by Ben Coes
“Bonito partido de hoy, Sage,” said Dewey.
Nice match today, Sage.
Without turning, Roberts answered in English. “I saw you on the field,” he said as he continued to urinate.
“Sure you did,” said Dewey.
Roberts turned so fast it was almost undetectable, swiveling with the Walther PPK out and aimed at Dewey before Dewey had time to fire …
“You stood out like a sore thumb,” said Roberts with a malevolent look on his face.
There was a moment of silence. Both men stood still—aiming their pistols at each other just feet apart—each man in the crosshairs of the other’s gun.
Dewey looked into Roberts’s eyes. He noticed the scar beneath the left eye. For a brief moment, Dewey seemed to lose his focus. It was just a fraction of a second, but Roberts sensed it. He pumped the trigger before Dewey had time to react.
The dull click of the gun’s empty chamber echoed off the terra-cotta walls. Roberts’s face lost its triumphant arrogance at the same instant a shit-eating grin hit Dewey’s lips.
“So did you,” said Dewey.
Dewey pumped the trigger. The slug spat into Roberts’s chest, kicking him back against the urinal. He tried to grab for the wall but fell to the floor. Blood covered his white-and-red striped polo shirt. His hands reached to his chest as he struggled to breathe. Blood gushed from his nose.
“That one was from the United States of America,” said Dewey, taking a step closer. He put the end of the suppressor to Roberts’s head, inches away. Dewey waited for several moments. Finally, Roberts looked up.
“This one’s from Pyotr.”
2
U.S. CONSULATE
VIA PRINCIPE AMEDEO
MILAN
Rick Mallory was dressed in a double-breasted Paul Smith suit, navy blue with thin red pinstripes, a light yellow shirt, and no tie. He was the only man in the consulate’s large, ornate drawing room not wearing a tuxedo. Mallory’s blond hair was cut short, longer than it was in the Marines but still barely half an inch in length. He wore rectangular-framed eyeglasses that he’d bought at the Prada boutique down the street.
Mallory stood at the back of the room, in a corner, beneath a large oil painting by Ernesto Serra of a woman asleep on a chaise, her blouse open, exposing her naked body. While it was perhaps a tad racy to be on display at a U.S. consulate, the painting was his favorite in the building, and not just because of the model’s beauty. She reminded Mallory of his late wife, Allison. Mallory clutched his third vodka of the evening and forced himself to look away from the painting. He scanned the room. The reception was in full swing. It was the consul general’s annual party in observance of Festa di Tutti i Santi, All Saints’ Day, a national holiday in Italy.
The crowd consisted of Milan high society. In attendance were businessmen and -women, their spouses and partners, many from the fashion world, government officials, a few celebrities, several members of the Milano football team, and members of the press.
Mallory’s eyes suddenly shot to his left. A woman was staring at him. She turned away and started speaking to a man near the bar. As she raised her wineglass to take a sip, her eyes darted back to him and they made eye contact.
She had short brown hair and wore a white dress that clung to her body. Her lips were bright red. She was young, perhaps in her midtwenties, and very pretty. Mallory’s heart raced slightly as she moved across the room. Along with the wineglass, she held a small jewel-encrusted clutch. As she came closer, she extended her hand.
“Buona sera,” she said. She had a soft Italian accent.
He reached his hand out. “Ciao, signorina,” he said, shaking her hand.
“My name is Sophia Paschiano,” she said.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Rick Mallory.”
“Hello, Mr. Mallory.” She smiled.
“What brings you to the party? Wait, let me guess.”
Mallory let her hand go, then swept his eyes politely, but also admiringly, down the length of her gown.
“You’re a model, am I correct?”
She laughed. “You’re very kind. Thank you, but no. I’m a reporter for Il Giornali.”
“A reporter?” asked Mallory. “I’m the public affairs officer here at the consulate.”
Her smile vanished, and her eyes took on a more sinister air.
