by David Bruns
Don had only a vague idea what a grasshopper was, and no idea if Liz would drink one, but at least the waitress would know he was meeting someone. She raised her eyebrows in a “whatever” expression and pushed back into the crowd.
Sine’s was the place for happy hour on Pentagon Row. People from all over the government circle migrated here for drinks after work, and no small amount of deals were done over beers at Sine’s.
But not tonight. It was all about the election tonight. The Republicans smelled blood in the water and the Democrats were already making apologies for “off-year election” results. The TV over the bar had the sound muted—not that Don could have heard it over the din—and was showing a graphic of election issues: jobs, economy, healthcare, the list went on. Afghanistan was number ten and Iraq wasn’t even on the list. The surge was over, troops were coming home, and the public had moved on. Out of sight, out of mind.
Don wished she would get back with that beer. This afternoon’s briefing had been a complete disaster. With the off-year election looming, the only thing less interesting than Iraq to the Washington establishment was Iran, and his briefing had been on the Iranian nuclear threat. The admiral had sent his aide and the CIA guy hadn’t even shown up. Not that he’d had that much to tell them anyway. The Iranians certainly had the wherewithal to go into the nuclear weapons business, he just didn’t have any evidence that they actually were doing it.
He spied Liz in the crowd. She was jumping, trying to see over the taller people as she looked for him. Don half-stood on the rungs of his chair and waved to her with both hands.
Liz squeezed between two fat lobbyist-looking guys fawning over a middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar, like Don had seen him on TV before. She hugged him fiercely, and Don felt her powerful shoulders under his hands.
Liz had matured since he’d seen her last. Her dark hair was longer, and pulled back into a silver barrette at the nape of her neck. Her features had sharpened into a square jaw and defined cheekbones that set off her dark eyes and the slight hook of her nose. She wore a dark blue suit that flattered her blocky frame.
The waitress arrived with his drinks. Her eyebrows went up again when she saw Liz was there. “One Harp.” She dropped the beer in front of Don. “And for the lady,” she said, placing the martini glass filled with green liquid on Liz’s side of the table. “That’ll be fifteen.”
Don dropped a twenty on her tray. “Keep the change.”
Liz waited until the waitress moved away before she leaned across the table. “What is this?” she asked.
Don flushed. “It’s a grasshopper. I thought you might like it . . .”
Liz leaned all the way over and planted a kiss on his cheek. “It’s perfect, Don. Thank you. It’s been awhile since a man bought me a drink.”
He knew she was just saying that, but it felt good all the same. The lobbyists noticed the kiss and Don sat up straighter in his chair, sucking in his gut a little.
“What do you mean?” he asked, pointing to her engagement ring, a two-carat beauty in a platinum setting. “I thought you were engaged.”
Liz held out her hand, staring at the ring for a long moment. “Oh, I am. James is a dear. Our families have known each other since we were kids.” Her voice trailed off.
“How long have you been engaged, Liz?”
Her brow knit together, and she pursed her lips. “Three years and change, I guess.”
“What’s he like?”
“He’s a great guy. A dentist, maxillofacial surgeon, actually. He just got back from a trip to South America where he fixed cleft palates for indigenous people. He’s a great guy.”
“So when’s the wedding?”
Liz blew out her breath and took sip of her drink. “It’s complicated, Don. James’s work keeps him busy and my deployment and training at Quantico keeps us apart.” She brightened and sat up. “Oh, but I have news. I’m getting transferred to LA when my training’s done. I got a slot at the JTTF. James went to school there and has lots of friends. It’s perfect for us.”
“Joint Terrorism Task Force, huh? I thought maybe you’d go for something in the Midwest, maybe Minneapolis . . . that’s where Brendan’s from, you know.”
Liz avoided his eyes as she sipped her drink. “Have you heard from Bren lately?”
