by Ben Coes
Dawn approached as the final container was battened with steel cord to the ship. It would be a scalding-hot day; already the temperature was above ninety degrees. The sky was changing rapidly from gray to deep red as the sun approached at the eastern horizon. In many ways, a perfect day.
A tall bearded man named Miguel stood next to the base of the gantry crane. He took a last drag on a cigarette as he watched the final container settle into place. Next to him was a short, stocky man in khakis, a white polo shirt, and black cowboy boots: Mark Raditz. His skin, after less than a day in Mexico, was blaze red with burn. He was overweight.
“Were you able to deliver the other things I asked you for?” asked Raditz.
“Yes. The passport is with the money. It’s Mexican, I don’t know what name they used, but it’s been cleared up through the proper authorities.”
“Can you trust the people who did it?”
“You can’t trust anyone,” said Miguel. “I don’t know the government official who arranged everything. But I wouldn’t worry. If these officials didn’t have their little bribes and corruption, they would all starve to death.”
“How much did it cost?”
“One hundred thousand dollars.”
“That’s less than your fee.”
“Much less,” said Miguel, “but if you don’t like it, perhaps I can send a refund to your office, Mr. Deputy Defense Secretary?”
Raditz sneered.
“How much money is left over?”
“The total amount of funds that you wired was eight hundred and eight million dollars. That was ten million more than the job, the weapons, et cetera. Subtract the fee for the passport as well as my fee for arranging the passport, and there is nine million six hundred and fifty thousand dollars left over. As you asked, I washed nine million into a new bank account. The details are with the passport. I converted the rest into euros, Visa gift cards, and pesos.”
Raditz nodded, staring at the ground.
There was an awkward moment of silence.
“I’m curious, Mark,” said Miguel. “You’ve never taken anything before. Suddenly you decide to take a lot of money. You arrange for a new identity. It’s fairly obvious what’s happening. My question is, why?”
“That’s none of your fucking business,” Raditz said. “You know the rules. Drop the boxes and keep your mouth shut.”
“They might come looking for you.”
“They will come looking for me.”
“Do you expect me to not say anything?”
“That’s up to you,” said Raditz. “But America does things to people who deliver guns and missiles to terrorists.”
“I’m like the FedEx man, that’s all.”
Raditz shot Miguel a look.
“They’d kill Santa Claus if they found out he was delivering guns to ISIS. You should be able to retire after this one, with what I’ve paid you.”
“With what you’ve paid me?” asked Miguel, grinning. “You mean with what the United States of America paid me.”
“Whatever. But I wouldn’t come back, not if you value your life. I’m saying that to protect you. You can listen or not. It doesn’t matter to me.”
Miguel flicked another cigarette stub into the water and leapt onto the ship. He nodded to a crewman standing along the starboard gunnel, indicating he wanted him to untie the ship so that they could put to sea.
“Fine,” said Miguel. “By the way, you don’t look so good, Mark. You look like you’re one cheeseburger away from a massive heart attack.”
Raditz smiled. “Fuck you. How many days will it take you to get to Syria?”
“That’s none of your business,” answered Miguel, grinning.
Raditz’s smile disappeared. If he found amusement in Miguel’s flippant answer, he didn’t show it.
“We’ll have the Gulf Stream behind us. Eight days to Gibraltar and another three to al-Bayda,” he said, referring to the port on the Syrian coast.
The ship made an almost imperceptible tremor, indicating it was moving.
“Safe travels,” said Raditz.
11
DAMASCUS, SYRIA
As Marwan al-Jaheishi waited for the video to download on his laptop, he removed a manila folder from his briefcase. He opened the folder. The top page was a contact sheet filled with small photos, all showing the same two men: Nazir and an American VIP. Grainy black-and-white photos showed the two men as they sat on a sofa in the lobby of a hotel, from a discreet distance. Al-Jaheishi remembered taking the photos, at Nazir’s instruction. The following pages were the transcript of the men’s conversation.
