by David Bruns
The President let out a low whistle. “So, Saddam Hussein really did have weapons of mass destruction? Wow—there’s a lot of people in this town who would like to have that little tidbit out in the public eye.”
The Chief of Staff cracked a rare smile. “There’s a lot of people that used to be in this town that would like that information public.” He switched to a more serious tone. “As you might expect, peace in the Middle East is polling phenomenally well. Now all we have to do is get this accord signed before the election.”
The President leaned forward. “Let’s make sure we have a complete embargo on this information—every last bit of it. A leak about what has happened in the last twenty-four hours goes beyond national security. It’s world security we’re talking about here. A leak could set back peace in the Middle East by a century. Are we clear on this point?”
He looked at the solemn faces around the table. They all nodded back at him.
“Good work, everyone. Thank you.” He stood, nodding to the Chief of Staff to stay. He walked to the window and waited until he heard the door closing before he turned around.
“I’d like you to reach out to the Speaker and the Majority Leader. Invite them over for a drink. No cameras, no post-meeting interviews, just a drink.”
“They’re going to want to know more than that, sir.”
The President paused to stare out the window.
“Tell them I want to talk about being on the right side of history.”
CHAPTER 45
Estancia Refugio Seguro, Argentina
11 June 2016, 0200 local
Rafiq flipped on the TV as he entered the darkened den. Nadine had left it tuned to ESPN.
He never understood his Argentinean wife’s obsession with American football. He’d enjoyed the game when he’d attended college in the US, even attended a few games at the Minneapolis Metrodome to see the Minnesota Vikings play, but he’d dropped the game once he left the country.
Through the magic of satellite TV, Javier developed a passion for the game and passed the bug on to his only daughter. They were diehard Dallas Cowboys fans. Maybe that was the connection: they identified with the American cowboys.
Rafiq had objected to showing American football to their children, so Nadine sometimes sneaked into his study to watch ESPN. The channel was running a special on football stadiums, with an interviewer standing in front of an enormous peak of glass and stone with a sign over the wide entrance that said: “Home of the Vikings.” As Rafiq watched, the camera shifted to an aerial shot, showing the new stadium rising from the Minneapolis buildings like the prow of a ship. The commentator said the building cost one billion dollars to build.
Rafiq huffed as he changed the channel to Al Jazeera. A billion dollars! For a building they would use less than ten times a year. The epitome of American wastefulness. The Al Jazeera talking heads were still chattering about Tel Aviv and the nuclear accord, now due to be signed in early September. He watched the news crawler for anything new, then shut the TV off again.
He fussed at the computer, anything to kill time. His email was empty except for one message. It had come in over three weeks ago, just before the Tel Aviv announcement. It looked like just another piece of spam, but he had a clean email address, protected from most spam sources. The anonymous sender of the email had forwarded him a link from one of Ayatollah Aban Rahmani’s famous Friday sermons titled “The Brotherhood of Man.” He’d watched the video at least ten times and it was exactly what it purported to be: a rather long-winded Friday sermon. His half brother spewed hatred and flecks of spittle as he denounced the forces of progressive thought in Iranian society.
And then there were the Farsi words written underneath the link. STOP TEL AVIV.
At least ten times over the past weeks, Rafiq had come to this email with every intention of deleting it, but he couldn’t. It was a message from Hashem, he was sure of it. But why would he risk sending a message in the clear? Rafiq hoped against all hope that he would get an answer to that question in the next five minutes.
He consulted the codebook again and recomputed the math. Yes, it all checked out. Their next contact was at 0223. Exactly on time, Rafiq opened the Tor software and initialized the five-minute chatroom protocol. A timer in the right corner started a countdown.
As the timer passed through four minutes, Rafiq fidgeted with the mouse to keep the screen active.
He stood at three minutes and paced, never taking his eyes off the blinking cursor.
Please, brother. Answer me.
