Silent Strike

by Francis Bandettini

  Stoker looked at Nikolas and wondered. Why is he so quick to be agreeable, to conform? He decided to explore the issue. "And, why would you do that?" Stoker asked incredulously. "Why should I believe a man who is days away from being a mass murderer?"

  "Okay, listen. Let me get your friend back and prove I'm telling the truth. I'll show you. I'll walk the walk."

  "Let's see where this goes," Stoker said. He knew Nikolas was starting a war of wits, and the psychiatrist knew it would take some time to figure out his true end game. "Show us this instant gesture of goodwill."

  "My family is in Saudi Arabia. They’re hostages in that country. I need your help to get them out, to rescue them. That's the truth. To prove my good intentions—indeed to curry your favor—I will take you to your man, Rivera. But we'll need a car to get to him."

  "Agent Ahmadi's got an FBI cruiser," Stoker said. "Now come on. You're coming with us. And if you try to get away, I remind you about this forty-five handgun with hollow point rounds that'll splatter your mind before you can change it."

  Then Stoker turned to Ahmadi and asked, "Would you lend me your nine-millimeter and its silencer?" Agent Ahmadi spun the silencer onto her gun and handed it to Stoker. Stoker took the gun, aimed it at Nikolas's right leg and took a shot. The bullet grazed the inside of his thigh. Blood gushed out of the wound. Nikolas screamed. Stoker stuffed a rag into his mouth. "If you screw around with us, the next bullet will not graze you. With everything you're doing to suck up to us, my bullshit meter is pegged at infinity."

  Stoker wound a piece of duct tape around Nikolas's leg. The crude bandage over the bullet wound stopped the superficial blood flow. When Nikolas stopped screaming, Stoker pulled the rag out of his mouth.

  "You will meet no resistance from me," Nikolas said almost hyperventilating. "You are my rescuers. You see me as a hostage. I see you as liberators."

  "Well, here's your train to any sliver of liberty you may someday regain," Stoker said as he restrained Nikolas's ankles and wrists with zip ties. Then Stoker picked him up and laid him in the laundry cart. "Now shut up until we’re in the car."

  Stoker threw a sheet on top of Nikolas. He and Ahmadi pushed the cart to an elevator. After descending into the parking garage, they approached Ahmadi's FBI cruiser. Stoker lifted Nikolas out of the bin and put him in the back seat of the car.

  "Okay, where are we going?" Stoker asked. "Take us to Rivera."

  Nikolas gave Ahmadi directions to a yacht club on Lake Michigan. "Your friend's there, in the marina, on my sailboat."

  Stoker paid very close attention to Nikolas, just in case he tried to attack or escape. But the captive never showed any hints he was scheming to escape.

  When they arrived at the yacht club, Stoker cut the zip ties binding Nikolas's ankles, but he left his wrists secure. "Remember, Agent Ahmadi and I each have a pistol trained on you."

  Nikolas started to lead the way. But, then he stopped and winced with pain. "It's hard for me to walk without my arms to balance."

  "Exactly!" Stoker said. "You're not getting those flex cuffs off right now."

  The threesome made its way along a network of docks to Nikolas's sailboat. "Let's be very quiet when stepping aboard the boat," Nikolas said. He pointed at Stoker and Ahmadi. "You'll board the boat first. My men—two of them—are prepared to kill you." Nikolas pointed to one of the fold-down seats on the port side of the helm. "That's where one of my men’s hiding. Under the cushion, you'll find a storage space. It's kill or be killed. If you want your Rivera friend to live, you must eliminate this man. While he is my bodyguard, he's also here in Chicago to make sure I do my bonyad director's bidding. I'm finished doing my bonyad's bidding, so I'm willing to sacrifice him."

  "You’re not in charge here," Stoker said as he removed his .45 caliber pistol from a holster in the small of his back and screwed on a suppressor. “The day will never come when I believe you.” Then he gave Ahmadi the hand signal for her to cover him. She raised her nine-millimeter Glock as he advanced on the storage area. Secretly, Stoker hoped for the opportunity to take more of Nikolas’s men alive.

  In his mind, Nikolas had rehearsed this moment. By design, he had placed the man inside the stowage. A soldier who had lived most of his life in a small Iranian village was lying facedown. He whispered some verses from the Koran. Nikolas had taught him the passages, many years before, specifically for this occasion.

