Weapons of Mass Deception

by David Bruns

  “I will handle Iraq myself,” Hashem said. “Maliki has done well to remove the Americans from his country, and he will need support to keep a pure Shia hold on power.”

  Hashem marveled at Maliki’s bold step of refusing to sign the Status of Forces Agreement, causing the Americans to withdraw wholesale from the country. Still, he wondered if that might not be a mistake in the long run. Bold moves were rarely without backlash, and already the Kurds in the north, and especially the Sunni extremists, were angry at the Maliki regime.

  Aban nodded. “That is the most important thing—to keep Iraq in the hands of the Shia majority.” He stared at Hashem for a long moment.

  “I was upset when I arrived today. I snapped at you, Hashem.” Aban folded his hands and made a half-bow in his brother’s direction.

  “Please, update me on our geology project.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Green Zone, Iraq

  Thanksgiving Day, 2011

  Brendan slammed the weights back onto the rack, making a clanking sound that echoed throughout the mostly empty gym.

  The extra space from the troop drawdown in Iraq had seemed great at first: less people in the gym, shorter chow lines, more selection at the PX. But Brendan and his platoon were some of the last naval personnel left. His SEAL Team would be the last Naval Special Warfare Squadron deployed to Iraq in this war.

  The combat ops against insurgent groups had ended weeks ago, and now all he had to look forward to was mind-numbing admin. The squadron would redeploy back to San Diego in a few weeks—in time for Christmas, hopefully—but before that they had to complete their own weight in paperwork, or the computer equivalent.

  His phone rang. Commander Roesing, his CO. Brendan groaned, sure he was about to get saddled with some new survey or inventory assignment that needed to be done ASAP.

  “McHugh here, sir,” he answered, doing his best to wring all the whining out of his tone.

  “Brendan, I need to see you in my office ASAP.” There it was again: ASAP, the favorite word of military bureaucracy.

  “I’ll be there in five, sir.”

  He jogged out of the gym to the barracks. The Baghdad heat scarcely bothered him anymore as he passed from the gym to his quarters. He pulled on BDUs over his gym clothes, laced up a pair of combat boots, and snatched his cap off the hook by the door. Four minutes and sixteen seconds after the phone call ended he was outside Commander Roesing’s door.

  He knocked on the jamb. “You wanted to see me, skipper?”

  Roesing looked up and pushed a pair of reading glasses up onto his forehead. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Come in, Brendan. I’ve got a beauty for you.” He waved to the chair in front of his desk. “Are you tired of paperwork yet? I’ll be glad when we get out of this goddamned place and back in the good ol’ US of A.”

  Brendan took a seat and nodded. “What’s the job, sir?” Visions of another raid danced in his head. Finally, something to break up the monotony.

  “I need you to take a couple of guys and help out State with security for the ambassador this afternoon.”

  Brendan did his best to keep his face still. The State Department had their own diplomatic security team, so the SEALs would be backup at best.

  Roesing read his face. “They’ve stopped using private security contractors. Too much controversy.”

  War was good business for a certain breed of ex-military entrepreneurs. Private security companies had made millions from the war in Iraq. Brendan didn’t blame the guys who went the way of the mercenary—he’d heard the pay was fabulous—but some contractors had gotten reputations as “shoot first, ask questions later” outfits. Deserved or not, once a company was labeled as an outlaw by the media, politics was driving the bus. Some tried to rebrand themselves by changing their company name. Apparently, State wasn’t buying it.

  Brendan chose his words carefully. “I’m sure we can help them, sir.”

  “That’s the spirit, Lieutenant. The RSO is expecting you. Go make the ambassador safe.”

  Brendan swung back through the barracks and tapped three SEALs to join him at the State Department briefing.

  The US Embassy seemed like a palace after the sparseness of the military barracks. The entire Green Zone fit into a point of land formed by a huge bend in the Tigris River, and the Embassy occupied the best spot in the Zone. The massive hundred-acre facility overlooked the river from a high bluff. Brendan and his men fast-walked down a hallway where one entire wall consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows. On the far bank of the river, the city of Baghdad seemed to stretch on forever.

