Weapons of Mass Deception Read online

  There was a movement on the roof, and then a glint as a man lowered a pair of binoculars.

  The door of the house opened and a slim man exited. Hashem hadn’t seen his half brother in years, but the man did not seem to have aged a day. The Rover traversed the last few meters, then swung wide so as to deposit Hashem directly in front of the door.

  Rafiq stood back to let the driver open Hashem’s door. The ritual gave Hashem a precious few seconds to size up his new partner.

  Rafiq Aboud’s mother had been a fair-skinned, blonde Lebanese woman. Her genes had lightened her son’s complexion to the point where he could have passed for a generic European or even an American. He’d been educated at a small liberal arts college in the American Midwest—paid for by Hashem—and spoke English like a native.

  Rafiq eyed him as Hashem stepped out of the vehicle and stretched, clearly willing to let his older brother make the first move. His cool gray eyes—their father’s eyes—locked onto Hashem’s without hesitation. Hashem realized with a start that it had been a long time since someone had looked at him without fear. His respect for his sibling went up a notch.

  “Salaam, brother,” Hashem said, opening his arms.

  Rafiq took a step forward. The man was half a head shorter than him, but his body was knotted and wiry beneath Hashem’s hands. His every movement was precise, a calculated expenditure of effort. Rafiq’s cheek was clean-shaven and moist when Hashem kissed him.

  “Salaam,” he said, his voice neutral. “I trust your trip was comfortable?”

  Hashem grunted. He waved his hand toward the engineer, who offered a nervous nod.

  “Perhaps a tour before I offer you some tea?” Rafiq said, lifting his eyebrow.

  The engineer cleared his throat. “Colonel . . . um, may I suggest we take the explosives out of the vehicle . . .”

  Rafiq called into the open doorway and two men hustled out of the building to the back of the Range Rover. Hashem pegged them as Hezbollah, and men with experience. His brother knew how to pick men as well.

  The engineer lifted the rear hatch and ran his hand over the cargo, looking for damage. Satisfied, he stepped back and indicated for the men to take the unlabeled boxes. Rafiq pulled a smaller carton from the stack and opened it. A three-inch device with wires on one end and a covered detector on the other fell into his hand.

  “Passive IR trigger,” he said to the engineer. “You can teach my men how to make EFPs?”

  The engineer nodded excitedly, his nervousness gone. “Explosively formed projectiles are my specialty, sir, and PIR triggers are the latest in remote detonation technology. I—”

  Rafiq held up his hand to stop the engineer’s chatter. The man’s jaw snapped shut, and a look of worry crept over his face again.

  Rafiq caught Hashem’s attention and gestured toward the door. “Please, brother, let me show you our operation.”

  The interior of the house was cool. Hashem noted the AK-47s, loaded, adjacent to every window in the room. A long table with benches took up most of the space, and a small kitchen area occupied the far wall. Everything looked neat and clean. They passed into the next room, this one filled with bunk beds. Hashem did a quick survey: twelve bunks, all neatly made, and the floor swept.

  A heavy steel door was set into the concrete wall. There was a loud clunk as Rafiq turned the handle and swung the door wide. He grinned at Hashem. “This was one of the reasons I selected this place for the training. Self-preservation in the event of an accident.”

  The room beyond might have been a high-tech factory assembly line or a university cleanroom. The space was lit with overhead florescent lights, showing six men huddled over workbenches. They all wore white lab coats over their clothes and their long hair and beards were covered. Latex gloves covered their hands, and on each wrist the men wore bracelets that connected them to their workbench. Hashem raised his eyebrows and motioned with his head to the wrist tethers.

  “ESD protection. Electrostatic discharge,” Rafiq said quietly.

  The men looked up briefly, then returned to their work. A set of instructions, complete with pictures, was laid out on the table before each man. A tray of ingredients occupied the space beside each workstation.

