Moments after the blast, residents all over Buenos Aires reported hearing a violent thunderstorm pass over the city. Except what they heard hitting their roofs wasn’t rain — it was bits of concrete and brick and glass from the Jewish Community Center, known to locals as AMIA.

Mixed in with the fragments of building materials, some residents even found tiny bits of flesh.

The blast wave caused the façade to buckle inward, making the concrete roof and floors collapse down on one another like pancakes. Those not crushed in the blast itself were buried under tons of debris. A few survivors were rescued; the rest succumbed to their injuries, suffocated, or died slowly from dehydration.

It took a full day before the smoke and dust cleared the area of the explosion and weeks before residents had cleaned their houses of the ultra-fine dust that settled on every horizontal surface as a tangible reminder of the bombing. When the official death toll was finally released, eighty-five citizens of Argentina were dead and another three hundred wounded.

The press quickly concluded that it was another terrorist bombing, with Argentina’s Jews once again the target, just like the Israeli embassy bombing two years prior. The authorities issued stern press statements about bringing the culprits behind this heinous crime to justice.

One year after the AMIA bombing, five arrests were finally made, all Argentinean nationals. In 2001, seven years after the bombing, the men were tried and found guilty.

In the trial, the prosecution hinted at a link between the men standing trial and the terrorist group Hezbollah, but every time the prosecution got close to a connection, the trail ran cold.

The Tri-Border Area was the most poorly kept secret in all of Buenos Aires. Named for the point of Argentina that thrusts up between Brazil and Paraguay, the Tri-Border Area — or TBA, as it was known — was a no-man’s land of loose laws and looser law enforcement. In this anything-goes climate, criminal organizations found safe haven, including Hezbollah.

But if the criminals in the TBA were good at anything, it was paying off politicians to enforce the status quo. And so, the investigation of the AMIA bombing went no further than the conviction of a few low-level Argentinean nationals, and the link to Hezbollah and its Iranian benefactors stayed hidden.

But one prosecutor refused to give up on the AMIA case. Alberto Nisman joined the investigation in 1997 and kept at it long after the 2001 trial. A well-respected professional, Nisman had served as a prosecuting attorney pursuing narco-trafficking, government corruption, money laundering, and international terrorism cases, and also as a law professor in both Buenos Aires and Belgrade. He came to know many survivors of the AMIA attack, and he pledged to them that he would not rest until he brought the real criminals behind the bombing to justice.

In 2004, Nisman was appointed Special Prosecutor in charge of the AMIA bombing investigation. In 2006, he formally accused the government of Iran of ordering the bombing in retaliation for Buenos Aires’s decision to suspend a nuclear technology contract with Tehran. Hezbollah, with their strong presence in the TBA, was accused of carrying out the bombing. Within a year, Interpol had placed six Iranian officials on their “red alert” list in response to Nisman’s accusations. Any of the named officials who traveled outside of Iran would be subject to arrest and extradition to Argentina for questioning in the AMIA bombing investigation.

Still, Nisman’s investigation continued — and drew closer to home, alarming many in the Buenos Aires political elite. By the end of 2014, it was rumored that Alberto Nisman was getting close to announcing a scandal that reached the highest office in the land, a level of corruption the likes of which Argentina had not seen in half a century.

A date was set for him to deliver his report to Congress: Monday, January 19, 2015.

Alberto Nisman, with his eyes set on the goal of rooting out the corruption in his own government, was blind to the fact that he was now a pawn in a game of geopolitical chess.

And he never could have guessed that his fate would be decided half a world away in a small teahouse in central Tehran.

Hashem Aboud took a deep pull on his cigarette, savoring the taste in the back of his throat.

The muted TV was tuned to Al Jazeera, where an attractive female anchor held an animated — and thankfully silent — interview with someone from Sydney, Australia. A lone gunman had taken hostages inside the Lindt Chocolate Café. The police had trapped the man and a standoff was playing out. The black flag of the Islamic State hung in the window of the café.

Normally, Hashem would be cheering a fellow Muslim who chose to take on the Western nations, but not today. Today he hoped the man died — not as a martyr, either, but as an animal, alone and scared.

Hashem blew a stream of smoke at the screen. First in Iraq, now in Syria, those Sunni bastards were a cancer on the region. Even worse, they forced him to direct valuable resources to stopping them. Resources that could be used for more important projects, like his desert bunker. They’d created their own “nation” and couldn’t even decide what to call themselves — IS, ISIL, ISIS, the Islamic State, Daesh…

He checked his watch and stubbed out his Marlboro in the overflowing ashtray. Still, they were effective, he had to give them that. Daesh had timed its entry into Iraq perfectly. In that short window between the Americans departing and Hashem consolidating his Iranian influence over the Maliki government — a matter of only a few months — these Islamic State assholes unleashed a rapid and successful campaign to establish their own Sunni state. Just as Iran was gaining traction in shaping Iraqi policies and keeping Bashar al-Assad in power in Syria — he was an idiot, but he was Iran’s idiot — Daesh had struck there as well.

For that, upstarts like the one in Australia deserved death.

The door to the private room snapped open and Aban swept into the space, preceded by his always-present bodyguard. The hulking man scanned the room, deposited a heavy briefcase on the floor, and left without a word.

