Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 48

Reza strolled into the packed German stein hall on the outskirts of Ciudad Del Este, known locally as CDE.

He wrinkled his nose at the smell of stale beer. Men and women jostled each other on benches set beside long wooden tables, producing a clamor that filled the high-ceilinged room. To his eye, the smallest serving size was a pitcher of beer and the locals seemed to be perfectly comfortable drinking from the huge mugs.

He pushed his way to the far end of the bar where the servers dropped off their orders and caught the eye of the man working behind the counter. Reza slid a piece of paper across the surface, avoiding the puddles of beer. The man, barely glancing at Reza, picked up the paper and submerged it into a vat of soapy water. He jerked his head toward the stairs behind him.

Reza took one more look at the crowded hall before he started up the steps. He wondered if the old woman who’d led him here had any idea the trouble her son had gotten himself into.

In the end, it was less of an interrogation than a trip down memory lane with the old woman.

She drifted in and out of reality, sometimes talking as if she were a little girl, sometimes in present day. It was Bilal, the Hezbollah head of intelligence, who made the difference. The big man, his bulk balanced atop a rough wooden stool, held the old woman’s hand and spoke to her in the local dialect of local matters of people long dead and common acquaintances.

It was more than two hours before he managed to get her talking about her sons, the twins.

“They were good boys,” she said. “Both of them. Soldiers, you know?” She looked up into Bilal’s eyes.

“Good soldiers, Mother, good men,” Bilal agreed in a soft voice. “Have you heard from them?”

The old woman shook her head. “No, they went away.” She lowered her voice. “I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“Talk about what?”

“What they’re doing. It’s very important to the cause.”

“It is very important,” Bilal agreed. “Very.” He patted her gnarled hand. “Are they in good health?”

The old woman shook her head. “No, my Farid had the cancer… He’s dead now. Poor boy, and his poor family, too.” She let go of Bilal’s hand and dug into the table next to her bed, producing a worn photo of a thin man with a dark-haired woman and a baby. “I am a grandmother!” she said.

Maybe it was the shock of seeing the picture of the baby again, but the old woman lost touch with the present day for another hour. Reza’s ass was numb from sitting on the uncomfortable chair in the darkened room, but Bilal seemed unaffected.

“Farid came home for the funeral,” the old woman announced out of the blue.

Reza saw Bilal’s shoulders tense. “What funeral, Mother?”

The old woman made a spitting motion on the ground. “After the Islamic State dogs ruined our town… so many were dead, so many funerals. But Farid came home. He came home to say goodbye to his mother.”

“Did he tell you where he’s been?”

The old woman shook her head sadly. “No, he said it’s a secret. Every time Jamil calls me, he says the same thing.”

Reza’s heart skipped a beat. Call? Bilal leaned in closer to the old woman. “Does your other son call you, Mother? Is he a good boy?”

The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not to say.”

Bilal sat back. “That’s as it should be, Mother. Have you spoken to him this week?”

“No, he only calls every other Wednesday night at eight o’clock. I just spoke with him last night.”

Reza stopped breathing.

He’d had to wait another two weeks, but it was a simple task to trace the call to a cell tower in CDE.

Reza stopped at the top of the stairs and loosened the 9mm pistol at the small of his back. The landing was narrow and dimly lit, with the only way out back down the steps. A red light winked at him from the camera in the corner above his head.

He knocked three times. The door snapped halfway open and the muzzle of a gun was pointed at his face. Reza forced a smile, saying in his best Lebanese Arabic: “Beirut is alive with the spirit of forgiveness.”

The man behind the gun stepped back to let him enter. “I do not know you.”

“Bilal sent me.”

The man’s swarthy face cracked into a smile. “Ah, my favorite cousin, how is he?” he said, lowering the gun.

Reza allowed himself to relax. “Bilal is well. He sends his regards.”

“Please, come in, come in,” the man said. “May I get you some tea?”

“Tea in a beer hall?”

The man flopped into a leather armchair behind a wooden desk. “My cover, pretty good, eh? Who would think to look for a devout Muslim in a German beer hall?” he said with a laugh.

Reza laughed along with the man, leaning forward in his seat. He slipped the gun from behind his back and held it against his leg. “My friend, Bilal, told me to ask you a question. About Lena’s hair — what color was it?”

The smile on the man’s face slipped a notch. “Lovely Lena,” he said. “Lovely, lovely Lena.”

Reza felt cold metal poke him in the back of his head. He froze.

“Lena was my sister, and she was blonde as a Swede. She hated it, and when she was twelve, she dyed her hair black.” The voice was cool and low, with an edge that made sweat break out under Reza’s armpits.

