Weapons of Mass Deception Page 7

  Rafiq got to his feet and paced the room. “No. What you ask is too much. Four years? How can I leave my home for that long?”

  “It will be more like five years.”

  “Five, then! Even worse.”

  Hashem stood, his cigarette still unlit between his fingers. “Brother, please sit.” He drew both of them fresh cups of tea and sat back across from Rafiq. “The Americans would say you are a big fish in a small pond, a light that shines brightly against weaker flames. You could be the greatest fighter in a generation, but you need to complete your training.”

  “Maybe I could go next year—” Rafiq began.

  “No!” Hashem said, slapping his hand on the table. “It must be now, before you come under suspicion from the Americans. With this last operation . . .” He shook his head. “It must be now.”

  Rafiq was quiet, sipping his tea to buy time. The logic of his brother’s plan was unassailable. Even he had felt it, had seen the hesitation of the older fighters when he spoke, their lack of understanding about how their actions would look on the world stage. His brother had seen the same thing, Rafiq was sure of it. He swallowed hard and nodded at Hashem. “I will do it.”

  “Good.” Hashem fired up his cigarette in celebration. He laid a briefcase on the table and snapped the lid open. He drew out a large envelope and slid it across the table to Rafiq. “You have been accepted to Carleton College in Minnesota, USA. In this package you will find everything you need: passport, money, bank account details, everything.”

  Rafiq flipped open the cover of the worn Canadian passport. His picture stared back at him, along with his new name: Ralf Faber. He looked up at Hashem. “What is my course of study?”

  Hashem smiled. “International relations.”

  “Rafiq, please, we must hurry.”

  Hashem’s hand appeared on his elbow, guiding him toward the steep gangplank that connected the deck of the ship to the pier. The steel rang hollow under his feet and he stubbed his toe on the inch-high treads that ran across the path.

  The captain, a short Malay with more gums than teeth in his smile, scrambled ahead of them. He wore a holed tank top and cutoff shorts, and thick yellow toenails poked out from worn sandals. He turned when they reached the deck.

  “This way, boss,” he called with another gummy grin. His jaws worked rhythmically on a wad of something and he spat over the side of the ship.

  Rafiq stepped onto the deck of the Lumba. Even with it tied to the pier, he felt a tremble beneath his feet, as if the floor was moving. His stomach quivered.

  Three months . . .

  “This way, this way. You come, you come.” The little captain hopped between open spots on the deck, while Rafiq and Hashem picked their way along with more care. They had discussed the option of using a large container ship to transport their cargo across the ocean, but the threat of detection from a radiation monitor in a large port was too high. No, they needed anonymity of the kind afforded them by one of the thousands of smaller, ancient breakbulk freighters that plied the seas running odd lots of loose, or “broken,” cargo between ports too small to handle the mega container ships.

  “Come, come,” the Malay captain called again. He passed through the dim outline of a door and shot down a steep staircase with the agility of a monkey coming down a tree. The captain placed his hands on the bright steel rails that bracketed the narrow steps and, lifting his feet, slid to the bottom. He grinned up at them. “You try.”

  Hashem went down the steps first, his feet ringing on the steel treads. Rafiq hesitated at the top. A thick smell drifted up to him, a fog of diesel fuel, fetid seawater, and unwashed bodies. He swallowed hard before following Hashem down into the hold.

  The staircase, or “ladder,” as the crew called it, made three hairpin turns before they reached the bottom, the smell intensifying at each level. The little captain waited at the base of the steps with Hashem. He spat into the space behind the stairs.

  “I show you the lock room,” he said, moving away again in his bandy-legged gait. They conversed in English, the only language the three of them had in common, although Rafiq had his doubts about the captain’s real grasp of the language.

  They moved forward in the ship—at least, Rafiq thought it was forward; it was hard to tell when they were belowdecks. The passageway was not even large enough for two men to pass shoulder to shoulder, and the steel walls seemed to close in about him as they walked deeper into the ship. He could hear a faint clanking of metal on metal overhead, like some distant Morse code.

