David Bruns: Weapons of Mass Deception

On the next rotation, she found herself opposite Milli on the net. The girl was tall, with an easy elegance that reminded Liz of her mother. Her full breasts were barely held in check by her pink bikini top and her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail that ran halfway down her long back. The hint of a sneer on Milli’s model-perfect face made Liz want to duck under the net and use her racket as a weapon of opportunity.

Brendan stepped in front of Milli. “C’mon, Lizzie,” he taunted her with a wicked grin. “Let’s see what you got.”

Liz ignored him, biding her time. It took a few volleys before Don could feed her the perfect set-up shot. The birdie arced high, coming down right where she needed it. Brendan went airborne, trying to get his racket over the net, but it was out of his reach. Liz waited until the last second, then leaped and spiked it across the net as hard as she could. The birdie flashed past Brendan’s shoulder and nailed Milli right on the forehead.

Liz smiled through the net at Brendan and shrugged her shoulders.

“Sorry.”

Liz relaxed into the worn cushions of the sofa and closed her eyes.

Marjorie’s den was cool and dark, lit only by one floor lamp with a dim bulb. The party was done and it was just the four of them now: Brendan, Marjorie, Don, and Liz. Apart from the whisper of the ceiling fan, the only sound in the room was the occasional clink of ice in their glasses.

Marjorie raised her glass toward Mark’s picture on the wall, his Marine officer portrait. A wooden triangle with a folded flag under glass anchored the collection. “What is it you military types always say? ‘To absent friends?’”

“To absent friends,” they all echoed softly.

Liz’s gaze roamed over the photographs, settling on the picture taken on Mark’s graduation day. In typical Mark fashion, he’d managed to modify the silver dollar tradition to suit his needs: the picture showed him flipping two coins, one each to a saluting Liz and Brendan.

Liz nudged Brendan with her toe and nodded toward the shelf. He lifted a square gift box from one of the lower shelves and pulled his chair closer to Marjorie.

“Marje?”

Her gaze still rested on the picture of Mark. She started when Brendan called her name.

“We have a gift for you,” Brendan said.

“Oh!” Marjorie sat up quickly. The ice clinked in her glass as she set it on the floor. “For me? You shouldn’t have.” Her fingers plucked at the bright ribbon. “It’s almost too pretty to unwrap.”

Liz laid her hand on Marjorie’s. “Take your time, Marje.”

The older woman ripped off the paper to reveal a jewelry box. She snapped the lid open, and stopped. The room was silent for a long moment.

Don tugged his chair closer. “It’s a—”

“I know what it is, Don,” Marjorie said. “It’s the silver dollar from Mark’s first salute.” She looked at Liz and Brendan. “Which one of you did this?”

“It doesn’t matter, Marje,” Liz said gently. “We gave the other one to Don.”

“I can’t accept this, guys,” Marjorie said. Her finger ran across the polished face of the coin. Liz bit her lip. That coin had been in her pocket since the day Mark had flipped it to her, and her fingers had worn the features smooth. She sneaked a glance at Brendan. Just another thing she was giving up to follow her dream.

“Just try it on,” Liz said. They’d had the coin set in a handsome circular setting with an eyelet at the top for a chain. She lowered the necklace over Marjorie’s head. The older woman held it up in the light, her eyes tearing up.

She reached out and pulled Liz and Brendan close. “Promise me. Promise me you’ll stay safe and come home in one piece,” she whispered.

Behind Marjorie’s back, Liz found Brendan’s hand and squeezed it hard.

The land greened around them as they neared the Euphrates River. Hashem cracked open the window of the Range Rover. He could smell the moisture in the air now, a foreign scent after the unending dust of the desert.

“How much longer?” he asked the driver.

The driver consulted his dashboard GPS unit. “Fifteen minutes, Colonel.”

Hashem nodded and shut his window, the interior of the car suddenly quiet again. He turned to his passenger. The man stiffened. Hashem pretended not to notice.

This was the best they could send him? This bundle of nerves was an explosives engineer? He took a deep breath to calm himself. He knew the man was probably more nervous about meeting a Quds Force colonel than about the training assignment, but still the man’s nervous energy filled the air with tension.

The driver turned off the main highway to a rutted side road. He hit a pothole, the impact ringing through the car. The man beside Hashem lashed out with a curse.

“Slow down, you idiot!” the man screamed. “Do you want to blow us all to hell?”

The driver’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Hashem smiled to himself. Maybe this engineer would work out after all.

The road wound through a short stand of trees, the driver taking extra care to avoid the deep ruts. They rounded a bend and the narrow thoroughfare opened onto a broad meadow. In the center of the clearing, atop a small rise, sat a two-story house, white paint peeling from the concrete in patches. Hashem grunted in satisfaction. Rafiq had chosen well. The sight lines were clear in all directions for at least three hundred meters and there were no neighbors nearby. He saw the shape of a dish antenna poking above the facade. They even had Internet.

There was a movement on the roof, and then a glint as a man lowered a pair of binoculars.

The door of the house opened and a slim man exited. Hashem hadn’t seen his half brother in years, but the man did not seem to have aged a day. The Rover traversed the last few meters, then swung wide so as to deposit Hashem directly in front of the door.

Rafiq stood back to let the driver open Hashem’s door. The ritual gave Hashem a precious few seconds to size up his new partner.

Rafiq Aboud’s mother had been a fair-skinned, blonde Lebanese woman. Her genes had lightened her son’s complexion to the point where he could have passed for a generic European or even an American. He’d been educated at a small liberal arts college in the American Midwest — paid for by Hashem — and spoke English like a native.

Rafiq eyed him as Hashem stepped out of the vehicle and stretched, clearly willing to let his older brother make the first move. His cool gray eyes — their father’s eyes — locked onto Hashem’s without hesitation. Hashem realized with a start that it had been a long time since someone had looked at him without fear. His respect for his sibling went up a notch.

“Salaam, brother,” Hashem said, opening his arms.

Rafiq took a step forward. The man was half a head shorter than him, but his body was knotted and wiry beneath Hashem’s hands. His every movement was precise, a calculated expenditure of effort. Rafiq’s cheek was clean-shaven and moist when Hashem kissed him.

“Salaam,” he said, his voice neutral. “I trust your trip was comfortable?”

Hashem grunted. He waved his hand toward the engineer, who offered a nervous nod.

“Perhaps a tour before I offer you some tea?” Rafiq said, lifting his eyebrow.

The engineer cleared his throat. “Colonel… um, may I suggest we take the explosives out of the vehicle…”

Rafiq called into the open doorway and two men hustled out of the building to the back of the Range Rover. Hashem pegged them as Hezbollah, and men with experience. His brother knew how to pick men as well.