by Ben Coes
“Numbers,” said Cannon. “Nothing but numbers.”
“We analyzed all militant Islamic groups in the Middle East, Africa, and Europe,” said Stedman. “We used a specific set of metrics and then we benchmarked the various groups. Rates of enlistment, finances, technical skills, and a bunch of other quantitative measurements. We went deep into the field. We had an unlimited budget. Needless to say, we spent a great deal of money. Intelligence is not cheap. SSCI wanted a comprehensive picture of radical Islam’s health, as well as the relative strengths and weaknesses of the various jihadist groups compared against one another.”
The door slid open. The waitress returned. She handed Raditz a glass.
“Let me guess. It’s a shit show.”
“Radical Islam is gaining momentum,” said Stedman, “even in places where the West has focused its resources. In virtually every category and across every metric, in every geography, the battle against jihad is being lost, and lost badly.”
“It’s worse than that,” said Cannon. “Where the U.S. invested money in the form of troops, or even in such things as schools, well building, and food programs, growth was especially acute.”
Raditz skimmed over the five-page executive summary. When he was finished, he rubbed his eyes for a few moments, then looked up. He drank the bourbon in one large swig, reached for the bottle of wine, and filled his bourbon glass. He pushed his chair back.
Raditz had spent his entire career fighting terrorism. What did he have to show for it? America’s vaunted war on terror was like dust in the wind, only the wind in this case was a hurricane. The two wars, the drone strikes, the kill teams, the covert operations, Gitmo, enhanced interrogation, NSA eavesdropping, and tracking had all, if anything, spurred the jihadists on and made them stronger, tougher, more capable—and more committed. Like the pruning of a tree, each American attempt at cutting off jihad’s limbs had only made it stronger.
“You could’ve just e-mailed this to me.”
Cannon reached into his coat pocket and removed a small black object that looked like a radio. It was a signals-jamming device, designed to prevent electronic eavesdropping. He turned it on.
“We have an idea we want to run by you.”
SADDATTHA REGIONALE FACILITÉ PENALE
YOQUM, EGYPT
ONE YEAR LATER
Raditz was led by the prison director to a windowless suite in the basement of the sprawling prison near the border of the Sinai. The director said little. His instructions from Cairo were very clear: Give the man what he wants.
The prisoner Raditz was there to see had been at Saddattha for a little more than half a year. He was one of a dozen individuals RAND had identified as potential “up-and-coming” radicals to be tracked for possible backing in an off-balance-sheet “arms-for-influence” program.
During his brief time in Egypt’s most notorious prison, the man had become the de facto leader of the prison’s sizable secretive jihadist community. No one foresaw how quickly he would rise and how much power such a young, quiet, calm, almost professorial man could aggregate.
That his ascension within the bitterly competitive ranks of the prison’s radical militant community came almost exclusively from his writings, and that those writings were for the most part reasonable, respectful to the West, and devoid of the usual bile and hatred only increased his mystique—and Raditz’s interest.
Raditz stepped through a steel door into the anteroom of an interrogation chamber. Through the two-way mirror, he saw Nazir. Dressed in khaki prison garb, with his hands shackled in front of him, he was staring down at the wooden table. When he glanced in the direction of the mirror, Raditz noticed the eye patch.
Raditz made a gesture to the director with his right hand, turning an invisible key, indicating he wanted the key to the prisoner’s cuffs.
“He’s a dangerous man,” said the director, squinting. “He’s the—”
“I know who he is.”
Raditz entered the small blue-walled interrogation room. Nazir looked up at him. His skin was olive. He was clean-shaven, and his hair, like that of most of the prisoners, was cut short. He looked clean-cut. He smiled.
“Hello,” said Nazir.
Raditz sat down across from him. “Hi, Tristan.”
Raditz leaned forward and unlocked Nazir’s cuffs. He removed his cell phone, a customized device with a variety of applications built by DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. He turned on an app that made it impossible to record the conversation that was about to occur.
“My name is Mark Raditz. I work for the U.S. government.”
Nazir nodded politely.
“Is this the visit just before you send me to Guantánamo Bay?”
“That’s up to you.”
Nazir grinned.
“Have you read something that I’ve written?”
Raditz nodded. “All of it. Even the stuff at Oxford. Are you a jihadist?”
“No, I’m not a jihadist, at least not in the definition you have,” Nazir said. “I do believe in the idea of a Muslim state. However, I would base the government itself, the system, that is, on your country. Representative government. A judiciary. An executive branch. A constitution.”
“But first you need the country.”
“That’s right.”
“Why did you drop out of Oxford?” asked Raditz.
Nazir’s mood shifted noticeably. His eyes seemed to darken and his light mood became sad.
“I would rather not talk about it. It has nothing to do with any of this.”
“Your brother drowned.”
Nazir’s eye shot to Raditz. But if Raditz expected to see anger, the expression he saw instead was cold, black, and emotionless, like stone.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop trying to figure me out.”
Raditz leaned back. “If you were given your freedom, what would you do?” he asked.
Nazir smiled. “I’d like to eat a good meal. That’s the first thing.”
Raditz waited.