The agents who had accompanied the American had patted down Nazir, then scanned him with a magnetometer, but al-Jaheishi, again at Nazir’s direction, had planted six listening devices around the hotel lobby the evening before, and one, taped to the underside of the sofa they sat on, caught the entire conversation. The transcript of the meeting was twenty-six pages long. The remaining pages in the folder, perhaps a hundred in all, listed the contents of a large shipment of weapons that had arrived a few months later. Each sheet of paper was an individual container, with its contents listed. This, too, al-Jaheishi had been in charge of, again at Nazir’s direction. The American gave them little warning, other than to tell them they would need a crane and the ability to move at least a hundred forty-foot containers. The American had assumed Nazir and his men would be too busy, stressed, or lazy to contemplate the bookkeeping of the arms shipment, but he was wrong. Al-Jaheishi had cataloged everything.
Al-Jaheishi lifted his phone, turned on the camera, then leaned down and framed the first page and snapped a photo. Methodically, as quickly as he could, he moved through the entire sheaf of papers, photographing every one. He saved the photos onto the SIM card, then popped the card from the phone and put it in his pocket.
The video completed downloading to his laptop. He watched the entire thing; it was a little more than twelve minutes long. When it was done, he shut his eyes, trying to control an overwhelming sense of nausea. It was the first time they’d burned anyone alive. He felt revulsion. At that moment, he wanted to kill himself.
He looked at his hand, first the top, then the palm. Scars ran on both sides. They were pinkish and faded, each about two inches long and half an inch wide. It was the place Nazir had stabbed him so many years ago in Cairo. He felt even worse as he considered the level of degradation and humiliation he’d been willing to tolerate.
Then he heard the words inside his own head: You want to live, Marwan.
He opened his eyes. He was so close.
As he did with all of the videos, al-Jaheishi cleaned up the beginning, adding ISIS’s telltale opening: a ten-second clip showing the ISIS logo in bold white across a black screen, with the soft melody of an Arabian folk song playing in the background.
He edited the rest of the tape to remove any moments that appeared to be badly filmed or in some way unprofessional. He cut the remaining video into precise sequences—couple moving from trailer, gasoline, immolation—creating sharp intercuts between them. He then applied a sophisticated film-editing hue to the entire film, similar to what TV news editors did. When he was done, the video was seven minutes long and looked as if it had been made by someone at CNN.
He watched it one last time. As the flames engulfed the American man and woman, al-Jaheishi felt a sense of shame and self-loathing.
“I’m sorry,” he said aloud.
But his words were not intended for the Americans, whose muted screams now filled the room. No, al-Jaheishi’s words were intended for the one in whose name it was happening, the one whom he’d been brought up to believe was not cruel, the one for whom he would now risk everything in order to stop it.
Al-Jaheishi picked up his phone. He breathed deeply, counting to ten, trying to calm his nerves. He hit Speed Dial. The phone rang several times, then clicked.
“Yes,” came the voice.
“Tristan,” he said.
“M
arwan,” answered Nazir. “Have you downloaded it yet?”
“Yes. I downloaded it and edited it. Everything is done.”
“Very good. Does it meet your approval?”
“It’s like the others, Tristan,” he said, immediately regretting the hint of disapproval he knew his answer had implied.
“You don’t like it?” said Nazir.
“No, I didn’t mean that at all.”
“It’s too violent? You think perhaps we go too far? Tell me.”
Al-Jaheishi paused.
“No, I like it. They are infidels. We must continue to—”
“Stop feeding me your lines of bullshit,” snapped Nazir. “It’s not a video anyone will like, but it is necessary. Necessary, Marwan.”
“You will be pleased. Would you like to see it before I upload it?”
Nazir was quiet for a few moments.
“No,” he said. “Get it out immediately.”
* * *
An hour later, al-Jaheishi was dressed in a gray pin-striped suit, a white button-down, and a yellow tie. He entered the office building and showed his ID card to the security guard, then took the elevator to the eighteenth floor. He walked to the end of the hallway, past several office suites of companies with names like Parish Capital Ltd. and Simoan Trans-Atlantic Holdings, until he arrived at a frosted glass door with the name ASSYRIAN RELIEF ASSETS LTD.
The entrance area was large and quiet. A long, elegant glass receptionist’s desk sat directly to the left, an empty leather chair behind it. This was where Assra, the receptionist, usually sat, but today she was not there. Two modern black-leather-and-chrome couches were to the right, facing each other around a low oval glass coffee table with newspapers and magazines piled neatly on top.
The back of the entrance foyer was a long floor-to-ceiling window. The sprawling city of Damascus was visible beyond.
