Death of a Pawn: A WMD Companion Short Story

Chapter Two

Hashem Aboud took a deep pull on his cigarette, savoring the taste in the back of his throat.

The muted TV was tuned to Al Jazeera, where an attractive female anchor held an animated — and thankfully silent — interview with someone from Sydney, Australia. A lone gunman had taken hostages inside the Lindt Chocolate Café. The police had trapped the man and a standoff was playing out. The black flag of the Islamic State hung in the window of the café.

Normally, Hashem would be cheering a fellow Muslim who chose to take on the Western nations, but not today. Today he hoped the man died — not as a martyr, either, but as an animal, alone and scared.

Hashem blew a stream of smoke at the screen. First in Iraq, now in Syria, those Sunni bastards were a cancer on the region. Even worse, they forced him to direct valuable resources to stopping them. Resources that could be used for more important projects, like his desert bunker. They’d created their own “nation” and couldn’t even decide what to call themselves — IS, ISIL, ISIS, the Islamic State, Daesh…

He checked his watch and stubbed out his Marlboro in the overflowing ashtray. Still, they were effective, he had to give them that. Daesh had timed its entry into Iraq perfectly. In that short window between the Americans departing and Hashem consolidating his Iranian influence over the Maliki government — a matter of only a few months — these Islamic State assholes unleashed a rapid and successful campaign to establish their own Sunni state. Just as Iran was gaining traction in shaping Iraqi policies and keeping Bashar al-Assad in power in Syria — he was an idiot, but he was Iran’s idiot — Daesh had struck there as well.

For that, upstarts like the one in Australia deserved death.

The door to the private room snapped open and Aban swept into the space, preceded by his always-present bodyguard. The hulking man scanned the room, deposited a heavy briefcase on the floor, and left without a word.

As usual, Hashem’s older brother cut a fine figure in the cream-colored robes and white turban of his office. Hashem hastily moved the ashtray off the table and stood, brushing a trace of ash from his suit jacket. He took a knee before his half-brother and bowed his head. “Your Eminence, I am honored by your presence.”

Aban let out a belly laugh and pulled Hashem to his feet, embracing him in a bear hug.

He wants something from me, Hashem thought.

“Let me look at you, brother,” Aban said, holding Hashem at arm’s length.

Hashem noted the tension in his brother’s too-wide smile and the deepening crow’s feet that framed his eyes. The rise of President Rouhani and his wave of moderates over the last few years had eroded his brother’s influence in the Islamic Republic of Iran — something they hoped to fix with their desert bunker project.

But they were still months, maybe years away from having operational nuclear missiles. Years away from the kind of drastic reform that Aban planned to implement in Iran.

Aban waved his hand at the television. “Bastard Daesh. I hope the Australians shoot him like a dog in the street.” He reached for the remote and switched off the TV.

Hashem drew them both fresh cups of tea, piling a saucer with sugar cubes for his brother. He stayed silent. It was an old trick of the clandestine operator — put an uncomfortable silence into a conversation in an effort to prompt your target to start speaking — and it almost invariably worked on Aban.

“How are things in the bunker?” Aban asked. He put a sugar cube between his teeth and sucked down a sip of tea.

Hashem’s lips twitched for a cigarette. “On track.” He resumed his silence. Aban wasn’t getting off that easily.

Aban fussed with his tea, sipping and stirring.

Hashem waited.

Aban cleared his throat. “I need your help.”

Hashem nodded silently.

“I’ve been working behind the scenes to find buyers for our oil. Buyers who are willing to go against the United States and their sanctions. If I can bring money into the Treasury, that will bolster my influence among certain members of the Council…”

Hashem sipped his tea.

“I’ve got Argentina lined up, but there’s a problem with the deal. That’s where you come in.”

Finally. Hashem pulled his pack of Marlboros from his jacket pocket and raised his eyebrows at his brother. Aban waved his assent. Hashem lit a cigarette and drew deeply. “How can I help?” he said on the exhale.

“The bombing of the Jews in Buenos Aires in ‘94, at the community center. Do you recall that event?”

Hashem chewed his lip and nodded slowly. He’d been only a junior intel officer in the Quds Force back then, but he remembered the Hezbollah fighters they’d trained and armed for the bombing in Buenos Aires. The Lebanese Shia patriots had impressed him.

“You know about the Interpol alerts against our officials. If these men leave Iran, they’re fair game for being arrested and extradited to Argentina. I’ve been negotiating to get these red alerts canceled, but their President is being held hostage by a special prosecutor who is still investigating the bombing.”

Hashem used his first cigarette to light another. “That was twenty years ago. Who cares?”

Aban opened the briefcase and extracted a file. Hashem tried not to stare at the stacks of US dollars in the case. Instead, he flipped open the file.

The label at the bottom of the 8 × 10 picture said ALBERTO NISMAN. Hashem studied the photo. Clean cut, mid-fifties, with a gaunt attractiveness and fiery dark eyes.

“This man.” Aban’s stubby finger poked Nisman’s photo in the forehead. “He’s a bulldog and a pain in the ass. For the last ten years, he’s been investigating the bombing. He claims Iran was involved, and President de Kirchner and her Foreign Minister will not sign the deal with us as long as this man—”

“So you want Nisman eliminated?” Hashem said.

“Yes, but that’s not all. I need Nisman discredited — silenced, but in such a way that the validity of his entire investigation is called into question.” Aban picked up his teacup and sat back in his chair. “Is there a way to do that, Hashem?”

Hashem let the smoke trickle from his nostrils.

“There is always a way, brother. There is always a way.”