As usual, Hashem’s older brother cut a fine figure in the cream-colored robes and white turban of his office. Hashem hastily moved the ashtray off the table and stood, brushing a trace of ash from his suit jacket. He took a knee before his half-brother and bowed his head. “Your Eminence, I am honored by your presence.”

Aban let out a belly laugh and pulled Hashem to his feet, embracing him in a bear hug.

He wants something from me, Hashem thought.

“Let me look at you, brother,” Aban said, holding Hashem at arm’s length.

Hashem noted the tension in his brother’s too-wide smile and the deepening crow’s feet that framed his eyes. The rise of President Rouhani and his wave of moderates over the last few years had eroded his brother’s influence in the Islamic Republic of Iran — something they hoped to fix with their desert bunker project.

But they were still months, maybe years away from having operational nuclear missiles. Years away from the kind of drastic reform that Aban planned to implement in Iran.

Aban waved his hand at the television. “Bastard Daesh. I hope the Australians shoot him like a dog in the street.” He reached for the remote and switched off the TV.

Hashem drew them both fresh cups of tea, piling a saucer with sugar cubes for his brother. He stayed silent. It was an old trick of the clandestine operator — put an uncomfortable silence into a conversation in an effort to prompt your target to start speaking — and it almost invariably worked on Aban.

“How are things in the bunker?” Aban asked. He put a sugar cube between his teeth and sucked down a sip of tea.

Hashem’s lips twitched for a cigarette. “On track.” He resumed his silence. Aban wasn’t getting off that easily.

Aban fussed with his tea, sipping and stirring.

Hashem waited.

Aban cleared his throat. “I need your help.”

Hashem nodded silently.

“I’ve been working behind the scenes to find buyers for our oil. Buyers who are willing to go against the United States and their sanctions. If I can bring money into the Treasury, that will bolster my influence among certain members of the Council…”

Hashem sipped his tea.

“I’ve got Argentina lined up, but there’s a problem with the deal. That’s where you come in.”

Finally. Hashem pulled his pack of Marlboros from his jacket pocket and raised his eyebrows at his brother. Aban waved his assent. Hashem lit a cigarette and drew deeply. “How can I help?” he said on the exhale.

“The bombing of the Jews in Buenos Aires in ‘94, at the community center. Do you recall that event?”

Hashem chewed his lip and nodded slowly. He’d been only a junior intel officer in the Quds Force back then, but he remembered the Hezbollah fighters they’d trained and armed for the bombing in Buenos Aires. The Lebanese Shia patriots had impressed him.

“You know about the Interpol alerts against our officials. If these men leave Iran, they’re fair game for being arrested and extradited to Argentina. I’ve been negotiating to get these red alerts canceled, but their President is being held hostage by a special prosecutor who is still investigating the bombing.”

Hashem used his first cigarette to light another. “That was twenty years ago. Who cares?”

Aban opened the briefcase and extracted a file. Hashem tried not to stare at the stacks of US dollars in the case. Instead, he flipped open the file.

The label at the bottom of the 8 × 10 picture said ALBERTO NISMAN. Hashem studied the photo. Clean cut, mid-fifties, with a gaunt attractiveness and fiery dark eyes.

“This man.” Aban’s stubby finger poked Nisman’s photo in the forehead. “He’s a bulldog and a pain in the ass. For the last ten years, he’s been investigating the bombing. He claims Iran was involved, and President de Kirchner and her Foreign Minister will not sign the deal with us as long as this man—”

“So you want Nisman eliminated?” Hashem said.

“Yes, but that’s not all. I need Nisman discredited — silenced, but in such a way that the validity of his entire investigation is called into question.” Aban picked up his teacup and sat back in his chair. “Is there a way to do that, Hashem?”

Hashem let the smoke trickle from his nostrils.

“There is always a way, brother. There is always a way.”

Rafiq Roshed could not sleep.

Without waking Nadine, he slipped out of bed and padded from the room. He hadn’t bothered to set an alarm. Rafiq knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up, but these days just the anticipation of the monthly check-in with his brother was enough to chase sleep away for the night.

He looked in on little Javier. The boy, nearly three years old now, had placed his toy horse — the black one, just like his pony, Storm — on the edge of his bed. Rafiq moved the miniature horse and kissed the boy. His son’s dark curly hair snagged in Rafiq’s short beard. He breathed in the scent of his child, feeling the edge of anticipation wane.

Over the last few months, since his Lebanese mother had been killed by the Islamic State, Rafiq found himself lost to these warring emotions: the anger and the bloodlust of his life as a freedom fighter against the peace of his family.

He hadn’t even been able to properly mourn his mother. Traveling back to his hometown of Arsal for the funeral was out of the question — thanks to Hashem — and the only real contact he’d had with her in the last five years was via hand-carried letters. When he accepted this assignment from Hashem, Rafiq had known the costs: sever all connections with his former life in Hezbollah and Lebanon, including his mother.

Here, in the Tri-Border Area of South America, Rafiq made a new life, a life so far from the fight in the Middle East that he might as well be living on another planet. Wealth, land, family, love — it was all his in this magical alternate universe. His thoughts drifted to Nadine, still asleep in their bed…

A chill passed over him like an icy wind as the memory of his mother intruded on his reverie. His mother. Killed by a mortar shell as she sat in her own living room inside her own home — the home where he’d grown into a man.

