Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 46

Reza bought an International Herald Tribune from a vendor at the Beirut — Rafic Hariri Airport. The headline above the fold was still all about the Iranian nuclear accord. He slapped the newspaper closed.

He could smell the sea through the open window of the cab, and he dragged in a deep breath. The smell of the ocean was the smell of better days for Reza, reminding him of family trips when he was a boy. Family trips before the Shah fell and the hard-liners took over. Family trips before Israel had invaded Lebanon in ’82. Beirut had never really recovered from the shock of the invasion and the subsequent acts of violence that seemed to convulse the nation every few years. The rise of Hezbollah, literally the Party of God, funded by his own Iran, and now the Islamic State… when did it ever end?

They passed a bombed-out building that stood like a silent reminder.

Rouhani could make a difference; Reza believed that. He’d believed it strongly enough to steer his career in the intelligence community toward working for Rouhani. It had taken some time for the great man to trust him, to make sure he wasn’t another undercover agent from the hard-liners trying to worm his way into Rouhani’s inner circle. It had taken time, but it had been worth it. Hassan Rouhani would bring his country back into the world order, make their mighty Persian heritage mean something again, and Reza would be by his side.

Over the years, they’d developed a shorthand in their conversation. From a political perspective, there were things that his boss should never have knowledge of but needed to be taken care of all the same. Rouhani hadn’t batted an eye when Reza told him he’d be gone for a few days, maybe a week. The great man smiled and nodded, and didn’t ask a single question.

He didn’t need to. They had trust.

His eyes fell on the newspaper again. Aban had been sketchy on details, but he’d claimed there was at least one more nuclear warhead from the Iraqi cache. Hashem, Aban claimed, had been the mastermind behind the effort to place the Iraqi Air Force in “safekeeping” with Iran in 1991, so it made sense he would run the same play again when Saddam was under pressure from the Coalition forces in 2003. Except this time, Hashem had done it secretly.

For all his talking, Aban had given him only one solid lead: Rafiq Roshed, a name and nothing more.

Thanks to Hashem’s oversight, the MISIRI files on Rafiq were almost nonexistent, hence his visit to Beirut.

The cab stopped in the tourist area, and Reza paid off the driver. He strolled along the boulevard, admiring the famous Rouche Sea Rock in the blue Mediterranean Sea and checking his tail to ensure he wasn’t being followed. After forty minutes, he sent a text and walked briskly toward the Mövenpick Hotel and Resort. He made his way toward the coffee shop and selected a table in the corner, ordering an espresso. He left the newspaper open on the small wrought iron table.

A man wandered into the coffee shop and took a table an arm’s length away from Reza. His eyes lighted on the newspaper.

“Strange times we live in, don’t you think?” Reza asked him.

The man took a moment to meet his eyes. “But stranger times are likely ahead of us.”

“Salaam,” Reza said. “Will you join me?”

Bilal Hamieh lowered his bulk into the chair opposite Reza. With his graying beard, unkempt hair, and sagging man-tits, he looked like a cab driver, but Reza had read his dossier. Now forty-five years old, he’d started as a street fighter in the campaigns against the Israeli occupation of his country when he was no more than a boy and had risen through the ranks with each successive campaign. Today, he ran the intelligence apparatus for Hezbollah. Not especially political, Hamieh was reputed to be the most powerful — and the most secretive — man in the Party of God. Reza regarded the sharp eyes that stared back at him from across the table. If anyone could help him, it was Hamieh.

Bilal leaned forward. “Would you like to meet here or take a walk?”

Reza scanned the room. Good sightlines to the hotel lobby and the pool, and he’d selected the meeting place at random, notifying Bilal only a few moments before by text. “I’m fine here.”

Bilal shrugged. “As you wish. What can I do for Iranian Ettela’at?”

“I’m here unofficially today. For some off-the-books assistance.”

“So I’ve heard.” Bilal’s eyes narrowed a fraction.

Reza leaned forward and dropped his voice. “I’m looking for Rafiq Roshed. It’s urgent that I find him.”

“Rafiq has not been part of our organization for many years.” Bilal shifted in his seat, so the afternoon sun streamed into Reza’s eyes. “But you knew that. He fell in with an Iranian Quds agent and disappeared. What would Iranian intelligence want with a man the Iranians took from me ten years ago?”

“The Quds agent was his brother. Half brother,” Reza corrected himself.

Bilal let out a huff. “That I did not know.”

“And when he took Rafiq, he was not using him for official business of the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

Bilal moved again so that he blocked the sunlight on Reza. “I see.” His gaze fell on the newspaper headline. “A loose end?”

Reza locked eyes with Bilal. “Let’s say that the new leadership in Iran would be very appreciative of your immediate, and discreet, cooperation.”

Bilal’s shoulders hunched into another shrug. “There’s not much to tell. The boy was a bastard, grew up in Arsal to the north.” He waved his hand at the far wall. “A natural-born fighter, and smart, too. Could have been a leader in Hezbollah. He was in the Khobar Towers operation. Then the Iranian showed up, and Rafiq was gone. I heard he was in the US somewhere.”

Reza tried to control his breathing. “What about his mother? Can I talk to her?”

Bilal’s face clouded. “Not anymore, thanks to the Islamic State.” He spat out the name like a curse. “The ISIS dogs attacked across the border from Syria a few years ago. Arsal, famous for carpets and beautiful women, was flattened by these sons of whores as punishment for our fighting on the side of Assad against them. Rafiq’s mother was killed in the raid. Mortar shell, right in her living room.”

“Did he come home for his mother’s funeral?”

Bilal shook his head. “We assumed he was dead. What kind of son doesn’t come home for his mother’s funeral?”

Reza sat back in his chair, deflated.

“There is one other possibility,” Bilal rumbled.

Reza raised his eyebrows at the Lebanese spy.

“Two brothers disappeared at the same time as Rafiq. Twins. One of them did show up for the funerals. He stayed with his mother only a few days. The rumor is that he is living in South America.”

“And he is with Rafiq?”

Bilal shrugged again. “Unclear, but maybe his mother would talk to you.”

Reza drained his cup and stood.

“Perhaps a drive in the country?”