Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 28

Rafiq latched the heavy steel door open and snapped on the light as he stepped into the vault.

The wooden crate sat in the center of the room. The cargo. His mission for the last seven years. A big wooden box.

He checked the temperature and humidity monitor on the wall and inspected the seals on the packaging. All secure. The same as they’d been every afternoon for the last seven years. Well, not every afternoon. He’d taken a one-week honeymoon with Nadine after their wedding, but even then they’d only gone to Buenos Aires, and he could have been back within a day at most.

Rafiq rested his hand on the dried wood. Some days he was tempted to just open it and have a look inside. According to Hashem, everything he needed to complete his mission was in the container. But he was not to open it unless directed by Hashem himself. They also had a failsafe protocol to follow if his brother failed to make their monthly check-in and the backup comms plans also failed.

He nodded to Farid and stepped out of the vault, then watched him lock the door and set the alarm. The man had aged in the last seven years — and not in a good way. Farid’s crewcut was solid gray and he walked with a slight stoop. Rafiq had no doubt of the man’s loyalty to him or their cause, but he feared there was some serious medical issue behind his sudden change in appearance. He frequently missed their daily workouts, and when he did attend, his performance was not up to par. Rafiq could not afford to have a sick man on his team.

Farid slid the wine rack in place to conceal the vault entrance. The wine cellar, built into a mountain, was cool and shadowy around them. They were at the deepest point in the cellar, the spot where Don Javier kept his private stash of vintages under lock and key. Farid closed the door to the wire cage and snapped the padlock shut.

“Tomorrow, boss?” Farid said. They spoke in Lebanese, their home dialect of Arabic. They always spoke in their native tongue when they performed their daily checks on the cargo. Otherwise, they had both become fluent in Spanish and spoke it with almost no accent. They sounded almost like locals.

Rafiq hardened his tone. “Did you see the doctor as I told you?”

Farid’s form stiffened. He cleared his throat. “Yes, boss.”

“And?”

“Cancer,” he said. “Pancreatic cancer. Inoperable.”

Rafiq slumped against the nearest wine rack. He had expected something more benign, maybe a vitamin deficiency or a virus. “I–I’m sorry,” he said. “Have you told Juanita yet?”

Following Rafiq’s marriage to Nadine, both Farid and his brother, Jamil, had married their longtime girlfriends. They lived in twin bungalows on the edge of the vineyard.

Farid’s shadow shifted as he shook his head. “I wanted to tell you first. I’m still strong, Rafiq, I can do the mission — if it comes to that. But…”

“But?”

“The doctor says I have less than six months to live. He says the last few months could be very painful.”

“Ah, my friend, I am so sorry.” Rafiq embraced the man. He could feel how the flesh had melted off Farid’s frame. He should have seen it sooner. “Tell Juanita tonight — and tell your brother. We will take care of your family, you know that.”

Farid nodded, wiping his eyes. “But the mission—”

“I will handle the mission, Farid. Spend the time you have left with your family.”

Rafiq turned on his heel and walked quickly to the front of the wine cellar, welcoming the afternoon sunlight. He shivered to himself.

“Papa!”

The boy running at him full tilt had a headful of dark curls and his mother’s eyes. Rafiq caught the child in both hands and tossed him into the air. The boy wrapped his arms tightly around Rafiq’s neck when he landed back in his father’s grasp. His grip was getting stronger every day; it amazed Rafiq how quickly the boy developed new skills. His curly hair pressed against Rafiq’s face, and he breathed in the scent of his son.

His son. The idea still took his breath away. Before Nadine, he’d never even considered becoming a father. Now he was married with two children.

“I wanted to go into the wine cellar to meet you and Uncle Farid, but Mama said I had to wait outside,” the boy said. He pulled back to study his father’s face. His gaze was thoughtful, warm, just like his mother’s.

“And she’s right,” Rafiq replied. He poked the boy in the stomach. “But I’m free now.”

Little Javier wriggled out of his arms to the ground. He gripped his father’s hand and began to pull him toward the path to the stables. “Mama is waiting with Consie at the stables.”

Rafiq pretended to resist, but staggered forward when Javi redoubled his effort. “You’re too strong for me, son.” He shook the boy’s hand free and sprinted ahead. “I’m going to reach Mama first!”

He threw a look over his shoulder. Javi’s nearly three-year-old legs churned as he ran after his father, a determined look on his face. They rounded the bend and the stables came into sight. Rafiq slowed to let his son catch up.

Nadine turned to greet them, little Consuela in her arms. If anything, motherhood had made Nadine even more beautiful. It had given more curves to her athletic figure and added heft to her bosom — both of which Rafiq found very sexy — but it was more than that. He finally decided it was in her face: she glowed when she looked at her children, as if she couldn’t believe she had created these little beings from her own body.

Javi put on a burst of speed and passed Rafiq, tagging his mother’s thigh with a loud smack of his hand. “I won, Papa. I won.”

Rafiq came to a halt in front of Nadine. “You’re right, Javi, you won.”

Nadine kissed him, then pinched his earlobe between her teeth. “You’ll get your consolation prize later, Papa,” she whispered with a wicked smile.

“You can help me take the sting out of losing,” he whispered back, snatching a kiss from his wife and then planting one on the sleeping baby’s head.

“Can I ride now? Can I?” Javi pleaded.

Rafiq nodded to the ranch hand in the doorway. The man disappeared into the stable, returning a few minutes later leading a midnight-black pony fitted with a child’s saddle. He stopped the animal in front of Javi. The boy held a sugar cube on his open palm and the pony eagerly snapped it up. Javi giggled. “It tickles.”