  The Regional Security Officer was a dark-skinned man in his early thirties with a touch of gray on his temples. “Lieutenant McHugh, I’m John Davis—call me JD.” When he smiled, the skin around his brown eyes crinkled. “Thanks for helping out on short notice. I guess you heard we’re not using private security anymore. Just as well, I’d rather have you guys any day of the week.”

  “Glad to help, sir.”

  Davis wasted no time on further formalities. “We’re under some time pressure here, gentlemen. There’s an emergency meeting at the MOJ this afternoon that the ambassador needs to attend—”

  “This afternoon?” Brendan interrupted. “You need us as escorts to the Ministry of Justice today?”

  “1800,” Davis replied.

  Brendan checked his watch. That was three hours from now. “Alright, JD, you’re going to owe me one . . .”

  Davis grinned and passed out a map with the convoy route. Thirty minutes later, Brendan and his men were back in the barracks. Brendan quickly tapped four more SEALs, bringing his team to eight, and assembled them in the conference room. He had the mission outlined in his head and ran the briefing as a checklist: route, positions on the detail, comms, ammo load-out, backup air support, and of course, medical support and an exfil plan if the shit hit the fan.

  By the time he was done, they had less than an hour to be ready. He glanced at his watch; it was after six o’clock in the morning in San Diego, just enough time to call Amy and wish her a Happy Thanksgiving before she left for her mother’s place.

  He hustled back to the barracks and found an empty office with an Internet connection. A few seconds later, he had his Skype account up and had called Amy’s connection. After six long rings, she answered.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, baby!” he said.

  Her hair was a mess and her makeup smudged around her eyes. She was wearing one of his old T-shirts and no bra. “Brendan, do you know what time it is?” she replied in an irritable tone.

  “Yeah, sorry, I just wanted to talk to you before I left on a mission.” Mentioning “mission” usually sweetened her mood.

  She rubbed her face with both hands. “I have such a hangover, Bren. I was out with Roger last night.”

  Roger was Amy’s agent, the one who’d promised her the cover of Sports Illustrated. Brendan felt his jaw tighten; he did not like how Roger looked at his girlfriend.

  “I hope you had a good time,” he said stiffly.

  “It would be better if you were here,” she said.

  That was more like it. Brendan gave her a wicked smile. “Oh, really? What would you do if I were there right now?”

  He was interrupted by a knock at the door. Petty Officer Gonzalez, in full battle dress, peered through the glass. Brendan held up a finger.

  “Look, Amy, I need to go—”

  “You just called and woke me up and now you’re hanging up on me?” She pouted. “Why even bother to call at all?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m in the middle of—”

  “Wait, I need you to take care of the autopay on the water bill. Your credit card’s about to expire and they called twice now.”

  Brendan gritted his teeth. She was living in his apartment, couldn’t she deal with the water bill? “I’ll do it as soon as I get a chance.”

  “You need to do it today. They called twice already and I’m leaving tomorrow for a photo shoot.”


  Gonzalez rapped on the glass again. Brendan held up his index finger again.

  “Okay, go into my filing cabinet. There’s an envelope in the very last folder that has the password for my accounts at USAA. The credit card info is in there—”

  “So you want me to pay your water bill? Really?”

  “If you want it done today, you need to do it yourself. I’m sorry, Amy. I need to go now.” He hit the red icon to end the call. “Love you, too,” he muttered to himself.

  Brendan blew out a long breath and motioned for Gonzalez to enter.

  “Doesn’t sound like your lady is much of a morning person, sir.”

  “Gonzo, there are times when my lady is not much of a person.”

  His team rolled up to the Embassy in two Humvees at exactly 1740. Brendan rode in the lead vehicle passenger seat. He tugged at his body armor to move it a fraction of an inch to the left and rapped on the trauma plate that covered the center of his chest.