“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re Agency. Is there someplace we can talk? I must speak to you immediately.”
* * *
Mallory shut the door to his third-floor office and gestured to a tan leather sofa beneath the window that looked out to the public gardens a few streets away. Sophia sat down. Mallory sat behind his desk, still clutching his drink. He said nothing for some time. Finally, she spoke.
“When I was a student at Oxford, I dated a boy. His name was Marwan al-Jaheishi. He was involved in activities.”
“Activities?”
“Islamic. They were always peaceful.”
“I’m listening.”
“He remained in London for a few years, then moved to Cairo.”
Mallory tapped the side of his glass as he waited.
“He called me yesterday,” said Sophia. “He asked if I could facilitate a meeting between him and you.”
“Me … or the consulate?”
“You, Mr. Mallory. He said it was very urgent.”
“How does he know me?”
“Cairo. He was with the Muslim Brotherhood.”
A cold chill emerged at the back of Mallory’s neck, which caused him to shudder ever so slightly.
“He wants to give you something.”
“Let me guess. A box with a ticking noise coming from the inside?”
Sophia shook her head, then laughed softly.
“You think I’m lying,” she concluded.
“Everyone lies.”
“I don’t.”
Mallory grinned, shook his head, then looked out the window.
For all he knew, she was a terrorist, though probably not. A battery of background checks usually ensured that anyone allowed entrance into a U.S. consulate had no ties, but who the hell knew anymore? Quietly, unnoticed, he put his hand on the butt of the gun beneath his left armpit.
More likely, she was telling the truth, and the ex-boyfriend was using her so that he could get close enough to kill him.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” said Mallory.
Sophia paused, then stood up.
“I understand. I don’t blame you. But he was a nice boy, for what it’s worth.”
She removed a small card from her clutch. She placed it on the desk. “His phone number, should you change your mind.”
She walked to the door. She twisted the doorknob, but before she opened the door she turned and looked at Mallory.
“He’s inside ISIS. He wants asylum.”
The cold chill that had been at the base of Mallory’s neck shot down his spine as he reached for the card.
“When you say inside…”
“He reports directly to Tristan Nazir.”
3
SALADIN APARTMENT COMPLEX
BUILDING C
ANTAKIYA STREET
LATAKIA, SYRIA
Nazir stood still as his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He didn’t answer it.
A lone lamp on the desk cast dim, rusty light. Nazir held a white teacup, which was chipped on one side. Other than to take the occasional sip of tea, he hadn’t moved for half an hour. His one good eye was focused straight ahead at the wall. His eye was like a black stone, emotionless and cold. He seemed dazed, mesmerized, and, above all, sad. Only Nazir knew that in fact, at that moment, he felt nothing but jubilation.
On the wall was a large map of Syria and Iraq. Spread across the two countries were hundreds of colored thumbtacks.
Nazir could remember the first one he inserted. It was two years before, a red tack that he had stuck into a small Syrian town called Arihah. It was the first military offensive by t
he polyglot group of jihadists Nazir had brought together under one vision, a group he named ISIS. Arihah was the first victory over the Syrian government. Now, the map was a colorful rainbow of thumbtacks, spread across northern Syria and central Iraq, like cancer.
Nazir took a sip from the cup. His tea had long ago turned cold, but he didn’t care.
Finally, he stepped away. He walked quickly to his desk and picked up a pen. Leaning forward, he started writing in a leather-bound journal:
Marx wrote that the final achievement of power goes from gradual to sudden, as victories create momentum that instills disillusionment and self-doubt in the enemy; the loser thus weakens and collapses. However, experience reveals that Marx was wrong. The ultimate achievement of power goes from gradual to protracted. Enemies in their last gasps pool like molten metal and harden into whatever cavity or tight space is still to be fought over. Do not make the mistake of easing off as victory is in sight! In these final moments, fear, intimidation, bribery, and, above all, VIOLENCE AND BRUTALITY must be doubled and even tripled. It thus works as such: the closer you are to achieving power, the harder it will be to achieve it.