“May I stand?” His dry tongue rasped against the roof of his mouth.

The muzzle pressed against the back of his head moved away, but he still felt the imprint on his scalp. He let his own gun drop to the floor as he stood and turned.

Walid Wehbe was not a tall man, and not thickly muscled, either. Still, his wiry frame oozed a certain deadly confidence that few would cross. His thin smile was more a baring of teeth than an offer of friendship as he extended his hand. Reza could feel every muscle and tendon in the steady grip.

Walid waved his pistol at the desk and his man, who had now risen. “My apologies for the pretense. My visitors usually have an agenda. And they’re not usually Iranian.” He narrowed his eyes at Reza. “The code phrase from Bilal is among our most protected, to be used only in an emergency. You must have some urgent business.”

As he spoke, he slipped his gun back into his waistband and beckoned Reza to follow him. They made their way back down the stairs and out a back entrance. The smell of spoiled beer and rotting food was heavy in the air, and Reza tried to ignore the large rats that scattered from their path. Walid moved quickly; Reza had to trot to keep up.

Once away from the beer hall, he cut down toward the river where a speedboat waited. Walid leaped from the dock to the driver’s seat in one bound, making the boat rock. Reza moved with more care, crabbing his way from the steady dock into the heaving boat. As soon as he was aboard, Walid cast off lines and pulled away into the dark.

Reza tried to stay calm, comforted by the fact that Walid had let him keep his gun. Still, the roaring engine, the smell of the river, the humid air, and his jet lag all combined to keep his head in a fog. He stared at Walid’s spare frame, outlined by the soft glow of the dashboard lights, and offered a silent prayer that Bilal’s influence extended to South America.

The speedboat slowed, making a sweeping turn into a small cove. Walid cut the engine and let the craft coast the last thirty feet toward the dock. When he was close, he tossed a rope to a waiting man. He leaped from the boat to the dock, calling in Spanish to the man. “Bring our guest to the house, Pablo.”

Reza waited until Pablo had secured the speedboat before he stood. When Pablo reached down a hand to help him up to the dock, Reza’s grip was lost in the man’s huge mitts, and he felt himself almost lifted bodily out of the boat. Pablo was a short, stocky man with the features of a Paraguayan native and arms like Popeye. He grunted as he looked up into Reza’s face, and jerked his head toward the end of the dock. Reza took a deep breath and followed him.

The unlit trail wound up the small hill to a low, modern-style ranch house. Pablo nodded to the man guarding the front door, whose eyes flicked over Reza, locking on the handgun behind his back. Reza’s eyes fell to the submachine gun the guard was carrying.

The interior of the house was clean and modern, with well-lit rooms and tasteful paintings on the walls. Pablo pointed to the rug when he entered. Reza wiped his feet carefully, eliciting a satisfied grunt from the stocky man. Pablo deposited him in a living room, where a small fleet of leather armchairs were arranged around a massive low table that looked like a cross section of a tree trunk.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Walid said from behind him. He had changed into a fresh shirt and loose-fitting trousers, and his feet were bare. “It’s from a mahogany tree. It reminds me of a map.” The irregular shape did look like a map of a continent. Walid handed him a cup of tea in a clear glass mug. Reza nodded his thanks. He could feel his strength ebbing away, the jet lag taking over.

Walid flopped into one of the chairs and crossed his legs. “Now, tell me why my cousin would send an Iranian intelligence agent all the way to South America, where you are so clearly out of your element, and give you one of our most secret personal codes.”

Reza sat on the edge of a seat across from Walid, separated by the massive expanse of the tree trunk. He set the tea down on the table. Walid tossed him a coaster, which he placed under the hot mug.

“I am looking for this man.” Reza pushed a picture of Rafiq across the table.

Walid’s eyebrows shot up. “Rafiq? Why do you want him?”

“You know him?”

Walid laughed. “Everyone knows of Rafiq, very few know him. He owns one of the largest estancias in the area. He married into wealth and inherited everything when his father-in-law died.”

Reza sucked in a breath. “You know where I can find him?”

“Depends on why you want him.”

Reza licked his lips. “Rafiq was sent here under false pretenses. He is working for his half brother, an Iranian. He needs to be stopped.”

Walid leaned forward in his seat. “You’re asking for my help to raid one of my own? Why?”

Reza took a deep breath, and told him.

Walid leaned back in his chair when Reza had finished speaking. A ridge of muscle sharpened his jawline. “Rafiq is well protected on his ranch. Getting to him will not be easy. You’ll need a team of at least a dozen men.”

“How many men do you have here?”

Walid’s face split into a wolfish grin. “A dozen.”