Don leaned forward. “Liz, what’s stopping you two? You were perfect together at the Academy and then it all just fell apart.” He paused when he saw Liz’s eyes start to fill up with tears—he’d never seen Liz cry before. He held up his hands. “Look, it’s none of my business, but you two should—”
“Riley!” The voice that cut him off made Don want to scream. Clem Reggins slammed his drink down on their table, spilling a little in the process. He positioned his arms on the high-top so his tanned biceps curved at just the right angle. He leered at Liz. “Are you going to introduce me, Riley?”
The only thing worse than Clem Reggins was a drunk Clem Reggins, and he seemed well on his way to drunkdom already. Clem snagged the waitress’s arm as she passed by. “I’ll have another Jack and Diet Coke—make sure it’s Diet, babe—and whatever these two are having.” He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and peeled off a twenty. He dropped it on her tray. “If you make it back before I finish this one, there’s more where that came from.” He watched the waitress’s ass as she plunged back into the crowd.
He turned back to Don and Liz. “Where were we? Oh, yeah, Riley was going to introduce me to this lovely lady.” He raised his eyebrows at Don, and winked at him with the eye that Liz couldn’t see.
Don gritted his teeth. “Liz, this is Clem Reggins, my boss at NCPC. Clem, Liz, an old friend.”
Liz extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Clem.”
Clem gripped her fingers and flexed his pecs at Liz. He bent over to kiss her hand. Liz tried to extract her hand but Clem hung on. Don felt the table shift as Liz’s foot kicked out. Clem’s eyes bugged out for a second, and he released Liz’s hand.
She covered her mouth. “Oh, I am so sorry. Was that you?”
Clem’s jaw was set as he breathed through the pain. “No problem. Coulda happened to anyone.”
Don hid his laugh by downing the rest of his beer.
Clem clenched his drink in his hand and took a long sip. “So, did Riley tell you about his shitty afternoon? What a shit storm of a briefing, am I right, Riley? Nobody gives a flying fuck about Iranian nukes anymore. And when you started in on the legend of the rogue nukes, I thought the admiral’s aide was going to puke right on the table. Whatever possessed you to bring that up?”
Clem’s tirade was cut short by the arrival of the waitress. She dropped another beer in front of Don, a replacement grasshopper for Liz, and another Jack and Coke for Clem.
“This is Diet, right?” The waitress nodded, lingering at the table for the promised tip.
“I only drink Diet,” Clem continued. He flexed his arms at her. “This body is a temple.”
“I can see that,” the waitress replied. “And it looks like I replaced the temple drink before your last one was gone. You said there was more . . .”
Clem pulled the wad of bills from his pocket and peeled off another twenty. “Here ya go.” He held onto the bill as she tried to grab it. “But it’s gonna cost you.”
The waitress let go. “What?”
“Your number.” Clem winked at Don. “You give me your digits and I’ll give you the twenty.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll pass.” The waitress walked away, leaving their empty glasses on the table.
Clem turned back to them with a laugh. “That line usually works for me. What a bitch.” He spied someone across the room. “Excuse me, Riley and Lisa. I believe I have a date with destiny.” His bodybuilder frame seemed loosely jointed as he pushed away from the table and into the crowd.
Liz looked at Don with wide eyes. “That’s your boss?”
Don nodded.
“Holy shit.”
Don nodded again. “Shi
t being the operative word.”
Liz shook her head, and raised her glass. “To the good guys. That was not one of them.”
Don clinked his glass with hers and drank deeply. He cleared his throat, intending to get back to the topic of Brendan, but Liz was too quick for him.
“So what was all that talk about rogue nukes?” she asked.
Don laughed and shook his head. “It’s just something I can’t seem to let go of.”
“Tell me.”
Don knew she was just avoiding the obvious conversation, but what the heck, it might be good to talk to someone else about it. He leaned across the table and dropped his voice.
“You remember all the press about WMDs before the Iraq War?”
Liz nodded.
“We were sure Saddam Hussein had nukes,” Don continued, “and there was a good reason for it. We know he bought centrifuges from the Soviet Union in the ’70s and was producing weapons-grade material at Osirak, before it was destroyed by the Israelis in ’81. He had the material, he had the scientists, he had the time—but we never found anything.”