—T. Nazir, 4 Sept.
Nazir closed the journal and glanced at his watch. It was three forty in the morning. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell, and looked at the number. Then he dialed.
“You called. What do you want?” he asked.
“They arrive on the morning flight. He’s a journalist.”
“What about security?”
“It’s been compromised. We’re inside.”
4
DAMASCUS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
DAMASCUS, SYRIA
Ben Sheets, a fifty-six-year-old freelance photographer, looked calmly out the window as the Air Arabia jet descended toward the black tarmac at Damascus International Airport. He reached for his carry-on, which was on the floor between his legs.
“I love Damascus,” came a soft whisper behind him. Sheets turned. His wife had been asleep for most of the flight from Dubai, but something had awakened her. She smiled.
“Me too,” he said.
“This must be our sixth time.”
“Tenth, honey.”
“Ten?” she said sleepily, stretching her arms. “There’s no way.”
“It’s ten. Seven times on assignment, two vacations, one honeymoon.”
“Maybe you were with another woman?” she said kiddingly.
Sheets laughed. “Never.”
“When will the story be running?” she asked.
“December.”
He reached out and gently grabbed his wife’s hand.
“Where do you want to eat tonight?” she asked.
“I know you like the Grove,” he said.
“Is that part of Damascus still safe?”
Sheets nodded knowingly.
“Yes, honey,” he said. “All of Damascus is safe. We just probably shouldn’t go around waving any American flags. Besides, the magazine hired a security team. We’re meeting them near baggage claim.”
Sheets pulled the canvas bag from the floor and removed an unusual-looking black Nikon camera. He pressed it against the window and aimed it toward the city skyline in the distance. Damascus was a tannish melee of low-flung red, white, and brown buildings, like an island in a sea of empty sand. Behind it stood a shelf of mountain: the Golan Heights. Israel. Every place else was empty as far as the eye could see, with thin strips of roads that appeared white from so high. Syria appeared peaceful, at least from the air. Sheets pressed the button on the camera and snapped several dozen photos.
“The Times said ISIS is within a few hundred miles,” she whispered.
“Would I ever put you at risk?”
She stared into his eyes, searching, doubtful. She leaned toward him and placed her head on his shoulder.
“No.”
* * *
As they waited for their suitcases to come around on the carousel, Sheets scanned the baggage claim area. He saw two men, both in dark suits, staring at them from across the crowded atrium. One of the men nodded imperceptibly and started walking toward Sheets and his wife. The other man went left, toward the airport exit.
“There’s yours,” said his wife.
The suitcases were next to each other. Sheets pulled them from the carousel, then glanced back in the direction of the two men. The man was approaching.
“Mr. Sheets?” he asked. He had a thick Syrian accent.
“Who are you?” asked Sheets.
“I am from the security company,” he said. “My name is Farulah.”
The Syrian smiled and extended his hand.
Sheets did nothing.
“National Geographic magazine, yes?” the security man added. “Nicole Brountas arranged for my services.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Sheets, shaking his hand. “This is my wife, Margaret.”
Farulah bowed slightly to her and extended his hand.
“My colleague has gone around to retrieve the car. Do you have your suitcases?”
Sheets and his wife trailed Farulah toward the airport exit, then followed him across a concrete walkway crowded with people waiting for taxis and buses.
Sheets glanced around. He’d been to nearly every country in the world and most dozens of times. He’d long ago stopped ever feeling nervous. But that didn’t mean he didn’t pay attention.
As they passed a tourist bus taking on passengers, a silver Range Rover pulled up in the next lane.
“There he is,” said Farulah.
They approached the Range Rover as its driver climbed out and moved to the rear of the vehicle, opening the hatch.
Suddenly, Sheets’s eyes were drawn to a taxicab parked behind the SUV. The passenger door opened. A bearded man climbed out and started shouting at Farulah’s colleague, waving his arms.
