David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

She covered her mouth. “Oh, I am so sorry. Was that you?”

Clem’s jaw was set as he breathed through the pain. “No problem. Coulda happened to anyone.”

Don hid his laugh by downing the rest of his beer.

Clem clenched his drink in his hand and took a long sip. “So, did Riley tell you about his shitty afternoon? What a shit storm of a briefing, am I right, Riley? Nobody gives a flying fuck about Iranian nukes anymore. And when you started in on the legend of the rogue nukes, I thought the admiral’s aide was going to puke right on the table. Whatever possessed you to bring that up?”

Clem’s tirade was cut short by the arrival of the waitress. She dropped another beer in front of Don, a replacement grasshopper for Liz, and another Jack and Coke for Clem.

“This is Diet, right?” The waitress nodded, lingering at the table for the promised tip.

“I only drink Diet,” Clem continued. He flexed his arms at her. “This body is a temple.”

“I can see that,” the waitress replied. “And it looks like I replaced the temple drink before your last one was gone. You said there was more…”

Clem pulled the wad of bills from his pocket and peeled off another twenty. “Here ya go.” He held onto the bill as she tried to grab it. “But it’s gonna cost you.”

The waitress let go. “What?”

“Your number.” Clem winked at Don. “You give me your digits and I’ll give you the twenty.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll pass.” The waitress walked away, leaving their empty glasses on the table.

Clem turned back to them with a laugh. “That line usually works for me. What a bitch.” He spied someone across the room. “Excuse me, Riley and Lisa. I believe I have a date with destiny.” His bodybuilder frame seemed loosely jointed as he pushed away from the table and into the crowd.

Liz looked at Don with wide eyes. “That’s your boss?”

Don nodded.

“Holy shit.”

Don nodded again. “ Shit being the operative word.”

Liz shook her head, and raised her glass. “To the good guys. That was not one of them.”

Don clinked his glass with hers and drank deeply. He cleared his throat, intending to get back to the topic of Brendan, but Liz was too quick for him.

“So what was all that talk about rogue nukes?” she asked.

Don laughed and shook his head. “It’s just something I can’t seem to let go of.”

“Tell me.”

Don knew she was just avoiding the obvious conversation, but what the heck, it might be good to talk to someone else about it. He leaned across the table and dropped his voice.

“You remember all the press about WMDs before the Iraq War?”

Liz nodded.

“We were sure Saddam Hussein had nukes,” Don continued, “and there was a good reason for it. We know he bought centrifuges from the Soviet Union in the ’70s and was producing weapons-grade material at Osirak, before it was destroyed by the Israelis in ’81. He had the material, he had the scientists, he had the time — but we never found anything.”

Liz took a sip of her drink and raised her eyebrows. “Well, finish the story. Where did they go?”

Don laughed. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be working for that asshole.” He jerked his thumb in the direction Clem had gone.

“Okay, where do you think they went?”

Don glanced around the bar. No one was looking at them, and the two beers already in his belly gave him a confident feeling. “Iran.”

Liz sat back. “Iran? I don’t get it — didn’t Iran and Iraq fight a war in the ’80s?”

Don nodded. “Yeah, but they also have a history of working together. In the First Gulf War, when Saddam Hussein’s air force was getting pounded by coalition forces, he flew every single plane to Iran for safekeeping .” Don made air quotes with his fingers. “And the Iranians kept ’em all. War reparations, they called it.”

Liz gave a low whistle. “You’re really into this, Don. Okay, keep going. How does this link to the mystery nukes?”

Don blushed. “Well, my theory is that Saddam did the same thing with his nukes. He gave them to Iran for safekeeping. Unfortunately, he’s dead, his sons are dead, and anyone who might have known about the program or the exchange is either dead or not talking.”

“So you gave up on the trail?”

Don laughed. “Liz, you have no idea what DC is like. If you even mention Iraq and WMDs in the same sentence, anybody who’s anybody will run from the room. It’s a toxic subject. Guys who were there when it all went down tell me that for the first year in Iraq, that’s all anyone did was look for WMDs, anything to justify the invasion. But when they didn’t find them, it became the topic no one wanted to touch.”

“Except you.”

Don touched his mug to the edge of her martini glass. “Except me.”

Hashem smoked his cigarette with fingers that trembled ever so slightly.

He’d noticed the tremor starting a few weeks ago, but had ignored it. Overwork, that was it. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in months. He stabbed at the muted TV with the stub of his Marlboro before he ground it out in the ashtray and lit another.

Arab Spring . The name sounded more like a feminine hygiene product than an act of political treason.

And yet, it had spread like a virus through the region. First Tunisia, then Oman, Yemen, Syria, and Egypt. Egypt! With a long-standing dictator and an established military in his pocket, even that country had fallen in the protests.

It was no small wonder his brother had called this meeting. The Iranian secret police was on fire with rumors of a similar uprising in Iran. The ayatollahs were worried — and they should be.

The door snapped open and Aban swept in. His bodyguard scanned the room and left after depositing an aluminum briefcase next to Aban’s chair.

Hashem started to take a knee before his brother, but Aban waved him upright and drew him into a fierce hug. “Please, brother. We have much to discuss today. Much to discuss.” He flopped down in the waiting chair, and closed his eyes.

For a moment, Hashem saw shades of his brother as a much younger man, before Aban had assumed the role of a religious leader. The young man who would stay up late with his adoring younger brother talking of his worldwide travel, the girls he had met, and rocks, always geology.

Aban opened his eyes and the moment was gone. His eyes blazed with fury, and the dark circles under them told Hashem his brother hadn’t been sleeping any better than he.

Aban hoisted the briefcase onto the table, pushing aside the ashtray and Hashem’s tea mug. Hashem noted the silver case was a larger model than usual: twice as deep, by his estimation. Aban snapped the locks open and pushed up the lid. The briefcase was completely full of American hundred-dollar bills, banded together in neat stacks. Hashem ran his hand over the money.

“Twice the usual amount, brother. I — we — are worried, very worried about the rapid changes in the region. Our normal channels of influence are failing us. We need”—his mouth moved as he searched for the word—“more creative methods of influence.”

Hashem nodded. “The geology project is progressing nicely, brother,” he began, using their code name for the secret cavern installation. “We have two complete units now and the third should be done by next—”

Aban’s face clouded. “Stop fucking around in that cave, Hashem! Look at the world around you!” The door opened a crack and Aban waved at it. The door closed.

He stabbed his finger at the television. Al Jazeera was showing a protest in Damascus, Syria. Police in riot gear waded into a crowd, blood painted the street. The news crawler was giving stats on the American troop withdrawal from Iraq.