He pressed his hand against Don’s forearm and gave him a quick smile. “Now, I believe we should go inside. The show is about to begin.” He strode away.

  Don reentered the ballroom and took his seat at the end of the table, his mind racing. He needed to excuse himself as soon as possible and report this contact with Reza. Surely the Iranian knew he would report it; he was probably counting on it.

  The double doors to the ballroom opened and the Iranian delegation filed in as a group. The first dozen took the seats at the table and the next twelve carried chairs with them that they set up as a second row. Reza, seated in the back row, adjusted his chair so that he could make eye contact with Don.

  The entire front row of the Iranian delegation was new faces. They removed the old name tags from the table, replacing them with new ones. The Iranian delegation leader was a spare man with a gleaming bald pate and a pair of intelligent eyes that reminded Don of a hawk. His name tag said Dr. Ali Zhargami, in English and Farsi.

  Richard Welker, the paunchy leader of the US delegation, swept his eyes down the row of Iranians and licked his lips. “I believe we may have different expectations for this meeting, sir. Perhaps we should adjourn so I can consult with my team.”

  Zhargami responded in a reedy voice. “It is not this meeting that concerns us, Mr. Welker. My team and I are here to ensure that the meeting that will take place in Geneva in less than six weeks is no less than a stunning success.” He paused, and placed his hands flat on the table in front of him before he continued.

  “President Rouhani has an ambitious agenda. One of his top concerns is ending this ridiculous feud with the western nations. It causes unnecessary hardship to the Iranian people and cripples our economy. The Iranian nuclear agenda is peaceful in nature.” Welker opened his mouth, but Zhargami held up his hand. “Please, let me finish, sir.”

  Welker pressed his lips together and sat back in his chair. The man on Welker’s right scribbled something on a pad and pushed it in front of the delegation leader. Welker glanced at it and nodded.

  Zhargami waited patiently until he had Welker’s attention again. “As I was saying, the Iranian nuclear agenda is peaceful in nature, and we are prepared to allow IAEA visits to confirm this fact.”

  Don raised his eyebrows; the International Atomic Energy Agency visits were thorough and invasive. That was a major concession right up front.

  “We will be making some changes in our delegation to ensure the October negotiation takes the right direction. Effective immediately, the leader of the Iranian negotiating team will be Foreign Minister Javid Zarif.”

  Welker sputtered. “You’re replacing your lead negotiator six weeks before an international negotiation? That’s preposterous! We will need to reschedule the event and prepare a new—”

  “There will be no rescheduling, Mr. Welker. I am sure you will find the new Foreign
Minister amenable to making progress on this process. Which brings me to my next point: the timetable for an agreement.”

  Welker’s forehead wrinkled. “We said we wanted to have a preliminary agreement in place by the end of 2015. You want to push it out even further?”

  Zhargami smiled without showing any teeth. “Sir, you have not been listening to me. President Rouhani has an agenda of progress, speed, and action. We wish to have a negotiation framework agreement in place by the end of this year that will allow the P5+1 nations and my country to reach a final settlement.”

  Welker gaped. “This year? You want a negotiating framework deal signed by the end of 2013?”

  A gasp rippled down the US delegation table. Welker shook his head. “That’s impossible. No way do we have enough time to reach an agreement in three months. Our two sides have been talking for years, sir. An agreement in less than three months? I expect you to be serious.” Welker folded his arms. Several delegation members imitated Welker’s closed position.

  Zhargami didn’t flinch. “Mr. Welker, I assure you that we are serious. It is true that our two sides have been talking for years, and where has that gotten us? President Rouhani is a man of action. He expects to have the framework agreement by year-end and a final deal in 2014. I intend to make sure he gets both of them.”

  Welker sat forward in his chair. He picked up the printed agenda and packet of documents that were the topic of today’s discussion and dropped it to the table with a slapping sound. “And where do you propose we start, sir? By your own admission, this agenda—this meeting—is wasted.”

  The Iranian delegation leader shook his head. “This meeting is only wasted, Mr. Welker, if you allow it to be so.” He nodded to a young woman on the end of the second row. She loaded her arms with a sheaf of folders and hurried to the US delegation side of the room. She deposited a folder in front of each person.

  Welker opened his folder and scanned its contents. He pursed his lips, but his forehead was still set in a frown.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Zhargami said, when all the delegates had open folders in front of them. “I propose a new agenda for this meeting, one that will meet our goal of having a signed framework agreement in place by the end of 2013.” His eyes came to rest on Welker’s scowling face. “Mr. Welker, you are skeptical and I understand why.”

  His smile broadened. “I only ask that you listen.”

  CHAPTER 22

  South China Sea, 100 miles north of Palau Matak, Indonesia

  10 September 2013 – 0310 local

  Captain Kim Hang-son had to piss. Again.

  The North Korean merchant ship captain closed his eyes and listened to the engines. Sometimes focusing on something else for a few minutes made him forget the sharp pain in his bladder. Lately, he was getting up two or three times a night to take a leak. There must be something wrong with him, but trying to see a doctor back home was almost impossible. Maybe when they got to Iran he could see one.

  He shifted in his bunk and the pain in his bladder increased. With a curse, he sat up and put on his glasses so he could see the clock on the wall: 0312. He stumbled to the head and relieved himself, letting out a little sigh as the urine dribbled out of his body and the pressure in his groin eased.

  The captain sat on the edge of his bunk. Back to bed or check on the bridge crew? They would never expect to see him this early . . . just the way to keep his crew on their toes.

  Captain Kim was one of the most experienced merchant ship captains in the North Korean fleet—and one of the most discreet. His ship, the Be Gae Bong, had carried all manner of cargo in its day, but with his large open hold area and onboard crane capability, his specialty was big machinery. Like the Transporter Erector Launchers (TELs) he had in his hold.