  "And do not say about those who are killed in the way of Allah, 'They are dead.' Rather, they are alive, but you perceive it not. And we will surely test you with something of fear and hunger and a loss of wealth and lives and fruits, but give good tidings to the patient, who, when disaster strikes them, say, 'Indeed we belong to Allah.'" His pistol sat on the ground next to him.

  Stoker quickly threw the stowage door open and aimed his gun downward. The man inside grabbed his weapon and raised it. But, his draw was slow. Stoker squeezed the trigger and sent a subsonic round into the man's head. Then he put a second round into the man's heart.

  Ahmadi swept in behind Stoker. "There's a good chance there are more people on the boat. You cover me—"

  Stoker cut her off. "Not yet. Hang on, Ahmadi," he said. "Something's not right here. That man drew on me, but his reaction was dull. It was almost as if he was impaired."

  "Now do you trust me?" Nikolas stood on the dock. "I gave away the position of one of my finest men. I sacrificed him to win your trust."

  "This still doesn't feel right," Stoker said. "Where's this second guy? And, I just want to remind you, we've got a fiery lady, Agent Ahmadi, with a real gun trained on you, bud."

  "I get it," Nikolas said. Then he pointed down into the boat. "My man's below. I told him to hide in a storage compartment, aft berth."

  "I don't speak boat very well," Stoker said. "Where's the aft berth?"

  "The bedroom in the back," Nikolas clarified.

  "Now fall in line between Agent Ahmadi and me," Stoker ordered.

  Stoker held the gun in front of him and then he passed through the companionway. He quickly descended the ladders into the saloon, moving his firearm from one side to another. Nikolas and Ahmadi followed. Then Stoker stepped into the berth. Turning to his left, he saw the storage compartment. Stoker threw open the door. Through the dim light, he saw the whites of another man's eyes. Grabbing the stranger, Stoker yanked him out of the compartment. Intending to capture the man alive, Stoker threw him on the bed and landed on top of him. He reached down to try and subdue the man's hands. He grabbed the man's forearm and twisted it inward. The man shrieked, and bones snapped in his arm. Stoker pushed the bed sheets away, and he looked down at the pain-contorted face.

  "It's Nazem," Stoker yelled.

  Ahmadi noticed Nazem's free left hand pulling a nickel plated snub-nosed .38 Special from an ankle holster. "Gun!" she yelled. Ahmadi switched her gun to her left hand as she jumped to grab his arm. A shot rang out, and a bullet flew toward the boat's stern. Ahmadi slammed his forearm on the side of the wall, and the gun popped out of his hand.

  "Nobody moves!" Stoker yelled. "I'm good!"

  "Me too!" Ahmadi responded. "Nikolas, are you hit?"

  "No."

  Nazem was screaming. Stoker checked him over. The bullet had not struck him.

  "Where did the round go?" Ahmadi asked.

  "Right there," Nikolas pointed at a wooden panel. Then his face went ashen and dread filled his voice as he exclaimed, "Oh no. Rivera."

  "What?" Stoker asked. "Is Rivera back there?"

  "Yes, he's in the dinghy garage."

  "Ahmadi, you handcuff this guy," Stoker ordered.

  She grabbed Nazem, pulled his arms together. "Done. Let's get out of here."

  Stoker turned to Nikolas. "I don't know what a dinghy garage is. But, you’ll take me there, right now."

  "Follow me," Nikolas said.

  "I've got this gun trained on your other leg, Nikolas. If anything funny happens, you won't be so lucky."

  Nikolas climbed up th
e ladders. "Have I resisted you at all?"

  Stoker didn't answer as he followed Nikolas onto the main deck of the boat. Instead, he ordered, "The dinghy garage. Double time it."

  "It's at the very back of the boat. The little garage holds a much smaller boat, a dinghy, which we use to get to shore. It was sufficiently spacious for your Rivera friend. But, I'm afraid it’s not very comfortable."

  "I'm not worried about his comfort. I'm worried about the bullet. If Rivera's hurt, you'll never feel comfort again."

  Nikolas opened an access panel that contained some controls. When he pressed a button, the back panel of the boat seemed to open downward toward the water. Stoker kept his gun trained on Nikolas.

  When the door was about one-third open, Rivera suddenly flopped over the edge of the door, fell into the water and disappeared into the water's darkness.

