Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 47

Don looked at the caller ID on the trilling desk phone.

Clem. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Why now?

“Riley.”

“Donny boy. Top of the morning to you, son. It’s your lucky day. Get your ass in my office, pronto.”

Don stared at the dead handset and slowly shook his head. He took one more look at the nuclear verification procedures for the Iranian nuclear accord he was editing on his computer.

Clem bounced out of his chair when Don knocked on the doorjamb of his office. He waved Don to a seat, shut the office door, then leaned back against the front edge of his desk. He hugged his arms across his chest so that his biceps popped. Don ignored the muscle show.

“Comfy?” Clem said, then without waiting for an answer, thrust a sheaf of papers in Don’s face. “Read. Sign.”

Don took the papers and looked at the heading: Non-Disclosure Form. Okay, he’d signed these many times. He scanned the first few lines, and his eyebrows went up.

“I know, right?” Clem said. “Serious shit, eh?”

Don nodded. This was unlike any NDA he’d ever seen. Basically, it said he was about to be read into a program called Project Caveman and if he ever disclosed anything he’d be thrown into a deep, dark hole for the rest of his natural born life.

“Do you have any idea what this is about?”

Clem shook his head. “I can tell you that they asked for you by name — and I’m being told that it came from the top. The very top.”

“They asked for me?”

“You. By name.”

Don’s heart rate went up a few notches as he signed the last page of the document and handed it back to Clem. “What now?”

“Well, we have you set up in the small conference room, the one with no windows.” He chuckled. “If you want to take files in with you, show them to your manager first so they can be marked as preexisting.”

“My manager? I thought you were my manager.”

“Sad as I am to say it, Riley, I am not read into this deal. Go figure, huh? Who wouldn’t want a piece of this?” Clem struck an Atlas pose.

Don cleared his throat. “Are we done here?”

Clem relaxed his pose and reseated himself behind his desk. “Sure.”

“Riley?” he called, just as Don’s hand touched the doorknob.

Don looked over his shoulder. Clem’s face was set in a scowl.

“Be careful, man. This looks like some serious shit, ya know?”

Constance, with her dark hair pulled back into a severe bun and tortoiseshell glasses, reminded Don of a librarian. She gave him a tight smile when he showed up at the conference room door a few minutes later.

“Mr. Riley?” She stuck out her hand. No rings, no bracelets, no jewelry of any kind save a pair of small pearl earrings. “I’m your case officer.”

“Don,” he replied. In a dark blue pantsuit and cream-colored blouse, she could have been anywhere from late twenties to early forties.

“I prefer to keep a personal distance from my subjects,” she said. “If it’s okay with you, sir. I’ll call you Mr. Riley.”

“And I should call you…”

“Constance.”

“Do you have a last name, Constance?”

“Yes. Please come in, Mr. Riley. We need to get started.”

Don entered the conference room and took the seat she offered him. “What’s all this about, Constance?”

She locked the door, then turned back to him with her ever-present tight smile. Constance slit the TOP SECRET seal on a banker’s box and began unloading a stack of files, a laptop, and an overhead projector. She handed the laptop to Don. “This device is biometrically coded to you. Please use this laptop — and only this laptop — for all work on this project.”

Don nodded and pushed open the lid. It booted up automatically and waited for his fingerprint. He pressed his index finger against the sensor. The screen snapped to a CIA seal with the title underneath: Project Caveman.

Constance was laying out a series of pictures on the table. Iranian Shahab-3 missiles, loaded on a North Korean — made mobile launcher. They looked to be in some sort of crude garage with a dirt floor. More pictures showed a wrecked missile, burned pieces strewn across a sandy crater.

The final picture showed a missile with the warhead access panel removed. Don sucked in a breath. It was a nuclear device. Crude by modern standards, but a nuclear device nonetheless.

Constance cleared her throat. “These pictures were taken in an uninhabited region of southern Iran on May seventeenth.” She paused long enough for Don to look up at her. She was cute, and on the low end of the age scale, Don decided, probably his age. She offered him another smile without showing her teeth. “We have reason to believe these devices originated from the Iraqis.”

Don’s daydreaming came to a screeching halt. He looked back at the picture of the nuclear bomb. Constance leaned forward and locked eyes with Don.

“I need you to tell me everything you know — and everything you think you know — about the Iraqi nuclear program.”