David Bruns - Weapons of Mass Deception

She cut away to a clip of Netanyahu, a stern look on his blocky face as he stood behind a podium making his announcement.

Israel’s bold gesture of confidence in the nuclear talks met with widespread affirmation from the world community—

Hashem’s mobile phone rang. He answered it without taking his eyes off the TV screen.

“Hashem, please come quickly. It’s your brother.” Hashem could hear the tears in Maryam’s voice.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s very angry, throwing things, and now he’s locked himself in his office again and refuses to answer the door. I–I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Hashem reached for his jacket with one hand and thumbed the speed dial on his phone for his driver with the other.

The car was waiting for him in the front portico of his apartment building. He slammed the door as he got in and tried Aban’s personal mobile for the third time.

Once they left the gated grounds of the apartment, they merged with the crawl of evening rush hour. His driver inched along, jockeying for position in the stream of cars on Valiasr Avenue, the main artery running north to the rich suburbs.

The city of Tehran lay in a vast valley surrounded by mountains. During the winter, in a weather phenomenon known as temperature inversion, colder air would settle over the region, sealing the warmer polluted atmosphere into the valley like a lid on a pot. Usually the weather patterns changed by March, but winter had been slow to release its grip this year and a fog of car exhaust and smoke swirled around the vehicle.

Hashem continued to watch the news on his mobile as he periodically redialed Aban’s phone. Still no answer.

As the news developed, things got worse. Rouhani, looking to all the world like a smiling grandfather, gladly accepted Israel’s “generous offer.” He made the statement from the meeting room of the Expediency Council, surrounded by his cronies. Hashem closed his eyes, hoping that his brother had not seen that added insult to his pride.

The P5+1 nations negotiating the Iranian nuclear deal issued a joint press release endorsing the new location for the meeting. With a broad smile, President Obama, flanked by his Secretaries of State and Defense, endorsed Israel’s “bold move to stabilize a troubled region.” Then he praised Rouhani’s “visionary leadership to bring Iran back into the world community.” Even Saudi Arabia and Jordan offered their endorsements.

Hashem clenched his eyes shut. It was a brilliant move, an end run by Rouhani around the entire Iranian hard-line establishment. Worse yet, the Iranian intelligence organizations, so wrapped up in their own fights about budgets and staffing, had missed it. Completely. The thought of all the money he’d spent on informants made him sick.

The car picked up speed as it entered the more exclusive neighborhoods and the road took a gentle slope upwards. If Aban had been angry about losing the election, he would be apoplectic over this turn of events.

The gate to Aban’s estate opened as they rolled into his street. Maryam was waiting for him on the front steps. The air was cleaner at this end of the city, and held a hint of spring.

“Where is he?” Hashem asked.

Maryam led him to Aban’s study. In the dim hallway, he knocked on the heavy wooden door. “Brother, it’s me. Hashem. Open up, please.”

No answer.

Maryam pressed a key into his hand and hurried down the hall. He could hear her weeping.

Hashem braced himself, recalling the drunken hovel he had seen the last time his brother encountered bad news. He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

A fire burned brightly in the fireplace, and a huge stack of files and loose papers were piled next to the hearth. Aban was seated at his desk, a pair of heavy glasses halfway down his nose. He looked up at Hashem and smiled.

“Come in, Hashem. Come in and shut the door.”

Hashem pushed the door closed and felt the heavy lock click into place. “Salaam, brother.” He hesitated, then crossed the room to stand before the desk. “You’ve heard the news?”

Aban’s smile broadened. He unfolded a wide sheet of paper and gestured for Hashem to come around the desk.

The paper was a map of the Middle East with Iran in the center. Aban tapped Tehran and then slid his finger to the west, stopping on Tel Aviv.

“He thinks he’s so smart.” Aban let out a bark of a laugh. “Rouhani makes his backroom deals with the West, sells out our country to the Great Satan and the whores of Israel. But this time he has gone too far, my brother, too far. Rouhani’s arrogance will be his undoing — and our gain.” He tapped his thick finger on Tel Aviv.

“This is your target, brother.”

Aban’s eyes glittered behind his glasses, and his face was flushed. Hashem swallowed hard. After all these years, he would have the chance to use the massive weapons he had built in his desert hideaway… but on his own President? The very thought tied his stomach in knots.

As if sensing his unease, Aban reached out and grasped Hashem’s hand. “It’s perfect. Rouhani has worked so hard to convince the world that Iran possesses no nuclear weapons that your strike will take them all by surprise. While Rouhani’s stinking corpse burns alongside his Israeli friends, I will take control here.” His grip tightened.

“Rouhani could not have done this without the blessing of the Supreme Leader. When Rouhani fails, the Supreme Leader’s position with the Assembly will be badly compromised. While he struggles to contain the chaos, I will go on television and blame the Islamic State. I will be the voice of reason and stability in the crisis. And when I’ve rallied enough votes in the Assembly, I will be the new Supreme Leader of Iran.”

Hashem felt the hammering of his own heart. It was perfect. Aban had thought of everything. All those years of waiting and planning were nearly over. Together, he and his brother would change the world.

He dropped to his knees before Aban, the rich cloth of his brother’s robe blurred behind tears of joy. “I am your instrument, my brother.”

Aban placed his hands on either side of Hashem’s face. His grip was tender, almost fatherly, and he placed a kiss on Hashem’s forehead.

“They have sown the seeds of their own destruction. Let us reap the harvest.”

The Iranian state jet touched down at Ben Gurion and taxied slowly to a halt in front of the band of dignitaries gathered on the tarmac. As the engines wound down, the ground crew chocked the wheels of the plane and rolled airstairs into place while another team rolled out the red carpet to the bottom of the steps.

An official band started playing as the door of the plane opened and Prime Minister Netanyahu strode across the carpet to the base of the steps. He was alone, as was Rouhani when he exited the plane and made his way lightly down the airstairs.

That was how both men wanted it — they alone were taking responsibility for the course of events. No Americans, no Europeans, no other Gulf States, just these two heads of state setting a new course for the future.

The two men met at the bottom of the stairs and shook hands, both automatically turning toward the cameras and holding their pose. They exchanged a few words, and Netanyahu gave his counterpart a tight smile — or it might have been a grimace. Even the most adept of lip-readers were unable to make out the brief, historic exchange between these two heads of state whose countries had been mortal enemies since before their parents were even born.