“If you’re asking if I would join Al Qaeda or some such thing, the answer is no.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“I’m not saying you should believe me. I’m just answering your question.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
Nazir paused, deep in thought.
“Because I have a vision for how a country could exist. A Muslim country. They don’t. All they care about is headlines, vengeance, fueling their hatred. Until we establish a set of goals worthy of aspiration, Islam will never have stability. A country will never have permanence unless its goals are aspirational in nature.”
“But you’ve written that terror has a place.”
“Yes, I believe it does. Exterminating the Native Americans, for example. That was critical to the creation of your country, Mr. Raditz.”
Raditz locked eyes with Nazir, a slight crease on his lips acknowledging the point.
“Are you a pragmatist?”
“What do you mean?”
“Would you work with the United States if it meant you could build a country?”
“I still don’t know what you mean.”
Over the next half hour, Raditz laid out how it would work.
As one of three individuals at the Pentagon with the power to divert so-called black pool money that was appropriated to the Department of Defense but not subject to line-item congressional oversight, Raditz had begun to fund offshore accounts. At the same time, he had been looking for the right individual or group to back. If he found one, Raditz would then send funds through the offshore accounts to certain foreign arms manufacturers, who would manage the logistics of moving the shipments overseas. The chosen group had to meet certain criteria: It had to be trustworthy and able to keep the relationship secret. It could not threaten American allies, such as Israel, or commit acts of terror or aggression against America. It had to be well-run and capable of using the weapons to “win” the battle
to be the strongest militant group in the Middle East. Raditz didn’t want to give a group money simply because the members talked the talk. Ultimately, the United States wanted out of the Middle East—and the program would be the beginning.
“Does anyone else in the United States government know of this, Mr. Raditz?”
“No.”
For several minutes, Nazir sat in silence, deep in thought. Finally, he looked at Raditz.
“I am just a political theorist,” he said. “A writer. A student. What would I really like to do? Study the history of governments, how they came about, and then teach. I don’t know how to build a country.”
“I’m giving you the chance. You might not know how, but you’re already demonstrating the skills. It’s happening inside the prison.”
“Don’t be silly. The prison director doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Tell me, Tristan, if you were to call for a hunger strike, what would happen?”
He shrugged, a little bashful. “People would stop eating.”
“What if you were to call for riots?”
Nazir looked at Raditz. “There would be blood.”
“You see?”
“Where would I even start?”
“Syria.”
“Don’t you get along with Assad?”
“Assad, just like his father, is a vile human being.”
Nazir’s body language was clear—the idea intrigued him.
“You stay out of Iraq,” said Raditz, making the presumptive close. “You leave Israel alone. Most important, you leave America the hell alone.”
“Thank you for asking me, Mr. Raditz,” said Nazir. “I think that I would like to try. If I might ask, how much of this ‘black money’ has been put aside?”
“Two billion dollars.”
1
AEROPUERTO INTERNACIONAL DE CARTAGENA
CARTAGENA, COLOMBIA
THIS AFTERNOON
Dewey Andreas slept for the first hour after takeoff. When he awoke, he found the liquor cabinet on board the unmarked black-and-white Gulfstream G200. The jet was the property of a Florida-based corporation called Flexor-Danton LLC, which was, in turn, controlled by the Central Intelligence Agency. He pulled out a bottle of bourbon, unscrewed the cap, looked to make sure the pilots weren’t watching, then took several large gulps. He put the bottle back and opened two cans of beer.
Dewey was dressed in a short-sleeve polo shirt, black with yellow piping. It was a new shirt, Fred Perry’s largest size, but Dewey’s shoulders and chest stretched out the material and made it look too small. The sleeves clung tightly to his massive biceps. A Tudor watch with a striped canvas strap was the only thing adorning his tanned arms. He had on jeans and Nike running shoes.
Dewey’s brown hair was long and pushed straight back, parted roughly in the middle, and slightly messed up, as if it hadn’t been brushed in weeks. An unruly thick brown beard and mustache covered his face. His distinctive light blue eyes, which stuck out from his gruff appearance, projected a coldness and distance. Dewey had a hard, rough quality in the way he dressed, in how he carried himself, but most of all in his eyes.
Dewey stared at one of his cans of beer for a few moments, then lifted it to his lips and chugged it. He crushed the can and tossed it in a trash can next to the cabinet. He took the other beer and sat down. On the seat across from him was a manila folder.
It was his second trip to South America in the same week. The first trip—to Chile—had been a bust. The intelligence had been bad. Or perhaps it had been good and the target had gotten wind of the trip. This was one of the challenges when the target was a former agent.
Dewey opened the folder. He picked up the cover sheet, which was yellow with age:
DATE:
May 18, 1988
PROJECT:
09H-6
REFERENCE:
ROBERTS, SAGE
COS. Moscow
SANCTION:
ADJUTANT JUDGE LEON WHITCOMB
Ref. White House finding 334.67A
DECISION:
DISAVOWAL AND TERMINATION
EXTREME PREJUDICE
Dewey didn’t bother reading the old case order. He knew its contents already. This wasn’t an emergency priority. In fact, it had been sealed away more than a decade ago, classified a “cold file” and stuck in the bowels of a building along the Potomac River owned by a group of people who had more urgent fish to fry.
