Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 18

“The Minnesota Wild is a good team, yes?”

Don looked away from the frozen river flashing by his car window, and focused on the words of the driver. The man had introduced himself twice… what the hell was his name?

Jaakko. Yes, that was it, Jaakko.

“Pardon, Jaakko?”

The US embassy driver’s pale blue eyes locked onto Don’s in the rearview mirror. The edges squinched together as he smiled. “The Minnesota Wild is good team, yes?” He said it with a little lilt at the end and he pronounced the w as a soft v.

Don racked his brain. The Minnesota Wild… football? No. Basketball? No. Ice hockey. That was it.

“Oh, the Wild,” Don replied. “Yes, very good ice hockey team. Very good.”

The car made a little twist on the ice-covered road as Jaakko tossed a glance over his shoulder, all smiling white teeth and pale blond hair. “Yes. Very good. Who’s your favorite player?”

Don pursed his lips as if he were thinking, but he doubted he could name even one ice hockey player, much less one from Minnesota. “It’s hard to say,” Don said, hoping Jaakko would take the conversation and run with it.

“Mine is Mikael Granlund,” Jaakko said immediately. “Great player, one of the best Finnish players in many years. He will play for the Wild next season.” He said the last bit with eyebrows raised, looking back at Don, as if that was a statement that Don might want to discuss. Don chewed his lip like he might be considering it, then shrugged his shoulders. The car rounded a bend in the road and their destination came into view.

Königstedt Manor. Don knew this building, and the Finnish government, had a long history of direct involvement in international diplomacy. On numerous occasions during the Cold War, Königstedt Manor had served as a secret meeting place for US and Soviet negotiating teams, away from the prying eyes of the news media.

When the US and Iran sought a location for a low-level exploratory meeting on nuclear talks, Königstedt came up immediately as an option. Both nations had embassies in the country, and Finland in February served as a natural deterrent from incidental contact with the news media.

Don’s official role was one of technical support on the subject of nuclear nonproliferation verification. His status with the CIA was to be kept a secret. Don felt a little thrill at the thought of being an undercover agent, but his CIA supervisor had quashed those ideas.

“You’re there to listen, Riley, nothing more. You take notes, you watch people, you answer technical questions about nuclear shit, and that’s it.” Andrea was a dumpy woman in her mid-fifties, with reddish-gray hair and a tired face. “Your status as CIA is not why you’re going, you’re there as a technical advisor.” She pushed a stray curl away from her face and leaned toward him. “Clear?”

Don bit his tongue so as not to ask her if he could carry a weapon.

Jaakko drove the car slowly past the front of the house, pointing out the wide stone steps leading up to a columned portico that reminded Don vaguely of the White House. Thick bushes, the branches bare in the snow, lined the steps. “You should see this place in the summertime,” Jaakko said. He kissed his fingertips like an Italian. “Perfect.”

He pulled the car to the rear of the building and scrambled out to open his passenger’s door. The packed snow crunched beneath Don’s dress shoes, and he shivered in the open air. Jaakko deposited his roller bag next to him, offering a short bow. “It was good to meet you, Donald.”

“You as well, Jaakko.” Don dug into his pocket for some change, but the Finn waved his hands.

“Go Wild,” he said with a laugh as he drove away.

A thin woman, iron-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, met him inside the door. “Mr. Riley,” she said in English, consulting a clipboard. “Welcome to Königstedt.” Her handshake was dry and firm. “I am Mrs. Juntilla.” She turned on her heel and, without waiting for Don, walked away.

“The meetings have started,” she said over her shoulder. “I will show you a place to freshen up and then take you to the conference room.” She walked like she talked, in short, clipped steps. Don had to race to keep up with her.

Mrs. Juntilla led him to a room that looked like something out of a European travel brochure. A four-poster bed, laden with heavy quilts and pillows, dominated the space. He tossed his bag on the bed and zipped it open, extracting a shaving kit.

The bathroom was equally extravagant, with marble double vanities, a huge freestanding tub, and a glass enclosure with multiple showerheads lining the wall. He looked longingly at the shower but decided that would take too long. He stripped to the waist and ran a sinkful of hot water to wash his face and shave.

The face that stared back at him in the mirror was tired, but there was a gleam of excitement in his red-rimmed eyes. He grinned at his reflection. Finally, his chance to make a difference in the real world.

Refreshed, he followed Mrs. Juntilla through the wide halls lined with oil paintings and fresh flowers, his repacked roller bag clicking along behind him. She paused at the end of the hallway, outside a set of double doors that extended up at least nine feet. She rapped on the door with her knuckles, then pushed into the room.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said. “Mr. Riley has arrived.”