He reseated himself at two minutes and let his eyes sweep around the rich furnishings of the room. All this was his, his to lose. His heartbeat seemed to match the pulsing cursor.
One minute.
At thirty seconds, he looked away, his jaw tight with anger. His brother had deserted him.
When the countdown timer ran to zero, the chatroom window closed automatically and a shredder program ran to erase all evidence of the interaction. Rafiq sat back in his chair, scarcely able to believe what had just happened. Hashem had missed the third and final communications window, which meant his brother was either dead or captured.
The clock on the mantelpiece sounded like a jackhammer in the stillness of the room as Rafiq’s mind processed what that meant.
I’ve been activated.
Eight years he’d waited for this moment. Seven years cut off from his home and his people, and now it was here: the day he’d hoped would never come.
It’s all up to me now.
His gaze fell on the picture of Nadine and the children that graced the corner of Javier’s desk—his desk. His beautiful wife had the children on her lap. Javi was almost four now, a spitting image of his mother. Consie looked older than her precocious three years, and took after her father with his blue eyes and fair skin. She gave a thin knowing smile to the camera, as if she knew what Rafiq might be thinking when he looked at his daughter’s image.
Rafiq tore his eyes away from the photo. While he’d waited for this day to come, he’d made a new home, a new family, created a world where people depended on him. And he’d made a promise to Don Javier on his deathbed.
The house creaked as if to remind him of his new responsibilities.
Rafiq stood abruptly and exited the room through the French doors. It was a warm autumn night, and he broke into a light sweat as he walked to the wine cellar. He should probably wake Jamil. He was his partner in this holy mission, whatever it was. No, he decided, he would do this alone. The mysterious cargo was his responsibility now.
He paused to unlock the main entrance of the wine cellar. As he stepped through the door, the smell of crushed grapes was overpowering. It had been the best harvest in decades and had taken them weeks to get the grapes in and processed. Rafiq walked quickly past the stainless steel vats deeper into the cellar, through the rows of barrels and racks of bottles to the very back of the cave. Here, only a single bulb burned in front of a gated alcove set behind a wire cage. Javier’s private storage area.
The gate opened easily on greased hinges. Rafiq pushed the catch to let the last row of bottles swing forward, uncovering a steel door. He pulled the key from around his neck, unlocking the door. The wooden crate occupied the center of the room. He snatched the prybar from its hook on the wall, where they had left it so many years ago in preparation for this day.
The dry wood of the crate cracked when he pushed the flat end of the crowbar under one corner of the lid. He levered it up and a shower of splinters burst into the air. Sweat popped out on his brow, and his breath came sharp and fast as Rafiq worked the edge of the lid, frantic now to see what was inside the mystery box. The lid fell to the floor with a hollow thud.
A black plastic packing case filled the interior of the wooden box. Rafiq smashed the crowbar against the corners of the crate until the sides fell away, revealing the whole case. A clear plastic folder, affixed to the top of the case, held a single sheet of folded paper. Rafiq slid it out and ope
ned it.
Brother—
If you are reading this, you have been called to action. I have failed and everything we believe in now rests on you. If I cannot give you specific direction, I trust you will use this power to strike against the enemies of our cause.
May Allah guide you—
Hashem
Rafiq’s hands shook as he pulled at the clamps that held the lid of the case shut. They snapped like rifle shots in the enclosed space. The lid made a little sigh when he lifted it up, as if he were opening a tomb.
He stared down at the contents of the case through a swirl of emotions. Nadine’s face, the voice of his mother calling him for dinner in Lebanon, Hashem’s lean smile, the laughter of his children. The babble of images and sounds rose up in his consciousness until he slammed the lid back down and one image remained.
A lone email with the words: STOP TEL AVIV.
CHAPTER 46
Beirut, Lebanon
13 June 2016 – 1015 local
Reza bought an International Herald Tribune from a vendor at the Beirut–Rafic Hariri Airport. The headline above the fold was still all about the Iranian nuclear accord. He slapped the newspaper closed.
