Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 34

It was a perfect desert night, with only a sliver of crescent moon, just enough to allow him to find his way without headlights.

Aban sat in the passenger seat of the Range Rover, his bearded face lit a ghostly green by the instrument panel. His brother was dressed in civilian clothes for this trip, an added precaution to avoid curious eyes.

Hashem had always thought of his older brother as a stout man, but one who carried his weight with authority. But in civilian clothes, Aban looked dumpy, and much older. Hashem noted the slump in his shoulders, the haggardness behind the bushy gray beard of his office. The look in his eyes spoke of tiredness and something else… resignation?

For months, Aban had led the fight against Rouhani and the forces of moderation, the path leading the country away from the old ways. Now in the last weeks before the election, Aban’s posture told Hashem that his brother feared the outcome of the coming election.

For a few years, Aban had been able to stem the tide of change that simmered under the surface of public sentiment for the last decade. The so-called Arab Spring had perversely worked in the favor of the old guard — the Iranian people saw Egypt, Libya, Syria, and others rise up and throw out the established leaders, then promptly fall into chaos. They didn’t want chaos, but they also didn’t want the unyielding rule of the ayatollahs.

Rouhani’s moderate faction sought to occupy the narrow breach between these two poles. With one foot in the camp of the Supreme Leader and one with the reformers, Hassan Rouhani navigated a narrow path of goodness that promised to restore Iran’s place in the world order and get rid of the sanctions that had brought the Iranian economy to its knees.

Reform, but not too much reform. That was the implicit promise.

From the slums of south Tehran to the moneyed estates of the rich in northern Tehran, the fiery rhetoric of the old guard fell on deaf ears. Rouhani was winning, and Aban knew it.

So he was here with his brother in the middle of the night to inspect the alternative.

Rouhani may have popular support, but the public was a fickle beast. They expected results quickly, and didn’t care to hear about the grinding machinery of international politics. Unless the sanctions were lifted — and quickly — Rouhani’s power would bleed away like sand through his fingers.

Rouhani needed a nuclear deal with the West. He knew it, Aban knew it, the Supreme Leader knew it. This was where the news got really bad for Aban. Israel, the staunchest enemy of Iran, the dissenting voice against any compromise with Iran, was showing signs of conciliation.

And so Aban was here in the desert in the middle of the night with his brother, the spy, to see what his chances were of persuading Israel — and the world — to resume their Iran-hating ways.

Hashem paused the Rover at the checkpoint and flashed his lights three times. Since his night vision was compromised anyway, he took the opportunity to fire up a cigarette. He took a deep drag and offered the open pack to his brother. Aban shook his head.

The all-clear lights poked out of the darkness and Hashem drove down the steep grade to the valley floor. When they reached the cave entrance, Hashem watched his brother out of the corner of his eye to see if he had any reaction to revisiting the place they had discovered so many years ago with their father. Aban’s jowly face showed no sign of recognition.

The blackout screen dropped behind them and the steel doors slid open, flooding them with harsh fluorescent light. Aban’s eyes flew open when he saw the interior of the cave.

“It is magnificent, Hashem,” he whispered. Hashem parked the car and his security detail opened the doors for them.

Viewing his brother in civilian clothes in the light, Hashem felt a flash of embarrassment. In his clerical garb, he seemed solid, a pillar of strength. In working clothes, without a turban to hide the wispy strands of gray hair, he looked ordinary. A heavy belly swung like a counterbalance whenever he moved, and his limbs seemed stubby, like appendages on a beach ball. He looked up at Hashem. “Brother, this is a wonder. I had no idea.”

Hashem inclined his head with a modest tilt, but inside he glowed. Praise from his older brother was a rare gift.

They boarded the golf cart. “Perhaps you would like to change?” Hashem said.

“Yes, yes. But I am eager to see the weapons before morning prayers.”

Hashem breathed a sigh of relief as he guided the cart to his quarters. He carried Aban’s bag to the spare room, pausing in the doorway. “It’s not much—”

“Brother, it is wondrous what you have done here,” Aban interrupted him, his face glowing. He rested his hand on the hewn rock wall, his fingers tracing a vein of white granite in the dark rock. For a moment, he seemed about to make a comment about geology. Aban smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

The Aban who joined him in the golf cart seemed a new man. In the short time they had been in the cave, he acted younger than Hashem had seen him in years. His snow-white turban hid the thin hair and spotted scalp, and the robes of his office armored the sagging belly. He hopped into the cart and slapped the dash. “Impress me, brother.”

The first stop was the rockets. Aban was out of the cart before the vehicle even halted. He almost ran to where the long white boosters lay in their cradles, running his hands along the smooth metal sides. At one point, Hashem thought he might hug one of the rockets. When he turned to Hashem, his eyes were wet with tears. They continued the tour by inspecting the TELs, Aban practically babbling questions about the North Koreans and then interrupting himself to ask even more questions about how things worked.