Well, not a man, really. He was only fifteen when he joined Hezbollah and was selected for the Khobar Towers operation in Saudi Arabia. Oh, the attention that bombing had drawn to their cause! From that moment on, Rafiq was on the fast track to leadership in the Party of God. He smiled wistfully as he recalled the accolades of his peers and the jealous glares from his elders.

And then his chain-smoking half-brother came into his life. Hashem, a rising star in the Quds Force who hinted at ties to Ettela’at, intervened. “You are different, my brother,” he’d said. “Different from these glorified goat herders who want to die as martyrs.” He argued for Rafiq to attend university in America. Not in New York or Washington, DC, but in the Midwest, in the middle of nowhere. “You can be the greatest fighter in a generation, but you must complete your training first.”

Rafiq had agreed. Five years he’d spent at Carleton College in Minnesota before he was able to return to Lebanon. Five years as Ralf Faber, who graduated summa cum laude with a degree in international relations. Rafiq wondered what his professors at Carleton would think about his career choice as the leader of a terrorist sleeper cell in South America.

He cracked open the door to Consie’s room. The child gently sucked her thumb. He didn’t dare kiss her. She was a light sleeper — just like her father.

He shook himself into action. All this reminiscing left him barely enough time to make a cup of coffee before his scheduled Internet session with Hashem. Every month, his half-brother set up a secure chatroom to check on the cargo, a wooden crate that Rafiq had shepherded from Iran to the estancia in 2007. Since its arrival, the crate had sat unopened in a secret compartment inside the estate’s massive wine cellar.

When he’d arrived here, the cargo was Rafiq’s life. But his life had become so much more in the last seven years. Seven years? Has it been that long? Rafiq gritted his teeth in frustration. Lamenting the past was weakness. Better to be like the wolf, constantly moving forward, seeking prey.

Rafiq checked his watch and muttered a curse. 0157.

He hustled into the office, locking the door behind him. While the computer booted up, he retrieved the codebook from the safe. At exactly 0200, Rafiq clicked on the Tor software, which anonymized his online presence, then opened a message in his inbox. Had anyone managed to hack into his email, they would have seen a message advertising a porn website. Had they managed to bypass the page of naked pictures and blinking buttons and clicked on the link at the bottom of the screen, they would have gotten an error message. But had they clicked on that link at exactly 0200 on that exact day, they would have been redirected to a one-time-use chatroom.

When the window opened, instead of the usual five-minute countdown timer, the timer showed twenty minutes. Rafiq frowned, instantly suspicious.

The opening greeting matched the code phrase listed for this month.

Rafiq typed his reply and added in an additional verification step from the back of the code book.

Hashem responded in less than fifteen seconds. Yes, this was his brother.

Is the cargo safe?

Rafiq almost spat at the screen. Always the same question from Hashem. Never, “How are you, brother? Are you doing okay since your mother’s death?”

Yes. It is safe.

I have a job for you. Something different.

Rafiq felt a surge of hope. Something different, something to break the monotony of keeping the cargo safe, day after day after day.

Am I leaving? typed Rafiq.

No. The cargo must be kept safe at all costs. That is still your top priority.

Understood. Rafiq typed the single word carefully, resisting the temptation to add a plea for… what? To go home to Lebanon? To get back in the fight? What did he want?

Sending documents now.

Two new Word files popped up in Rafiq’s queue. He opened them and began to read, his excitement building again.

Do you understand? There were less than five minutes in the chatroom session.

Yes. Timeframe?

Before January 19. You decide exact date.

Four weeks to plan and execute an assassination. He licked his lips. Killing someone was easy. The hard part was not getting caught.

It will be done.

Hashem’s reply came back quickly and forcefully: You can have NO connection to this. Do you understand? Find a way to handle it without being personally involved.

Rafiq stared at the screen, deflated. In his mind, he’d already begun fantasizing about the rush he would feel from taking a life again. It had been a long time.

Understood, Rafiq typed with less than thirty seconds left on the timer.

You are our most important weapon in the war against the Great Satan. Your mission is one of greatness. Peace be upon you, brother.

The countdown timer hit zero, and the software immediately went to work shredding not only the chatroom session logs, but also the Word files Hashem had sent.

No matter. Rafiq had already memorized everything he needed to know.

Alberto Nisman asked the taxi driver to let him out three blocks from the US embassy. As he walked through the empty streets, enjoying the early morning summer sunshine, he sighed to himself. How long had it been since he’d taken a day off, a real day off? Not just a day away from the office, a real day without work occupying his mind. Try as he might, he could not remember. Ever since his divorce, it seemed like the only satisfaction he could gain from life was through work, but lately even that had started to feel hollow.

Alberto paused on the corner and drew a deep breath with his eyes closed. He let it out slowly, trying to clear his mind and his lungs at the same time.

Only a few more weeks. Once I deliver my report to Congress, my work is done.

He shook himself. When this investigation was finally put to rest next month, he would take a vacation with his daughters. Just the three of them, on a beach somewhere… yes, he would do it. After giving seventeen years of his life to this damned investigation, he deserved it.

Alberto jaywalked across the Avenida Colombia, arriving at the main gate of the US embassy with a new spring in his step. The US flag flapped gently in the light breeze, high above the heavy, black iron bars that surrounded the compound. At the window, he slid his identification under the bulletproof glass. Security guards at the US embassies around the world were usually locally hired personnel, always with extensive background checks.