The room must have been a ballroom at some point in its history. The ceilings were at least twenty feet high and finished with ornate plaster castings. The walls were a pale yellow, warmed by the sunshine streaming in through the French doors that lined the wall. Outside, Don could see a wide veranda and the frozen Vantaa River beyond.

For the meeting, an area rug covered the beautiful honey-colored parquet floor, and two rows of tables faced each other separated by about six feet. All of the chairs, twelve on each side, were occupied — except for one. Don dropped his computer bag and stood behind his chair. He felt his face grow hot as he faced the room. “Good morning — afternoon, I mean, everyone. Sorry to interrupt. Flight delays…” He let his voice trail off.

No one said anything, so he sat down.

The meeting continued. Don pulled out his laptop and waited as it booted up. He scanned the opposite side of the table, trying to commit the names and faces to memory. He’d read the dossiers on most of them, and they were your typical bureaucrats: low-level career paper-pushers.

The third man along the row of Iranians was an unexpected member of the delegation. Don read the paper nametag on the table in front of him: Reza Sanjabi. The man’s laptop — the only one in the row of Iranians — was closed, and he took sparse notes on a yellow legal pad. Don did not remember seeing this man’s dossier.

He looked to be in his late forties, with a pudgy, clean-shaven face and large hooked nose. The man seemed to sense he was being watched. His liquid brown eyes met Don’s, and he offered a slight smile and a quick nod before breaking eye contact.

Don stared down at his computer screen, and tried to find the spot in the agreement they were discussing.

The day passed with mind-numbing slowness. Don now saw why no one else had volunteered to come to the meeting. The negotiators described this as a “trust-building meeting,” a gathering where they talked about how they might talk about an agreement. They’d spent a good portion of the afternoon on one paragraph of the potential draft document and the word nuclear had not even been used in any of the text so far. Don felt a headache building.

After a break to freshen up, the attendees gathered back in the ballroom for cocktails before dinner. Don quickly realized that the entire US team had worked together before. They acted professionally toward Don, but they also made it clear he was not welcome for anything other than work matters. He got a Jameson at the bar and moved to the French doors overlooking the darkened river.

In the brightly lit room behind him reflected in the darkened glass, the diplomats were arranged in small groups according to their rank. A figure broke off from one of the nearby groups and approached Don.

“Hello,” he said in flawless English. “My name is Reza.” He had a trace of a British accent.

Don turned and shook his hand. His palm was soft, but the handshake firm. The man’s molten brown eyes seemed to look right through Don. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Donald.” He made a broad gesture to the room. “This is a remarkable place, is it not?”

Don nodded. He could see that a few members of the US delegation had noticed he was speaking with Reza. “Yes, I understand this building has quite a history as a location where the seeds of peace have been planted.”

Reza smiled. “I have heard that.” With his drink hand, he motioned at the chandelier, a monstrous affair of crystal and gold. “Magnificent."

“And this location…” Reza turned to face the darkened glass. “Such natural beauty.”

Don followed his lead and faced the glass, away from the rest of the room.

Reza spoke softly. “It must be a sight in the spring, when the snows melt and new life blooms.”

Don’s reflection nodded.

“Not unlike countries,” Reza said. “They come through a winter of hardship, and new leadership creates new growth, new alliances… even peace where before it was not possible.”

Don could see the head of the US delegation glancing in his direction. He looked like he might be about to come over.

“New leadership can make all the difference,” Don said.

“We have such a leader in Hassan Rouhani,” Reza replied. He was watching the gathering behind them in the glass, and seemed to sense they were about to be interrupted.

Don knew Rouhani’s name, but consensus in the US was that his chances in the election were slim.

“Mr. Sanjabi, is it? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” The head of the US delegation held out his hand. “Richard Welker.”

“Mr. Welker, the pleasure is mine,” Reza replied in a warm tone. “I was just remarking to Mr. Riley about the beauty of this place.”

“Yes.” Welker’s tone said he didn’t think much of the beauty of Finland in winter or Donald Riley. “I suppose if you enjoy snow and cold, it’s fine. Why don’t I introduce you to the rest of the US delegation and freshen that drink for you?”

“Of course, that is very kind of you,” Reza replied. He turned to Don, extending his hand. “Mr. Riley, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Please enjoy your stay in Finland, and I hope you see this beautiful country in the bloom of spring.”

His hand closed around Don’s, and Don felt something press between his ring finger and middle finger.

A slip of paper.

He curled his fingers around the paper and thrust his hand in his pocket.

He tilted his glass in Reza’s direction and smiled. “To spring,” he said, and drank off the last of the Jameson.