Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 26

Hashem shifted in his seat. More than anything else in the world, he wanted a cigarette. The pack of Marlboros in the breast pocket of his jacket breathed up a little scent of tobacco every time he moved. He sniffed at it and closed his eyes.

The speaker at the front of the room changed again, but it was the same tired drone of bureaucracy they’d already heard ten times. Everyone felt the need to speak, but no one felt the need to listen. This was why Hashem stayed as far away from politics as possible, these never-ending meetings where everyone said the same thing and no one agreed with anyone else.

For a body called the Expediency Council, they were anything but. They were supposed to be the appointed group that arbitrated legislative disputes between the elected Majlis, the Iranian Parliament, and the appointed twelve-member Council of Guardians, which consisted of a mix of clerics and legal scholars.

Somehow, Aban managed to hold seats on both the Expediency Council and the Council of Guardians — a rare feat. And Aban had asked him to attend this meeting.

Their mutual problem was the bill recently passed by the Majlis, which cut funding to the Quds Force. Moreover, it cut funds in a very specific way that impacted Hashem’s off-the-books desert operation.

Under the Ahmadinejad administration, Hashem reflected, he’d really had an easy time of it. The cost to run his operation was surprisingly reasonable. He’d used the cash from Aban to construct their desert hideaway and most of the equipment was acquired via bureaucratic sleight of hand. The only real ongoing costs were operating expenses for food, fuel, and salaries. These he covered via a fictitious line item within the Quds budget called the “Department of Water Security,” a squad of special agents whose sole job was to protect the nation’s water reserves. What bureaucrat would argue with water security?

But they had. Since President Rouhani had entered office less than six months ago, sweeping legislative changes were on the move. The new Rouhani-backed budget made dramatic cuts to the Quds Force, some of them surprisingly specific in nature. The changes included dismantling a number of programs, among them the Department of Water Security. The specificity of the cuts made Hashem smell a rat.

It had taken him four weeks to find the rat himself. And he was sitting two rows ahead of Hashem right now.

He studied the back of the man’s head. The dossier in his briefcase told him the man’s name was Reza Sanjabi. The attached photos made him look entirely ordinary: medium height, medium build, tending toward softness in the middle, neatly trimmed dark hair, and a clean-shaven jaw. Not handsome, not ugly, just average.

The best ones always are, Hashem thought.

He knew Reza was a spy working for Rouhani, but where did he come from? The man seemed to have materialized out of thin air. Not from within Quds, that was clear; there was no possible way a secret organization could have established itself within Quds without his knowledge.

Then where? And why was he here now?

The Expediency Council had finished debate on the funding bill for the cuts to Quds. Aban wore a grim smile. Hashem knew that look well: his brother had won, but at a cost that was dear to him.

The double doors at the back of the room opened, letting the sounds from the hallway enter the meeting room. The cleric chairing the Expediency Council rose to his feet, but instead of calling for order, he raised his hands and clasped them together. He had a broad smile on his face.

“Welcome, Mr. President,” he called, his voice booming over the PA system. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

Hashem caught a glimpse of Aban before the crowd of incoming people — reporters, security detail, staffers — blocked his view of the front of the room. Aban’s face was slack with shock, and his fingers gripped the white cloth covering the table.

President Rouhani knew how to make a politician’s entrance, reaching around his security men to grasp the hands of well-wishers, taking his time to get to the front of the room. He made it to where the Council was seated in a semicircle, and his security team held back anyone from proceeding further.

Hashem watched Rouhani cross the open space and walk behind the raised dais, shaking hands with the Council members as he went, until he reached the center podium. The Chairman clasped Rouhani’s outstretched hand with both of his and beamed up at his new President.

“I object!”

Aban’s voice thundered through the hall, dampening the noise level as all eyes turned in his direction. Aban was on his feet and had pulled the microphone out of its stand on the table before him.

“I object,” he said again, with a little more control this time.

The Chairman leaned forward so he could look down the row of seated Council members. “On what grounds, sir, do you object?”

“Bringing an outside speaker to the Expediency Council meeting is highly irregular. The President was not on the agenda.”

“Point taken,” the Chairman replied. “The scheduled agenda for this meeting of the Expediency Council has been completed. I vote to conclude this meeting. Do I have a second?”

“Seconded,” Aban cried.

The Chairman rapped the podium with his gavel. “This meeting is adjourned. Any Council members who wish to leave are excused.” He turned to Rouhani. “Our President has agreed to hold an unscheduled press conference here today. Anyone who wishes to stay may do so.”

No one in the room moved.

Aban’s face had gone purple with rage, and his hands shook as he tried to replace the microphone in the table holder. He finally gave up and laid it on the white cloth.

Hashem leaned forward in his chair as Rouhani stepped up to the podium. This was actually the closest he’d ever been to the new President of Iran.

Rouhani wore the full robes of a cleric over his stocky frame. The hands that gripped the sides of the podium were square, with fingers on the short side and manicured nails. A lick of gray hair peeked playfully out from under his snow-white turban, and his carefully trimmed beard lent a slightly western flair to his clerical garb. Behind his wire-rimmed glasses, his gray eyes crinkled with friendliness.

“Good morning,” he said, his even voice filling the quiet room. “And thank you, Mr. Chairman, for your kind invitation.

“When I was elected only a few short months ago, I promised to bring the great country of Iran back into the pantheon of world powers. The diplomatic effort my administration undertook has yielded a framework agreement—” Spontaneous applause broke out in the room, but Rouhani raised his hand. “Please. It is only a first step, merely an agreement to continue talking with the western powers about ending sanctions. An important first step, mind you, but still only the first step of a long journey.” He paused to take a drink of water before continuing.

“Now we enter the most difficult part of the negotiation. Our nuclear program is for peaceful purposes, but we face a skeptical world order, a group of nations that seek proof of our peaceful intentions. And we will provide these skeptics with the proof they desire.

“But let us face facts: the Western sanctions have devastated our economy and our efforts to satisfy the western powers will cost money. My administration has announced a series of cuts in government programs, and redirected those funds toward the nuclear negotiation effort. These cuts are necessary to allow the great nation of Iran to rejoin the world community. I thank the Chairman and the Council for their valuable assistance in reconciling this critical legislation.”

The applause filled the hall again and Rouhani allowed it to continue for a full minute before he waved them quiet. With his trademark grandfatherly smile, he offered to take questions from the reporters. Hashem saw Aban slip out the side entrance and hurried to join him.

His brother’s face was white, and he gnawed at his thumbnail. Aban scanned the hallway. “Do you have a cigarette?” he asked.

Hashem partially tapped out two Marlboros and extended the pack to Aban. His brother snatched a cigarette, sucking greedily as Hashem held out the flame. He held the smoke in his lungs for a long moment before he let it out in a fierce blue stream.

“Brother, we’re running out of time.”