“You may proceed, sir,” came the reply from the guard — in Spanish — as he buzzed Nisman through the first gate and into the portico entry area. After his briefcase was X-rayed and he’d passed through a metal detector, he was buzzed through a second secure door into the embassy compound itself.

“Mr. Nisman, it is good to see you again, sir.” Jane Carver approached him with her hand outstretched, speaking in perfect Spanish. Although she only appeared to be in her mid-thirties, Alberto knew from their previous meetings that Buenos Aires was her fourth embassy assignment. In the beginning, he’d had reservations about this woman acting as the liaison with the Argentinean legal authorities. In their first meeting, she admitted she’d never even heard of the AMIA bombing before she was given the liaison assignment.

His concerns proved unfounded. After taking time to understand the impact the bombing had on so many Argentinians, she became an expert on the topic. More than that, Jane Carver became an advocate for him.

Jane coordinated official meetings with the FBI Liaison Officer, who traveled to Buenos Aires every couple of months for coordination with Argentinean authorities on a host of issues besides the AMIA investigation, such as drug trafficking, terrorism, and money laundering. But it was her close — often unofficial — association with the CIA Station Chief that yielded results for Alberto.

He could use some good information today.

They exchanged pleasantries as Jane led the way to the conference room. She walked quickly with long, athletic strides, and he set his pace to match. The conference room was located away from the consular section, where it was unlikely they would see any other Argentinean citizens. It was not a crime for him to be here, of course, but it was prudent for government officials of Nisman’s stature to keep a low profile in dealing with the Americans. Tensions between Washington, DC, and Buenos Aires were not terrible, just not overly friendly.

They took seats at the conference table and Carver offered Nisman some coffee and Danish, both of which he promptly accepted. It was only 8AM. These Americans start work far too early in the morning.

Carver poured coffee for them both, then pulled ten file folders from her bag, none of them very thick. Carver handed him half the folders, and stacked the remaining five in front of her in overlapping style. Nisman opened his briefcase and pulled out his legal notepad and two pens — one black, one red.

“Shall we start with Rabbani?”

Nisman nodded his head. He scanned through the details of Mossen Rabbani’s file, marking an item in red here and there, circling items in black ink elsewhere. Rabbani had been the Cultural Attaché at the Iranian embassy when the AMIA attack happened. Nisman had seen all of this information before. His report was due in only a few weeks, and Carver’s insistence on this meeting had raised his hopes that she had something new for him.

“Ms. Carver, this is helpful, thank you. I’ve seen the files on all of these men before. Can you tell me if there is any new information? Anything that might solidify the connection between Iran and our current administration here in Buenos Aires?”

She toyed with her coffee cup, not meeting Alberto’s gaze. Jane was normally open with him, sometimes almost too direct in her remarks. This was most odd.

“Ms. Carver? Jane? Is there something wrong?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Nisman, this is all we have. You must remember, this case is very old. What we call a ‘cold case.’ I’ve been directed to tell you that we believe your pursuit of Iranian influence in these matters is the right path, but we’ve given you all the information we have.” She was spinning her coffee cup now and still would not meet his gaze.

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.

Rafiq led them to a set of chairs outside the wine cellar and waved for his companion to take a seat. The pergola overheard was covered in the deep orange and red tubular flowers of the Chilean Glory Vine and the air was filled with the whirr of hummingbirds feeding in the afternoon sun.

Jamil tilted his head back to try to catch a glimpse of a hummingbird, a half-smile on his face. This had been Farid’s favorite spot in the estancia. Jamil’s gaze followed an iridescent flash as one of the tiny birds sped away. Rafiq cleared his throat, and Jamil focused on his leader, the smile dissolving into that permanent set of his mouth.

“Jamil, we have a mission.”

Jamil’s eyebrows ticked up but he stayed silent.

“I need you to take a ‘vacation’ to Buenos Aires. There is a man there who has been causing our benefactors trouble. We’ve been asked to deal with the situation.”

Jamil sat forward in his chair, a look of expectation on his face. “And he needs to be… eliminated?”

Rafiq nodded. “But quietly, without our fingerprints on the job. A suicide, or perhaps a mugging — that’s for you to decide.”

Jamil’s eyes slipped out of focus and Rafiq knew he was thinking about options. Jamil had always been the problem-solver between the twins. Farid was the action man, but Jamil was perhaps the more dangerous because he thought, planned, and then executed. In their hand-to-hand combat training sessions, Jamil was unpredictable, often willing to try a new maneuver. Though Farid had been the larger and stronger of the twins, he was no match for Jamil’s cunning and Jamil invariably won in their contests. But Farid was gone now, and Jamil — well, he needed to be tested.

“Who?”

“A man named Alberto Nisman. A special prosecutor investigating the bombing of the Jewish Center in Buenos Aires that happened twenty years ago. He’s causing problems for my brother and needs to be dealt with. Quietly.”

Jamil’s lips curled into a wolfish grin, the exact response Rafiq had been hoping for. The old Jamil. The one who thought and planned and used cunning to attack his prey.

Nadine and the children appeared at the turn in the path to the house. Little Javi spied him and started running toward his father. Rafiq waved and placed a hand on his friend’s knee. “Family first. I’ll give you a full rundown after dinner. You leave in the morning.”

