David Bruns - Death of a Pawn - A WMD Companion Short Story

When the window opened, instead of the usual five-minute countdown timer, the timer showed twenty minutes. Rafiq frowned, instantly suspicious.

The opening greeting matched the code phrase listed for this month.

Rafiq typed his reply and added in an additional verification step from the back of the code book.

Hashem responded in less than fifteen seconds. Yes, this was his brother.

Is the cargo safe?

Rafiq almost spat at the screen. Always the same question from Hashem. Never, “How are you, brother? Are you doing okay since your mother’s death?”

Yes. It is safe .

I have a job for you. Something different .

Rafiq felt a surge of hope. Something different, something to break the monotony of keeping the cargo safe, day after day after day.

Am I leaving? typed Rafiq.

No. The cargo must be kept safe at all costs. That is still your top priority .

Understood . Rafiq typed the single word carefully, resisting the temptation to add a plea for… what? To go home to Lebanon? To get back in the fight? What did he want?

Sending documents now .

Two new Word files popped up in Rafiq’s queue. He opened them and began to read, his excitement building again.

Do you understand? There were less than five minutes in the chatroom session.

Yes. Timeframe?

Before January 19. You decide exact date.

Four weeks to plan and execute an assassination. He licked his lips. Killing someone was easy. The hard part was not getting caught.

It will be done .

Hashem’s reply came back quickly and forcefully: You can have NO connection to this. Do you understand? Find a way to handle it without being personally involved .

Rafiq stared at the screen, deflated. In his mind, he’d already begun fantasizing about the rush he would feel from taking a life again. It had been a long time.

Understood, Rafiq typed with less than thirty seconds left on the timer.

You are our most important weapon in the war against the Great Satan. Your mission is one of greatness. Peace be upon you, brother.

The countdown timer hit zero, and the software immediately went to work shredding not only the chatroom session logs, but also the Word files Hashem had sent.

No matter. Rafiq had already memorized everything he needed to know.

Alberto Nisman asked the taxi driver to let him out three blocks from the US embassy. As he walked through the empty streets, enjoying the early morning summer sunshine, he sighed to himself. How long had it been since he’d taken a day off, a real day off? Not just a day away from the office, a real day without work occupying his mind. Try as he might, he could not remember. Ever since his divorce, it seemed like the only satisfaction he could gain from life was through work, but lately even that had started to feel hollow.

Alberto paused on the corner and drew a deep breath with his eyes closed. He let it out slowly, trying to clear his mind and his lungs at the same time.

Only a few more weeks. Once I deliver my report to Congress, my work is done.

He shook himself. When this investigation was finally put to rest next month, he would take a vacation with his daughters. Just the three of them, on a beach somewhere… yes, he would do it. After giving seventeen years of his life to this damned investigation, he deserved it.

Alberto jaywalked across the Avenida Colombia, arriving at the main gate of the US embassy with a new spring in his step. The US flag flapped gently in the light breeze, high above the heavy, black iron bars that surrounded the compound. At the window, he slid his identification under the bulletproof glass. Security guards at the US embassies around the world were usually locally hired personnel, always with extensive background checks.

“You may proceed, sir,” came the reply from the guard — in Spanish — as he buzzed Nisman through the first gate and into the portico entry area. After his briefcase was X-rayed and he’d passed through a metal detector, he was buzzed through a second secure door into the embassy compound itself.

“Mr. Nisman, it is good to see you again, sir.” Jane Carver approached him with her hand outstretched, speaking in perfect Spanish. Although she only appeared to be in her mid-thirties, Alberto knew from their previous meetings that Buenos Aires was her fourth embassy assignment. In the beginning, he’d had reservations about this woman acting as the liaison with the Argentinean legal authorities. In their first meeting, she admitted she’d never even heard of the AMIA bombing before she was given the liaison assignment.

His concerns proved unfounded. After taking time to understand the impact the bombing had on so many Argentinians, she became an expert on the topic. More than that, Jane Carver became an advocate for him.

Jane coordinated official meetings with the FBI Liaison Officer, who traveled to Buenos Aires every couple of months for coordination with Argentinean authorities on a host of issues besides the AMIA investigation, such as drug trafficking, terrorism, and money laundering. But it was her close — often unofficial — association with the CIA Station Chief that yielded results for Alberto.

He could use some good information today.

They exchanged pleasantries as Jane led the way to the conference room. She walked quickly with long, athletic strides, and he set his pace to match. The conference room was located away from the consular section, where it was unlikely they would see any other Argentinean citizens. It was not a crime for him to be here, of course, but it was prudent for government officials of Nisman’s stature to keep a low profile in dealing with the Americans. Tensions between Washington, DC, and Buenos Aires were not terrible, just not overly friendly.

They took seats at the conference table and Carver offered Nisman some coffee and Danish, both of which he promptly accepted. It was only 8AM. These Americans start work far too early in the morning .

Carver poured coffee for them both, then pulled ten file folders from her bag, none of them very thick. Carver handed him half the folders, and stacked the remaining five in front of her in overlapping style. Nisman opened his briefcase and pulled out his legal notepad and two pens — one black, one red.

“Shall we start with Rabbani?”

Nisman nodded his head. He scanned through the details of Mossen Rabbani’s file, marking an item in red here and there, circling items in black ink elsewhere. Rabbani had been the Cultural Attaché at the Iranian embassy when the AMIA attack happened. Nisman had seen all of this information before. His report was due in only a few weeks, and Carver’s insistence on this meeting had raised his hopes that she had something new for him.

“Ms. Carver, this is helpful, thank you. I’ve seen the files on all of these men before. Can you tell me if there is any new information? Anything that might solidify the connection between Iran and our current administration here in Buenos Aires?”

She toyed with her coffee cup, not meeting Alberto’s gaze. Jane was normally open with him, sometimes almost too direct in her remarks. This was most odd.

“Ms. Carver? Jane? Is there something wrong?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Nisman, this is all we have. You must remember, this case is very old. What we call a ‘cold case.’ I’ve been directed to tell you that we believe your pursuit of Iranian influence in these matters is the right path, but we’ve given you all the information we have.” She was spinning her coffee cup now and still would not meet his gaze.