  The hallway dead-ended at a massive watertight door with a large wheel in the center. The captain moved a long handle and spun the wheel, then pulled the heavy door open and latched it on a hook in the wall. He entered the room, flipping on a light switch. A lone bulb in a protective cage against the ceiling cast a harsh light on the space, a cube of metal walls, maybe fifteen feet across. Save a foot-square ventilation grating and an ancient black telephone hanging on the wall, there was nothing else in the space.

  “This is perfect,” Hashem said. He pointed to the door. “Lockable from the inside, one entrance in or out.”

  Rafiq said nothing. He was feeling claustrophobic just looking into the room, and he could only imagine how the space heaved when this tiny boat was at sea . . .

  Three months.

  Hashem turned to the captain. “Perfect. We need to have an armed man in this space at all times. Understand?”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed in his nut-brown face. “Armed? What this mean?”

  Hashem made a pretend gun out of his thumb and forefinger. “Armed. Guns. Man with gun stay here all the time with our cargo.”

  The captain’s greasy hair swung as he shook his head. “Not possible. Nobody down here at sea. Nobody allowed.” His eyes stayed slitted and he gave Hashem a broad smile as he spoke. He spat on the deck in the room, leaving a blotch of moisture on the painted metal plates.

  Rafiq closed his eyes. The man wanted more money—let Hashem handle that. He nodded to his brother and pointed up to indicate he was going topside. Hashem waved him away.

  Even the horrible-smelling dockside air seemed fresh after the stench of the hold. Rafiq struggled to get his stomach under control as he made his way back to the pier.

  Jamil and Farid, the pair guarding the cargo, might have been twins. They were squat and powerfully built, with thinning hair and full beards, and both held their AK-47s with an ease that spoke of long practice. He nodded to Jamil and received a grunt in return. Hashem had said to bring his best fighters. Unfortunately, fighting skills and personality rarely came in the same package. This would be a long couple of months.

  The wooden box was about the size of a coffee table. It was heavy, but a pair of men could lift it if they needed to. He mentally measured the narrow end and decided it would fit through the watertight door of the special hold.

  Hashem joined them, smiling and bouncing on the balls of his feet. He handed Rafiq a large triangular key on a braided lanyard. “It is done. Here is the only key to the special hold. The little bastard held me out for more money, but you and your men have access to the hold twenty-four hours a day.” He unslung a leather bag from his shoulder and passed it to Rafiq. “There’s money—I paid Sing Wat, the captain, half already, in dollars. He gets the rest when you reach your destination, and there’s plenty for bribes . . . or entertainment for the men.”

  Hashem stepped aside to let the dock workers fix a sling onto the cargo. He and Rafiq watched as the wooden box swung high into the air, stabilized for a second, then moved over the deck and lowered into the hold.

  Hashem lit a cigarette. In the light, it looked to Rafiq like his hands were shaking. His voice was low and urgent when he spoke again. “There is a new phone in the bag as well, and the codebook for our communications. I can’t stress how important this mission is, brother. You hold our future in your hands.”

  “How long, Hashem?”

  The tip of his brother’s cigaret
te glowed a fierce orange, and he blew out a long stream of smoke before he answered. “Years. Maybe never, who knows. Our strength is our patience. When they think they’ve won, you will be there to light a fire the likes of which the world has not seen in many decades.”

  Rafiq kept his face very still so as not to betray the feelings that roiled his insides. Years . . . years of his life spent waiting, for what? He looked up at the deck of the ship where Captain Sing was waving to him. His stomach clenched.

  But first he needed to make it through the next couple of months.

  CHAPTER 10

  Minneapolis, Minnesota

  15 December 2007 – 0600 local

  The hatch of the 1996 Subaru Outback wheezed open, the sound loud in the stillness of his parents’ driveway. Brendan had driven this car in high school, and he remembered to push the hatch fully open so he didn’t hit his head.

