David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

Brendan turned away from the prisoner. “Two hostiles in the upstairs bedroom. I took one out, this one surrendered. He was carrying this.” He hefted the blade in his hand. The slight curve of the handle seemed to mold to his palm.

Radek let out a low whistle. “Wow, dibs on that, McHugh. That is a beautiful we—”

“I don’t think so, Commander,” the prisoner said.

Radek’s eyebrows went up, and Brendan said, smiling, “Oh, and he speaks English really good, too.”

“Well,” the man replied.

“What?” Radek asked.

“He speaks English really well , not really good . ‘Well’ is an adverb that modifies the verb ‘speak,’ while ‘good’ is an adjective which can only be used to modify a noun.” The man gave them a smug smile. “May I have a cigarette, please, Commander?”

“I don’t fucking believe this,” Radek said. “I’m getting fucking grammar lessons on my own fucking language from an Iraqi in the middle of the fucking Iraq desert.”

The sound of the UH-60 Black Hawk helo landing outside the compound made conversation difficult for the next few minutes. A wave of dust rolled through the breach in the wall, followed by the Sensitive Site Exploitation Team, whose job it was to strip the compound of anything that might be useful: cell phones, laptops, maps, papers, anything that wasn’t nailed down.

Radek held up three fingers to the team lead to indicate he needed three body bags. The man nodded and spoke into a handheld radio. Radek raised his voice: “Alright, let’s get bags over their heads and get them loaded on the Black Hawk. I—”

“I won’t be going anywhere, Commander.” The older prisoner’s icy voice cut through the background noise and made Radek pause. Brendan saw his OIC ball up a fist, and for a moment, Brendan thought Radek might punch their captive. He took another step closer to the kneeling man.

“Bag this guy, McHugh. And if he says another word, gag him.”

“That would not be a wise move, Commander.” The man smiled at Brendan. “Lieutenant, could you please retrieve my passport from my bedside table upstairs? I think we can clear this up quickly and I can be on my way.”

Radek’s eyes narrowed, then he gave Brendan a tight nod. “Take one of the EOD guys with you, Bren. I don’t want any surprises.”

Radek needn’t have bothered; the drawer was half-open already, the Iranian diplomatic passport in full view. Brendan realized the man must have been reaching for it when the raid started. The dark maroon cover was worn, and the gold letters faded, but Brendan could make out the title: Islamic Republic of IRAN. On the inside of the back cover was the inscription, “the holder of the passport is not entitled to travel to occupied Palestine,” which Brendan knew meant Israel. He flipped to the inside cover. The man’s unsmiling picture was there, along with his diplomatic clearance. Alizera Mogadaham was his name.

He beckoned to one of the techs who was taking pictures of the room. He placed the passport on the nightstand, open to the picture page, and laid the knife next to it. “Get some pictures of these things,” he said, “and see if you can get a couple of shots of the older guy in the courtyard — without being too obvious about it.” Normally, they didn’t photograph their captives until processing in the Green Zone, but he wanted to make sure they got something.

Brendan collected the photographed items and returned to the dusty courtyard. All the other prisoners were gone and the Iranian was on his feet, his hands still bound behind his back. His eyes lit up when he saw Brendan return with the passport in his hand.

“Lieutenant McHugh,” he said with a thin smile. “You found it. Excellent.”

Somehow, the fact that this man knew his name made Brendan pause. He handed the passport to Radek, and his OIC’s lips pursed as he studied the document. Radek gave a brief nod to the SEAL standing by to take the Iranian to the helo. “Cut him loose.” He keyed his mike. “Black Hawk, you are cleared to fly. Our final passenger has opted to stay behind.”

Brendan heard the reply in his earpiece. “Roger. Black Hawk, out.”

The rotor tempo increased, and another wave of dust rolled through the wall breach. Silence fell over the courtyard as the helo lifted away.

Radek snapped the passport shut and handed it to the Iranian, along with his lighter. “Well, Mr. Mogadaham, it looks like this is your lucky day. Mind if I ask how you came to be here in the first place?”

The Iranian took his time tapping out a cigarette. He slid the crushed red and white Marlboro pack back into his breast pocket and rebuttoned the flap. He made a great show of straightening out the bent cigarette and lighting it with his Zippo. The flame from his lighter flashed in his eyes. He took a deep drag on the cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs for a long moment.

“Yes, I do mind, Commander.” He exhaled as he spoke, a wreath of smoke obscuring his face.

Radek stared at him through the smoke. “I see. Well, you’re free to go, sir.”

The Iranian turned to Brendan. “Lieutenant McHugh, my knife, please.”

Brendan started. He had forgotten he still had the weapon. He extracted the knife from a cargo pocket in his pants and flipped it around to hand it over hilt first. The perfectly balanced blade moved as if it had a will of its own.

“It’s a beautiful piece, sir. Is the handle ivory?”

The man nodded through another cloud of smoke. “Yes, ivory. It’s been with me a long time.” He accepted the blade and it disappeared behind his back. He crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe. “A very long time.”

Mr. Alizera Mogadaham, Iranian diplomat, made a stiff bow to Brendan and Radek.

“Gentlemen, I believe the American saying is: ‘it’s been real.’”

He brushed between Brendan and Radek, stepped carefully over the remains of the breached wall, and disappeared into the darkness.

Hashem left the sound on the TV muted. He couldn’t bear to listen to Al Jazeera’s never-ending rant about how the American troop surge and the Sunni Awakening were carrying the day, pushing back the militias in Iraq, including his Shiite militias.

His fingers itched for another cigarette, but he only had two left, and he would need them after the meeting with Aban. He thought about calling his driver — his new driver, he reminded himself — to fetch another pack. He sighed. He never realized how much he missed Delir until the man was gone.

Hashem blushed when he thought of that night in Iraq. How could he have been so stupid as to let himself get captured by the Americans? They had his picture now, and anonymity was an intelligence operative’s best friend. The false name would throw them off the scent for a while, but he was now “in the system,” as the Americans would say. Eventually, they would find out his real identity.

He looked at his watch and cursed. Aban was making him wait. He extracted the second-to-last cigarette from the pack and sparked his lighter. Drawing deeply, he let the smoke fill his lungs, calming him.

Hashem called out sharply and the door snapped open. His new driver stepped into the room. Thick muscles rippled under his suit and his shaved head merged into his shoulders, eliminating the need for a neck. “Sir?” he said, coming to attention.

He waved the package of Marlboros. “Find me more of these.”

The man’s brow knitted together. “Yes, sir. Where do you get them?”

Hashem waved his hand and blew a stream of smoke toward him. “Figure it out.” The door snapped shut.