Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 55

Don sank back into the cushions of the taxi as it sped away from the Finlandia Hall, the site of the Iranian Nuclear Accord signing ceremony.

Not that he had seen much of the actual signing. From his position in the upper balcony, the Presidents of Iran and the United States, as well as the other signatory nations, had looked more like action figures than real people. Still, the Accord was signed and he’d be able to tell his grandchildren that he had been at the signing ceremony.

The two glasses of champagne he’d drunk at the reception on top of the jet lag combined to drag his eyelids down.

A rap on the taxi window jerked him awake. “What?”

He blinked his bleary eyes open. They were at the US Embassy gate. Don rooted in his hip pocket for his wallet to pay the taxi driver.

The Finnish gate guard rapped on the window again. Don lowered the glass as he fumbled for the correct change. “What?” he asked with an edge of irritation in his voice.

“Mr. Riley, you have a visitor.” He pointed across the street toward the gate of the French Embassy and lowered his voice. “He’s been here all evening. He goes away, then comes back again every few minutes. I almost called him in.”

Don squinted through the dusk. Reza Sanjabi stopped his pacing and raised his hand to Don. The Iranian’s features, normally so urbane and composed, were haggard and his hair looked as if he’d just stepped out of a wind tunnel.

Don thrust the bills into the cabbie’s hand and stood in the street. He nodded to the guard. “Thanks, I’ll handle it.”

He could feel the guard’s eyes on his back as he walked toward his Iranian friend. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Reza at the Accord signing ceremony. There were easily a thousand people there, plus wait staff and security, so he hadn’t thought much of it.

Reza gripped his hand, and drew him out of earshot of the gate. “Donald, thank you for seeing me. I need to speak with you. Please, it is urgent.”

Don’s mind raced as he extracted his hand from Reza’s sweaty grip. Meeting openly with a foreign agent — right on the embassy doorstep, no less — was a huge mistake, but the Iranian’s eyes pleaded with him.

“There’s a cafe at the end of the street,” Don said with a backward glance at the guard. “Let’s get a cup of tea.”

Reza walked with quick steps, seemingly anxious to get there as fast as possible. His gaze flickered constantly up and down the street.

“Are you okay, Reza? Are you in trouble?”

Reza shook his head and darted into the doorway of Cafe Ursula. He made his way across the room to an open table for two that commanded a good view of the windows and door. Don ordered two cups of tea at the counter and followed his friend. Reza had already taken the seat against the wall when Don reached the table.

Reza clenched the teacup. His hand shook as he took a sip. With a final sweeping glance around the room and out the window, he leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice. “Donald, I may not have much time, so I need you to listen carefully.” He licked his lips and took another sip of tea.

“Additional information came to light after the discovery of the bunker with the nuclear weapons. We believe there may be another warhead.” Don listened with growing anger as Reza described how he had tracked a fourth weapon that had been given to Hezbollah, and how the trail had led him to Helsinki.

Don slammed his hand down on the table, slopping tea onto the polished wood. “I knew it!” he said in a hiss. “I knew I was right. All of my information pointed to another warhead, but I didn’t have any proof. Why didn’t you come to me, Reza? You’ve wasted weeks following this trail yourself.”

Reza avoided Don’s eyes. “It was an internal matter. The information was not verified; I owed it to my country to make sure the threat was real before exposing us to international scrutiny.” He reached into his jacket pocket and laid Rafiq’s picture on the table between them. “This is the man I am looking for — Rafiq Roshed.” He slid the photograph across the table, but Don didn’t pick it up. His gaze was riveted on the next picture in the stack.

Don placed his finger on the second photo. “Him. He was the man in charge of the bunker where we found the three nuclear weapons.”

“Yes, Hashem Aboud. He was killed by your strike team.”

Don placed the photos side by side. “You say they’re brothers. Hashem entrusted the fourth weapon to his brother in Hezbollah.” Don tapped Rafiq’s picture.

“Yes, we already know this, Donald.”

Don flushed. “There is additional information from the raid which was not shared with Iran.”

Reza’s eyebrows shot up.

“This man”—Don plumped his finger on Hashem’s picture—“said something in Farsi to one of our men before he died. Our people translated it as ‘death from the north’ or something like that. It made no sense. We assumed it was the ravings of a dying man.”

“Was it recorded?” Reza asked. “Can I hear it?”

Don shook his head, then brightened. “But I can let you speak with the man who was with Hashem Aboud when he died.”

