Death of a Pawn: A WMD Companion Short Story

Chapter Eight

Alberto was having trouble sleeping.

Ever since four teenagers had been found murdered in an alley only a few blocks from his apartment, Alberto had the sneaking suspicion that their deaths were somehow a message to him. His head of security insisted on armed escorts to and from work, but their presence did little to ease his mind. They looked at him like a package they had to handle, not a man who was about to bring down the political elite of Argentina.

Even from the beginning of his investigation, Alberto had assumed his phones were tapped and his email was being read. That was why he carried his laptop and his most important files with him at all times. But the sense of being watched was new to him. He tried to control this feeling of paranoia, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

The only thing that could free him was telling the world the truth about the de Kirchner government and its ties to Iran and international terrorism. Once the world knew the extent of the corruption, Alberto would be untouchable.

But that was three days away. He still had to get through the weekend.

As was their Friday morning custom, Diego Lagomarsino met him in his office to make sure there were no computer issues before the weekend. The younger man stopped in the office doorway, then retreated and returned a few minutes later with a cup of coffee. He placed the mug in front of Alberto. “You look terrible, boss. Drink this.”

Nisman smiled. “Thank you, Diego. I–I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Diego nodded, then stood up again and shut the office door. “Have you thought about what we discussed?” he asked. “I think keeping a separate copy of your report in a safe place is a wise precaution.”

Alberto pushed the coffee mug aside and opened his briefcase on the desk. The case contained all of his most important evidence and documentation, as well as thumb drive backups of all his findings and the sole hard copy of the three-hundred-page report he would submit to Congress on Monday. These pages represented years of work uncovering layer after layer of deceit, and thread upon thread of linkages between his government and the Iranians. Sometimes when he considered what he had given up to get this far, how many personal relationships he’d damaged, how much time with his family he’d missed, it made him want to weep. But he, Alberto Nisman, would finally be able to deliver to the survivors and family members of the AMIA bombing real justice for their loss.

He shut the lid of the briefcase. “No,” he said to Diego. “We’ve come this far. We’ll stay the course for a few more days. On Monday, the world can read the report. Until then, it will stay with me and me alone.”

“I understand,” Diego replied, although his look said otherwise. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

It was the opening Alberto had hoped for. “Well, Diego, I’m glad you asked. I seem to recall you own a handgun.”

Diego nodded slowly. “A Bersa .22 caliber. Small, lightweight, but it carries a punch. I got it after my military service. I still shoot occasionally. I find it relaxes me. Would you like to join me sometime?”

Alberto did his best to give his friend a confident smile. “Maybe some other time. I was wondering if I might borrow your gun for the next week or so.”

Diego chewed his lip. They both knew that lending his licensed weapon to Alberto was technically illegal, but that wasn’t the source of his friend’s hesitation. He felt Diego sizing up Alberto’s state of mind, wondering if this was a good idea. Deep down, Alberto himself had the same thought, but he needed something tangible to ease his fears. Maybe the ability to protect himself was what he needed.

“Your security guards?” Diego ventured.

Alberto wanted to tell Diego his fears about their loyalty — or lack of it — but he bit back the words on the tip of his tongue. He put on his warmest smile. “I would feel better if I had my own weapon. I’m sure I’ll never need to use it, but better safe than sorry, you know?” He finished with his best impression of a belly laugh.

Diego relaxed. “Of course. I can retrieve it at lunch for you to take home this evening. Do you know how to handle a handgun?”

Alberto waved his hands. “I did my time in the service as well. I was a few years too young to serve in the Malvinas, but I do remember my training.” He laughed again to keep Diego at ease, but leaned across the desk and lowered his voice. “Could I impose on you twice in one day? I’d rather not have the gun here in the office. Could you drop it off at my apartment this afternoon? Paula will let you in. Just leave it in my desk drawer.”

When Diego had gone, Alberto leaned back in his chair, exhausted, all effort at pretense gone. He closed his eyes.

After this weekend, he would be free.

“He has the files? You’re sure of it?”

The man who spoke had a bland face, instantly forgettable, but the other three people in the room watched him carefully. They recognized power — real power — and they had no desire to cross him.

The gentleman across from the bland-faced man nodded with quick jerks of his head. His foot beat a nervous tattoo on the floor. “He must have recognized the connections we embedded in the documents. But he works alone so we can’t know for sure.”

The bland-faced man cursed softly as he lit a cigarette. “There is no way we can get access to the final report? We must be certain.”

“No. He keeps the original on his person at all times. There are no copies that we know of.”

The bland-faced man smoked his cigarette to the filter and stabbed it into the ashtray. “So that’s it? We just have to trust that this idiot draws the right conclusions from the facts we’ve fed him?” The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the quiet.

“Maybe there’s another way.” The only woman in the room spoke. “A way we can create enough political heat to achieve our goals and get access to the full report before it goes public.”

The bland-faced man tapped another cigarette out of the package.

“I’m listening.”

When Alberto arrived home that evening, earlier than usual, he smelled pot roast. And it smelled delicious.

“Paula,” he called as he dropped his keys on the small table near the door. She answered him from the kitchen. He continued talking as he hung up his suit jacket. “It’s been ages. I just missed you a few nights ago. I could see the lights on from the street, but you were gone by the time I got up here. We probably passed each other in the elevator.”

Paula poked her head out the kitchen doorway. “I’ll fix you a plate, Mr. Nisman. Would you like wine with your meal?”

“Yes,” Alberto said. “It was last Friday, in fact. Were you working late?” He entered the kitchen and accepted a glass of wine from her. Her eyes were red as if she’d been crying. “Paula, what’s the matter?”

The woman busied herself with the pot roast. Alberto’s stomach rumbled. “Paula?” he said again.

“It’s nothing, sir. I need to go. I’m meeting a friend for dinner and I’m already late.” She handed him a plate of meat and gravy. The steam wafted to his nose and Alberto took a deep sniff. He let out an appreciative groan.

She rushed from the room and returned a moment later with her handbag. “Last Friday, you said? I didn’t work late that night. I’m usually gone by now, especially on Friday. I stayed tonight to make you the pot roast because I know it’s your favorite. Good luck on Monday, Mr. Nisman.”

Alberto set the plate and wineglass down on the counter carefully and followed her to the door. He shut it firmly and shot the deadbolt. He rested his forehead on the cool steel surface.

The lights had been on in his apartment last Friday evening, he was sure if it. He drew a shaky breath, his appetite gone.

Then he remembered: Diego’s gun. Nisman hurried to his office and opened the desk drawer, and there it was. The Bersa. One magazine inserted, one spare, and a box of ammunition, just as Diego had promised.

Two more days and I’m a free man.