The restaurant in central Buenos Aires was crowded, even at half past nine in the evening, the normal dinner hour in this part of the world.

Alberto ordered wine with dinner, a Malbec he knew was Jaime’s favorite. A table of young women, about the ages of his daughters, filled the air with their laughter. He hadn’t seen his girls in how long? They were likely out with their friends this time of night, just like these young women.

He shook his head. When this was all over, he had some relationships in his life to repair, starting with his girls. Just a few more weeks. His report would indict the president and put an end once and for all to the political interference that had held back the AMIA bombing case for two decades. The Hezbollah terrorists and their Iranian backers would finally be exposed to the world as the cold-blooded butchers that they were.

Jaime arrived, interrupting his reverie.

“Alberto, I’ve been dismissed from the Secretariat of Intelligence.” Jaime had scarcely seated himself before blurting out his news.

Alberto realized he was clutching his napkin and he forced himself to relax his grip. Jaime’s face was haggard, with deep bags under his eyes and a dusting of gray stubble on his cheeks. Alberto poured wine into Jaime’s glass as a deliberate act. He must think first of his friend, not of the damage this would do to his investigation. Still, the news made him want to scream. He was so close.

He filled his own glass before he replied. His voice sounded like a strangled whisper in his own ears. “Why?”

Jaime’s hand shook as he picked up his wineglass and he looked close to tears. “I don’t know. Perhaps because I was too vocal about the president. Perhaps because I spent so much time trying to help you… I just don’t know.”

Alberto reached across the table and patted his friend’s hand. “How can I help?”

Jaime gripped Alberto’s hand so hard that Alberto almost cried out. Jaime’s eyes brimmed with tears. “This was my doing, my friend. I knew the risks, but I felt they were worth it. This president…” He shook his head slowly, biting his lip to keep from weeping openly. “She has been leading Argentina down a path that I do not agree with. I felt it my patriotic duty to help you — your investigation — and expose her for what she really is. It was the least I could do.”

Alberto pulled his hand back. This man, his friend, was responsible for getting his investigation off the ground in the first place. And now, Jaime had lost everything. “I don’t know how to thank you, Jaime. Without you…”

Jaime leaned forward, his eyes hard now in the glow of the candles on their table. “You’re not done yet, Alberto. There’s a final file I think you need to have.” Jaime pulled a thick stack of paper from his leather satchel and handed the package across the table. Alberto slid the folder into his briefcase. It barely fit. He’d taken to carrying his most important files with him at all times.

Jaime excused himself, leaving Alberto alone with his thoughts.

He drank off half his glass of wine in one gulp, trying to still the cold finger of anxiety that probed his gut. First Jane Carver’s cryptic warning, now Jaime. If they can get to Jaime, a respected intelligence officer, they can get to me.

He jumped when the table of young women let out another burst of loud laughter. Alberto swallowed the rest of his wine and paid the check.

He walked swiftly toward his apartment building, holding his briefcase across his chest like a shield, pushing down the feeling of unnamed dread that wrapped itself around his mind. The security detail that was assigned to protect his residence met him at the front door.

“Good evening, Marcos.”

“Good evening, Mr. Nisman.” Marcos’s tone was clipped and formal.

Alberto hurried past them. In the early days, he would have stopped to talk to Marcos for few moments, but not anymore.

Alberto paused at the elevator, then turned back to Marcos.

“Listen, it’s probably nothing, but on my way home, I could have sworn there was someone following me. And — I know this sounds strange — but has anyone been in my apartment during the day when I’ve been at the office? Apart from Paula?”

“No, sir. Just the maid.” Marcos’s gaze seemed more like a glare to Alberto. “I’ll have the men walk the perimeter of the building if you’d like, Mr. Nisman.”

Alberto shook his head. “That’s not necessary. Must be my imagination.”

He punched the up button on the elevator. When he stepped into the open doors and turned around, all four men of the security detail were staring at him.

Their blank faces gave him no sense of security.

Alberto Nisman was a boring man.

That was Jamil’s conclusion after tailing him for two weeks. He had hoped for a challenge to snap him out of his funk since Farid’s death, but killing Nisman would be almost too easy. The man kept a rigid routine and had no sense of personal security, which meant that Jamil would be able to choose his time and place at will.

The routine. He could follow it in his head like a script.

Lights on in the apartment at 5AM. A shower and some breakfast while he read the morning paper. He could be there when Nisman opened the door to retrieve his paper.

9AM: Depart the building via the front door, briefcase in hand. Depending on the weather, take a cab or walk to his office. Too open and too many potential witnesses at that time of day.

He spent his entire day in his office. He even ordered lunch in. Delivery man? Too many people, even later into the evening.

Nisman left the office every day at 8:45PM and walked home, carrying his briefcase, regardless of the weather. He kept to the same path — the shortest route home. Jamil could scarcely believe a man of his profile would walk home alone at night, but he’d witnessed it every evening for the past two weeks.

A mugging gone bad. That was the play.

Tonight, Jamil would finalize the details. In two days, he’d be back home, back to his wife and child and away from this massive city with its noise and buildings and constant motion. After only two short weeks, he longed for the tranquility of the estancia and the new life he’d built there.

Enough. You have a job to do.

