David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

“Salaam, brother.” His voice was wheezy and weak.

Hashem went back to the door and cracked it open. “Tea, Maryam. And a fresh robe.”

When he turned around, Aban had turned on the flat-screen TV, and the fluorescent colors played off his white underwear. The set was already tuned to Al Jazeera, with the sound muted. An attractive woman, her mouth working silently, was sharing a split screen with the Iranian election results. A color graphic showed the new progressive majority in the Iranian Parliament.

“How could the Supreme Leader let this happen? What is the Council of Guardians for if not to screen out the weak-minded before they run for office?” Aban seemed to be getting animated now. He sat up in his chair so the bulk of his belly slid down to rest on his thighs.

A gentle tap on the door told Hashem that Maryam had returned. He cracked the door open and forced a smile. “I’ll get it, Maryam. Thank you.” When she had gone, he rolled the cart into the room. The silver samovar glinted with neon highlights from the TV as Hashem drew two cups of tea and piled a saucer with sugar cubes. He placed the mug and the saucer on the low table in front of Aban.

“Come, brother, drink.” He removed the crystal tumbler from his brother’s hand and slid his chair closer to the steaming tea. Aban popped two cubes of sugar in his mouth and took a long sip of tea.

Hashem winced. His brother had always had a sweet tooth, even going so far as to hold sugar cubes in his teeth while he drank his tea when they were younger. He’d given up those excesses when he entered the clerical life. Hashem watched him put another pair of cubes in his mouth and suck down half a glass of tea.

The sugar seemed to revive Aban’s spirits. He leaped out of his chair and began pacing the room, an old man, balding, in baggy underwear with knock-knees and horny toes. To Hashem, he looked like a troll in one of his grandmother’s fairy tales from when he was a little boy.

“Aban,” he said, holding out the robe that Maryam had brought. “Please.”

Aban threw the robe over his shoulders and continued his pacing. “Rouhani thinks he’s won, but he didn’t count on us, did he?” He snapped his fingers for one of Hashem’s cigarettes. Hashem lit two and handed one to him.

Aban paused and winked at his brother. “We’re playing the long game, eh, Hashem? Let Rouhani play whore to the West, let him bring in his inspectors and kiss the asses of Western leaders on Al Jazeera. All the while, we will have our own missiles safely tucked away in our desert bunker.”

Hashem nodded along with his brother. “Iran will be a nuclear power, Aban, because of your leadership.”

His brother stopped his pacing and held up his hand. “Hashem, my dear, you need to think bigger.

“ Iran is not a nuclear power, we are a nuclear power.”

Thin, watery sunshine lit the snow-covered Vantaa River outside the window. Don shivered as he watched the icy landscape.

“Not a very hospitable place in the winter months, eh?” Reza’s voice, with its cultured English tones, held a hint of humor.

Don smiled back at him and made an exaggerated shivering motion with his shoulders. The prep meetings in Helsinki between the P5+1 and the Iranian team had gotten very friendly, almost clubby, with both sides taking their meals together and lots of offline discussions.

Iran had agreed to a permanent monitoring of their nuclear program, a critical stipulation to move to the final step of negotiating a nuclear deal — and lifting the sanctions on Iran. Don knew the elections in Iran in December had given President Rouhani a much better power base at home, but to hold onto those voters he needed to get the sanctions lifted permanently.

Another blast of icy wind rattled the window, making Don take a step back. Reza stayed in place, his face pensive. Without turning his head, he said in a low voice, “I need your help, Donald, with a rather large request.”

Don noted how tightly Reza’s hand gripped his cup of tea. “Certainly, Reza, I’ll do whatever I can.”

“I’m going for a smoke. Meet me outside in five minutes.” He turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

Don swallowed hard. This was spy stuff, a clandestine meeting. His heart raced as he casually checked his watch, refilled his coffee cup, and mingled with his colleagues. He faked a laugh at a half-heard joke about Congress, then checked his watch.

A minute had gone by.

He forced himself to show interest in the other people in the gathering and sip his coffee slowly. At four minutes and thirty seconds, he excused himself and left the room.

The smoking area was set up fifty paces from the back entrance of the Manor, under a spread of birches. In the first few meetings at Königstedt, the manor had set up separate smoking areas for the Iranians and the other nations, but for this meeting they had combined them.

Reza was alone in the roped-off area, smoking a dark-colored cigarette as Don approached. He had his collar turned up against the cold. Don winced as a blast of wind shook the branches overhead, setting off a fierce rattling sound.

“Smoke?” Reza held out the pack of cigarettes.

Don started to refuse, but Reza kept the pack extended until Don took one. He sparked his lighter, shielding the flame from the wind with his hand. Don poked the cigarette into the fire and took a tentative puff. It tasted like what he imagined burnt camel dung might taste like.

Don forced a smile. “Smooth,” he said, smothering a cough.

Reza licked his lips. The branches rattled again and he dropped his voice so low that Don had to step next to him to hear what he had to say.

“I want you to know that I carry a message directly from President Rouhani. I would like you to set up a meeting — a private meeting — with your ambassador. I will agree to whatever venue you choose, but please know that I can deliver this message only to the ambassador, and only in verbal form. If word of this proposal leaked out…” Reza shook his head.

Don bit his lip, and he involuntarily mirrored Reza as he brought the cigarette to his lips. “Can you tell me what it’s about, Reza?”

The Iranian shook his head. “I’m sorry, Donald, I cannot. My message is for the ambassador only. Please, you must trust me, this is not a trick.”

Don tapped his foot as another gust of wind shook the tangle of branches overhead. He saw Reza’s eyes shift to a spot over his shoulder, and he could hear the crunch of snow as someone made their way across the courtyard. “Meet at the Sauna Seura on Lauttasaari tonight at seven PM,” Don said in a rapid voice.

Reza nodded, then turned to greet his Iranian team member as the man entered the smoking area.

Don arrived at the Sauna Seura at half past six. He’d managed to get to Ambassador Evans in the afternoon and convinced him to take the meeting with Reza. The ambassador had nodded when he heard Don’s choice of meeting place.

“Very cagey, Riley,” he said. “I like it. I’ll have my assistant reserve a private sauna and send my bug man down to make sure it’s clean. Very smart.” The ambassador paused and swept his eyes over Don. “You’ll be there, of course.”

Inside, Don did a double fist pump. Damned straight! But he settled for: “I think that would be best, sir.”

He considered sending a sitrep back to Washington in the afternoon, but decided to let the ambassador handle the official communications. After all, he was in Finland in his capacity as a nuclear analyst, not as a CIA asset.