  At fifteen meters long, the combination truck–mobile launcher package was the latest model—it still had the factory paperwork affixed to the windshield to prove it. But that was the only normal aspect of this shipment. For starters, there were only three units. His hold had room for at least six, but his buyer had insisted he only carry these three.

  Then there was the port. Bandar Lengeh? Who delivered to Bandar Lengeh? They would transit right by Bandar Abbas, the largest seaport in Iran, to get to Lengeh. The little port had nothing but camels and sand to keep a man happy. Again, the buyer had insisted. And finally, the secrecy. Captain Kim was used to being discreet, but this job took discretion to a whole new level. He was actually running short of crew just because the buyer had objected to bringing on new crew members before they left port. He’d finally agreed to let him add one new mess cook.

  Kim groused to himself as he pushed his legs into his trousers. The buyer was obviously well connected in the North Korean government; he could at least have taken the central committee member’s son off the ship. The boy was an idiot.

  At least the job paid well, and the buyer had insisted he supply all the required end-user certificates and official stamps. He even paid extra to do so. The resulting forgeries were fine work, but why pay to do your own fake documents?

  Kim shrugged as he snapped on the light over his sink. More money for him. He splashed water on his face and pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes to suppress the redness. He ran a palm over his chin. Maybe he should shave. He decided to wait until after breakfast.

  The bridge was quiet as he slipped through the door and closed it softly behind him. The heavy watertight doors on the bridge wings were open and he breathed deeply of the moist sea air. Five bridge stations were manned: a helmsman, a radar operator, a lookout on each bridge wing, and a watch officer. The view outside the windows was nothing but a pitch-black sea underneath a carpet of stars. Directly in front of him, the watch officer nodded over a chart. Kim pressed his lips together as he cleared his throat loudly.

  The man snapped to attention. Without turning around, he said in a loud voice, “Captain on the bridge!” One by one, the other watch standers parroted back, “Captain on the bridge, aye.”

  All except the radar operator. His shadowy form remained slumped over the round screen, bathed in a soft green glow.

  The watch officer roared out, “Radar operator, acknowledge.”

  Nothing.

  “Seaman Park! Acknowledge.” The watch officer’s voice slid up an octave to near hysteria.

  The ghostly green lump that was Seaman Park gave a start and sat up. He turned in the watch officer’s direction and saw the captain. His gulp was audible in the stillness of the bridge. “Aye, sir! I—”

  The portside lookout burst onto the bridge. His eyes were owlish and his voice cracked. “Captain! We’re being boarded!”

  Captain Kim ran to the bridge wing, where the lookout pointed with a shaking finger. Three men, no more than shapes in the darkness, ran along the open lower deck. Kim used the door frame to vault back into the bridge. Even in the dark, he knew every knob, fixture, and piece of equipment on this bridge. “Sound the emergency alarm,” he said to the watch officer as he reached for the VHF radio handset.

  He mashed down the transmit button. “Any ship in sound of my voice, this is Democratic People’s Republic of Korea ship Be Gae Bong, located at—” He moved to the GPS display and read off the latitude and longitude of their position. “We have been boarded by pirates. Request immediate assistance from any warship near our position. I repeat, we have been boarded. Request immediate assistance.”

  “Captain, should I open the weapons locker?” The watch officer’s face was pinched with fear and his voice shook.

  Kim pulled the key to the weapons locker from around his neck and threw it to the watch officer. The man fumbled the catch, and it fell to the floor with a clink.

  He needn’t have bothered. The lookouts ran into the bridge. “They’re here!” they screamed in unison.

  Automatic gunfire sounded outside on the wing and everyone on the bridge dropped to the floor. Two men rushed in from either side and someone turned on the overhead lights, flooding the
space with harsh fluorescent illumination.

  The pirates wore tattered shorts and T-shirts, with dirty sandals on their feet. Bandanas covered the lower halves of their faces and black face paint was smeared across their foreheads. They screamed at Kim’s crew in what he recognized as Tagalog. Kim’s heart sank. Filipino pirates were notorious for not taking prisoners. He should have armed his men, at least given them a fighting chance.

  The leader was a short, powerfully muscled man armed with a rifle and a very large knife strapped across his chest. He looked over the cowering crew. His eyes fastened on Kim.

  He took two quick steps forward and hauled Captain Kim to his feet. Gripping the North Korean’s shirt front, he slammed the man against the wall next to the radar station. “You Captain,” he said in accented English.

  Kim thought about pretending he didn’t understand English. The man’s eyes narrowed, and the grip on his shirt front tightened. The pirate pointed the muzzle of his rifle at the watch officer, who shrieked in fear.

  “I am captain,” Kim said.

  “Good.” The pirate released his shirt. He picked up the ship’s PA system handset and handed it to Kim. “Tell the crew meet in galley. No tricks. I find any loose . . .” He drew his finger across his throat.

  “Will they be safe?” Kim asked.

  The pirate shrugged. “I find any loose, I kill them.”

  Kim’s gaze dropped to the radar screen and stifled a gasp. A large green blip glowed on the screen. He checked the range setting on the instrument. Twenty-five miles. An object that size could be a tanker, but it could also be a warship. It was maybe twenty miles away—just over the horizon—and closing toward them. The lights of the ship would be visible soon from the bridge. He needed to get the pirates off the bridge now.

  Kim stood in front of the radar screen and accepted the microphone from the pirate leader. He pressed the button on the handset. “All crew, this is the captain,” he said in Korean. “Report to the mess deck. No one will be harmed if we do as we’re told. Report to the mess deck immediately.”