Al-Jaheishi walked down the hall, past half a dozen offices. He said hello to his coworkers as he quickly passed the open doors. At the end of the hallway, he opened his door, stepped inside, and flipped on the lights.
A man was seated in his chair. He had his shoes up on top of al-Jaheishi’s desk, legs crossed at the ankles.
“Good morning, Marwan. You’re late.”
“I was at prayers, Tristan.”
Al-Jaheishi felt perspiration surface at his hand, upon his forehead, even on his upper lip. He tried not to look at Nazir as he removed his coat and hung it on the back of his door. He said nothing as he walked to his desk and placed his leather briefcase on the corner.
“They’re calling us butchers,” said Nazir. “Isn’t that what they should’ve called us after the beheadings, Marwan?”
Al-Jaheishi laughed.
“Now, perhaps they should call us arsonists,” continued Nazir.
Al-Jaheishi laughed again.
“It turns your stomach, doesn’t it, Marwan?” asked Nazir.
“No,” said al-Jaheishi. “It’s necessary.”
“Is it?” asked Nazir. “And what will we do when we have a country of our own? If it is necessary now, will it not still be necessary then?”
“There are stages to the development of the state,” said al-Jaheishi, lying. “When it is no longer necessary, you won’t do it, and you will look benevolent in comparison, Tristan.”
Al-Jaheishi stared at Nazir. Nazir’s eyes were like black lasers. Does he know?
“But it’s brutality, Marwan. We could just kill them. Instead, we behead them. We burn them alive. Surely, between us, you can see the terrible things we’re doing?”
He’s testing you, Marwan.
“What will never be forgotten is the brutality,” answered al-Jaheishi, “but it is like steel in the sword of our rule and our power. We can perhaps someday stop, but the brutality will instill fear forever.”
Nazir nodded, then, ever so slowly, smiled. “Very good,” he said.
Nazir removed his feet from the desk, swung them around, and stood.
Al-Jaheishi looked right, past Nazir, to a filing cabinet. A screwdriver jutted from the top drawer, wedged in, as if someone had been trying to pry it open.
Al-Jaheishi’s eyes moved from the screwdriver back to Nazir.
“The combination is your birthday, Tristan,” said al-Jaheishi. “All you had to do was ask.”
“Where are they?” asked Nazir.
“Where are what?”
“The records.”
“What records?”
“You know damn well what records. Everything to do with the arms shipments from the Americans.”
Al-Jaheishi looked into Nazir’s angry eyes. He felt his own eyes drawn like metal to a magnet, wanting to look at his briefcase. But he held Nazir’s stare.
“They’re in there,” said al-Jaheishi.
Al-Jaheishi’s mind, in less than two seconds, ratcheted through the dilemma he now faced.
He stepped in front of Nazir. He went to the second drawer from the top and started to turn the lock, even though he knew the records—all 158 pages of them—were inside his briefcase. But if he admitted to taking them from the office, Nazir would want to know why. And when al-Jaheishi attempted to make something up, Nazir would see through it. He would be tortured for the truth, and dead within the hour.
The problem was, if the records weren’t in the filing cabinet, a similar fate would likely befall him. But perhaps he could create an excuse. As he dialed the combination, there was a calm look on his face, yet inside he was so scared he felt faint. He unlocked the drawer and, just as he started to pull it out, heard the monotone beeping of Nazir’s cell.
Al-Jaheishi reached into the drawer as he listened.
“Yes,” said Nazir, just a foot behind him. “What?”
Al-Jaheishi grabbed a sheaf of files that had nothing to do with the arms shipments, pulling them out and turning …
Nazir was already at the door. He had the phone to his ear. He turned, covering the phone with one hand.
“Bring them to my office,” Nazir said as al-Jaheishi motioned toward him with the stack of files.
Al-Jaheishi nodded and watched as Nazir walked quickly down the hall. He waited an extra moment, then another, and then one more. He opened the locks on his briefcase and popped it open, frantically switching the files inside with those in his hand. He shut the briefcase and bounded for the doorway.
12
RAMAT DAVID AIRBASE
ISRAELI AIR FORCE
JEZREEL VALLEY, ISRAEL
Dewey was the only passenger aboard the CIA Gulfstream 150, part of the Agency’s fleet of aircraft scattered around the world, a quasi airline referred to internally as Air America.