He could smell the sea through the open window of the cab, and he dragged in a deep breath. The smell of the ocean was the smell of better days for Reza, reminding him of family trips when he was a boy. Family trips before the Shah fell and the hard-liners took over. Family trips before Israel had invaded Lebanon in ’82. Beirut had never really recovered from the shock of the invasion and the subsequent acts of violence that seemed to convulse the nation every few years. The rise of Hezbollah, literally the Party of God, funded by his own Iran, and now the Islamic State . . . when did it ever end?
They passed a bombed-out building that stood like a silent reminder.
Rouhani could make a difference; Reza believed that. He’d believed it strongly enough to steer his career in the intelligence community toward working for Rouhani. It had taken some time for the great man to trust him, to make sure he wasn’t another undercover agent from the hard-liners trying to worm his way into Rouhani’s inner circle. It had taken time, but it had been worth it. Hassan Rouhani would bring his country back into the world order, make their mighty Persian heritage mean something again, and Reza would be by his side.
Over the years, they’d developed a shorthand in their conversation. From a political perspective, there were things that his boss should never have knowledge of but needed to be taken care of all the same. Rouhani hadn’t batted an eye when Reza told him he’d be gone for a few days, maybe a week. The great man smiled and nodded, and didn’t ask a single question.
He didn’t need to. They had trust.
His eyes fell on the newspaper again. Aban had been sketchy on details, but he’d claimed there was at least one more nuclear warhead from the Iraqi cache. Hashem, Aban claimed, had been the mastermind behind the effort to place the Iraqi Air Force in “safekeeping” with Iran in 1991, so it made sense he would run the same play again when Saddam was under pressure from the Coalition forces in 2003. Except this time, Hashem had done it secretly.
For all his talking, Aban had given him only one solid lead: Rafiq Roshed, a name and nothing more.
Thanks to Hashem’s oversight, the MISIRI files on Rafiq were almost nonexistent, hence his visit to Beirut.
The cab stopped in the tourist area, and Reza paid off the driver. He strolled along the boulevard, admiring the famous Rouche Sea Rock in the blue Mediterranean Sea and checking his tail to ensure he wasn’t being followed. After forty minutes, he sent a text and walked briskly toward the Mövenpick Hotel and Resort. He made his way toward the coffee shop and selected a table in the corner, ordering an espresso. He left the newspaper open on the small wrought iron table.
A man wandered into the coffee shop and took a table an arm’s length away from Reza. His eyes lighted on the newspaper.
“Strange times we live in, don’t you think?” Reza asked him.
The man took a moment to meet his eyes. “But stranger times are likely ahead of us.”
“Salaam,” Reza said. “Will you join me?”
Bilal Hamieh lowered his bulk into the chair opposite Reza. With his graying beard, unkempt hair, and sagging man-tits, he looked like a cab driver, but Reza had read his dossier. Now forty-five years old, he’d started as a street fighter in the campaigns against the Israeli occupation of his country when he was no more than a boy and had risen through the ranks with each successive campaign. Today, he ran the intelligence apparatus for Hezbollah. Not especially political, Hamieh was reputed to be the most powerful—and the most secretive—man in the Party of God. Reza regarded the sharp eyes that stared back at him from across the table. If anyone could help him, it was Hamieh.
Bilal leaned forward. “Would you like to meet here or take a walk?”
Reza scanned the room. Good sightlines to the hotel lobby and the pool, and he’d selected the meeting place at random, notifying Bilal only a few moments before by text. “I’m fine here.”
Bilal shrugged. “As you wish. What can I do for Iranian Ettela’at?”
“I’m here unofficially today. For some off-the-books assistance.”
“So I’ve heard.” Bilal’s eyes narrowed a fraction.
Reza leaned forward and dropped his voice. “I’m looking for Rafiq Roshed. It’s urgent that I find him.”