  Convoy duty was his least favorite activity. On a raid or any other ground op, at least he had the ability to move, to respond to a threat. With convoy duty, you were a sitting duck for any insurgent attack. Sure, the up-armored Humvee they were riding in offered some level of protection, but it also kept them contained, bunched up, a target.

  The ambassador’s unmarked, armored car idled in the parking lot bracketed fore and aft by two State Department Diplomatic Security vehicles. The door to the lead vehicle opened and Davis stepped out. He wore dark sunglasses and body armor and was packing an M4 carbine and a 9mm Sig Sauer in a hip holster. His mouth was set in a firm line that was all business, the easy smile from earlier gone for now.

  “Lieutenant,” he said with a nod. “We’re on channel five. Stand by for a comms check.”

  Brendan listened to his team call in, then ordered his team to shift to their backup channel. He adjusted his earpiece, and nodded to Davis. “Test sat, sir. We’re ready whenever you are.”

  Davis checked his watch. “Just waiting on the bossman, Lieutenant.”

  The door to the Embassy opened and the ambassador strode into the hot Baghdad sun flanked by two bodyguards. Brendan caught a glimpse of a tall, spare figure with neatly trimmed gray hair, clad in a dark blue suit, and then the door to the ambassador’s car slammed shut.

  Davis’s voice crackled in Brendan’s ear. “Alright, gentlemen. We have our package. Just like we rehearsed it. Let’s move!”

  The heavy gates separating the embassy from the rest of the Green Zone opened and the barriers designed to stop car bombers retracted down into the earth. Davis’s lead car roared out through the gate, closely followed by the ambassador’s car and the other State security vehicles. Brendan’s team took up stations on either side of the ambassador’s car.

  The distance they had to travel was ridiculously short, maybe a kilometer as the crow flies, but probably triple that once they factored in the ground traffic. Once they left the embassy compound—even in the Green Zone—the ambassador became a target for insurgents.

  The scenery flashed by Brendan’s window. Davis’s voice, calm and flat, filtered into his ear. “I’m seeing a suspicious object up ahead. Shifting to secondary route.”

  The lead car cornered sharply to the right, and the convoy followed without question. They were headed directly west now, into the sun. Brendan squinted. This was not good. His hand tightened on his HKM4, and he fingered the seat belt release. If something went down, he wanted to be mobile as fast as possible.

  Another corner and the stone facade of the Iraqi Ministry of Justice building came into view. They roared into the courtyard, Brendan’s vehicle bumping over a curb along the way. He and his men piled out of their vehicles, forming a standard two-layer security detail around the ambassador: State Department men on the inside, SEALs on the perimeter. Brendan’s men faced outward, weapons at chest height pointed down, eyes roving the buildings and landscape around them.

  Brendan had flown over the MOJ building many times, but he had never seen it close-up. From the air, the curved walkway formed the shape of a question mark, and it served as a common landmark for Black Hawk helo pilots.

  But today was not a time for sightseeing. The team hustled the ambassador up the curved walk.

  When the detail reached the front doors, the heavy doors swung open. Thinking the Iraqis were expecting them, Davis hustled his team into the doorway—straight into an exiting group.

  On the front right of the outer layer of security, Brendan came face to face with a man dressed in a dark blue, double-breasted suit that fitted his thin frame like a uniform. He had close-cropped black hair, shot with gray, and a neatly trimmed mustache. Brendan caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. The man raised the dark glasses covering his eyes.

  Brendan froze.

  The icy dark eyes showed a flicker of recognition. “Pardon me, Lieutenant McHugh.” His voice was soft as he stepped to one side.

  The momentum of the ambassador’s security detail swept them forward, and Brendan rushed to resume his post. They reached the meeting room and posted a security detail outside the door.

  Davis pulled Brendan aside. Snatching his sunglasses off his face, he leaned into Brendan and lowered his voice. “What the fuck happened back there, Lieutenant? You lost it for a second.”

  Brendan’s mind raced. The man had known his name. His mind latched onto the smell of the cigarette smoke. The Iranian with the diplomatic passport.

  “Well?”