They reached the lab, and Yusef made his way across the space warily, taking a knee in front of Aban. Yusef’s lazy eye was practically doing circles in his head.

“Salaam, my son,” Aban said softly. “You have done Allah’s work here.” When he touched Yusef’s shoulder, the man flinched. Aban threw a questioning look at his brother.

“Yusef likes his solitude. He finds the company of others disturbs his work,” Hashem said hastily.

Yusef got to his feet without meeting Aban’s eyes and gestured toward the cleanroom, where the guidance systems were fully assembled. His black curls, even wilder than usual, bobbed as he swayed his body. He edged further and further from Aban until he was speaking to him from the other side of the room.

Hashem’s jaw tightened; the man’s antisocial tendencies were getting worse.

Aban ended the interview with a chop of his hand. Yusef, now on the other side of the room, jumped at the gesture. “Thank you — Yusef, is it? Your work is much appreciated.”

He muttered to Hashem on the way out the door. “I hope he is a genius, Hashem, because he clearly has problems.”

If possible, the interview with Valerie was worse. For starters, the big Russian, stinking of vodka, tried to hug Aban. They gathered at the window of the cleanroom where Valerie’s alcohol-soaked breath fogged the glass as he spoke. The warheads lay on assembly tables, already packed inside their capsules, ready to be loaded onto the missiles.

Despite the chill of the room, Valerie’s shirtfront was soaked in sweat. He stabbed a finger at the closest warhead, leaving a sweaty smudge on the glass. “That is for my beloved Raisa,” he said. Then he began to cry, mumbling about Tanya and Little Valerie and how much he wanted to bomb the Israelis into oblivion.

Hashem intervened, guiding Valerie back to his desk and the half-empty vodka bottle. Aban’s eyes were wide as saucers as his brother led him back to the cart. They stood for a moment next to the booster sections. Aban rested his hands on the cool white metal; the touch seemed to revive his previous good spirits.

Hashem spoke first. “They are more than they seem, brother. Both are geniuses in their fields… you have seen them at their worst tonight.”

Aban nodded. “I trust your judgment. You know that neither of them can ever go back into society.”

Hashem pursed his lips. He knew it, of course, but he had also grown fond of these two men. Their faults aside, they had given their lives and their talents to make this project successful. The thought of killing them gave him no joy.

“I will do what needs to be done.”

Aban looked at his wristwatch. “May we walk outside before morning prayers, Hashem?”

Hashem watched his brother out of the corner of his eye as he drove to the cave entrance. The disturbing visits with Yusef and Valerie seemed forgotten, and his face had once again taken on a smiling, youthful look. They parked and exited the brightly lit cave through a personnel entrance, after passing through two blackout scrims.

The air of the desert night was chilly after the climate-controlled cave. The moon had set, but once his eyes adjusted, Hashem could see easily with only starlight.

“Do you remember when we found this cave, Aban? With Father?” Hashem said.

Aban grunted.

Hashem drew in a deep breath of the clean desert air, so unlike the dirty atmosphere of Tehran. For once, he didn’t want a cigarette. “It’s like we’ve come full circle. We found this place with Father, now we are using it to set our country back on the right path—”

“Stop with your sentimental blatherings about our father. He was an infidel, an adulterer, a man of loose morals. He worked for the Shah! And when the Shah fell, what did he do? Fled back to Lebanon and started another family, leaving us to fend for ourselves. This is the man you wish to remember? To honor?” Aban hawked and spat with ferocity on the sand before them.

A wave of loss welled up in Hashem, leaving a sour taste in the back of his throat. For a brief moment he longed for the brother who’d spoken with such passion about the discovery of this cave, and Hashem was glad for the darkness that hid the hot flush of shame on his face.

Aban drew a deep breath. “You have done well here, Hashem, very well. The next few months will be pivotal to our cause. Rouhani’s men will win the election, of that I have no doubt, but winning and governing are two different things. Men — even Rouhani’s men — can be bought. I am confident we can control affairs internal to Iran, it is the outside world I am concerned about. America has its own elections within the next year. Think what a coup it would be for a presidential candidate to be able to claim he had removed Iran’s nuclear weapons as a threat to the world.”

He paused, his breath rasping heavily in the dark. “That is where you come in. Israel has always been the one foe we can depend on to derail any possible peace negotiation, but if that snake Rouhani can convince even Israel to talk peace, then we will need to act — and act decisively.”

Hashem said nothing. He knew he should be glad to finally use the weapons he had spent so many years building, but the thought of ending this project made him sad. This cave, these men — as flawed as they were — were the closest thing to a family he’d ever had.

Aban turned back toward the cave.

“Come. Pray with me.”