Brendan flipped through the TV channels, settling on yet another game-day projection of the Vikings matchup against Green Bay.

The new stadium and the Vikings’ season opener had pretty much dominated the news for the last week. He wondered idly what Liz was doing with her holiday weekend. He tried — unsuccessfully — to block out the thought of her with the bartender.

McHugh, you are a fucking idiot.

The caller ID on Brendan’s phone said DON RILEY. He muted the TV.

“Don, what’s up?”

“Brendan, hi. I have you on speaker.” He sounded distracted and he spoke in a stage whisper.

“Okay…”

“I have a friend here.” Don cleared his throat. “He needs to ask you some questions about the raid on the bunker.”

Brendan pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it. “Don, are you out of your flippin’ mind? We’re on a nonsecure line.”

Don’s voice came through stronger as he took Brendan off speaker. “Listen, Brendan, I know the rules as well as you do. This is an emergency — I think — I think it’s an emergency. Please. If I’m right we could have a major national security issue on our hands.”

Brendan clenched his teeth. Don was not a guy who took the rules lightly. “Alright, I’ll listen to what your friend has to say, but no promises.”

He could hear the calls of seagulls and the sound of a light breeze as Don put him back on speaker. The next voice on the phone had an English accent. “Commander McHugh, my name is Reza Sanjabi. I am the Iranian intelligence officer who provided the interview with the layout of the bunker.”

Brendan had seen the video, the one with the older man in his underwear spilling the details about the construction of the bunker and the number of men. The video had been a key factor in the success of the raid. “Thank you, that information was very helpful to us.”

“The gentleman in the video was Aban Rahmani, an Islamic cleric. We believe he funded the construction of the bunker and was planning to use the attack to seize power in Iran.” The cultured voice hesitated. “There was additional information that was not passed on to you. Mr. Rahmani claimed there was a fourth warhead. He claimed the weapon was placed with a Hezbollah sleeper cell years ago.”

Brendan’s phone buzzed against his ear. He saw a text from Don pop up. It showed a picture of a trim man with close-cropped dark hair and a five-o’clock shadow of a beard.

“The picture Donald just sent you is of Rafiq Roshed. This is the Hezbollah agent we believe has the weapon. He was the leader of a sleeper cell in South America and was activated after your raid on the bunker. A very capable man, educated in the US, speaks English like an American and fluent Spanish, too.”

“Do you know where he is?”

The Iranian’s voice faltered again. “I’ve been tracking him all over the world. In Helsinki this morning we raided a ship believed to be carrying Roshed and the fourth weapon. Neither of them was on board. We’re tracing the ship’s ports of call since leaving South America, and we now believe Roshed got off in Tenerife two weeks ago.”

Brendan got out of the chair and began to pace. “So, if this Rafiq has a nuclear weapon, it could be anywhere. Europe, Africa, even the US. Anywhere.”

“Yes.”

“And — let me guess — no one believes you after the failed raid in Helsinki.”

“Yes.”

Brendan blew out a breath. “So you have a questionable source and a wild goose chase. Why are you calling me?”

Don answered him. “You remember the Iranian agent at the bunker? The one you captured in Iraq?”

Brendan grunted.

“His name was Hashem Aboud,” Reza said, “and Donald tells me that you were the last person to speak with him before he died.”

“I was there, yes. And he whispered something in Farsi to me, but I hardly see how that can help. I’ve given my phonetic rendering of the phrase to the experts and they did the translating. ‘Death from the north’ or something like that.”

“Can you tell me exactly what was said, please?”

Brendan closed his eyes. The image of Hashem’s death was not something he’d ever forget: the bloody lips, the fiery eyes, the tobacco-stained grimace. It was like something from a horror movie.

“You have to understand we were on the deck of a helo and there was lots of noise, but it sounded like doze-di-sho-male.”

Reza repeated the words softly. He paused. “Yes, I think the translation is accurate. The literal translation would be ‘thieves from the north.’ A more colloquial version might be ‘norseman,’ or ‘viking,’ but that’s hardly a common word in Farsi.”

Brendan stopped pacing, his eyes glued on the muted TV. “What did you say?”

“I said a more common translation might be ‘viking.’”

Brendan felt his mouth go dry. The flat-screen TV on the wall showed the new Minnesota Vikings stadium rising above the Minneapolis skyline.

“I think I know where Rafiq is.”