Technically, Dewey was using some well-deserved vacation time, his reward for stopping the Russian terrorist Pyotr Vargarin, aka Cloud, who’d nearly succeeded in detonating a thirty-kiloton nuclear bomb in New York City just a stone’s throw from the Statue of Liberty. The vacation time—along with the use of the jet, no questions asked—had been granted to him by Hector Calibrisi, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Dewey had killed Vargarin himself. But the seeds of the monster the Russian had become were planted by America, specifically a murderous rogue CIA agent named Sage Roberts. Dewey told himself that he felt nothing for Pyotr Vargarin, but it wasn’t true. He felt sorry for him—sorry for the boy who at age five had watched his parents get shot in front of his eyes, murdered in cold blood by Roberts. As much as Dewey hated what Pyotr became, he hated even more the thought that Roberts still walked the earth.
Dewey flipped through the thick sheaf of papers until he came to a photograph. It was a headshot of Roberts. It was an old photo, his last agency file photo, taken in 1987. He had thick brown hair, parted on the right and combed neatly to the side. His face was long, with dark shadows beneath his eyes and a scar beneath his left eye. He would be much older now.
Dewey flipped it over. Taped to the back of the photo was a small brass key. Scribbled in handwriting just below was an address.
Dewey took a sip of beer and stood up. He walked to the cockpit and stuck his head inside.
“How long until we get there?”
Both pilots turned. “Twenty minutes,” said the pilot on the left.
* * *
Dewey found the lockers inside the first-class lounge at Cartagena Airport. He inserted the key in locker 17. Inside was a small duffel bag.
He rented a car and changed his shirt as he drove. He parked on the street, in front of a high-rise building that sat at the ocean’s edge. Reaching into the duffel, he removed the gun: a Colt M1911A1, a matte-gray SAI silencer already screwed into the muzzle. He tucked it into a concealed holster inside his leather jacket.
The elevator took him to the penthouse. When he knocked on the door, a pretty middle-aged woman answered.
“Hola,” she said, smiling.
“Estoy buscando a su marido,” said Dewey.
“Hoy en día se juega al polo,” she said.
“Ah, sí, se me olvidó.”
* * *
The Cartagena Polo Club was a half-hour drive from downtown. Dewey parked his rental in the lot out front.
The club was crowded with people. Banners covered the side of the main entrance, emblazoned with corporate logos: Rolex, BMW, Bacardi, Tanqueray, and others.
The largest banner read EL CAMPEONATO DE CARTAGENA.
The match was already in progress. Teams of riders moved in frenetic clusters down the field, the ground thundering as the majestic sweep of horses trampled the green grass. Dewey scanned the field, marking him within twenty seconds. He was the oldest one on the field, the edges of his gray hair dangling down beneath his helmet, a tad flamboyant. Too flamboyant. He rode with the natural confidence of one who grew up on horses.
Dewey walked along the sidelines until he came to a young woman who had binoculars in her hands.
“Puedo le prestado?” he asked politely.
Dewey trained the binoculars on the game. He found Roberts, the number 21 in gold on the front of his striped shirt.
He took a program from a table near the clubhouse and went inside. He went down a hallway to the men’s locker room. It was empty. The room was dark,
wood-paneled, with thick carpet and old photos on the walls of men on horseback playing polo. Each locker had a brass nameplate attached to the front.
He scanned the program and found the team rosters.
#21—Roberto Segundo
Clever.
Dewey moved along the line of lockers until he found Roberts’s. Looking around to make sure no one had entered the room, he removed a small, powerful flashlight and shone it along the edges of the locker door. Near the bottom of the door, the light showed a nearly invisible piece of thread.
Old school.
Dewey lifted the thread and kept it in his hand. He took a pick gun from his pocket and put it against the keyhole of the padlock, then pressed the button. A few seconds later, the lock popped open. Dewey opened the locker. On the top shelf was a sleek, smallish silver-colored pistol, Walther PPK. Dewey popped the mag, emptied the bullets into his pocket, then slammed the empty mag back inside the gun and put it back.
He searched the rest of the locker, finding nothing.
Dewey closed Roberts’s locker and locked it. He knelt and placed the thread back over the seam of the door, hiding evidence of his intrusion.
Back outside, he found the outdoor bar and got a beer, then watched the match from the back of the crowd. When it was over, a trophy was presented to the winning team.
Roberts stood in the line of players as the crowd applauded from the sidelines. Dewey watched him as he mingled with other players and fans. Eventually, as the crowd thinned out, he walked toward the clubhouse.
Dewey came into the clubhouse from a porch near the swimming pool on the other side of the building from the polo fields. He entered the men’s locker room. He scanned the group of players, hand on his pistol, but Roberts wasn’t there.
Off the locker room, Dewey stepped into a bathroom. There were two men using the urinals. One of them, a young Colombian in tennis apparel, was flushing. After he left, Dewey shut the door and locked it.
He reached to his torso, then turned, clutching the suppressed Colt .45. He raised the gun and trained it on Roberts, its six-inch silencer jutting menacingly from the end just inches from him.