“Rafiq has not been part of our organization for many years.” Bilal shifted in his seat, so the afternoon sun streamed into Reza’s eyes. “But you knew that. He fell in with an Iranian Quds agent and disappeared. What would Iranian intelligence want with a man the Iranians took from me ten years ago?”
“The Quds agent was his brother. Half brother,” Reza corrected himself.
Bilal let out a huff. “That I did not know.”
“And when he took Rafiq, he was not using him for official business of the Islamic Republic of Iran.”
Bilal moved again so that he blocked the sunlight on Reza. “I see.” His gaze fell on the newspaper headline. “A loose end?”
Reza locked eyes with Bilal. “Let’s say that the new leadership in Iran would be very appreciative of your immediate, and discreet, cooperation.”
Bilal’s shoulders hunched into another shrug. “There’s not much to tell. The boy was a bastard, grew up in Arsal to the north.” He waved his hand at the far wall. “A natural-born fighter, and smart, too. Could have been a leader in Hezbollah. He was in the Khobar Towers operation. Then the Iranian showed up, and Rafiq was gone. I heard he was in the US somewhere.”
Reza tried to control his breathing. “What about his mother? Can I talk to her?”
Bilal’s face clouded. “Not anymore, thanks to the Islamic State.” He spat out the name like a curse. “The ISIS dogs attacked across the border from Syria a few years ago. Arsal, famous for carpets and beautiful women, was flattened by these sons of whores as punishment for our fighting on the side of Assad against them. Rafiq’s mother was killed in the raid. Mortar shell, right in her living room.”
“Did he come home for his mother’s funeral?”
Bilal shook his head. “We assumed he was dead. What kind of son doesn’t come home for his mother’s funeral?”
Reza sat back in his chair, deflated.
“There is one other possibility,” Bilal rumbled.
Reza raised his eyebrows at the Lebanese spy.
“Two brothers disappeared at the same time as Rafiq. Twins. One of them did show up for the funerals. He stayed with his mother only a few days. The rumor is that he is living in South America.”
“And he is with Rafiq?”
Bilal shrugged again. “Unclear, but maybe his mother would talk to you.”
Reza drained his cup and stood.
“Perhaps a drive in the country?”
CHAPTER 47
National Counterproliferation Center (NCPC), Washington, DC
13 June 2016 – 0945 local
> Don looked at the caller ID on the trilling desk phone.
Clem. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Why now?
“Riley.”
“Donny boy. Top of the morning to you, son. It’s your lucky day. Get your ass in my office, pronto.”
Don stared at the dead handset and slowly shook his head. He took one more look at the nuclear verification procedures for the Iranian nuclear accord he was editing on his computer.
Clem bounced out of his chair when Don knocked on the doorjamb of his office. He waved Don to a seat, shut the office door, then leaned back against the front edge of his desk. He hugged his arms across his chest so that his biceps popped. Don ignored the muscle show.
“Comfy?” Clem said, then without waiting for an answer, thrust a sheaf of papers in Don’s face. “Read. Sign.”
Don took the papers and looked at the heading: Non-Disclosure Form. Okay, he’d signed these many times. He scanned the first few lines, and his eyebrows went up.
“I know, right?” Clem said. “Serious shit, eh?”
Don nodded. This was unlike any NDA he’d ever seen. Basically, it said he was about to be read into a program called Project Caveman and if he ever disclosed anything he’d be thrown into a deep, dark hole for the rest of his natural born life.
“Do you have any idea what this is about?”
Clem shook his head. “I can tell you that they asked for you by name—and I’m being told that it came from the top. The very top.”
“They asked for me?”
“You. By name.”
Don’s heart rate went up a few notches as he signed the last page of the document and handed it back to Clem. “What now?”
“Well, we have you set up in the small conference room, the one with no windows.” He chuckled. “If you want to take files in with you, show them to your manager first so they can be marked as preexisting.”