  Rafiq continued in a whisper. “Iraqi Shiite freedom fighters. They are learning the basics of making an IED—improvised explosive device. Of course, in the field they would not have these elaborate safety precautions, but in this room even a small explosion would have catastrophic effects.” He grinned at Hashem. “Caution is a virtue, is it not, brother?”

  Hashem nodded slowly. He had always liked Rafiq, but his respect for his younger half brother was quickly growing. His investment in this young man’s education—university and otherwise—was paying off nicely.

  The explosives engineer’s eyes widened and a grin spread across his face when he saw the training facilities. His nervousness evaporated as he became an instructor, pacing the room, coaching his students, and smiling when they succeeded.

  At the end of the second day, Rafiq insisted that the engineer test each man individually on his skill and speed at assembling each type of explosive device. When this was done, Rafiq pointed at two of the men. “You have one hour to build an EFP with a passive IR triggering device. We will test them tonight.”

  The chosen men exchanged glances then headed back to the workshop. The Iranian engineer started to follow them, but Rafiq stopped him. “They work alone.”

  The whole crew ate a leisurely dinner as the sun set. Rafiq demonstrated an easy manner with his men, laughing with their jokes, but Hashem noted that they deferred to him in all things.

  The men being tested joined them halfway through the meal. Rafiq called to them as they entered the room. “Any trouble? The weapons are ready for testing?”

  The first man spoke in a confident voice. “Yes, Rafiq. I am ready.” The second man shifted his feet before nodding.

  “You seem less confident, Kaleel. Do you need some additional time?” The movement around the table ceased as the men watched Rafiq. Hashem noticed his brother’s eyes—the gray had turned hard as stone as they bored into the man’s face.

  “You are ready?” he asked again.

  The man swallowed, but returned Rafiq’s gaze steadily. “I am ready, sir.”

  “You are certain?”

  The man nodded.

  “Good.” Rafiq clapped his hands, then gestured to the two open spaces on the bench. “Eat. We have a long drive ahead of us tonight.”

  It was full dark by the time they finished the meal and cleaned up. Outside, the thinnest sliver of a waning moon was just topping the horizon. Hashem’s Range Rover idled in the drive with a battered pickup truck parked behind it. He and his brother rode in the Rover along with one of Rafiq’s Hezbollah men.

  Within a few minutes, they’d left the greenery that surrounded the river basin and entered the open desert. The Rover picked up speed on the highway, the driver keeping an eye on the pickup truck behind them. Hashem watched the sliver of moon climb higher in the sky.

  Rafiq called to the driver to take the next left. He slowed and turned into a wadi, the headlights showing the barest trace of a road. As the minutes passed, the walls around them rose, but the trail smoothed out into a passable road. The Rover hit a large pothole, throwing Hashem against Rafiq. “Pardon, brother,” Hashem said.

  Rafiq turned in his direction. His eyes were bright, his mouth half-open as if in expectation of a surprise. “You will be pleased, Hashem. Very pleased.”

  He called to the driver to halt and opened his door, stepping out before the vehicle had stopped. He was armed with an AK-47, as was his Hezbollah bodyguard. Hashem’s hands instinctively touched his 9mm Stingray-C and the ivory handle of his knife before he exited the vehicle.

  With the headlights extinguished, Hashem’s night vision returned slowly. Rafiq spoke in Lebanese with his two Hezbollah men, while the Iraqis milled about, talking quietly and smoking. Hashem sniffed the cigar
ette smoke and resisted the urge to pull out his own pack of Marlboros. The Iraqis who had built the IEDs stood near the back of the pickup truck, two dark shapes resting on the tailgate.

  Rafiq clapped his hands for attention. “We go on foot from here. You two”—he gestured at the Iraqis—“carry your devices. And follow us at a safe distance.”

  The group trudged deeper into the canyon, separating into small groups: the Hezbollah men with Hashem and Rafiq, the Iraqi trainees trailed by the Iranian engineer, and finally the two Iraqis carrying their improvised bombs. The trail took a turn into a wide canyon with a flat, sandy floor.

