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

A quick survey showed that nothing was missing. He dialed the security detail in the lobby. Marcos answered after two rings.

“Yes, Mr. Nisman?” His voice was cold, professional.

“Was anyone in my apartment today besides Paula?”

“No, sir. Is there a problem?”

Alberto was about to launch into an explanation, but checked himself. “No, thank you, Marcos. Have a good evening.”

He hung up the phone but didn’t take his hand off the handset. He thought about calling Jaime, but his friend had his own problems to deal with — also of Alberto’s making. His daughters, maybe? He considered Diego for a long moment, then spun his chair around so he could see look out over the lights of the city.

Buenos Aires, a city of three million souls. And Alberto Nisman didn’t have a single friend.

Rafiq decided to gamble on the maid.

Jamil’s failure put them in a bad spot. Even the notoriously inattentive Buenos Aires police were shaken into action by the discovery of four bodies in the alley only a few blocks from Nisman’s flat. Worse yet, Nisman himself now saw the need for security on travels between his office and his home after dark.

Rafiq had only four days left. If he was going to complete the mission, he needed a new plan.

Over the phone, Jamil had insisted he debrief Rafiq on every aspect of his two weeks of reconnaissance of their target before he received any medical care for his injuries. Rafiq listened in silence, absorbing the nuances of his friend’s report. He felt the shame in Jamil’s voice as he described Nisman’s routines, habits, and idiosyncrasies — all mostly useless now since their prey was on the alert.

He put his feelings for Jamil aside. Taking on four armed street thugs was not something most men, even those as well-trained as he and Jamil, would walk away from. Still, the man had been careless, and the shame that tinged his voice was deserved. His overconfidence, his failure to stay aware of his surroundings, his failure to complete the mission reflected badly on Rafiq.

And now Rafiq would have to pick up the slack.

On his first evening watching Nisman’s apartment, Rafiq followed the maid home. Paula lived simply in a four-unit building, a thirty-minute bus ride from Nisman’s flat. Although not in a good section of town, it was not a place that screamed poverty. In a way, it reminded him of the apartment where he’d grown up in Arsal, with only his mother for companionship, and the verbal jabs from the other boys about being the bastard of a man who’d left them with nothing. Until Jamil and Farid came along and evened the odds. The three of them had quickly taken over the block, then the neighborhood, and before they knew it, all three of them were fighting with Hezbollah.

Rafiq pushed the memories aside and followed Paula again this evening, guessing she might go to the same nightclub she’d visited the night before. Tonight, he’d dressed the part, wearing clothes that marked him as a man with means but not overly wealthy. He did not want to spook this woman by coming across as beyond her reach — except as a one-night stand.

He waited out of her line of sight inside the nightclub, making certain she was not meeting anyone. After thirty minutes, Paula was still alone at the bar. Rafiq grinned to himself. He had fallen deeply for his Argentinean wife, Nadine, but his old habits returned without a hitch. While in college, he’d trolled for women in the bars and nightclubs of Minneapolis and St. Paul, experimenting with different pickup techniques. Back in Lebanon — and in Syria before it broke apart — he’d perfected the science of verbal seduction. Living here in Argentina and under the spell of Nadine for so long, Rafiq feared he might have lost a step. But now, sitting in this dim bar with the pumping music in the background and the smell of pheromones in the air, Rafiq felt a flush of confidence. He smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket and sauntered across the room.

Rafiq took an empty stool at the bar two seats away from Paula. He ignored her, making small talk with the bartender and a pair of women, his back to Paula. After ten minutes, he gently let down the two women and faced the bar. He caught Paula’s eye in the mirror, then looked in her direction. “May I buy you a drink?”

Paula almost spit out her drink when she realized this handsome man, with hypnotic gray eyes and what was clearly a strong body beneath his clothes, was paying attention to her.

Stammering, she whispered a reply. “Yes. Thank you.”

“May I join you?” He moved closer in anticipation of her approval.

Paula, smiling now, motioned for Rafiq to take the seat beside her. Rafiq brushed his knee against her thigh as he slid into the chair. Paula did not move away.

“My name is Pablo,” lied Rafiq. “What’s yours?”

Rafiq spent the next hour building a rapport with his target. Paying absolute attention to every word Paula uttered, he noted every expression, mirrored her movements when possible, and asked open-ended questions to keep the focus on her. He’d learned long ago that there were two kinds of people in the world: those who considered themselves very important, and those who considered themselves very, very important. For intelligence operatives trying to recruit people, the hope was always that you found your target to be the latter. People with massive egos were always easier to manipulate than those who had a better sense of themselves.

Unfortunately, Paula was well-grounded. As he listened to her talk, he recognized a strong sense of self-confidence. A good Catholic girl, but one not above having fun under the right circumstances. Most of all, she was lonely. Rafiq’s playful approach had been the right opening, and Paula warmed to his flattery and his attention. A few drinks later, she was obviously beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol.

Rafiq moved to the second phase of his plan. When Paula returned from using the ladies’ room, a fresh drink was waiting for her, as was this amazing man she’d just met. Rafiq could see the excitement in her eyes, and he knew that when they left the nightclub, anyone watching them would assume Paula was leaving of her own free will.

That was not, in fact, the case.

Flunitrazepam — more commonly known as Rohypnol, or “roofies.” Rafiq had used it before and it was easy enough to acquire again. After a sip of her fresh drink, Paula quickly took on a glazed, passive look. Rafiq knew she was fully awake, and could even carry on short conversations, but she was in a highly suggestible state. For an operative like Rafiq, the most important aspect of the drug was the retrograde amnesia, meaning his victims had no memory of anything that happened to them after they ingested the drug.

When he was satisfied Paula was dosed correctly, he accidentally spilled her drink. He wanted her compliant, not unconscious. When Rafiq suggested they leave the nightclub, Paula agreed in a dull voice.

Back in her flat, Rafiq undressed Paula gently. His eyes slid over her naked form as she stood before him. It had been years since he’d seen any woman besides Nadine naked, and Paula was attractive in a “girl next door” way.

Rafiq looked away. Rohypnol was a tool of the trade, one he’d used on men and women alike, but he’d never sexually assaulted any of his targets while they were drugged. He found a nightgown hanging on the back of her bathroom door, and he slipped it over her head. Then he helped her into bed and waited until her breathing turned deep and even.

He hung her dress in the tiny closet and put her shoes away. Paula would sleep until morning and wake in a state of confusion, wondering how she’d gotten home and what she’d done. In this culture, it was unlikely that she would talk to anyone about her loss of memory. Even if she did, Pablo would be long gone.