He knew this task was a test from Rafiq. With Farid gone, Rafiq needed him to do the work of two men. Rafiq needed him to be sharp for their real mission, not this Buenos Aires sideshow.

Jamil would not let down his boss — his friend.

While Nisman worked his days away in his office, Jamil watched the apartment building to see if he could spot any weakness. Nisman’s security detail had increased to ten men, with at least four men on duty at any given time. They did twelve-hour shifts, Jamil noted with satisfaction. Men would get fatigued beyond eight hours.

Nisman’s maid — he’d heard the security detail call her Paula — came to the flat each weekday to clean, usually from two to six in the afternoon. Making Nisman dinner, perhaps? He almost never stops on his way home from the office. It must be that she makes dinner for him. Was there more between Nisman and Paula? She was attractive and Nisman was alone. Always alone. During Jamil’s reconnaissance, Nisman’s daughters only visited once, for two hours on a Sunday afternoon.

Today was Friday. If he did it tonight, he could be out of Buenos Aires before Nisman’s body was even discovered. Yes, tonight. Complete the mission and get back to Rafiq. And to his family. Am I growing soft? The thought entered his mind just as he spotted Nisman leave his office building and start his long walk home, briefcase in hand.

Jamil lagged behind Nisman on the opposite side of the street. In two blocks, he would cross and cut through the alley. When Nisman passed beneath the burned out streetlight two blocks ahead, Jamil would be waiting. Using the suppressed 9mm he carried at the small of his back, he would drop Nisman with a single shot to the base of the neck. He would drag the body into the alleyway, ransack his clothes for money and jewelry, then leave the body behind a dumpster. A fatal mugging. Simple, an open-and-shut case for the police.

A gentle rain began to fall. Even better. The assassin’s ally, rain would mask any noise from his approach.

Jamil felt his heart pumping in his chest, his every sense alive and alert. He reveled in the exhilaration of the moment. It had been years since he’d killed a man, but he was sharp, ready. He would not let Rafiq down.

The alleyway appeared. He slid into the darkened space, breaking into a run. He’d timed Nisman’s pace and knew the man covered a block every eighty-five seconds. Jamil smiled to himself in the dark. His timing would be perfect. In less than two minutes, his mission would be complete.

He was so focused on the end of the alley, Jamil missed the blur of motion in his peripheral vision. They had pipes in hand, and they were on Jamil before he realized he was the prey. Two more came running at him from ahead.

Jamil was surrounded.

A stunning blow across the back of his neck forced Jamil to his knees. The second man loosed a kick to his ribs and Jamil felt the breath leave his body in a whoosh.

Jamil launched himself into the first assailant. It’s just a kid, he realized as he slipped his left arm around the boy’s throat. With a sharp jerk upwards, he separated the boy’s C4/C5 vertebrae, killing him instantly. The pipe fell from his hand with a clang as Jamil dropped the thug on the wet blacktop of the alley.

The remaining attackers didn’t hesitate. They cornered Jamil between a dumpster and the wall, raining down blows with their pipe weapons. Jamil simultaneously heard and felt the two ribs break on his left side. Then his left arm went numb and flopped loose against his hip.

But in their rage, none of the three remaining muggers thought to tackle their prey. Jamil gave up the protection of his remaining good arm to reach for his gun.

The first victim never saw the pistol before a bullet passed between his eyes and his life abruptly ended.

The next boy sensed something had changed, and he paused for a split second, his weapon over his head. Jamil’s two shots pierced his heart and his spine, and the boy collapsed. He would bleed out in less than a minute, paralyzed, unable to call for help.

The last boy dropped his pipe and held up his hands.

Jamil did not hesitate. The pain in his ribs and his broken left arm, plus the throbbing in his head, left him with no mercy. He leveled the gun at the last boy’s face and squeezed the trigger. The pffut of the suppressor sounded loud in the now-silent alley. The boy’s body hit the blacktop with a wet slap.

The rain’s intensity increased to a downpour.

Jamil looked around to see if anyone had witnessed his actions. He forced himself to stay completely still for a full fifteen seconds, listening. Nothing. He holstered the weapon in the small of his back, then used his good arm to drag the bodies behind a dumpster.

The rain was already washing away the blood from the ground in the alley.

The adrenaline in his system held off the pain long enough for him to steal into a public restroom two blocks away where he finished washing the blood off his hands and his battered face.

His mission was over. At least two ribs were broken, and he was pretty sure his left forearm was broken as well. He slipped his mobile phone from his pocket to report his failure to Rafiq.

Failure. He couldn’t even meet his own gaze in the mirror. How could he face Rafiq?

Am I growing soft?

From a block away, Alberto noticed the lights were on in his thirteenth-floor apartment. He looked at his watch. 9:05PM. Strange. Paula should be gone by now.

He passed by his security detail with only a nod. He felt their eyes following him as he waited for the elevator, but when he turned around they all avoided his gaze.

Instead of Paula greeting him, his apartment was dark.

He flipped on the light. “Paula?”

Nothing. “Paula?”

The place was empty. Perhaps she took the stairs when I was in the elevator.

In the kitchen, he found the dinner Paula had cooked for him and he poured himself a glass of wine.

It was Friday. His report was due to Congress a week from Monday. He should use this weekend to relax. He needed to be fresh for the final week. But he could not shake the feeling that he was being watched. He flipped on the television and began to watch replays from the midweek football matches, half-listening as the commentators discussed the current league standings.