  Rafiq called the Iraqis with the bombs to the front of the column. He placed his hand on the shoulder of the shorter, more confident bomb-maker, and with his other hand he pointed to a small pile of rocks three hundred meters away. “Place your device there with the PIR trigger facing to the east.” His palm floated to the arm of the thin Iraqi. Even in the dimness, Hashem could see the sheen of sweat gleaming on the man’s forehead. “You place your device by that outcropping, with the detector facing west.” The man’s eyes followed Rafiq’s finger to a spot a hundred meters closer to them.

  It took the two men a half hour to set up the IEDs on the improvised road. Meanwhile, one of the Hezbollah men disappeared and returned driving an older-model American Humvee.

  Rafiq’s smile was a slash of white in the darkness. “A training aid courtesy of our Syrian friends.”

  Hashem took a step closer to the idling vehicle. The top was scarred from shrapnel and the doors were missing. It was obvious the truck had been pieced together from bombed-out units. He grunted in satisfaction.

  “I am impressed, Rafiq,” he said, loudly enough for all the men to hear. “My country’s money is well spent.”

  “Now for the fireworks, Colonel,” Rafiq replied. He called to the Hezbollah man driving the Humvee, and Hashem watched as the man pushed a piece of wood through the open space on the steering wheel. The driver braced one end on the dash and snugged the other against the seat cushions before putting the vehicle in gear. He put a second brace against the gas pedal and accelerated down the track toward the IEDs. When he was 150 meters from the first bomb, he jumped from the vehicle and lay flat on the ground.

  Rafiq handed a pair of night vision binoculars to Hashem and raised another pair to his eyes. Together, they watched as the Humvee coasted past the first IED.

  Nothing happened.

  Rafiq grunted as if he had been punched, and Hashem could hear his brother’s teeth grind together.

  The Humvee continued along the track toward the second IED. Hashem squinted through the greenish night vision sight at the tiny bump next to the pile of stones.

  A flash of light filled his field of view, followed by a shock wave that nearly knocked him down. Hashem’s ears rang, but he could dimly hear the Iraqis cheering behind him. Their celebration grew louder as his hearing returned.

  “A great victory, brother,” he said to Rafiq.

  “Not a great victory, Colonel. A failure.” His voice was tight with rage. He approached the group of Iraqis, who shrank back until the tall thin one was standing alone. Rafiq poked him in the chest. “You. Go fix your IED. We will run the test again.”

  “Sir, that is not recommended,” the explosives engineer interrupted. “The IED will have been destabilized by the other blast. The PIR might be damaged . . .” The man’s voice trailed off as Rafiq turned on him.

  Rafiq cocked his head as if he were speaking to a small child or a pet. When he spoke, his voice was silky. “Would you like to join him?” The Iranian engineer gulped and took a step back. He tried to catch Hashem’s eye, but Hashem ignored him.

  The Iraqi’s hands shook as he clasped them in front of his chest. “Please, sir. I promise I will do better next time—”

  “This is your next time, you stupid fuck. Move.”

  The man staggered slightly as he left the group, but some amount of resolve seemed to have returned. Rafiq watched him through the binoculars until he was certain the man was going to complete the task. He motioned to one of his Hezbollah men. “If that idiot actually manages to disarm the bomb, kill him.” He turned to the explosives engineer. “He failed your course, Professor. Teach them better.”

  He waved his arm for the group to head back to the vehicles. There was a stirring among the Iraqis, but a word from the Hezbollah man quieted them.

  Just before they arrived at the Range Rover, they heard the explosion, muffled by distance and the twisting canyons.

  Hashem settled against the soft leather cushions of the Range Rover. Rafiq climbed into the seat beside him, and sat very still.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that, brother. I failed you.”

  “Picking the right man is a tricky business, Rafiq. The Iraqi was a liability—you did the right thing. The rest of them will work that much harder.” He paused. “And you will get my full support to expand your operation in Iraq. Whatever you need, just ask.”

  Rafiq bowed his head. “I will not let you down, Colonel.”

  “There is one more thing, my brother,” Hashem said.

  “Name it.”

