David Bruns: Weapons of Mass Deception

Brendan had seen the video, the one with the older man in his underwear spilling the details about the construction of the bunker and the number of men. The video had been a key factor in the success of the raid. “Thank you, that information was very helpful to us.”

“The gentleman in the video was Aban Rahmani, an Islamic cleric. We believe he funded the construction of the bunker and was planning to use the attack to seize power in Iran.” The cultured voice hesitated. “There was additional information that was not passed on to you. Mr. Rahmani claimed there was a fourth warhead. He claimed the weapon was placed with a Hezbollah sleeper cell years ago.”

Brendan’s phone buzzed against his ear. He saw a text from Don pop up. It showed a picture of a trim man with close-cropped dark hair and a five-o’clock shadow of a beard.

“The picture Donald just sent you is of Rafiq Roshed. This is the Hezbollah agent we believe has the weapon. He was the leader of a sleeper cell in South America and was activated after your raid on the bunker. A very capable man, educated in the US, speaks English like an American and fluent Spanish, too.”

“Do you know where he is?”

The Iranian’s voice faltered again. “I’ve been tracking him all over the world. In Helsinki this morning we raided a ship believed to be carrying Roshed and the fourth weapon. Neither of them was on board. We’re tracing the ship’s ports of call since leaving South America, and we now believe Roshed got off in Tenerife two weeks ago.”

Brendan got out of the chair and began to pace. “So, if this Rafiq has a nuclear weapon, it could be anywhere. Europe, Africa, even the US. Anywhere.”

“Yes.”

“And — let me guess — no one believes you after the failed raid in Helsinki.”

“Yes.”

Brendan blew out a breath. “So you have a questionable source and a wild goose chase. Why are you calling me?”

Don answered him. “You remember the Iranian agent at the bunker? The one you captured in Iraq?”

Brendan grunted.

“His name was Hashem Aboud,” Reza said, “and Donald tells me that you were the last person to speak with him before he died.”

“I was there, yes. And he whispered something in Farsi to me, but I hardly see how that can help. I’ve given my phonetic rendering of the phrase to the experts and they did the translating. ‘Death from the north’ or something like that.”

“Can you tell me exactly what was said, please?”

Brendan closed his eyes. The image of Hashem’s death was not something he’d ever forget: the bloody lips, the fiery eyes, the tobacco-stained grimace. It was like something from a horror movie.

“You have to understand we were on the deck of a helo and there was lots of noise, but it sounded like doze-di-sho-male .”

Reza repeated the words softly. He paused. “Yes, I think the translation is accurate. The literal translation would be ‘thieves from the north.’ A more colloquial version might be ‘norseman,’ or ‘viking,’ but that’s hardly a common word in Farsi.”

Brendan stopped pacing, his eyes glued on the muted TV. “What did you say?”

“I said a more common translation might be ‘viking.’”

Brendan felt his mouth go dry. The flat-screen TV on the wall showed the new Minnesota Vikings stadium rising above the Minneapolis skyline.

“I think I know where Rafiq is.”

The traffic on southbound I-35 thickened even before he reached the Minneapolis northern suburbs.

An SUV with purple Minnesota Vikings flags clamped into both rear windows cut him off, and Rafiq had to slam on the brakes to keep from rear-ending the car. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, taking deep breaths to calm himself. The detonation device in the weapon was ancient, the original gun-type model from the Iraqis. It was possible a collision with another vehicle might be enough to set it off — a theory he’d rather not test. The traffic started to move again and he put an extra margin of safe distance behind the car in front of him.

The new stadium rose into view as he got closer to the downtown area. He checked his watch again. He needed to make sure he was early enough to get a good parking place near the top of a parking ramp, but not so soon that his vehicle would attract the attention of security personnel. Rafiq was sure the local police would have extra patrols out to look for suspicious activity. He’d filled the back of the Whitworth Construction van with assorted tools and the black packing case blended in well.

Patience.

He’d waited nearly a decade for this moment. A few minutes more would not matter.

Killing Chas had felt more like a favor than a necessity.

The man had been drunk, of course, and it was a simple matter to stage his suicide. The only weapons Chas had in the house were a huge Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver and a 20-gauge shotgun. The handgun was overkill for the job, but necessary to keep up appearances. The shotgun was on the floor of the van behind his seat.

Rafiq had stripped to his undershorts before pressing the barrel of the revolver into the mouth of his college friend and pulling the trigger. The resulting spatter against the headboard and the wall was spectacular, like a macabre piece of modern art. The beauty of it made his breath catch in his throat. It had been a long time since he’d killed a man. Too long.

Rafiq had considered typing up a suicide note, but decided against it. Anyone who walked through the filth and despair of Chas’s house would conclude suicide before he even saw the body. He only needed a day’s head start anyway.

After a long shower to remove any traces of blood from his skin, he walked through the house room by room, carefully wiping down anything he’d touched during his stay. Rafiq replaced the sheets from the bed he’d slept in. They were in a plastic bag behind his seat in the van. For good measure, he’d even gone outside and retrieved some of the trash to put back in the kitchen.

By the time he’d finished, there was no record of Rafiq ever having set foot inside Chas’s home.

Except for the missing white van.

Rafiq circled the downtown area twice before settling on the parking garage at the corner of Park and Sixth Street, overlooking the entrance to the massive new Vikings stadium. He drove all the way to the topmost covered deck and took a spot on the side nearest the stadium.

He shut off the engine and took a moment to admire the view. Even he had to admit it was an impressive structure. Built to resemble a massive ship rising from the earth, the glass-and-steel bow of the metaphorical craft pointed almost directly at him. Rafiq craned his head to see the tip of the building around the edge of the parking garage roof overhead.

The plaza below him buzzed with people dressed in purple and gold Vikings colors. He knew from the radio reports that they expected a sellout crowd of over 65,000 spectators at this inaugural game against the Green Bay Packers. The radio reporter had also done a segment on the type of glass used to build the sheer face of the stadium front. Apparently, a group of bird-lovers were claiming the glass would confuse migrating birds. Rafiq shook his head. A billion-dollar structure erected in honor of a game and the news media talked about birds.

He would give them all something to talk about.

Rafiq smiled to himself when he saw the vans with television network logos lined up against the stadium. They would have a front-row seat to the halftime spectacle. He closed his eyes and tried to still the joyous hammering of his heart.