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

Alberto opened his briefcase. “Well, thank you for your assistance. I do appreciate America’s continued interest in helping Argentina solve this crime.”

He had closed his briefcase and was about to stand up when Jane Carver reached across the table and clamped her hand on his wrist. She leaned close to him and dropped her voice to just above a whisper.

“There’s more,” she said, “but I’ve been told to stay out of it.” Alberto noticed the warm brown of her eyes and the redness of her lips. Her breath still smelled of the coffee they’d drank together.

“We’ve received unofficial word that you may be in danger. It’s just chatter, but it’s a concern. The sources are such that we don’t want to share the information with your intelligence services.”

Alberto felt his mouth go dry. He licked his lips. Death threats went with the job of special prosecutor, but Jane seemed so earnest, so concerned for his safety. “Where? Where is this ‘chatter’ coming from?”

Jane’s grip on his wrist tightened. “I can’t tell you.”

Alberto jerked his hand away. “What am I supposed to do with that? There’s ‘chatter,’ but you won’t give me details?”

Jane’s face softened. “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I could be fired for what I’ve told you already. Alberto, you know I respect you and the work you’ve done.” She bit her lip and moved even closer. “Don’t trust anyone.”

It took the entire taxi ride back to his office to get his nerves under control again. Normally, death threats were intercepted by his ten-man security detail. It was rare for him to receive direct intelligence about someone wanting to do him harm. The fact that Jane had seemed so concerned added to his unease.

Diego was waiting in his office with Alberto’s laptop.

“Diego,” Nisman said, “you are a sight for sore eyes. How was your date last night, my friend?”

Diego broke into a smile as he prepared to launch into his latest sexual conquest. Alberto once told his friend he was dating virtually through Diego. The broad smile faded when he saw Alberto’s face. “What’s the matter?”

Diego Lagomarsino had been on Nisman’s team for years as a technology specialist. Officially, he worked to protect their IT system from intrusions, a vital role in such a high profile investigation. Unofficially, he was Alberto’s tech consultant. Nisman, at fifty-one years of age, was right at that buffer zone between those who could easily adapt to new technology and those for whom technology was nothing more than a confusing jumble of apps and acronyms. Alberto was determined to be one of the adaptable crowd.

More important at the moment, Diego was his friend. Alberto considered telling the younger man about the encounter at the US embassy, but he decided against it. Instead he forced a laugh. “It’s nothing, Diego. Just a rough morning. I need to get to work, my friend.”

Alberto shooed Diego from his office and lost himself in his work. The tension from the morning meeting with Jane had all but receded when his phone rang. He picked it up on the second ring.

“Nisman.”

“Alberto, Jaime here. Can we meet for dinner? Tonight.”

Nisman sat up at Jaime Stuisso’s abrupt tone.

“Certainly. The usual place?”

“9PM.” Jaime hung up without another word.

Alberto stared at the dead handset. They’d agreed Alberto’s phone was probably bugged, but the brevity of the call — and Jaime’s tone — set off more alarm bells in Alberto’s head. He took another deep, cleansing breath, remembering Jane’s warning.

Jaime Stuisso, a senior intelligence operative in the Argentinean Secretariat of Intelligence, had been one of Nisman’s most trusted sources of information on the Iranian connection to the AMIA bombing. Stuisso’s information had helped Alberto make the final critical, incriminating connections between the Argentinean government and Iran.

What he’d found took his breath away — and made him sick to his stomach. Rather than trying to bring the Hezbollah operatives and their Iranian backers to justice, the government of Argentina was offering to cover up their past involvement in the AMIA bombing in exchange for a trade deal. According to Stuisso and at least partially corroborated by the Americans, Foreign Minister Timerman had offered to lift the extradition requests for the six wanted Iranian officials if the Iranians would agree to an oil deal. It made perfect sense. Argentina needed oil, and Iran needed cash to offset the international sanctions that were strangling her economy.

Quid pro quo.

Alberto could still recall the feeling when he’d finally pieced the puzzle together. Exultation, fulfillment at being proven right after all this time, and deep betrayal that his government would allow those responsible for the AMIA bombing — which had killed eighty-five citizens — to go free.

His despair had turned to anger when he dug deeper. Something in Stuisso’s file bothered him. Alberto followed the money trail and found evidence of $23 million in Iranian bribes for President Fernandez de Kirchner. Corruption. Of the highest-ranking politician in Argentina.

Before he’d scheduled his meeting with the congressional committee for Monday, January 19, 2015, he checked and rechecked his sources. His case was rock solid. Still, the thought of accusing the highest official in the land of bribery and conspiracy to subvert international justice made his stomach twist in knots.

I’d better be right about this.

Rafiq and Jamil finished their daily afternoon inspection of the cargo, closing up the secret vault deep in the wine cellar. Neither of them knew what was in the crate, but Rafiq’s commitment to his half-brother, Hashem, to keep the “cargo” safe at all costs was a charge he’d taken to heart. It was the purpose of their presence here in South America.

Some days he wondered if he was supporting the mission or the mission was supporting him. He’d given up his entire career as a Hezbollah fighter — and asked his closest friends to do the same — to come to a foreign land for… what? To guard a wooden box and wait.

He drew in a deep lungful of the damp, wine-scented air of the cellar. But now, now they had a real mission.

“Jamil, I need you to take care of something for me.”

“Anything, boss. You know that. Name it.”

Though both men were now fluent in Spanish, they conversed in their native Lebanese Arabic whenever they were alone. They’d known each other since they were children in Arsal, had grown up together and joined Hezbollah together. Jamil and his twin brother, Farid, had been with Rafiq in Iraq where they fought with the Iraqi Shiite insurgent units against the American occupation.

Farid’s pancreatic cancer had taken him only a few weeks ago, and Jamil still bore the pain of his brother’s absence. It was in his eyes, Rafiq decided, a softness in his gaze and a downturned set of his mouth. When Farid’s passing was still fresh, Rafiq had tried to comfort his friend with kind words and small gestures, but he gave up. Jamil had a wife and family for that kind of comfort. Instead, Rafiq entrusted Jamil with more of the vital jobs around the estancia and sought his advice more frequently. Jamil didn’t need comfort, he needed a purpose, more testing of his resolve to their cause. If Rafiq ever detected that Jamil was faltering… Rafiq licked his lips. If it ever came to that, he wouldn’t hesitate.

This new mission would be a good test for Jamil, a test of his skills. It had been some time since either of them had seen any real action. That was about to change.