David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

The scenery flashed by Brendan’s window. Davis’s voice, calm and flat, filtered into his ear. “I’m seeing a suspicious object up ahead. Shifting to secondary route.”

The lead car cornered sharply to the right, and the convoy followed without question. They were headed directly west now, into the sun. Brendan squinted. This was not good. His hand tightened on his HKM4, and he fingered the seat belt release. If something went down, he wanted to be mobile as fast as possible.

Another corner and the stone facade of the Iraqi Ministry of Justice building came into view. They roared into the courtyard, Brendan’s vehicle bumping over a curb along the way. He and his men piled out of their vehicles, forming a standard two-layer security detail around the ambassador: State Department men on the inside, SEALs on the perimeter. Brendan’s men faced outward, weapons at chest height pointed down, eyes roving the buildings and landscape around them.

Brendan had flown over the MOJ building many times, but he had never seen it close-up. From the air, the curved walkway formed the shape of a question mark, and it served as a common landmark for Black Hawk helo pilots.

But today was not a time for sightseeing. The team hustled the ambassador up the curved walk.

When the detail reached the front doors, the heavy doors swung open. Thinking the Iraqis were expecting them, Davis hustled his team into the doorway — straight into an exiting group.

On the front right of the outer layer of security, Brendan came face to face with a man dressed in a dark blue, double-breasted suit that fitted his thin frame like a uniform. He had close-cropped black hair, shot with gray, and a neatly trimmed mustache. Brendan caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. The man raised the dark glasses covering his eyes.

Brendan froze.

The icy dark eyes showed a flicker of recognition. “Pardon me, Lieutenant McHugh.” His voice was soft as he stepped to one side.

The momentum of the ambassador’s security detail swept them forward, and Brendan rushed to resume his post. They reached the meeting room and posted a security detail outside the door.

Davis pulled Brendan aside. Snatching his sunglasses off his face, he leaned into Brendan and lowered his voice. “What the fuck happened back there, Lieutenant? You lost it for a second.”

Brendan’s mind raced. The man had known his name. His mind latched onto the smell of the cigarette smoke. The Iranian with the diplomatic passport.

“Well?”

“Sorry, JD, I need to make a phone call.”

“The Minnesota Wild is a good team, yes?”

Don looked away from the frozen river flashing by his car window, and focused on the words of the driver. The man had introduced himself twice… what the hell was his name?

Jaakko. Yes, that was it, Jaakko.

“Pardon, Jaakko?”

The US embassy driver’s pale blue eyes locked onto Don’s in the rearview mirror. The edges squinched together as he smiled. “The Minnesota Wild is good team, yes?” He said it with a little lilt at the end and he pronounced the w as a soft v .

Don racked his brain. The Minnesota Wild… football? No. Basketball? No. Ice hockey. That was it.

“Oh, the Wild,” Don replied. “Yes, very good ice hockey team. Very good.”

The car made a little twist on the ice-covered road as Jaakko tossed a glance over his shoulder, all smiling white teeth and pale blond hair. “Yes. Very good. Who’s your favorite player?”

Don pursed his lips as if he were thinking, but he doubted he could name even one ice hockey player, much less one from Minnesota. “It’s hard to say,” Don said, hoping Jaakko would take the conversation and run with it.

“Mine is Mikael Granlund,” Jaakko said immediately. “Great player, one of the best Finnish players in many years. He will play for the Wild next season.” He said the last bit with eyebrows raised, looking back at Don, as if that was a statement that Don might want to discuss. Don chewed his lip like he might be considering it, then shrugged his shoulders. The car rounded a bend in the road and their destination came into view.

Königstedt Manor. Don knew this building, and the Finnish government, had a long history of direct involvement in international diplomacy. On numerous occasions during the Cold War, Königstedt Manor had served as a secret meeting place for US and Soviet negotiating teams, away from the prying eyes of the news media.

When the US and Iran sought a location for a low-level exploratory meeting on nuclear talks, Königstedt came up immediately as an option. Both nations had embassies in the country, and Finland in February served as a natural deterrent from incidental contact with the news media.

Don’s official role was one of technical support on the subject of nuclear nonproliferation verification. His status with the CIA was to be kept a secret. Don felt a little thrill at the thought of being an undercover agent, but his CIA supervisor had quashed those ideas.

“You’re there to listen, Riley, nothing more. You take notes, you watch people, you answer technical questions about nuclear shit, and that’s it.” Andrea was a dumpy woman in her mid-fifties, with reddish-gray hair and a tired face. “Your status as CIA is not why you’re going, you’re there as a technical advisor.” She pushed a stray curl away from her face and leaned toward him. “Clear?”

Don bit his tongue so as not to ask her if he could carry a weapon.

Jaakko drove the car slowly past the front of the house, pointing out the wide stone steps leading up to a columned portico that reminded Don vaguely of the White House. Thick bushes, the branches bare in the snow, lined the steps. “You should see this place in the summertime,” Jaakko said. He kissed his fingertips like an Italian. “Perfect.”

He pulled the car to the rear of the building and scrambled out to open his passenger’s door. The packed snow crunched beneath Don’s dress shoes, and he shivered in the open air. Jaakko deposited his roller bag next to him, offering a short bow. “It was good to meet you, Donald.”

“You as well, Jaakko.” Don dug into his pocket for some change, but the Finn waved his hands.

“Go Wild,” he said with a laugh as he drove away.

A thin woman, iron-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, met him inside the door. “Mr. Riley,” she said in English, consulting a clipboard. “Welcome to Königstedt.” Her handshake was dry and firm. “I am Mrs. Juntilla.” She turned on her heel and, without waiting for Don, walked away.

“The meetings have started,” she said over her shoulder. “I will show you a place to freshen up and then take you to the conference room.” She walked like she talked, in short, clipped steps. Don had to race to keep up with her.

Mrs. Juntilla led him to a room that looked like something out of a European travel brochure. A four-poster bed, laden with heavy quilts and pillows, dominated the space. He tossed his bag on the bed and zipped it open, extracting a shaving kit.

The bathroom was equally extravagant, with marble double vanities, a huge freestanding tub, and a glass enclosure with multiple showerheads lining the wall. He looked longingly at the shower but decided that would take too long. He stripped to the waist and ran a sinkful of hot water to wash his face and shave.

The face that stared back at him in the mirror was tired, but there was a gleam of excitement in his red-rimmed eyes. He grinned at his reflection. Finally, his chance to make a difference in the real world.

Refreshed, he followed Mrs. Juntilla through the wide halls lined with oil paintings and fresh flowers, his repacked roller bag clicking along behind him. She paused at the end of the hallway, outside a set of double doors that extended up at least nine feet. She rapped on the door with her knuckles, then pushed into the room.