Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 35

Hashem directed his driver to pull to the side entrance of Aban’s mansion. The opulence of his brother’s home, the clash between the cleric and the man, always made Hashem uneasy.

Maryam, Aban’s personal assistant, met him at the door. The dark eyes that peered up at him from under her headscarf were bloodshot and worried.

“Salaam, Maryam,” Hashem said. “How is he?”

“Salaam, Hashem.” She gripped his hand in both of hers. “Thank you for coming so quickly. He is in his study.”

Whatever gains Aban thought he had made against Rouhani’s forces over the last year had been swept aside in the previous day’s elections. With a voter turnout of over seventy-five percent, the Moderation and Development Party, led by Rouhani, had devastated the conservative opposition in the Iranian Parliament. Al Jazeera was berserk with the news, holding up Iran as the model of peaceful, democratic change in the Middle East, even further bolstering Rouhani’s reputation in the world and at home. They were already predicting progressive gains in the Assembly of Experts, and that election wouldn’t happen until next March.

Hashem tapped on the heavy carved door of Aban’s study before he let himself in. The room was thick with cigarette smoke and Hashem detected the sharp scent of whiskey. Aban sat in a leather armchair facing away from him, toward the window. The study overlooked the gardens of his home, and beyond that the skyline of Tehran. The first rays of the sun were lighting up the pall of pollution that hung over the city in beautiful tones of red and orange, hiding the ugliness and the poverty and the decrepitude that lay in that jungle of concrete buildings.

“Salaam, brother,” Hashem said. He lit a cigarette, not because he wanted it, but because he needed something to do with his hands.

Aban swiveled the chair around slowly, using his bare toes on the hardwood floor. He was slumped so deeply into the rich leather that his bushy beard touched the belly that domed up under his T-shirt. Dressed only in his underwear, with his scrawny white legs poking out of voluminous boxers, he looked like a sad clown. In his hand, he gripped an empty crystal tumbler.

“Salaam, brother.” His voice was wheezy and weak.

Hashem went back to the door and cracked it open. “Tea, Maryam. And a fresh robe.”

When he turned around, Aban had turned on the flat-screen TV, and the fluorescent colors played off his white underwear. The set was already tuned to Al Jazeera, with the sound muted. An attractive woman, her mouth working silently, was sharing a split screen with the Iranian election results. A color graphic showed the new progressive majority in the Iranian Parliament.

“How could the Supreme Leader let this happen? What is the Council of Guardians for if not to screen out the weak-minded before they run for office?” Aban seemed to be getting animated now. He sat up in his chair so the bulk of his belly slid down to rest on his thighs.

A gentle tap on the door told Hashem that Maryam had returned. He cracked the door open and forced a smile. “I’ll get it, Maryam. Thank you.” When she had gone, he rolled the cart into the room. The silver samovar glinted with neon highlights from the TV as Hashem drew two cups of tea and piled a saucer with sugar cubes. He placed the mug and the saucer on the low table in front of Aban.

“Come, brother, drink.” He removed the crystal tumbler from his brother’s hand and slid his chair closer to the steaming tea. Aban popped two cubes of sugar in his mouth and took a long sip of tea.

Hashem winced. His brother had always had a sweet tooth, even going so far as to hold sugar cubes in his teeth while he drank his tea when they were younger. He’d given up those excesses when he entered the clerical life. Hashem watched him put another pair of cubes in his mouth and suck down half a glass of tea.

The sugar seemed to revive Aban’s spirits. He leaped out of his chair and began pacing the room, an old man, balding, in baggy underwear with knock-knees and horny toes. To Hashem, he looked like a troll in one of his grandmother’s fairy tales from when he was a little boy.

“Aban,” he said, holding out the robe that Maryam had brought. “Please.”

Aban threw the robe over his shoulders and continued his pacing. “Rouhani thinks he’s won, but he didn’t count on us, did he?” He snapped his fingers for one of Hashem’s cigarettes. Hashem lit two and handed one to him.

Aban paused and winked at his brother. “We’re playing the long game, eh, Hashem? Let Rouhani play whore to the West, let him bring in his inspectors and kiss the asses of Western leaders on Al Jazeera. All the while, we will have our own missiles safely tucked away in our desert bunker.”

Hashem nodded along with his brother. “Iran will be a nuclear power, Aban, because of your leadership.”

His brother stopped his pacing and held up his hand. “Hashem, my dear, you need to think bigger.

“Iran is not a nuclear power, we are a nuclear power.”