  "Quiet!" Stoker ordered. They all scanned the water, waiting for Rivera to surface. After twenty seconds Stoker yelled out. "Rivera!" There was no response. He waited for another twenty seconds and yelled his name again. After a full minute had passed, there was no sign of Rivera.

  "I fear for this man, Rivera," Nikolas said. “Nobody can hold their breath that long.”

  "Quiet!" Stoker ordered again.

  Nikolas stepped toward the dinghy garage. "Hold it right there," Stoker said. "Where are you going?"

  "To look for traces of blood in the dinghy garage."

  "You stay there. I'll look." Stoker peered down into the chamber where Rivera had been held captive. "No blood here. But it looks like he made short work of the ropes you bound him with."

  "Only half the ropes, loco," came the voice of Errol Rivera. "And, who shot the bullet that buzzed past me?"

  "Rivera!" Stoker called out. "Where are you?"

  "Other side of the dock. Come help me get out of the water. My hands are bound, and I didn't have a chance to change out of my clothes and into my swimming suit before I went for a dip." Stoker leaped to the side of the boat and looked at the dock. Rivera was using both hands, joined by ropes, to hold onto the dock.

  Stoker turned to Nikolas. "Stay right there."

  "Have I not obeyed your every order?" Nikolas replied.

  "Silence!" Stoker said. Stoker disembarked from the sailboat and jogged down the dock where Rivera was waiting. Tucking his gun into the small of his back, he reached down, grabbed Rivera by his belt, and lifted him out of the water. "Why are you screwing around and playing games at a time like this? After two minutes under the water, I thought you were in real trouble."

  "I wasn't screwing around. I dove down and stayed under for about ninety seconds. I surfaced very quietly on the other side of the dock. When I heard your voice, I listened a little more to see what was going on. I didn't know if you were in charge, or if someone was in charge of you? For all I knew, they had captured you, too."

  "No, I was here to rescue you."

  "Damn! After freeing myself with that beautiful flop into the water, now I have to pretend you rescued me?"

  "Well, who do you think arranged to have the terrorist open the dinghy garage?"

  "Okay," Rivera said. "You make an excellent point. Thank you for rescuing me."

  "You're welcome. I am very impressed with your armless swimming."

  "Not bad for an old guy," Rivera said as he dripped water all over the dock. "Can you cut my arms loose?"

  Stoker retrieved a knife from his pocket and slashed the ropes that bound Rivera. "So, you're okay?" Stoker asked. "We thought the stray bullet might have hit you."

  "I heard the round buzz by," Rivera said. He walked back to the boat with Stoker. He seemed oblivious to his wet shirt, pants, shoes, and socks. "Who shot at me?" Rivera asked.

  "The guy with the broken arm inside the boat. It's Nazem. Ahmadi has him in flex cuffs."

  "And who's that guy?" Rivera asked pointing at Nikolas. "And why do you have him at gunpoint?"

  "That is Nikolas Antoniou. He's a terrorist—the man behind the manufacture and disbursement of the Campylobacter jejuni bacteria we've been chasing down for the last few weeks."

  Rivera's jaw clenched, and his eyes flashed anger. His short military haircut exposed the bulging blood vessels on the side of his head. He bounded up onto the sailboat, balled up his fist and swung for Nikolas's face. Carefully sidestepping the punch, Nikolas offered no additional resistance or defense. Rivera's left jab caught him squarely in the nose and sent him flying onto the deck. "I've seen the people in Mexico, on ventilators, suffering from your creation. I'm watching my best friend's wife depleting to a fraction of her former self because of your bug." Rivera reached down and picked him up by his shirt. "You're about to meet the depths of Lake Michigan. Let's cast off, Stoker."

  "Not just yet," Stoker said. "If we want to quell the epidemic, we may need some of Nikolas's knowledge."

  "Good point. Let's start extracting some intel."

  "Yes," Nikolas said. "I want to tell my story. I will give you all the intel you need."

  "Just like that? You’ll just give us all this intel?” Stoker asked in palpable sarcasm. “Yesterday you were an evil terrorist, but today you’re a helpful ally?” Stoker sneered at Nikolas. “I don’t know your scheme yet. Now, get into the boat." Nikolas quickly complied and stepped down the ladders into the boat's saloon. Stoker and Rivera followed.

  Down in the cabin, Nazem was chanting and saying some kind of prayer. "What's going on here?" Stoker asked.

