David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

Don claimed his assigned seat on the far end of the table — they always put him on the end, as far away from the action as possible. He filled a coffee cup from the urn and wandered out onto the veranda. The sun seemed like a pale imitation of the sunshine in Washington, DC, but he closed his eyes anyway and angled his face upwards. His stomach burbled and he suppressed another burp.

“May I interrupt you, Donald?”

Don turned to find Reza Sanjabi, the Iranian diplomat he’d met during the winter meeting.

“Reza, what a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know you were coming this time.” Don held out his hand.

Reza took a quick look over his shoulder back at the meeting room. “I think you will find many surprises at this meeting, Donald.” He hesitated, taking another look around them. “I need you to listen very carefully. I work for President Rouhani in a… special capacity. I see that his wishes are fulfilled in the real world. Do you understand what I am saying, Donald?”

Don nodded. Reza worked for MISIRI, the Iranian equivalent of the CIA. He’d suspected as much after their last meeting, but this was confirmation.

Reza gave him a tight smile before continuing. “My new president wishes that today’s meeting be the start of a new page in the Iranian nuclear negotiations. I am here to make sure that happens… and I hope you will join me. There are entrenched interests on all sides who are very concerned about maintaining the status quo. President Rouhani means to overcome these special interests, but he cannot do it alone. I believe your own president faces similar challenges.”

Reza’s liquid brown eyes stared at him with intensity. Don swallowed hard.

“I believe I can trust you, Donald Riley,” Reza said. “Can I trust you?”

“Of course.” Don realized his coffee cup was trembling in his grip. He wrapped his other hand around it and pressed it back against his chest.

“In our last meeting I gave you a way to contact me,” Reza said.

Don nodded again. The number had been untraceable, probably a cut-out number.

“Do not hesitate to reach out to me, Donald. Our interests are aligned.” He pressed his hand against Don’s forearm and gave him a quick smile. “Now, I believe we should go inside. The show is about to begin.” He strode away.

Don reentered the ballroom and took his seat at the end of the table, his mind racing. He needed to excuse himself as soon as possible and report this contact with Reza. Surely the Iranian knew he would report it; he was probably counting on it.

The double doors to the ballroom opened and the Iranian delegation filed in as a group. The first dozen took the seats at the table and the next twelve carried chairs with them that they set up as a second row. Reza, seated in the back row, adjusted his chair so that he could make eye contact with Don.

The entire front row of the Iranian delegation was new faces. They removed the old name tags from the table, replacing them with new ones. The Iranian delegation leader was a spare man with a gleaming bald pate and a pair of intelligent eyes that reminded Don of a hawk. His name tag said Dr. Ali Zhargami, in English and Farsi.

Richard Welker, the paunchy leader of the US delegation, swept his eyes down the row of Iranians and licked his lips. “I believe we may have different expectations for this meeting, sir. Perhaps we should adjourn so I can consult with my team.”

Zhargami responded in a reedy voice. “It is not this meeting that concerns us, Mr. Welker. My team and I are here to ensure that the meeting that will take place in Geneva in less than six weeks is no less than a stunning success.” He paused, and placed his hands flat on the table in front of him before he continued.

“President Rouhani has an ambitious agenda. One of his top concerns is ending this ridiculous feud with the western nations. It causes unnecessary hardship to the Iranian people and cripples our economy. The Iranian nuclear agenda is peaceful in nature.” Welker opened his mouth, but Zhargami held up his hand. “Please, let me finish, sir.”

Welker pressed his lips together and sat back in his chair. The man on Welker’s right scribbled something on a pad and pushed it in front of the delegation leader. Welker glanced at it and nodded.

Zhargami waited patiently until he had Welker’s attention again. “As I was saying, the Iranian nuclear agenda is peaceful in nature, and we are prepared to allow IAEA visits to confirm this fact.”

Don raised his eyebrows; the International Atomic Energy Agency visits were thorough and invasive. That was a major concession right up front.

“We will be making some changes in our delegation to ensure the October negotiation takes the right direction. Effective immediately, the leader of the Iranian negotiating team will be Foreign Minister Javid Zarif.”

Welker sputtered. “You’re replacing your lead negotiator six weeks before an international negotiation? That’s preposterous! We will need to reschedule the event and prepare a new—”

“There will be no rescheduling, Mr. Welker. I am sure you will find the new Foreign Minister amenable to making progress on this process. Which brings me to my next point: the timetable for an agreement.”

Welker’s forehead wrinkled. “We said we wanted to have a preliminary agreement in place by the end of 2015. You want to push it out even further?”

Zhargami smiled without showing any teeth. “Sir, you have not been listening to me. President Rouhani has an agenda of progress, speed, and action. We wish to have a negotiation framework agreement in place by the end of this year that will allow the P5+1 nations and my country to reach a final settlement.”

Welker gaped. “ This year? You want a negotiating framework deal signed by the end of 2013?”

A gasp rippled down the US delegation table. Welker shook his head. “That’s impossible. No way do we have enough time to reach an agreement in three months. Our two sides have been talking for years , sir. An agreement in less than three months? I expect you to be serious.” Welker folded his arms. Several delegation members imitated Welker’s closed position.

Zhargami didn’t flinch. “Mr. Welker, I assure you that we are serious. It is true that our two sides have been talking for years, and where has that gotten us? President Rouhani is a man of action. He expects to have the framework agreement by year-end and a final deal in 2014. I intend to make sure he gets both of them.”

Welker sat forward in his chair. He picked up the printed agenda and packet of documents that were the topic of today’s discussion and dropped it to the table with a slapping sound. “And where do you propose we start, sir? By your own admission, this agenda — this meeting — is wasted.”

The Iranian delegation leader shook his head. “This meeting is only wasted, Mr. Welker, if you allow it to be so.” He nodded to a young woman on the end of the second row. She loaded her arms with a sheaf of folders and hurried to the US delegation side of the room. She deposited a folder in front of each person.

Welker opened his folder and scanned its contents. He pursed his lips, but his forehead was still set in a frown.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Zhargami said, when all the delegates had open folders in front of them. “I propose a new agenda for this meeting, one that will meet our goal of having a signed framework agreement in place by the end of 2013.” His eyes came to rest on Welker’s scowling face. “Mr. Welker, you are skeptical and I understand why.”

His smile broadened. “I only ask that you listen.”

Captain Kim Hang-son had to piss. Again.