After fifteen minutes, he gave up. The only cure for this nagging feeling was work. He retrieved his briefcase from the hallway and headed to his home office.

He stopped short in the doorway.

Someone had gone through his papers. They’d tried to replace them as he’d left them early that morning, but they’d been moved, he was sure of it. Paula knew better than to touch his desk. When she was hired, that was the first thing he’d discussed with her. In five years, she’d never broken that rule.

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.

Rafiq rifled through her belongings, searching for any information he could find about Nisman’s apartment, his schedule, or his affiliates. He found her keys and took impressions of each one designed for a door lock.

An hour later, he slipped from the building and made his way back to his own hotel room not far from Nisman’s high-rise apartment complex. He laid out all of the information he had gleaned from Paula’s apartment and formulated his plan to assassinate Alberto Nisman.

Then Rafiq called his wife to wish her a belated good night.

Alberto was having trouble sleeping.

Ever since four teenagers had been found murdered in an alley only a few blocks from his apartment, Alberto had the sneaking suspicion that their deaths were somehow a message to him. His head of security insisted on armed escorts to and from work, but their presence did little to ease his mind. They looked at him like a package they had to handle, not a man who was about to bring down the political elite of Argentina.

Even from the beginning of his investigation, Alberto had assumed his phones were tapped and his email was being read. That was why he carried his laptop and his most important files with him at all times. But the sense of being watched was new to him. He tried to control this feeling of paranoia, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

The only thing that could free him was telling the world the truth about the de Kirchner government and its ties to Iran and international terrorism. Once the world knew the extent of the corruption, Alberto would be untouchable.

But that was three days away. He still had to get through the weekend.

As was their Friday morning custom, Diego Lagomarsino met him in his office to make sure there were no computer issues before the weekend. The younger man stopped in the office doorway, then retreated and returned a few minutes later with a cup of coffee. He placed the mug in front of Alberto. “You look terrible, boss. Drink this.”

Nisman smiled. “Thank you, Diego. I–I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Diego nodded, then stood up again and shut the office door. “Have you thought about what we discussed?” he asked. “I think keeping a separate copy of your report in a safe place is a wise precaution.”

Alberto pushed the coffee mug aside and opened his briefcase on the desk. The case contained all of his most important evidence and documentation, as well as thumb drive backups of all his findings and the sole hard copy of the three-hundred-page report he would submit to Congress on Monday. These pages represented years of work uncovering layer after layer of deceit, and thread upon thread of linkages between his government and the Iranians. Sometimes when he considered what he had given up to get this far, how many personal relationships he’d damaged, how much time with his family he’d missed, it made him want to weep. But he, Alberto Nisman, would finally be able to deliver to the survivors and family members of the AMIA bombing real justice for their loss.

He shut the lid of the briefcase. “No,” he said to Diego. “We’ve come this far. We’ll stay the course for a few more days. On Monday, the world can read the report. Until then, it will stay with me and me alone.”

“I understand,” Diego replied, although his look said otherwise. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

It was the opening Alberto had hoped for. “Well, Diego, I’m glad you asked. I seem to recall you own a handgun.”

Diego nodded slowly. “A Bersa .22 caliber. Small, lightweight, but it carries a punch. I got it after my military service. I still shoot occasionally. I find it relaxes me. Would you like to join me sometime?”

Alberto did his best to give his friend a confident smile. “Maybe some other time. I was wondering if I might borrow your gun for the next week or so.”

Diego chewed his lip. They both knew that lending his licensed weapon to Alberto was technically illegal, but that wasn’t the source of his friend’s hesitation. He felt Diego sizing up Alberto’s state of mind, wondering if this was a good idea. Deep down, Alberto himself had the same thought, but he needed something tangible to ease his fears. Maybe the ability to protect himself was what he needed.

“Your security guards?” Diego ventured.

Alberto wanted to tell Diego his fears about their loyalty — or lack of it — but he bit back the words on the tip of his tongue. He put on his warmest smile. “I would feel better if I had my own weapon. I’m sure I’ll never need to use it, but better safe than sorry, you know?” He finished with his best impression of a belly laugh.

Diego relaxed. “Of course. I can retrieve it at lunch for you to take home this evening. Do you know how to handle a handgun?”

Alberto waved his hands. “I did my time in the service as well. I was a few years too young to serve in the Malvinas, but I do remember my training.” He laughed again to keep Diego at ease, but leaned across the desk and lowered his voice. “Could I impose on you twice in one day? I’d rather not have the gun here in the office. Could you drop it off at my apartment this afternoon? Paula will let you in. Just leave it in my desk drawer.”

When Diego had gone, Alberto leaned back in his chair, exhausted, all effort at pretense gone. He closed his eyes.

After this weekend, he would be free.

“He has the files? You’re sure of it?”

The man who spoke had a bland face, instantly forgettable, but the other three people in the room watched him carefully. They recognized power — real power — and they had no desire to cross him.

The gentleman across from the bland-faced man nodded with quick jerks of his head. His foot beat a nervous tattoo on the floor. “He must have recognized the connections we embedded in the documents. But he works alone so we can’t know for sure.”

The bland-faced man cursed softly as he lit a cigarette. “There is no way we can get access to the final report? We must be certain.”