Liz took a sip of her drink and raised her eyebrows. “Well, finish the story. Where did they go?”
Don laughed. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be working for that asshole.” He jerked his thumb in the direction Clem had gone.
“Okay, where do you think they went?”
Don glanced around the bar. No one was looking at them, and the two beers already in his belly gave him a confident feeling. “Iran.”
Liz sat back. “Iran? I don’t get it—didn’t Iran and Iraq fight a war in the ’80s?”
Don nodded. “Yeah, but they also have a history of working together. In the First Gulf War, when Saddam Hussein’s air force was getting pounded by coalition forces, he flew every single plane to Iran for safekeeping.” Don made air quotes with his fingers. “And the Iranians kept ’em all. War reparations, they called it.”
Liz gave a low whistle. “You’re really into this, Don. Okay, keep going. How does this link to the mystery nukes?”
Don blushed. “Well, my theory is that Saddam did the same thing with his nukes. He gave them to Iran for safekeeping. Unfortunately, he’s dead, his sons are dead, and anyone who might have known about the program or the exchange is either dead or not talking.”
“So you gave up on the trail?”
Don laughed. “Liz, you have no idea what DC is like. If you even mention Iraq and WMDs in the same sentence, anybody who’s anybody will run from the room. It’s a toxic subject. Guys who were there when it all went down tell me that for the first year in Iraq, that’s all anyone did was look for WMDs, anything to justify the invasion. But when they didn’t find them, it became the topic no one wanted to touch.”
“Except you.”
Don touched his mug to the edge of her martini glass. “Except me.”
CHAPTER 16
Tehran, Iran
09 March 2011 – 1400 local
Hashem smoked his cigarette with fingers that trembled ever so slightly.
He’d noticed the tremor starting a few weeks ago, but had ignored it. Overwork, that was it. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in months. He stabbed at the muted TV with the stub of his Marlboro before he ground it out in the ashtray and lit another.
Arab Spring. The name sounded more like a feminine hygiene product than an act of political treason.
And yet, it had spread like a virus through the region. First Tunisia, then Oman, Yemen, Syria, and Egypt. Egypt! With a long-standing dictator and an established military in his pocket, even that country had fallen in the protests.
It was no small wonder his brother had called this meeting. The Iranian secret police was on fire with rumors of a similar uprising in Iran. The ayatollahs were worried—and they should be.
The door snapped open and Aban swept in. His bodyguard scanned the room and left after depositing an aluminum briefcase next to Aban’s chair.
Hashem started to take a knee before his brother, but Aban waved him upright and drew him into a fierce hug. “Please, brother. We have much to discuss today. Much to discuss.” He flopped down in the waiting chair, and closed his eyes.
For a moment, Hashem saw shades of his brother as a much younger man, before Aban had assumed the role of a religious leader. The young man who would stay up late with his adoring younger brother talking of his worldwide travel, the girls he had met, and rocks, always geology.
Aban opened his eyes and the moment was gone. His eyes blazed with fury, and the dark circles under them told Hashem his brother hadn’t been sleeping any better than he.
Aban hoisted the briefcase onto the table, pushing aside the ashtray and Hashem’s tea mug. Hashem noted the silver case was a larger model than usual: twice as deep, by his estimation. Aban snapped the locks open and pushed up the lid. The briefcase was completely full of American hundred-dollar bills, banded together in neat stacks. Hashem ran his hand over the money.
“Twice the usual amount, brother. I—we—are worried, very worried about the rapid changes in the region. Our normal channels of influence are failing us. We need”—his mouth moved as he searched for the word—“more creative methods of influence.”
Hashem nodded. “The geology project is progressing nicely, brother,” he began, using their code name for the secret cavern installation. “We have two complete units now and the third should be done by next—”
Aban’s face clouded. “Stop fucking around in that cave, Hashem! Look at the world around you!” The door opened a crack and Aban waved at it. The door closed.