  "He has been supplicating Allah for the last few minutes," Ahmadi said.

  "Can you translate his Farsi for us?"

  "We Muslims pray in Arabic. I would describe this as a sort of martyrdom prayer. He believes suicide's in his future. He's asking Allah for mercy for his sins. He is mixing a lot of verses into his prayer from the Koran about martyrdom."

  Stoker frowned. "I don't understand this at all. I don't see this motivation." Stoker glanced over at Nikolas. “Care to enlighten us Mister Altruistic?”

  Rivera didn’t allow Nikolas to respond. Interjecting his own question, he asked, “Have you checked Nazem for explosives?”

  “Yes,” Ahmadi said. “Right after he discharged the gun, we got flex cuffs on him. Then we frisked him and looked for weapons.”

  “Usually I would be very concerned about a suicidal person,” Stoker said. “But with a terrorist, I only care about what they can tell me. How and when he leaves this world is of no concern to me.”

  Just then, the man smiled. “I will not be telling you anything, Stoker,” the man said. His smiled disappeared for a moment and then returned. “Indeed we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him we will return. Those are the ones upon whom are blessings from their Lord and mercy. And it is those who are the rightly guided.” Nazem paused for a moment of discomfort, then looked up at Stoker with a menacing glare. “I belong to Allah. I am rightly guided. And, may your lost American soul rot in hell.” Then he fell sideways onto the bed. When his head hit the mattress, his mouth expelled a stream of foam. All signs of life left his face.

  “Cyanide?” Ahmadi asked.

  “Most likely,” Stoker said. “But, let’s not worry about the dead guy right now.”

  Suddenly Stoker grabbed Nikolas, wrestled him to the ground, and pinned him on his back. Then he pounded on his sternum. “What the hell is going on?”

  Nikolas winced at the pain. Then he looked away from Stoker and toward the ground at his side. “I find it very interesting he ended his life with cyanide. I have suspicions about Nazem’s motives, but I do not know why he chose to die.”

  “What do you mean?” Rivera barked.

  Nikolas spoke calmly. “I need to think about the facts. That’s all. There is much more I can tell you, that I want to tell you.”

  “I don’t like what’s going on here,” Stoker said. “It doesn’t make sense when terrorists, like your two men here, allow themselves to die—without killing any other enemies at the same time? It seems like a pretty empty jihad for those guys."
/>   "Those guys were such brainwashed religious lemmings," Ahmadi interjected. "They'll do anything the bonyad or Nikolas asks."

  "The experiences I just had with your two men seemed bizarre to me. The way they behaved just didn't seem right. They went down a little too easy."

  "Oh, Stoker. You're just paranoid," Rivera said.

  "Yeah right," Stoker responded. Then he asked Nikolas, "Do you always give your agents cyanide capsules?"

  "They have been trained to die,” Nikolas responded, “rather than suffer a degrading interrogation by your people."

  Stoker just looked at Nikolas and thought, I’m starting to understand a method to this madness. He’s bartering for our trust, and these men are his currency. But, his submission must be shrouding something bigger. I can play this game.

  Rivera pointed to Nikolas’s mouth. “And, do you have a cyanide capsule ready to swallow at a moment’s notice?”

  “These are my men. Why would I need to die?” Nikolas said. “I have no cyanide capsules—because I am willing to tell you everything without any compulsion. I don’t want to die. I only want to tell you the truth.”

  “Of course,” Stoker replied. This time he was ready to pretend some trust in Nikolas. "Tell us more of your truths. Give us the whole story.”

  • • •

  "I know you don't trust me," Nikolas said. "But, I have shown you good faith. Two of my men are dead. What else needs to happen for you to believe me? You should trust me at least a little by now."

  "Okay," Stoker said. "Let's hear everything you want to tell us. Let's keep exercising this trust thing right here and right now. I'm recording this." Stoker removed his phone from his pocket and started recording.

  Nikolas looked into the camera and began. "For the past thirty years, my name has been Nikolas Antoniou. I have committed many crimes and acts of terror against the United States of America. My greatest crime is unleashing a weapon of lethal silence."

  "You've poisoned America with a highly virulent strain of Campylobacter jejuni," Stoker interjected. "One you brought in from Mexico."

  Nikolas looked surprised. "Yes. How did you know so much about the Campylobacter jejuni?"