“No. He keeps the original on his person at all times. There are no copies that we know of.”

The bland-faced man smoked his cigarette to the filter and stabbed it into the ashtray. “So that’s it? We just have to trust that this idiot draws the right conclusions from the facts we’ve fed him?” The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the quiet.

“Maybe there’s another way.” The only woman in the room spoke. “A way we can create enough political heat to achieve our goals and get access to the full report before it goes public.”

The bland-faced man tapped another cigarette out of the package.

“I’m listening.”

When Alberto arrived home that evening, earlier than usual, he smelled pot roast. And it smelled delicious.

“Paula,” he called as he dropped his keys on the small table near the door. She answered him from the kitchen. He continued talking as he hung up his suit jacket. “It’s been ages. I just missed you a few nights ago. I could see the lights on from the street, but you were gone by the time I got up here. We probably passed each other in the elevator.”

Paula poked her head out the kitchen doorway. “I’ll fix you a plate, Mr. Nisman. Would you like wine with your meal?”

“Yes,” Alberto said. “It was last Friday, in fact. Were you working late?” He entered the kitchen and accepted a glass of wine from her. Her eyes were red as if she’d been crying. “Paula, what’s the matter?”

The woman busied herself with the pot roast. Alberto’s stomach rumbled. “Paula?” he said again.

“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—

Nisman stepped out of his office, turning down the hallway. The bathroom.

Rafiq’s prey entered the bathroom and snapped on the light, then he stopped suddenly, right in front of the mirror. He spoke in soft Spanish.

He talks to himself?

Rafiq realized he was hearing two voices. Nisman was not alone.

A lover? There had been no conversations. For hours, nothing but silence.

The bathroom door was ajar. Rafiq stepped into the hallway and edged close enough to hear what they were saying.

“You played your part perfectly. We thank you.” The voice was soft, almost feminine.

Rafiq chanced a look into the bathroom. Nisman’s palms were open at his side, but the other person was blocked from Rafiq’s view.

“I trusted you,” Nisman said. “You wanted the same things as me. An end to corruption. True justice for the nation… for the victims from 1994.”

“I don’t give a damn about the Jews. That was twenty years ago. No one cares about them, except you.”

Another assassin? How did I miss this?

“Good-bye, Alberto.”

Rafiq saw the fat cigar shape of a suppressor appear behind Nisman’s right ear. A single shot, like someone had dropped a heavy blanket on the tile floor, sounded.

Nisman sank to his knees and crumpled to the floor as his muscles went limp. He lay perfectly still. For a few seconds, blood fountained from the hole in his skull, then the flow slowed as his heart stopped beating.

Alberto Nisman was dead.

Rafiq stole quickly back into the maid’s closet, closing the door silently behind him.

He waited while the other assassin did his work. The radio went off. Then he could hear papers being shuffled, and the snap of the locks on a briefcase closing. Confident footsteps passed in front of Rafiq’s hiding place, and the lock on the front door clicked when the assassin departed.

Rafiq waited in silence for a full five minutes, then opened the closet door, weapon at the ready.

Nothing. He was alone.

He crept down the hallway to the bathroom.

Nisman lay on the bathroom floor, awash in a crimson pool of his own blood. The heavy, familiar smell of iron filled the air, laced with the scent of gunpowder. Rafiq drew a deep breath and held it, savored it. A .22 caliber Bersa lay on the floor next to Nisman’s body.

His chin shook as he thought about the prize that had been snatched away. Rafiq pushed that feeling down in his gut where it gnawed away.

The job is done. Time to go home.

He looked at his watch. 3:13PM.

Moments later, Rafiq Roshed strolled down the Buenos Aires sidewalk toward his parked rental car. If traffic was light on a Sunday afternoon, he could be in Fray Bentos by nightfall. The power yacht would take him home. Home to Nadine, little Javier, and Consie. Surely Javier would be bursting with news about his latest exploit on horseback.

The thought brought a smile to Rafiq’s face.

This piece of short fiction is based on a true story.

We first heard of Alberto Nisman the same way the rest of the world did: with his untimely and suspicious death on Sunday, January 18, 2015. First ruled a suicide, the determination of death was later changed to homicide, and a massive outcry for justice from the Argentinean people followed.

At the time, we were hip-deep in revisions to our novel, Weapons of Mass Deception. If you’ve read the book, you know that there is a Hezbollah sleeper cell, headed by Rafiq, in the Tri-Border Area of South America. Rafiq is in the TBA at the direction of his Iranian half-brother, Hashem.

WMD takes place in the present day, and Rafiq was in the TBA at exactly the same time as Alberto Nisman was killed. Even better, he was “between scenes” in our book and available for us to fabricate his involvement in this Argentinean tragedy.

As of this writing, the death of Mr. Nisman, mere hours before he was to present the findings of his investigation to the Argentinean Congress, is still unsolved. There is no shortage of people who might benefit from his demise and we list a few of them in the story: the President and her Foreign Minister, the opposition to the President and her administration, the Iranians and their subsidiary, Hezbollah. However Mr. Nisman died, one thing is clear: it is unlikely that the eighty-five victims of the 1994 AMIA bombing will ever see justice.

We have no special insight into this tragedy. In crafting “Death of a Pawn,” we chose to use fiction to show possibilities.

We leave it to you to draw your own conclusions.