He stabbed his finger at the television. Al Jazeera was showing a protest in Damascus, Syria. Police in riot gear waded into a crowd, blood painted the street. The news crawler was giving stats on the American troop withdrawal from Iraq.
“Look at it!” Aban’s face was flushed, and his voice cracked. “The Americans are leaving Iraq, walking away after eight years, leaving a Shia government in place. What an opportunity for our country! And what do our politicians do? They sit on their hands and worry about Israel and the United States taking action against us.
“This is our time.” He was reaching a preaching cadence, and he beat his breast in a dramatic gesture. “In Syria, are we sure Assad will carry the day?” He gestured at the TV again. “The news media portrays him as a butcher, but he’s our butcher. We need to support him.”
“But the Israelis—” Hashem began.
“The Israelis,” Aban spat back at him. He slapped his hand on the briefcase. “Use your head, brother. It is time for some misdirection. Give the Israelis something to think about other than our nuclear aspirations.” They both knew the Iranian program was a joke, that Hashem’s cache of former Iraqi weapons in the desert was years ahead of anything the official Iranian program had yet produced. Would ever produce, if the pro-Western collaborators inside the Iranian government got their way.
The truth was that the Israeli covert actions targeted against individual scientists and the US-led economic sanctions had all but doomed the official Iranian nuclear program. Worse yet, the effectiveness of US–Israeli actions had encouraged the moderates in Iranian politics. The latest name being floated for President was Hassan Rouhani, but with elections still two years away, anything could happen. At least Rouhani would behave like an adult instead of Ahmadinejad, that petulant child who now held the presidency. The man seemed determined to bring down the wrath of America and Israel on Iran with his constant, irrational diatribes and empty threats.
Hashem took his time lighting another cigarette. He offered one to his brother, who bit his lip, then nodded and pulled one from the pack. Hashem lit Aban’s cigarette with his silver Zippo. They smoked in silence for a few moments. Hashem had another moment of déjà vu: it was Aban who had introduced him to Marlboros. He’d started smoking that brand exclusively as a way to emulate his older brother. He smiled to himself. Maybe now the shoe was on the other foot.
Hashem blew a str
eam of blue smoke at the ceiling. “Let’s take these problems one at a time, brother. First Syria. We’ve been sending them arms via official channels for weeks now. Bashar needs to handle this on his own. It’s the only way for him to keep power long-term. If he begins to fail, I will encourage our Hezbollah friends to join the fight against the rebels.”
“Why not get them involved now?” Aban asked.
Hashem pointed with his chin at the television. “As long as this is kept within Syria, the other nations will stay out—including the US and Israel. The moment outside parties get involved, it will expand beyond the borders of Syria. That means international intervention, or maybe something even worse: a Sunni uprising.”
Privately, Hashem worried about Bashar’s ability to put down this insurrection on his own. This never would have happened if his older brother, Maher, was in power. The truth was, Bashar al-Assad was an idiot, a Western-educated pansy without the backbone to rule a nation the way it needed to be done. Maher’s death in a car accident was a stroke of bad luck for Iran.
Hashem lit another Marlboro, noting that he only had two left in the package and hoping his brother did not want another. He cleared this throat.
“In Israel, our best option is Hamas. With some cash infusion, we can ramp up their rocket bomb manufacturing capability. Let them poke Netanyahu with their little needles”—Hashem had no illusion that the homemade Hamas rockets would actually cause any real damage in Israel— “and Bibi will fly into his trademark overblown response. Let the international community harass him for a while.”
The Israelis, especially Netanyahu, were often their own worst enemy. Their ranting on the American talk shows actually lost them support, but when they acted behind the scenes . . . Hashem shivered. The American president Teddy Roosevelt had it right: “Speak softly and carry a big stick.” If Netanyahu ever learned that lesson, the Iranians were in real trouble.
“And that brings us to Iraq.” Hashem crushed out his cigarette and resisted the urge to get another from the pack. Aban stubbed his smoke out at the same time, waiting for his brother to speak.
