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

“It’s nothing, sir. I need to go. I’m meeting a friend for dinner and I’m already late.” She handed him a plate of meat and gravy. The steam wafted to his nose and Alberto took a deep sniff. He let out an appreciative groan.

She rushed from the room and returned a moment later with her handbag. “Last Friday, you said? I didn’t work late that night. I’m usually gone by now, especially on Friday. I stayed tonight to make you the pot roast because I know it’s your favorite. Good luck on Monday, Mr. Nisman.”

Alberto set the plate and wineglass down on the counter carefully and followed her to the door. He shut it firmly and shot the deadbolt. He rested his forehead on the cool steel surface.

The lights had been on in his apartment last Friday evening, he was sure if it. He drew a shaky breath, his appetite gone.

Then he remembered: Diego’s gun. Nisman hurried to his office and opened the desk drawer, and there it was. The Bersa. One magazine inserted, one spare, and a box of ammunition, just as Diego had promised.

Two more days and I’m a free man.

Rafiq would have preferred more time to plan the mission, but time was a luxury in short supply.

Today was the day, and he was in place.

Inside Nisman’s apartment.

Nisman lived alone. If Rafiq killed him on a Sunday afternoon, his body would probably not be discovered until Monday morning at the earliest. Probably by the maid. That would give Rafiq at least twelve hours before the news broke.

Plenty of time to get out of Buenos Aires and home to the estancia .

From Jamil’s reconnaissance he knew that Nisman’s security detail changed over at midnight and again at noon, which had allowed him to get into the apartment unseen. The guards in the back of the building usually took a smoke break a little after 3PM. He would use that window of opportunity to get out of the building.

Rafiq sat in the small maid’s closet just inside Nisman’s apartment, the smell of Paula’s cleaning supplies heavy in the air. He’d inverted a five-gallon bucket to use as a seat for his vigil. He screwed the suppressor into the barrel of his 9mm and laid the weapon on the floor next to him. Everything was in place; now all he had to do was wait.

Rafiq focused on his breathing, resisting the urge to check his watch. He’d made certain he’d gone to the bathroom before coming to the building, and he had a small CamelBak beneath his pullover in case he got thirsty. The reservoir was small, and soft-sided, which meant the water made little noise. He knew better than to bring a water bottle in with him — he might forget it. Worse, he might be tempted to take a glass of water from the apartment before Nisman arrived back at home. No, leave everything in place. No prints.

Nisman was due any minute now, if he kept to his normal schedule. The less Rafiq moved now, the better.

He checked his watch.

12:05PM.

Nisman always went to the café down the street for a late breakfast on Sunday mornings. Always. Jamil had followed him three times, and Nisman had left right on schedule for the café again this morning.

Rafiq stiffened as he heard a key slip into the front door lock, followed by a loud click . The light beneath the door in his closet hideout told him Nisman had turned on the main light in the living room.

No conversation. That was good. He was alone.

Rafiq heard the front closet door open and the gentle jangling of coat hangers. Then he heard shoes being kicked off and tossed into a corner. A briefcase being laid flat on a table. He carries that thing everywhere he goes . Footsteps padding about on the apartment’s solid marble floors. The refrigerator door opening now. Ceramic clinking. The sound of something being poured into a glass.

The apartment became silent. Nisman was out of earshot. In his bedroom, perhaps?

Three minutes later, Rafiq heard the stereo come on. Classical music. Debussy, he noted. Rafiq nodded his head slowly in time with the music.

Focus .

He resisted looking at his watch for a long time. 1:10PM. He could distinguish the sound of a newspaper being opened and shuffled about, and Nisman pulling out a chair from the table in the dining room. Twenty minutes passed before he heard the slap of the newspaper being folded back together. Nisman walked into the kitchen, and Rafiq heard the lid of the garbage bin opening.

The stereo went off, and a wheeled chair in another room — the office? — was pulled across the floor. A radio popped on with national news. Definitely the office; that was where the radio was kept.

The broadcast continued for a few minutes. He then heard Nisman scroll up and down the dial, finally settling on a station playing light jazz. Nisman left the volume on a low level. The music filtered throughout the apartment, but not loud enough to bother anyone else on this floor.

He’s a considerate neighbor .

2:05PM.

A short drink from the Camelbak straw. He stood slowly, making certain he did not knock against anything in the closet. Rafiq lengthened his spine as he stretched his arms as high as he could reach. He rolled his head to loosen his neck.

2:30PM.

Rafiq had decided he would make his move at 2:45PM, which would allow him time to clean the site and slip down the back stairwell. By the time the security detail returned from their smoke break, he would be kilometers away.

2:40PM.

Rafiq savored the moment to come. He’d first realized his gift for this sort of work during the Khobar Towers mission in Saudi Arabia almost twenty years ago now, when he was just a boy and a new recruit. The more experienced Hezbollah operatives — the men — were afraid before the operation. He saw it in their eyes, smelled it in their sweat. But Rafiq… he’d felt only exhilaration, like he was satisfying some base need. In the heat of the battle, when the others felt fear and said their prayers to Allah, Rafiq felt… joy.

When he made his first solo kill, the joy only intensified.

He shook in anticipation of his first kill in many years. He’d missed this… this sense of purpose. Hashem had kept him too long at the estancia , like a caged tiger being fed steak. Rafiq wanted to hunt.

The familiar heft of the 9mm in his right hand was like an old friend. Comforting. Calming. Rafiq told himself he was carrying out a vital mission for his brother. For all his Hezbollah brothers, and their Iranian benefactors.

But in that tiny closet, he recognized the truth of it — he just liked to kill.

2:43PM.

Rafiq gently pushed down on the lever-handled door knob, cracking the door open an inch, then six more. He peered around the door, reassuring himself that he still had the element of surprise on his side. The hum of the air conditioner masked his footsteps as he made his way to Nisman’s office. The desk faced away from the door, with a view out the thirteenth-floor window. Rafiq would take him from the doorway. One shot to the base of Nisman’s neck.

Rafiq felt his breath come faster and shallower as the moment approached. He licked his lips.

He passed through the kitchen. Dishes in the sink. No leftover food on the counters.

He cleans up after himself .

He rechecked his 9mm to ensure the safety was off, his hand caressing the length of the weapon.

Rafiq stopped in the kitchen, ready to make the final few strides to the office. He could picture the moment in his head: lining up the sights on the unsuspecting Nisman, the kick of the gun his hand, the soft sound of the suppressed shots like someone punching a mattress, and the feeling of power that would overwhelm him for a moment—