David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

Rafiq kept his own name but otherwise maintained a low profile. The Tri-Border Region was well known for Hezbollah operations, and the lack of presence by the Israelis and the Americans still surprised Rafiq. He knew it was due to men like Javier, Lebanese immigrants who had grown up in the community and knew who to pay, and when, and how much. He supposed the odd overlapping of Brazilian, Argentinean, and Paraguayan responsibilities in the area allowed the authorities to defer to local control — or no control.

Not that there weren’t mistakes. Only three months ago, a group of Hezbollah brothers had arrived in the area. They’d committed an unauthorized attack on Israel and were seeking safety from the wide net of Mossad. Javier and the rest had welcomed them with open arms.

But the men were young, restless, and stupid. Within a few weeks of their arrival, they were caught planning an attack on a local Jewish community center. Javier had enlisted Rafiq’s help to deal with the situation.

There were now five unmarked mounds of earth in the pampas one hundred kilometers south of Javier’s ranch. The role Javier played in the area, and the funds sent from this place to support operations back home, were far more important than the lives of five young men with more zeal than common sense. Their families would be well cared for.

“Are you going to let an old man smoke alone?” Javier’s voice was rich and suave, exactly as one might expect a wealthy rancher to sound.

“Throw me the lighter, old man.”

Javier laughed as he lobbed the silver lighter across the veranda. His laugh was gentle, like a grandfather’s laugh, or the father Rafiq had never known.

Even in the poor light, Rafiq caught the lighter one-handed. He smiled to himself as he snipped the cigar end and sparked a flame. He’d worked hard to stay in shape, to keep the edge on his combat skills. He insisted on daily hand-to-hand sessions with his men and brought in locals as sparring partners. He’d even tried his hand at Gracie-style jiu-jitsu, a Brazilian invention, but he preferred not having to fight on his back all the time.

He stared at the glowing tip of his cigar. Still, four years was a long time. How much longer would he have to wait to return to the real fighting?

Rafiq checked his watch, the glowing face of the timepiece telling him he had another hour before his monthly check-in with Hashem. Even the watch had been a gift. A Rolex, no less, a present from Nadine on his thirtieth birthday. Paid for with Javier’s money.

“How’s the cargo?” Javier asked him in a lazy voice. He heard the man take a sip of wine, and the clink of the glass as he rested it back on the end table.

Rafiq laughed out loud in spite of himself.

It was their private joke. When Rafiq had first arrived at Estancia Refugio Seguro, he’d overseen the placement of Hashem’s special cargo in the deepest wine cellar of the plantation, a dry cave with heavy iron bars, an ancient lock, and oaken wine racks. At Rafiq’s request, Javier had added a secret compartment complete with steel door, cypher lock, and state-of-the-art security system.

During the entire time the secret bunker was being constructed, the “cargo,” as Rafiq referred to the crate, was under constant guard by Rafiq and his men. Rafiq always checked on the night watch before he turned in — with Nadine to keep him company. Within weeks they were lovers, a state of affairs he felt sure Javier would frown on. One night, after months of sneaking away late at night to “check on the cargo” with Nadine, Javier called to Rafiq as he crossed the veranda.

It had been a night much like this one, with the old man smoking and drinking his wine in the dark. Rafiq had squirmed and shifted his feet like a schoolboy who’d been caught stealing from the local drugstore.

“Why do you always check the cargo late at night, Rafiq?” Javier asked.

Rafiq tried to read the voice, closing his eyes to concentrate on the old man’s tone. “It’s my duty,” he said finally.

“Hmmm.”

Rafiq tensed.

“Maybe you should think about checking the cargo in the comfort of your own bedroom. I don’t like Dean out late at night.”

Nadine had appeared at the entrance to the veranda at that point, her face a pale glimmer in the gloom. “Papa, stop it,” she said with a low laugh. The huskiness in her voice made Rafiq’s breath catch in his throat. She glided across the flagstones and grasped his hand, pulling him gently back into the house. “And I don’t like being called ‘cargo,’ Papa,” she said over her shoulder.

The old man’s laugh chased them through the dark halls.

Rafiq checked his watch again. Thirty minutes until his call with Hashem.

Tonight was the night. Tonight, he would tell Hashem that he had to come home to Lebanon. He had been away too long, away from the fight, wasting his life in this… paradise.

As if on cue, Nadine appeared in the doorway.

“What are you two doing out here? Smoking your nasty cigars and telling lies about me?” she said.

“Deanie, my dear, come give your poor old papa a kiss.” The old man’s voice was drowsy.

In her flowing white nightdress, she looked like a dark angel crossing the veranda. Rafiq heard her plant a kiss on her father’s forehead and a slight clink as she took away his wineglass and the bottle.

“You look so like my Consuela, Deanie. So beautiful…” Javier mumbled.

“Yes, Papa.” She crossed to Rafiq and, after depositing the glassware on the table, slid into his lap. He felt himself respond as her backside nestled into his groin. Nadine ran her hands over his hair, pushing her satin-clad breast against his cheek. Her nipple, erect beneath the material, rubbed against his lip. He nipped at her and she pulled away, teasing him.

Across the room, Javier let out a loud snore.

“Come to bed,” she whispered in Rafiq’s ear. Her breath was warm against his neck and full of promise.

Rafiq’s eyes dropped to the glowing face of his Rolex. Twelve minutes.

“I need to—”

“Shhh.” She put a finger to his lips and shifted her body so she straddled him in the chair. Rafiq dropped his cigar to the stone floor in a shower of sparks. She ground herself against him, and Rafiq stifled a moan. He slid his hands down her sides until they rested on the small of her back. In front of his face, her breasts trembled under the satiny material.

“No,” he said, more roughly than he intended. He pushed her off him. “I need to get ready for a phone call. Now.”

Nadine shivered in the night air, wrapping her arms across her chest. “I’m sorry. I thought—”

“No, I’m sorry, Nadine,” Rafiq whispered, drawing her close. “I shouldn’t have started anything. I–I have to go now.”

Nadine kissed his cheek. “Brush your teeth before you come to bed,” she said with a low laugh. “I’m not making love to an ashtray.”

Rafiq hurried to the office, feeling strangely guilty at having let Nadine down, and at the same time angry with himself for this feeling of tenderness. He was a warrior, fighting a battle that required his full attention. Nadine was a distraction — a distraction he needed to get away from.

Tonight’s the night. Tonight I tell Hashem I am coming home.

He locked the study door and booted up the computer. The Windows theme music echoed loudly in Javier’s study as he logged into his phantom email account.

The room was comfortable, rich with mementoes of Javier’s life as a ranch owner. Rafiq settled into the deep leather armchair and cursed the slowness of the computer. He wished now he’d brought his cigar with him.

He opened the Deleted Files section of his email and searched for the spam message that had been sent to him at exactly noon on the fifth of the month. It showed a link to a XXX porn site, which Rafiq clicked.