  Hashem slid a slim mobile phone from his pocket. He pressed the phone into Rafiq’s palm and covered it with his own hands.

  “Keep this phone with you at all times, Rafiq. I may have a special assignment for you . . . a task that can only be entrusted to a member of the family.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Combined Joint Task Force (CJTF) Headquarters, Green Zone, Central Baghdad

  20 July 2007 – 1400 local

  The briefing room was packed.

  Brendan swore to himself. All the briefings were crowded now, ever since the surge troops had started arriving last month, but this was worse than normal. He picked up a briefing packet and stood near the back of the room between an Australian Army captain and a Royal Air Force major. Like the friggin’ United Nations around here. He gave a brusque nod as they brushed elbows.

  The cover page told him the CIA briefing today was for the commander of CJSOTF-Arabian Peninsula. Brendan searched the front of the room for General TJ Haskins, an Army one-star who had been running the Combined Joint Special Ops Task Force for the last four months. The general’s icy blue eyes were fixed on the empty podium, his face set in a scowl.

  Brendan checked his watch. One minute past the hour. His eyes flicked over to Haskins. If there was one thing the general hated it was tardiness, and he usually made his feelings known in colorful terms. Most of these briefings were painfully dull; this one might prove entertaining.

  He checked the podium to see who was briefing today. The CIA guys tended to keep to themselves, but after four months in country and dozens of briefings, you got to know them by reputation. Brendan suppressed a smile; there must be an issue with the projector. Two backsides were facing the audience, one covered in BDUs and the other—wider and softer in appearance—in civilian clothes.

  “Lieutenant Mason, we’re three minutes behind schedule. What seems to be the problem?” said General Haskins in a voice that could scratch glass. Chuckles went around the room. Haskins silenced them with a glare.

  The uniformed ass became a red-faced head with a blond crewcut. “Sir, we’re still having connection issues with the microphone. I’ll look into another conference room and we can reschedule—”

  “The hell you will! I’m not about to waste another second. Tell your CIA friend to use his big-boy voice and project to the back of the room. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” the staffer replied. He bent over the still-kneeling form of the chubby CIA analyst and spoke to him urgently. There was a loud crack as the microphone was disconnected and both men stood up.

  Brendan caught his breath. The CIA analyst was Don Riley.

  His former plebe made a vain attempt to tuck his shirttail back into his pants. His belly bulged over his belt and strained against the buttons of his dress shirt. Don’s face was red despit
e the frigid air blasting through the room, and he wiped sweat from his forehead with a bandanna handkerchief that he pulled from his hip pocket.

  “Good afternoon. My name is Donald Riley—”

  “Louder,” someone called from the back of the room.

  Don’s voice strained as he pushed up the volume. “My name is Donald Riley, and I’d like to brief you on a terrorist cell we’ve been tracking for a few months now.”

  The room fell silent as Don put up the first slide, a bomb crater at least twenty meters across. Twisted metal, bits of trash, and body parts littered the churned-up earth.

  “Amiril, earlier this month. One hundred and fifty-six dead.”

  The slide shifted, showing another bomb scene.

  “Earlier this week, truck bombing in Kirkuk. Eighty-six people killed.”

  The room was silent except for the whirr of the air conditioning.

  “What do these two events have in common?”

  The next slide showed an Iranian ayatollah—Brendan couldn’t remember which one—and Don’s voice was drowned out by the coughing of the RAF officer next to him.

  “We have solid intelligence that Iran, working with Lebanese Hezbollah, is providing materiel and funds to a select Shia militia. The bombings in the north at Kirkuk and Amiril were test cases of the militia, a way to try out their latest tactics using newer and more powerful bombs.”

  “Tell us something we don’t already know, G-man,” someone said in a stage whisper. A ripple of laughter ran around the room.

  The general ripped off his glasses and tossed them on the briefing book. He rubbed his eyes for a long moment. Brendan held his breath. Haskin’s reputation as a hard-ass was well known, and it looked like Don was about to get a face full of one-star justice.