The cabin was dimly lit as the jet cut across the last miles of the nine-hour trip. Both sides of the cabin were filled with luxurious cream-colored leather captain’s chairs. Near the front, two large, deep built-in sofas stretched beneath the windows. Some of the Agency’s planes were stripped down and lacked creature comforts, but a few, like this one, were posh, used primarily when the Agency was escorting members of Congress into a hot zone.
It was the kind of supremely comfortable plane where a passenger could easily fall asleep for the entire flight. But Dewey hadn’t slept at all. Now, nine hours in and less than one to go before landing in northern Israel, he realized he’d made a mistake by not trying to grab a nod or two.
He read, for the third time, the brief Political Activities Division report on ISIS and its leader, Tristan Nazir.
TOP SECRET TOP SECRET TOP SECRET TOP SECRET
FLASH PROFILE: TERROR ALERT
CONTEXT: TERRORIST ENTITY 445 ISIS
TAG(S): Nazir, Tristan; Garotin; Muslim Brotherhood; ISIS; Beheadings
LAST UPDATE: JULY 8
BG RR4:
ISIS was founded in 2013 following the collapse of the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt. The main architecture of the group is Iraqi Baathist, but its leadership—a cult of personality—is Muslim Brotherhood.
The grou
p has, in a very short amount of time, aggregated disparate elements of the radical Islamic diaspora across Iraq and Syria into a cohesive, tightly run, disciplined operating entity. All military activities fall under the rubric of Ahmad Garotin, a 31-year-old Egyptian who previously served as military strategist for the Brotherhood in Egypt. It is assumed Garotin and Nazir connected during this tumultuous period in Cairo.
The history of ISIS is really about its founder, Tristan Nazir.
By age 26, Nazir was already a member of the Muslim Brotherhood’s Executive Office, as well as a member of the Brotherhood’s Shura Council, its governing body. Nazir was immensely valuable to the Brotherhood due primarily to his financial training and expertise. Although he did not graduate, Nazir attended the London School of Economics 2009–10 and Oxford 2007–08. Nazir was in charge of the Brotherhood’s finances and fund-raising prior to Morsi’s election. He managed the appropriation of all Brotherhood money and thus negotiated larger contracts with vendors, including arms manufacturers.
Quiet, taciturn, calm, and confident, even arrogant, Nazir was the brains behind much of the ascendancy of the Muslim Brotherhood in Egypt. Beneath his polished demeanor Nazir was a radical with extreme anti-American and anti-West beliefs. He preached a strategy of “accretion and permanence.” If the Brotherhood wanted to be more than just a mouthpiece for Islam and actually govern, Nazir argued, it required structural sources of recurring income. Al Qaeda, Nazir argued, would ultimately be a temporary entity due to the fact that it failed to create an ongoing source of revenue. Taxation was how countries did it. The Muslim Brotherhood couldn’t tax anyone and thus needed “bridge” financing. Oil production—acquired via military action—was the only way. Early on, Nazir was vocal in his calls for the military wing of the Brotherhood to use its strength to take petroleum-related assets that could then be resold. “Political power is meaningless if not accompanied by territory and natural resources. These hard assets will enable the Brotherhood to build permanence,” he said.
To the extent the Arab Spring was artificially manufactured and stoked, especially in its early days, Nazir was one of the main architects of that effort, knowing it could create opportunities for the Brotherhood. Following the Arab Spring and the ascension of Morsi to the Egyptian presidency, most members of the Shura Council argued that Morsi—and the Brotherhood generally—needed to show that he/it could tolerate opposition and that he/it would govern with moderation and thus show the world that sharia could work. Nazir was the only member of the Shura Council who argued for brutality, calling for the execution of all Egyptian military officers and political leaders and the imposition of martial law until such time as the Brotherhood was firmly ensconced in power. Nazir was ultimately fired from Morsi’s inner circle. He achieved freedom through dubious circumstances SAD/COMSTET have been unable to determine. He resurfaced two years later after ISIS was well on its way to consolidating power in Syrian and Iraqi militant [non-AQ] circles. It is believed he engineered a partnership with Yasim Hussein, one of the Iraqi Baathists …
