Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 16

Hashem smoked his cigarette with fingers that trembled ever so slightly.

He’d noticed the tremor starting a few weeks ago, but had ignored it. Overwork, that was it. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in months. He stabbed at the muted TV with the stub of his Marlboro before he ground it out in the ashtray and lit another.

Arab Spring. The name sounded more like a feminine hygiene product than an act of political treason.

And yet, it had spread like a virus through the region. First Tunisia, then Oman, Yemen, Syria, and Egypt. Egypt! With a long-standing dictator and an established military in his pocket, even that country had fallen in the protests.

It was no small wonder his brother had called this meeting. The Iranian secret police was on fire with rumors of a similar uprising in Iran. The ayatollahs were worried — and they should be.

The door snapped open and Aban swept in. His bodyguard scanned the room and left after depositing an aluminum briefcase next to Aban’s chair.

Hashem started to take a knee before his brother, but Aban waved him upright and drew him into a fierce hug. “Please, brother. We have much to discuss today. Much to discuss.” He flopped down in the waiting chair, and closed his eyes.

For a moment, Hashem saw shades of his brother as a much younger man, before Aban had assumed the role of a religious leader. The young man who would stay up late with his adoring younger brother talking of his worldwide travel, the girls he had met, and rocks, always geology.

Aban opened his eyes and the moment was gone. His eyes blazed with fury, and the dark circles under them told Hashem his brother hadn’t been sleeping any better than he.

Aban hoisted the briefcase onto the table, pushing aside the ashtray and Hashem’s tea mug. Hashem noted the silver case was a larger model than usual: twice as deep, by his estimation. Aban snapped the locks open and pushed up the lid. The briefcase was completely full of American hundred-dollar bills, banded together in neat stacks. Hashem ran his hand over the money.

“Twice the usual amount, brother. I — we — are worried, very worried about the rapid changes in the region. Our normal channels of influence are failing us. We need”—his mouth moved as he searched for the word—“more creative methods of influence.”

Hashem nodded. “The geology project is progressing nicely, brother,” he began, using their code name for the secret cavern installation. “We have two complete units now and the third should be done by next—”

Aban’s face clouded. “Stop fucking around in that cave, Hashem! Look at the world around you!” The door opened a crack and Aban waved at it. The door closed.

He stabbed his finger at the television. Al Jazeera was showing a protest in Damascus, Syria. Police in riot gear waded into a crowd, blood painted the street. The news crawler was giving stats on the American troop withdrawal from Iraq.

“Look at it!” Aban’s face was flushed, and his voice cracked. “The Americans are leaving Iraq, walking away after eight years, leaving a Shia government in place. What an opportunity for our country! And what do our politicians do? They sit on their hands and worry about Israel and the United States taking action against us.

“This is our time.” He was reaching a preaching cadence, and he beat his breast in a dramatic gesture. “In Syria, are we sure Assad will carry the day?” He gestured at the TV again. “The news media portrays him as a butcher, but he’s our butcher. We need to support him.”

“But the Israelis—” Hashem began.

“The Israelis,” Aban spat back at him. He slapped his hand on the briefcase. “Use your head, brother. It is time for some misdirection. Give the Israelis something to think about other than our nuclear aspirations.” They both knew the Iranian program was a joke, that Hashem’s cache of former Iraqi weapons in the desert was years ahead of anything the official Iranian program had yet produced. Would ever produce, if the pro-Western collaborators inside the Iranian government got their way.

The truth was that the Israeli covert actions targeted against individual scientists and the US-led economic sanctions had all but doomed the official Iranian nuclear program. Worse yet, the effectiveness of US — Israeli actions had encouraged the moderates in Iranian politics. The latest name being floated for President was Hassan Rouhani, but with elections still two years away, anything could happen. At least Rouhani would behave like an adult instead of Ahmadinejad, that petulant child who now held the presidency. The man seemed determined to bring down the wrath of America and Israel on Iran with his constant, irrational diatribes and empty threats.

Hashem took his time lighting another cigarette. He offered one to his brother, who bit his lip, then nodded and pulled one from the pack. Hashem lit Aban’s cigarette with his silver Zippo. They smoked in silence for a few moments. Hashem had another moment of déjà vu: it was Aban who had introduced him to Marlboros. He’d started smoking that brand exclusively as a way to emulate his older brother. He smiled to himself. Maybe now the shoe was on the other foot.

Hashem blew a stream of blue smoke at the ceiling. “Let’s take these problems one at a time, brother. First Syria. We’ve been sending them arms via official channels for weeks now. Bashar needs to handle this on his own. It’s the only way for him to keep power long-term. If he begins to fail, I will encourage our Hezbollah friends to join the fight against the rebels.”

“Why not get them involved now?” Aban asked.

Hashem pointed with his chin at the television. “As long as this is kept within Syria, the other nations will stay out — including the US and Israel. The moment outside parties get involved, it will expand beyond the borders of Syria. That means international intervention, or maybe something even worse: a Sunni uprising.”

Privately, Hashem worried about Bashar’s ability to put down this insurrection on his own. This never would have happened if his older brother, Maher, was in power. The truth was, Bashar al-Assad was an idiot, a Western-educated pansy without the backbone to rule a nation the way it needed to be done. Maher’s death in a car accident was a stroke of bad luck for Iran.

Hashem lit another Marlboro, noting that he only had two left in the package and hoping his brother did not want another. He cleared this throat.

“In Israel, our best option is Hamas. With some cash infusion, we can ramp up their rocket bomb manufacturing capability. Let them poke Netanyahu with their little needles”—Hashem had no illusion that the homemade Hamas rockets would actually cause any real damage in Israel— “and Bibi will fly into his trademark overblown response. Let the international community harass him for a while.”

The Israelis, especially Netanyahu, were often their own worst enemy. Their ranting on the American talk shows actually lost them support, but when they acted behind the scenes… Hashem shivered. The American president Teddy Roosevelt had it right: “Speak softly and carry a big stick.” If Netanyahu ever learned that lesson, the Iranians were in real trouble.

“And that brings us to Iraq.” Hashem crushed out his cigarette and resisted the urge to get another from the pack. Aban stubbed his smoke out at the same time, waiting for his brother to speak.

“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.”