Death of a Pawn: A WMD Companion Short Story

Chapter Three

Rafiq Roshed could not sleep.

Without waking Nadine, he slipped out of bed and padded from the room. He hadn’t bothered to set an alarm. Rafiq knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up, but these days just the anticipation of the monthly check-in with his brother was enough to chase sleep away for the night.

He looked in on little Javier. The boy, nearly three years old now, had placed his toy horse — the black one, just like his pony, Storm — on the edge of his bed. Rafiq moved the miniature horse and kissed the boy. His son’s dark curly hair snagged in Rafiq’s short beard. He breathed in the scent of his child, feeling the edge of anticipation wane.

Over the last few months, since his Lebanese mother had been killed by the Islamic State, Rafiq found himself lost to these warring emotions: the anger and the bloodlust of his life as a freedom fighter against the peace of his family.

He hadn’t even been able to properly mourn his mother. Traveling back to his hometown of Arsal for the funeral was out of the question — thanks to Hashem — and the only real contact he’d had with her in the last five years was via hand-carried letters. When he accepted this assignment from Hashem, Rafiq had known the costs: sever all connections with his former life in Hezbollah and Lebanon, including his mother.

Here, in the Tri-Border Area of South America, Rafiq made a new life, a life so far from the fight in the Middle East that he might as well be living on another planet. Wealth, land, family, love — it was all his in this magical alternate universe. His thoughts drifted to Nadine, still asleep in their bed…

A chill passed over him like an icy wind as the memory of his mother intruded on his reverie. His mother. Killed by a mortar shell as she sat in her own living room inside her own home — the home where he’d grown into a man.

Well, not a man, really. He was only fifteen when he joined Hezbollah and was selected for the Khobar Towers operation in Saudi Arabia. Oh, the attention that bombing had drawn to their cause! From that moment on, Rafiq was on the fast track to leadership in the Party of God. He smiled wistfully as he recalled the accolades of his peers and the jealous glares from his elders.

And then his chain-smoking half-brother came into his life. Hashem, a rising star in the Quds Force who hinted at ties to Ettela’at, intervened. “You are different, my brother,” he’d said. “Different from these glorified goat herders who want to die as martyrs.” He argued for Rafiq to attend university in America. Not in New York or Washington, DC, but in the Midwest, in the middle of nowhere. “You can be the greatest fighter in a generation, but you must complete your training first.”

Rafiq had agreed. Five years he’d spent at Carleton College in Minnesota before he was able to return to Lebanon. Five years as Ralf Faber, who graduated summa cum laude with a degree in international relations. Rafiq wondered what his professors at Carleton would think about his career choice as the leader of a terrorist sleeper cell in South America.

He cracked open the door to Consie’s room. The child gently sucked her thumb. He didn’t dare kiss her. She was a light sleeper — just like her father.

He shook himself into action. All this reminiscing left him barely enough time to make a cup of coffee before his scheduled Internet session with Hashem. Every month, his half-brother set up a secure chatroom to check on the cargo, a wooden crate that Rafiq had shepherded from Iran to the estancia in 2007. Since its arrival, the crate had sat unopened in a secret compartment inside the estate’s massive wine cellar.

When he’d arrived here, the cargo was Rafiq’s life. But his life had become so much more in the last seven years. Seven years? Has it been that long? Rafiq gritted his teeth in frustration. Lamenting the past was weakness. Better to be like the wolf, constantly moving forward, seeking prey.

Rafiq checked his watch and muttered a curse. 0157.

He hustled into the office, locking the door behind him. While the computer booted up, he retrieved the codebook from the safe. At exactly 0200, Rafiq clicked on the Tor software, which anonymized his online presence, then opened a message in his inbox. Had anyone managed to hack into his email, they would have seen a message advertising a porn website. Had they managed to bypass the page of naked pictures and blinking buttons and clicked on the link at the bottom of the screen, they would have gotten an error message. But had they clicked on that link at exactly 0200 on that exact day, they would have been redirected to a one-time-use chatroom.

When the window opened, instead of the usual five-minute countdown timer, the timer showed twenty minutes. Rafiq frowned, instantly suspicious.

The opening greeting matched the code phrase listed for this month.

Rafiq typed his reply and added in an additional verification step from the back of the code book.

Hashem responded in less than fifteen seconds. Yes, this was his brother.

Is the cargo safe?

Rafiq almost spat at the screen. Always the same question from Hashem. Never, “How are you, brother? Are you doing okay since your mother’s death?”

Yes. It is safe.

I have a job for you. Something different.

Rafiq felt a surge of hope. Something different, something to break the monotony of keeping the cargo safe, day after day after day.

Am I leaving? typed Rafiq.

No. The cargo must be kept safe at all costs. That is still your top priority.

Understood. Rafiq typed the single word carefully, resisting the temptation to add a plea for… what? To go home to Lebanon? To get back in the fight? What did he want?

Sending documents now.

Two new Word files popped up in Rafiq’s queue. He opened them and began to read, his excitement building again.

Do you understand? There were less than five minutes in the chatroom session.

Yes. Timeframe?

Before January 19. You decide exact date.

Four weeks to plan and execute an assassination. He licked his lips. Killing someone was easy. The hard part was not getting caught.

It will be done.

Hashem’s reply came back quickly and forcefully: You can have NO connection to this. Do you understand? Find a way to handle it without being personally involved.

Rafiq stared at the screen, deflated. In his mind, he’d already begun fantasizing about the rush he would feel from taking a life again. It had been a long time.

Understood, Rafiq typed with less than thirty seconds left on the timer.

You are our most important weapon in the war against the Great Satan. Your mission is one of greatness. Peace be upon you, brother.

The countdown timer hit zero, and the software immediately went to work shredding not only the chatroom session logs, but also the Word files Hashem had sent.

No matter. Rafiq had already memorized everything he needed to know.