  He set down the box of groceries, then wedged it in place with his duffel bag. Not much gear for a week at the cabin. He could remember the summers when he and his brother went to the cabin with his grandparents: the back would be packed to bursting, along with gear lashed to the top and a trailer or bike rack to boot.

  A long time ago.

  The visit to the cabin had been a spur-of-the-moment idea. Brendan was home on leave following his six-month deployment in Iraq. He’d made no plans in advance of coming stateside. He figured he’d connect with an old girlfriend or catch up with some Academy classmates.

  The girlfriends had all moved on—a few were even married—and all the calls to people he knew went to voice mail. He knew he could go to work and just hang out, but that seemed lame.

  After a week in his apartment in San Diego, Brendan McHugh faced facts: he was lonely. He bought a plane ticket home to Minneapolis to see his parents.

  After two days at home, Brendan was no better off in the loneliness department. His folks knew better than to ask him about specific operations, so their desultory conversation about the war was limited to inane comments like, “Looks like the surge is working, huh?” His father had turned into an MSNBC junkie, and the endless parade of talking heads seemed like backup singers to every conversation.

  Brendan decided he needed a vacation from his vacation. The idea came to him suddenly. His mother had made chicken divan for dinner, his favorite hotdish, and he was ignoring Brendan Sr.’s latest MSNBC-induced sermon on the state of global politics. Brendan looked up and saw the family reunion picture on the wall.

  The picture was taken at his grandparents’ cabin in Glen, Minnesota. He’d been nine, maybe ten, his brother a year younger. He could pick out their faces amid the gaggle of kids jumbled on either side of his seated grandparents. The adults were all standing in pairs, bunched into the field of view of the camera. Most were holding beers and sunburn painted their fair skin. In the background, next to the lake, he could make out a row of tents. His grandparents’ cabin was tiny, barely able to sleep six if they rolled sleeping bags out on the floor.

  “I’m going up to the cabin tomorrow morning,” Brendan said, interrupting something his father was saying about Rachel Maddow.

  His mother’s brow wrinkled. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Brennie? No one’s up there this time of year.”

  Brendan smiled at her. “I’ll be fine, Mom.” He didn’t say anything about her calling him Brennie. No one called him that anymore, except her. He knew she was worried about him. “I just want to get away for a few days.”

  “Well, if it’s okay with your father, I guess it’s okay with me.”

  Brendan suppressed a smile. He had his own key to the cabin and the property had been passed down to the family, not just his father, but he played along anyway.

  “What d’you say, Dad? Okay with you if I head up the cabin for a few days?”

  Brendan Sr. pursed his lips. “I don’t see why not. Not sure what you’re gonna do all by yourself . . . the lake might even be frozen over by now.”

  Brendan raised his plate toward his mother. “May I have some more, Mom?”

  His mother beamed at him. “Of course.” She heaped his plate with another helping of the chicken and broccoli mixture. “And you have a good time up there, Brennie.”

  Dawn wasn’t even a smear on the horizon when he backed out of the driveway. Traffic this early was light and he made good time to I-35, the main corridor north out of Minneapolis. He set the cruise control and watched the sky lighten around him.

  He loved winter skies. The lack of moisture in the air made the colors seem so delicate, almost pure. A pale pink preceded the sun this morning, and he breathed in a sigh. So different from the heavy reds of Iraq and the desert sun. All that was so very far away.

  He’d expected to have dreams, nightmares, but nothing like that happened to him. He still felt normal, maybe a little disconnected from life as an American, but that was to be expected.

  Rosen had talked to all of them before he sent them on leave. Use the time to decompress, he said, but don’t spend too much time alone. Spend the time with your families. Reconnect.

  Brendan laughed. Okay, maybe he wasn’t quite normal.

  The exit for Hinckley came up just as the sun was fully over the horizon. He disengaged the cruise control and eased off the highway. The sign for Tobie’s loomed in front of him, and he pulled into the parking lot by habit as much as by choice.