The stable hand helped the boy into the saddle and handed him the reins, but kept a firm grip on the pony’s bridle until they were safely inside the paddock. Javi whooped as he dug his heels into the pony’s flanks. The beast broke into a canter.

Nadine handed the baby to Rafiq and stepped up onto the fence rails, calling out encouragement to her son in Spanish. Rafiq bit his tongue. He was still not completely comfortable with large animals, and certainly not with his three-year-old son riding a horse by himself. Nadine often laughed at his discomfort and called him a chico de ciudad, a city boy.

Little Consuela stirred when she was handed over, then settled back to sleep, her lips pursed as she suckled an imaginary breast. In contrast to Javi, Consuela seemed more like her father. Fairer of skin, with deep, watchful eyes. Unlike her tornado of a brother, the baby almost never cried.

Rafiq let the moment settle on him. His beautiful wife, eyes flashing, long, dark hair whipping around her face as she shouted out to her son. Javi, riding as if he’d been born in a saddle, let out a laugh of pure joy as he urged the pony faster. Consuela reached out and gripped the pocket of his shirt—

“Boss.” A hand touched his arm.

Rafiq turned around. Jamil was panting. “There’s been news,” he said. “News about… home.” He handed Rafiq a smartphone.

He had the web browser open to Al Jazeera, and a story about ISIS. Rafiq bristled. The so-called Islamic State fighters, nothing but a shell for Sunni extremists, were in the news all the time now. He and his men often lamented the fact that they were in South America when the real fight was back in Lebanon with their Hezbollah brothers. Rafiq always reinforced the necessity of their mission for Hashem, but deep inside even he sometimes wondered if what they were doing was worth it.

“Read the article, Boss,” Jamil urged. His face was gray with worry.

Rafiq scanned the news story. He was about to flick the text up when his thumb froze over the screen.

ISIS forces attacked the small Lebanese village of Arsal, near the Syrian border, this morning. Initial reports are that the town was decimated by the Sunni extremists…

Rafiq handed the baby to Nadine and ran for the house.

His chest was heaving with effort and sweat darkened the neckline of his shirt when he reached the study. He slammed the door shut and locked it behind him. His hands shook so badly it took him three tries to get the wall safe open. He flipped to the back of the codebook, where there was a list of email addresses next to a column of code words.

He booted up the computer, cursing the deliberate slowness of Microsoft Windows. Finally he was able to open his email. He typed in the email address from the codebook and put in a few lines of meaningless text in the body of the email. None of that mattered. He went back to the header and typed the phrase “sunrise service” in the subject line.

He hit send.

Rafiq gripped the edge of the desk. Don’t make assumptions. She’ll be alright. She has to be alright.

In his mind he could see the streets of Arsal, his boyhood home. The cafe on the corner, the elementary school down the street, the park across the road where he was allowed to play by himself as his mother watched him from their second-story apartment. The same apartment where she still lived.

The computer gave off a soft ping and the bold letters of a new email showed up at the top of his inbox. The header said “undeliverable message.” He opened the message and scrolled past the meaningless text to the link at the bottom of the screen.

The link took him to a one-time-use chatroom, with a countdown timer in the lower right corner. The space was active for only five minutes, then it would be wiped off both computers.

He watched the cursor blink at the top of the blank screen.

Are you there? he typed.

Two agonizing minutes went by.

Yes.

I know about the situation at home.

I’m sorry for your loss.

So it’s true, she’s gone?

Yes. I confirmed this just two hours ago.

I must go back.

Absolutely not. Remain in place.

Rafiq looked at the timer. Less than a minute remained.

I need to make funeral arrangements.

I will take care of it. You must stay.

Fifteen seconds.

Rafiq clenched his teeth together so hard he heard ringing in his ears. I understand, he typed.

The timer ran to zero and the screen closed automatically. The computer rebooted itself and ran a program to remove all traces of the chatroom event.

But he didn’t understand. Seven years he had done what his brother — half brother, he reminded himself — had asked of him. Without question. Now his own mother, his true flesh and blood, was dead, and his half brother expected him to sit on his ass in South America drinking wine and riding horses while his boyhood home was attacked by the Sunnis.

He reached into the drawer and pulled out the last letter he had received from her. It was dated three months ago. Their communications were sporadic, mostly letters hand-delivered through the Lebanese Arab network. He leafed through the spidery handwriting to the last page. His mother had always been an artist. He had sent her a snapshot of her grandchildren, and she had reproduced the picture in pencil for him, just as she used to draw Rafiq when he was young.

He traced the outline of the drawing with his finger. The anger and the grief settled in his chest, making it hard to breathe. Hot tears stung his eyes.

There was a knock at the study door. Rafiq took a deep breath to compose himself. He stored the codebook in the safe before he opened the door to the study. Jamil and Farid stood in the hall, worry written on their faces.

“It’s true,” he said.

The brothers exchanged glances. They were from the same village as Rafiq. He knew what they were about to ask him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. The brothers’ eyes fell to the floor. “Only one of you may return home to make arrangements.” The twins looked up, surprised. Rafiq smiled to himself. Fuck his half brother and his stupid mission. Hashem had told him he was not allowed to return to Arsal. He said nothing about the brothers.

“I will go,” Farid said. It was clear that the twins had already decided this in advance.

Rafiq nodded, and he embraced each man before they left.

Nadine waited for him in the hallway. Her face was white and drawn, making her dark eyes look even larger.

“My love,” she said, opening her arms. “I am so sorry.”

Rafiq buried his face in her shoulder and cried.