David Bruns: Weapons of Mass Deception

Chas responded in kind with his own tale. Two marriages, two divorces, but the family real estate company was doing fabulously well. He lived by himself in the family mansion on the shores of Lake Superior.

Perfect .

But mostly, Chas wanted to talk about the good old days. Their time at Carleton, the trips during spring break and Christmas. Rafiq indulged the urge, rolling out half-remembered stories. He looked around at one point before sunrise, and Chas was sipping from a bottle of liquor. He swung the neck of the bottle in Rafiq’s direction, but Rafiq refused.

As the level in the bottle dropped, the stories became increasingly maudlin and less coherent, until Chas’s chatter was replaced by a bone-rattling snore. Rafiq threw the bottle overboard.

The motor yacht had a state-of-the-art navigation system with their destination clearly marked. Rafiq kept their speed moderate and waved cheerily to other boats they passed. During the midmorning hours, he put out some fishing lines with unbaited hooks, as much for something to do as the need to keep up appearances. He let Chas sleep until he had the estate dock in sight, then he tried to wake his friend.

Chas woke in stages as Rafiq brought the boat into the slip and secured it. He stumbled down the ladder from the cockpit and made his way slowly up to the house. Rafiq locked the packing crate in the cabin of the boat and followed.

The house was silent and smelly. Rafiq wrinkled his nose at the overflowing trashcan filled with takeout containers and the sink piled with dirty dishes. Chas ignored the mess, making his way directly to a stack of food delivery flyers on the counter. “Whaddaya want for dinner, buddy?” He rubbed his face and let out a belch as he pawed through the pile.

Rafiq touched him on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go fix us a drink and I’ll get us something to eat?”

Chas brightened at the thought of a drink, and ambled out of the kitchen. Rafiq smashed down the trash and placed the tied bag outside the kitchen door. Then he loaded the dirty dishes into the dishwasher and set the machine on a heavy-duty cleaning cycle. He laughed to himself; here he was, cleaning up after Chas again after all these years.

He surveyed the contents of the refrigerator, settling on an unopened carton of eggs and a steak. Rafiq rummaged through the cabinets until he found a frying pan. Soon the smell of steak and eggs filled the kitchen.

Chas appeared in the doorway, sniffing the air. “Hey, that smells pretty good, Ralf. I didn’t know you could cook, too.” He handed Rafiq a Bloody Mary in a pint glass.

Rafiq clinked glasses with him and pretended to take a sip. The drink was mostly vodka. Rafiq smacked his lips. “Mmm, that’s good, Chas.”

They ate in silence. Chas chewed with his mouth open and wheezed through the whole meal. Rafiq kept a smile painted on his face. “How about a tour, Chas?” he asked when they were done.

Chas walked him through the six bedrooms in the house and the assorted sitting rooms, study, game rooms, and so on. Everywhere they went, except for Chas’s massive bedroom, there was a heavy layer of dust. They ended up back in the kitchen, Chas puffing from the effort of walking through his own house. “That’s the place. Pick whatever room you like and stay as long as you like, Ralf. It’s good to have you here.”

Rafiq looked out into the gathering dusk. In this part of the country, it didn’t get fully dark until after nine this time of year. “Can we walk outside? I’d like to see the grounds.”

Chas made a pained face. “Whew, I’m pretty beat, buddy. How about tomorrow? I think I’ll have a nightcap and then hit the hay.”

“Good idea.”

It took another hour, and three drinks, before Chas finally stumbled off to bed. Rafiq turned off the TV and sat in the gathering darkness. The living room overlooked the lakeshore, and he could make out the boats on the lake. Lots more boats would be coming for the Labor Day weekend, the official end of summer.

He listened for the even rumbles of Chas’s snoring before he left the house. There was a large standalone structure, as large as a warehouse, a few hundred yards from the main house. He made his way to the unlocked side entrance, flipping on the overhead lights as he entered. The building was filled with different types of vehicles: sports cars, a pair of company pickup trucks with the Whitworth Construction logo in bold blue lettering, a small tractor. He walked past them all until he found the one he was seeking.

The Ford Econoline Heavy Duty van did not have any windows, and it looked new. Rafiq ran his hand across the blue letters of the Whitworth logo. He jogged to the steel box next to the door and pulled a set of keys off the hook marked VAN.

Reza watched the Lumba through binoculars from the bridge of the FNS Tornio .

The Hamina-class fast attack boat idled at bare steerageway, their camouflaged hull all but invisible against the backdrop of the rocky Finnish coastline. Through the light morning chop of the Baltic Sea, an identical craft mirrored their movements from a position a kilometer off their port side. The long sleek ohjusvene, or missile boat, designed as a stealth platform, looked deadly in the shreds of predawn mist that hung over the water.

Reza made a conscious effort to control the tapping of his foot against the composite deck, a nervous habit he’d rather not display right now.

A commander from the Erikoistoimintaosasto stood next to him. The ETO, as they were called, was the elite special operations branch of the Finnish Navy. The officer issued a sharp acknowledgment into the microphone of his headset and then turned to Reza. They spoke in English, their only common tongue. “We’ll be putting the pilot aboard in five minutes, sir.” The officer was built like a side of beef, and the heavy hands that gripped the binoculars in front of his chest were corded with muscle.

Reza felt a stirring of hope. The solidity of this man, this boat, these people, made him believe it was all going to be okay. They could take down this ship, secure the weapon, and no one would be the wiser.

The signing ceremony for the Iranian Nuclear Accord was scheduled for noon at the Finlandia Hall, the world-famous concert hall. He suspected the terrorist plot was simple: sail the Malaysian freighter into Helsinki Harbor and blow it up there. Even if they didn’t completely destroy the signing venue, the resulting political fallout would scuttle the agreement.

He took another deep breath to settle the stirring in his stomach. That ship, the Lumba , was the one. She had to be the one — there was no other possibility. It had taken days, but using the “dolphin” clue from Rafiq’s daughter, he had identified a Malaysian freighter that had put into Fray Bentos in July. The Malaysian word for dolphin was lumba .

His meetings last night with the head of Finnish military intelligence, their Chief of Defence, and the Defence Minister had not gone well. They’d immediately wanted to call in the Americans and the other signatory nations and postpone the signing. Only a call from Rouhani himself and the comprehensive nature of Reza’s information convinced them they could handle this quietly.

After consulting the Finnish president, the raid was approved. The Finns had chosen to throw everything at this problem, and Reza was impressed by the thoroughness of their response.

“The pilot’s onboard,” the Finnish commando called to him. “We’re getting video.”

The pilot, actually a commando in disguise, was wearing glasses with a camera built into the frames, and had a transmitter/repeater in his knapsack. On the video screen, Reza could see the bridge of the freighter, the worn instruments, the general mess of a merchant ship continuously at sea. The man who filled the view screen was jabbering in a mix of English, Malay, and a few Finnish words as he pointed at the charts. His straight dark hair was shaped in a rough bowl cut and a gap-toothed smile split his brown features.