  He took a seat by the window, ordering a caramel roll and a coffee. The glazed roll was as big as his fist and covered with glistening nuts. The crowd in Tobie’s was the breakfast-and-coffee set, with a few scattered business meetings. He watched them roll through: high school kids, businessmen in suits, soccer moms with kids in tow, a guy in hospital scrubs. Not a one of them gave a thought to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Most of them probably didn’t even know anyone who had served in either place.

  When he first went to Iraq, he’d had a good feeling, like he was an anonymous superhero saving the world while the population slept. But now . . . now, it didn’t feel so good anymore. His badge of service in Iraq was more like a membership to a special club. People clapped when uniformed servicemen walked through airports, and he’d even gotten upgraded on his flight back to Minneapolis, but no one took the time to understand. His SEALs and all the rest of the troops were out there changing the world.

  Brendan just hoped they were making it better.

  This is the kind of mental bullshit Rosie warned us about, he thought as he paid his check.

  Brendan had made this drive so many times he’d forgotten the road numbers. He drove west out of Hinckley, then turned north for a time. Another west–north cycle, then Glen, Minnesota, appeared in his windshield.

  The new Glen Store & Grill was a far cry from the old shed he used to bike to every afternoon with his brother. They rode over three miles of dirt road, much of it shaded by tall trees that met overhead, making it seem like they were riding through a tunnel. At the end of the ride were a cold Dr. Pepper and a handful of Swedish fish. The two were terrible if you ate them together, so he and his brother always drank their pops sitting on the front step of the store and saved the Swedish fish for the bike ride home. By the time they made it back to the cabin, the remaining fish would be a sticky mass of red jelly in his pocket. Brendan smiled at the memory.

  “Can I help you, son?” The old man behind the counter didn’t recognize Brendan. Mr. Anderson was his name.

  Brendan shook his head and headed for the very modern drink cooler in the back of the store. He carried a carton of milk to the gleaming cash register. Mr. Anderson waited with a small paper bag of Swedish fish.

  “Thought I didn’t recognize you, Brendan McHugh?” the old man said with a smile.

  Brendan felt himself choking up. He took a deep breath. “I—I didn’t. Thank you. How much do I owe you for the milk?”

  “Your money’s no good here, son.”

  Brendan remembered that Mr. Anderson was a veteran. Vietnam? Korea? He studied the man. Vietnam, h
e decided.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t you sir me, Brendan. I was an enlisted man. I worked for a living, you know.”

  Brendan laughed at the old joke.

  The old man narrowed his eyes. “How are you doing, son? I mean, really. It’s tough coming home after you’ve seen action . . . no one to talk to. I’ve been there.”

  Brendan experienced the same choking feeling again. “It’s okay, Mr. Anderson. I just felt like I needed a few days away, you know?”

  The lines on the old man’s face stretched into a grin. “I know what you mean, son. I spent a lot of time in the woods up here when I first got back from ’Nam. It was the best medicine—for me, anyway. I hope you find the same peace I did.” He grew suddenly shy. “Now how about a Dr. Pepper to go along with those Swedish fish? On the house, of course.”

  Brendan shook his head, but he ended up leaving the store with a can of Dr. Pepper anyway.

  He took his time on the drive to his grandparent’s cabin, letting the old Subaru coast along the dirt roads. The leaves were gone from the trees, and the bare branches overhead let patches of weak winter sunlight filter onto the road. Brendan turned at the crooked sign that read Sugar Lake. He smiled to himself. The sign was repainted every few years, but it had always been crooked for as long as Brendan could remember.

  The driveway to their cabin was long, with wide turns that wound through the trees. He rolled down the window to hear the crunch of leaves under his tires. He stopped the car next to the porch he and his grandfather had built one summer and let the silence of the place settle over him. The mechanical chunk of the car door opening seemed foreign to such a natural setting.

  Brendan walked to the lake edge and onto the dock. The shoreline was thick with ice, but the center of the lake was clear. His breath frosted the air in front of him, a tiny flicker of movement in an otherwise perfectly still setting.