Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 45

Rafiq flipped on the TV as he entered the darkened den. Nadine had left it tuned to ESPN.

He never understood his Argentinean wife’s obsession with American football. He’d enjoyed the game when he’d attended college in the US, even attended a few games at the Minneapolis Metrodome to see the Minnesota Vikings play, but he’d dropped the game once he left the country.

Through the magic of satellite TV, Javier developed a passion for the game and passed the bug on to his only daughter. They were diehard Dallas Cowboys fans. Maybe that was the connection: they identified with the American cowboys.

Rafiq had objected to showing American football to their children, so Nadine sometimes sneaked into his study to watch ESPN. The channel was running a special on football stadiums, with an interviewer standing in front of an enormous peak of glass and stone with a sign over the wide entrance that said: “Home of the Vikings.” As Rafiq watched, the camera shifted to an aerial shot, showing the new stadium rising from the Minneapolis buildings like the prow of a ship. The commentator said the building cost one billion dollars to build.

Rafiq huffed as he changed the channel to Al Jazeera. A billion dollars! For a building they would use less than ten times a year. The epitome of American wastefulness. The Al Jazeera talking heads were still chattering about Tel Aviv and the nuclear accord, now due to be signed in early September. He watched the news crawler for anything new, then shut the TV off again.

He fussed at the computer, anything to kill time. His email was empty except for one message. It had come in over three weeks ago, just before the Tel Aviv announcement. It looked like just another piece of spam, but he had a clean email address, protected from most spam sources. The anonymous sender of the email had forwarded him a link from one of Ayatollah Aban Rahmani’s famous Friday sermons titled “The Brotherhood of Man.” He’d watched the video at least ten times and it was exactly what it purported to be: a rather long-winded Friday sermon. His half brother spewed hatred and flecks of spittle as he denounced the forces of progressive thought in Iranian society.

And then there were the Farsi words written underneath the link. STOP TEL AVIV.

At least ten times over the past weeks, Rafiq had come to this email with every intention of deleting it, but he couldn’t. It was a message from Hashem, he was sure of it. But why would he risk sending a message in the clear? Rafiq hoped against all hope that he would get an answer to that question in the next five minutes.

He consulted the codebook again and recomputed the math. Yes, it all checked out. Their next contact was at 0223. Exactly on time, Rafiq opened the Tor software and initialized the five-minute chatroom protocol. A timer in the right corner started a countdown.

As the timer passed through four minutes, Rafiq fidgeted with the mouse to keep the screen active.

He stood at three minutes and paced, never taking his eyes off the blinking cursor.

Please, brother. Answer me.

He reseated himself at two minutes and let his eyes sweep around the rich furnishings of the room. All this was his, his to lose. His heartbeat seemed to match the pulsing cursor.

One minute.

At thirty seconds, he looked away, his jaw tight with anger. His brother had deserted him.

When the countdown timer ran to zero, the chatroom window closed automatically and a shredder program ran to erase all evidence of the interaction. Rafiq sat back in his chair, scarcely able to believe what had just happened. Hashem had missed the third and final communications window, which meant his brother was either dead or captured.

The clock on the mantelpiece sounded like a jackhammer in the stillness of the room as Rafiq’s mind processed what that meant.

I’ve been activated.

Eight years he’d waited for this moment. Seven years cut off from his home and his people, and now it was here: the day he’d hoped would never come.

It’s all up to me now.

His gaze fell on the picture of Nadine and the children that graced the corner of Javier’s desk—his desk. His beautiful wife had the children on her lap. Javi was almost four now, a spitting image of his mother. Consie looked older than her precocious three years, and took after her father with his blue eyes and fair skin. She gave a thin knowing smile to the camera, as if she knew what Rafiq might be thinking when he looked at his daughter’s image.

Rafiq tore his eyes away from the photo. While he’d waited for this day to come, he’d made a new home, a new family, created a world where people depended on him. And he’d made a promise to Don Javier on his deathbed.

The house creaked as if to remind him of his new responsibilities.

Rafiq stood abruptly and exited the room through the French doors. It was a warm autumn night, and he broke into a light sweat as he walked to the wine cellar. He should probably wake Jamil. He was his partner in this holy mission, whatever it was. No, he decided, he would do this alone. The mysterious cargo was his responsibility now.

He paused to unlock the main entrance of the wine cellar. As he stepped through the door, the smell of crushed grapes was overpowering. It had been the best harvest in decades and had taken them weeks to get the grapes in and processed. Rafiq walked quickly past the stainless steel vats deeper into the cellar, through the rows of barrels and racks of bottles to the very back of the cave. Here, only a single bulb burned in front of a gated alcove set behind a wire cage. Javier’s private storage area.

The gate opened easily on greased hinges. Rafiq pushed the catch to let the last row of bottles swing forward, uncovering a steel door. He pulled the key from around his neck, unlocking the door. The wooden crate occupied the center of the room. He snatched the prybar from its hook on the wall, where they had left it so many years ago in preparation for this day.

The dry wood of the crate cracked when he pushed the flat end of the crowbar under one corner of the lid. He levered it up and a shower of splinters burst into the air. Sweat popped out on his brow, and his breath came sharp and fast as Rafiq worked the edge of the lid, frantic now to see what was inside the mystery box. The lid fell to the floor with a hollow thud.

A black plastic packing case filled the interior of the wooden box. Rafiq smashed the crowbar against the corners of the crate until the sides fell away, revealing the whole case. A clear plastic folder, affixed to the top of the case, held a single sheet of folded paper. Rafiq slid it out and opened it.

Rafiq’s hands shook as he pulled at the clamps that held the lid of the case shut. They snapped like rifle shots in the enclosed space. The lid made a little sigh when he lifted it up, as if he were opening a tomb.

He stared down at the contents of the case through a swirl of emotions. Nadine’s face, the voice of his mother calling him for dinner in Lebanon, Hashem’s lean smile, the laughter of his children. The babble of images and sounds rose up in his consciousness until he slammed the lid back down and one image remained.

A lone email with the words: STOP TEL AVIV.