David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

“What do you have in mind?”

“I want to share our secret cache with Hezbollah — but only with Rafiq. Hold some of our power in reserve for a secret strike.”

Aban slurped his tea. “You can trust this bastard?”

“The circumstances of his birth are not his fault, Aban. He is a good man, a loyal man.”

“But is he strong, Hashem? Does he have the iron will necessary to make hard choices?”

Hashem thought of Rafiq sending the Iraqi militiaman back to defuse his own bomb. “I am sure of it, brother.”

The waters of the Persian Gulf lapped gently against the pilings of the dock.

Rafiq breathed through his mouth to avoid the stink of the waterfront, a nasty blend of dead fish, human sewage, and rotting seaweed. The edges of the moon were fuzzy from the humidity in the air. He eyed the ship tied up next to them on the pier.

A breakbulk freighter was what Hashem had called it, meaning the vessel carried cargo that wasn’t loaded in standard shipping containers. Rafiq guessed the vessel was 150 feet long, with a white, winged bridge that stood like a giant cross over the cluttered deck. In the shadows under the prow of the ship he could make out the name painted on the hull: Lumba. Hashem had said it was the Malay word for “dolphin.”

This is where I’ll spend the next three months of my life .

Rafiq kept his face still, but inside his mind churned. He was a rising star in Hezbollah. They needed him, he needed them — it was a symbiotic relationship that suited him just fine.

It was his Hezbollah brothers who had taken a lost, fatherless fourteen-year-old boy and taught him how to belong, gave him something to believe in. He often wondered about the depth of his religious belief. He said the words, he made the required motions, but what he really loved — what he really believed in — was the violence. The planning, the watching, the execution of the raid, the way the shock waves from the explosions would tickle his flesh, the way the AK-47 kicked in his hands when bullets sang out… it was better than any woman he’d ever had.

That was why he chose Hezbollah. He adjusted his trousers, glad for the poor lighting of the dock. Just the thought of his last raid made him hard.

“Rafiq?” Hashem said, his tone impatient. “Shall we have a look at the hold area?”

“Of course, brother.”

Brother —the word still sounded foreign on his tongue.

Rafiq had seen his half brother more in the last year than in the twenty years prior. He could still recall his first meeting with Hashem: he, an awkward and lonely boy of ten, and Hashem, a young man with the bearing and uniform of an Iranian military officer. This was before he’d met his Hezbollah brothers, before he’d found a home in Lebanon. He’d hung on to Hashem’s every word, wanting this strange young man to like him.

Hashem had spoken to Rafiq’s mother first, and he came full of brotherly wisdom. Stay in school, be a good boy. The meeting was awkward for both of them on so many levels that it was almost too painful to recall.

That all changed after the Hezbollah attack on Khobar Towers in Saudi Arabia. Rafiq was only sixteen at the time, but his role in the attack was an important one. In the intervening years, Hashem had secured a place in the Iranian Quds Force, and Rafiq had entrenched himself in Hezbollah. His small but crucial role in Khobar Towers had put him back on Hashem’s radar.

Their second meeting went very differently. Hashem showed up in civilian clothes, his quiet confidence filling the room along with the smoke from his ever-present Marlboros. There was no visit to Rafiq’s mother this time; Hashem came to see his brother only.

“I understand you had a hand in Khobar,” Hashem said, firing up a cigarette, his eyes never leaving Rafiq’s. He tapped out another and extended the pack toward Rafiq, who shook his head. Hashem did not offer to stop smoking.

“I did my part,” Rafiq replied with a smug smile.

“You did.” Hashem nodded and blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “We see an excellent future for you.”

Rafiq noted that his brother remained vague about the parameters of the future. He inclined his head. “I am happy to serve our cause in any way I can.”

“I’m glad to hear that, brother.”

Brother. That was the first time Hashem had ever addressed him that way, and Rafiq felt as if a great hand was squeezing his chest. He coughed to cover up the sudden rush of emotion. “I will do my duty.”

“Good.” Hashem ground out the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. “I want you to go to America.”

The air rushed out of Rafiq’s lungs. “America? Why? What can I do there?” The warm glow after being called “brother” became a hot pulse of anger.

Hashem reached behind his back and laid a knife on the white tablecloth. The detailing on the blade caught the light, making the metal seem to move, and the ivory handle glowed. “Because you have skill, Rafiq. You are a weapon in our fight against the West, but you are a small knife in this fight. With the right training, you can become a sword — perhaps the finest, deadliest weapon this world has ever seen.” Hashem’s eyes grew bright and he carved the air with his hands as he spun out his analogy. Rafiq suspected this was simply an intelligence officer tactic, designed to boost his ego, but because it was Hashem, Rafiq allowed it to work.

“So you will send me to New York? Or Washington, DC? So I can scout out our next target?” Rafiq asked.

Hashem shook his head. He tapped out another cigarette, and held it between his thumb and forefinger as he pointed it at Rafiq. “No, you will stay as far away from any of those cities as possible. You will live in their heartland, the Midwest, and you will go to university. I have selected a small liberal arts college, a place where the elite all over the world send their children. These are future congressmen and diplomats. I want you to know them, know how they think, how they talk, how they act. I want you to become one of them.”

Rafiq got to his feet and paced the room. “No. What you ask is too much. Four years? How can I leave my home for that long?”

“It will be more like five years.”

“Five, then! Even worse.”

Hashem stood, his cigarette still unlit between his fingers. “Brother, please sit.” He drew both of them fresh cups of tea and sat back across from Rafiq. “The Americans would say you are a big fish in a small pond, a light that shines brightly against weaker flames. You could be the greatest fighter in a generation, but you need to complete your training.”

“Maybe I could go next year—” Rafiq began.

“No!” Hashem said, slapping his hand on the table. “It must be now, before you come under suspicion from the Americans. With this last operation…” He shook his head. “It must be now.”

Rafiq was quiet, sipping his tea to buy time. The logic of his brother’s plan was unassailable. Even he had felt it, had seen the hesitation of the older fighters when he spoke, their lack of understanding about how their actions would look on the world stage. His brother had seen the same thing, Rafiq was sure of it. He swallowed hard and nodded at Hashem. “I will do it.”

“Good.” Hashem fired up his cigarette in celebration. He laid a briefcase on the table and snapped the lid open. He drew out a large envelope and slid it across the table to Rafiq. “You have been accepted to Carleton College in Minnesota, USA. In this package you will find everything you need: passport, money, bank account details, everything.”