Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 61

Tehran was a dirty place.

Rafiq’s nose wrinkled at the smells of the tiny apartment, ignoring the scratching in the walls that could only be rats. He’d only be here a short while. Just long enough to get the final piece of information he needed.

It had been a long journey into the country. He avoided Lebanon on this trip. No sense in implicating his former colleagues in this mission. This mission was personal.

The passage through the mountains had reminded him of Argentina, the way the dry slopes swept down to long valleys and the breeze cut across the plain. There were times during the journey when if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was home. He could almost imagine Nadine — or even little Javi — was riding on the horse next to him, instead of some Afghani who smelled worse than his mount.

Not so little anymore, he thought with a sad twist of his lips.

Soon. Soon he would be home again. There was just one more job to do before he could put Nadine’s memory to rest.

One more loose end.

The phone in his hip pocket buzzed. Rafiq flipped it open. The text was a name, a time, and an address. He stared at it for a moment, committing the information to memory. Then he removed the battery and the SIM card from the phone, and snapped the device in half.

Rafiq picked up the motorcycle helmet from the floor next to his chair and made his way onto the darkening street.

The motorcycle was tucked into an alcove under the stairs. He snapped the visor down on his helmet and straddled the bike, the low roar of the engine startling a dog sleeping a few feet away. Nursing the throttle, he guided the motorcycle into the evening traffic, allowing the flow of cars and scooters to set the pace of his movement.

When he reached his destination, he circled the block twice, slowing as he studied the hookers lining the sidewalk. On his second pass, one stepped forward and nodded to him. She was tall and thin, with the augmented breasts and sculpted nose so common in Tehran.

“I’m Saffron,” she said.

Rafiq jerked his head toward the back of the bike. Saffron pulled a long robe and headscarf from her bag and put them on before she climbed on behind him. She pressed her chest against his back and wrapped her arms around his waist.

Rafiq pulled back into traffic, weaving between cars, heading north, always north. The vehicle exhaust formed a noxious haze around them, making the back of his throat feel raw. The unending traffic slowed again and stopped. He resisted the urge to ride up on the sidewalk.

Patience.

When they reached the edge of the north Tehran suburbs, the quantity of cars around them decreased and the quality of the vehicles improved dramatically. They were surrounded by Mercedes, Audis, even a Lamborghini. Once they passed a long section of tony high-rise apartments, the housing spread out into estates; mansions, really. Saffron indicated the exit and he made a gentle turn onto a side street, slowing his speed to match the environment.

After two more turns, they glided to a stop at a small side gate. Rafiq could see a gabled roof outlined in light over the top of the high stone wall. Saffron hopped off the bike and punched a button on the intercom box adjacent to the gate. She looked up into the camera and waved. When the lock on the gate buzzed, she pushed it open.

Rafiq shut off the bike and slipped off his helmet, following Saffron into the compound. They made their way across the courtyard to the back entrance, the gravel crunching under Rafiq’s boots. Beyond the courtyard, he could see manicured gardens and the Tehran cityscape, hazy lights through a curtain of pollution.

Saffron knocked at the back entrance and it opened immediately. The man who peered out at them was dressed in a dark suit, the telltale bulge of a handgun under his arm. He gave Saffron a wicked smile. “Saffron, back so soon? He must really like you.” His eyes fell on Rafiq. “Who’s he?”

“My driver,” Saffron replied. “We’ve had some trouble with girls in this end of town getting picked up by the police.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded. “Okay, but he stays in the kitchen with me. Understand?”

“Whatever. Where is he?”

“He said he wants to start in the study tonight. You can meet him there.”

Using her body as a shield from the guard’s eyes, Saffron flashed her hand open twice toward Rafiq. Ten minutes. She pushed past the guard. “I know the way. Where’s Ghassem tonight?”

“He’s off. It’s just me here guarding the kingdom.”

Rafiq stepped into the kitchen, letting the smells of spices wrap around him. Another reminder of a home he would never have again. The guard waved his hand toward the stove. “There’s tea, if you want it.”

Rafiq sat at the table, facing the clock. Nine minutes to go.

Patience.

The guard sat across from him, reading the paper. He slurped his tea.

Six minutes.

“There’s tea if you want it,” the guard said again.

“Thank you, no.”

The guard shrugged.

Three minutes.

Rafiq controlled his breathing, watching the sweep of the second hand around the face of the clock.

At one minute, the guard looked up at him with a scowl on his face. “Are you going to keep doing that deep breathing all night? She’s going to be at least an hour, maybe two.”

Rafiq lowered his gaze from the clock to the guard. Then he rammed the table against the man’s chest, pushing him back against the stove and pinning his arms to his sides. The man tried to cry out, but the force of the blow had knocked the wind out of him. Rafiq leaped onto the table and grasped the man’s head, one hand on the back of his neck, the other cupping his chin.

With a sharp twist, the man’s body relaxed under Rafiq’s hands.

He slipped his hand into the man’s jacket and drew out his handgun, a Glock 17. It would do the job.

Rafiq walked swiftly through the halls of the mansion, his feet sinking silently into the plush of the carpet. His heart thundered in his ears.

Patience.

In the end, it was Saffron’s laughter that showed him the right room. She’d left the door ajar. Rafiq peered through the crack to see the prostitute, stripped down to her bra and fishnet stockings, sitting astride a fat old man in a leather armchair. An open bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label sat on the edge of the desk next to two glasses.

Rafiq used the muzzle of the handgun to push the door open, letting it bang against the wall. Saffron looked up, pulling her tits away from the old man’s face. “Took you long enough,” she said, hopping off Aban’s lap.

Aban looked up in surprise when she spoke. When he focused on Rafiq’s face, the color drained from his own. He reached out and grasped Saffron’s wrist. “Please, go get help. This man means to hurt me.”

Saffron twisted her arm away as she bent over to pick up her clothes. “That’s the general idea.”

Rafiq handed her an envelope as she brushed past him. He could hear her tinkling laughter as she made her way down the hall.

He stood in front of the armchair. Aban, dressed only in boxer shorts, a T-shirt, and dark socks, quailed under Rafiq’s glare. His robes lay in a heap next to the chair, topped by his turban.

“Do you know who I am?” Rafiq asked him.

Aban swallowed and nodded.

“Do you know why I am here?”

Aban voice was raspy with fear. “Brother, whatever you want, I can give it to you.”

“On that we agree, brother.”

Rafiq pulled the trigger.