As their driver started to say something to the angry passenger, a dull, nearly silent series of thumps echoed from behind Sheets. He pivoted and saw a suppressor sticking out the window of a third vehicle. The Range Rover driver was struck in the head by a bullet. A moment later, bullets ripped into the taxi driver’s chest. Sheets lurched left, looking for Farulah, only to see his body spasm as a suppressed slug hit the back of his head.
“Margaret!” he screamed, turning to his right.
Sheets caught only a glimpse of her being forcibly pushed into the car before something hard slammed the back of his neck. His last sight before unconsciousness was a black T-shirt and black mask, and eyes the color of darkness.
5
ISIS CAMP NO. 16
UNREGISTERED TERRITORY Z8–39
EAST OF QU’OUH, SYRIA
Nazir took a quick shower, dressed, and left his apartment. It was 5:30 A.M. He walked quickly for three blocks, glancing constantly about, and entered a parking garage. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and walked along a row of parked cars until he came to a white Toyota Land Cruiser. The vehicle was dark, its engine off. Nazir made eye contact with the man in the driver’s seat. He climbed in the front passenger seat. Two gunmen sat in back.
The Toyota drove into the small central business district of Latakia and sped along the deserted streets, still empty at this early hour. At some point, a Toyota Tundra pickup truck moved into position in front. Behind them appeared a black Lexus SUV. The convoy moved quietly, keeping distance between the vehicles. The sky to the east had begun to turn a dull purple as sunrise approached.
The three vehicles moved east. Small clusters of tiny prefab homes around clover-shaped cul-de-sacs gave way to low fields of shrub grass, then brown unpopulated plains that soon became high desert. Minutes became hours. The dark sky disappeared into orange and yellow.
After many hours of driving, the pickup truck in the lead moved off the main road, followed by the two SUVs. Soon the three vehicles were crossing a beautiful hillock of burnt orange dirt at more than 50 mph, off road, clouds of dust flaming behind the cars. They came to a high, shrub-pock
ed hill that suddenly dropped away. A vast valley of flat desert sat below. In the middle of the valley, several miles away, there was activity. Like a village of ants, a small cluster of buildings could be seen. There were trucks, cranes, and at least a dozen trailers. It looked like the beginning of a settlement or a construction site.
As they moved closer, men started walking toward them in a line that spanned several hundred feet. The men were dressed in black, their heads covered. There were at least a hundred of them. Soldiers.
The three vehicles continued to rip across the orange and brown dirt.
As the vehicles charged at the line of gunmen, they went from walking to running, weapons out. As the vehicles drew closer, the figures grew clearer. Every single soldier was sprinting directly at the vehicles. Each clutched an assault rifle, which he trained out in front of him as he ran.
Nazir looked up as the distance between the vehicles and the soldiers disappeared. The pickup truck abruptly sped up so that it was in the lead. The other SUV fell in behind the Land Cruiser. They came closer and closer to the line of gunmen. Every muzzle along the line was arrayed in a steady fracture, like dark eyes. A quarter mile became a tenth of a mile became a hundred yards became a hundred feet. The gunmen stopped running. In unison, they raised their rifles and trained them at the three vehicles, preparing to fire. And then, with a suddenness that made even Nazir jerk in his seat, the two SUVs shot out—one to the left, one to the right, and the three vehicles crossed the line of soldiers at the same time, cutting between black-clad gunmen who, as the vehicles crossed between them, raised their muzzles in unison, aiming them at the sky, then shot off rounds into the air as they all screamed: “Nazir! Nazir! Nazir! Nazir!”
The vehicles ripped past the men toward the collection of trailers, vehicles, and soldiers.
There were eighteen trailers in all. Most of them were steel shipping containers, arrayed in a line. There were also a few mobile homes with windows.
Smoke came from a burn pit several hundred feet away.
Hundreds of men milled about. The temperature, by 8 A.M., was in the eighties.