  “Sorry, JD, I need to make a phone call.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Königstedt Manor, Finland

  22 February 2012 – 1000 local

  “The Minnesota Wild is a good team, yes?”

  Don looked away from the frozen river flashing by his car window, and focused on the words of the driver. The man had introduced himself twice . . . what the hell was his name?

  Jaakko. Yes, that was it, Jaakko.

  “Pardon, Jaakko?”

  The US embassy driver’s pale blue eyes locked onto Don’s in the rearview mirror. The edges squinched together as he smiled. “The Minnesota Wild is good team, yes?” He said it with a little lilt at the end and he pronounced the w as a soft v.

  Don racked his brain. The Minnesota Wild . . . football? No. Basketball? No. Ice hockey. That was it.

  “Oh, the Wild,” Don replied. “Yes, very good ice hockey team. Very good.”

  The car made a little twist on the ice-covered road as Jaakko tossed a glance over his shoulder, all smiling white teeth and pale blond hair. “Yes. Very good. Who’s your favorite player?”

  Don pursed his lips as if he were thinking, but he doubted he could name even one ice hockey player, much less one from Minnesota. “It’s hard to say,” Don said, hoping Jaakko would take the conversation and run with it.

  “Mine is Mikael Granlund,” Jaakko said immediately. “Great player, one of the best Finnish players in many years. He will play for the Wild next season.” He said the last bit with eyebrows raised, looking back at Don, as if that was a statement that Don might want to discuss. Don chewed his lip like he might be considering it, then shrugged his shoulders. The car rounded a bend in the road and their destination came into view.

  Königstedt Manor. Don knew this building, and the Finnish government, had a long history of direct involvement in international diplomacy. On numerous occasions during the Cold War, Königstedt Manor had served as a secret meeting place for US and Soviet negotiating teams, away from the prying eyes of the news media.

  When the US and Iran sought a location for a low-level exploratory meeting on nuclear talks, Königstedt came up immediately as an option. Both nations had embassies in the country, and Finland in February served as a natural deterrent from incidental contact with the news media.

  Don’s official role was one of technical support on the subject of nuclear nonproliferation verification. His status with the CIA was to be kept a secret. Don felt a little thrill at the thought of being an undercover agent, but his CIA
supervisor had quashed those ideas.

  “You’re there to listen, Riley, nothing more. You take notes, you watch people, you answer technical questions about nuclear shit, and that’s it.” Andrea was a dumpy woman in her mid-fifties, with reddish-gray hair and a tired face. “Your status as CIA is not why you’re going, you’re there as a technical advisor.” She pushed a stray curl away from her face and leaned toward him. “Clear?”

  Don bit his tongue so as not to ask her if he could carry a weapon.

  Jaakko drove the car slowly past the front of the house, pointing out the wide stone steps leading up to a columned portico that reminded Don vaguely of the White House. Thick bushes, the branches bare in the snow, lined the steps. “You should see this place in the summertime,” Jaakko said. He kissed his fingertips like an Italian. “Perfect.”

  He pulled the car to the rear of the building and scrambled out to open his passenger’s door. The packed snow crunched beneath Don’s dress shoes, and he shivered in the open air. Jaakko deposited his roller bag next to him, offering a short bow. “It was good to meet you, Donald.”

  “You as well, Jaakko.” Don dug into his pocket for some change, but the Finn waved his hands.

  “Go Wild,” he said with a laugh as he drove away.

  A thin woman, iron-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, met him inside the door. “Mr. Riley,” she said in English, consulting a clipboard. “Welcome to Königstedt.” Her handshake was dry and firm. “I am Mrs. Juntilla.” She turned on her heel and, without waiting for Don, walked away.

  “The meetings have started,” she said over her shoulder. “I will show you a place to freshen up and then take you to the conference room.” She walked like she talked, in short, clipped steps. Don had to race to keep up with her.

  Mrs. Juntilla led him to a room that looked like something out of a European travel brochure. A four-poster bed, laden with heavy quilts and pillows, dominated the space. He tossed his bag on the bed and zipped it open, extracting a shaving kit.