First Strike

by Ben Coes

  Three bright klieg lights cast electric blue across a cramped, low-ceilinged room. The lights were positioned on a stanchion in the center of the room and were aimed at a man seated in a steel chair. The heat from the lights was intense, and after three hours, the man’s hair, face, and clothing were drenched in sweat.

  He was strapped to the chair. Metal bands were clamped around his wrists, ankles, and waist. Electrodes were affixed to his forehead, chest, and feet, their wires dangling out to the side. The wires ran along the ground and disappeared beneath a door.

  An IV was spiked into his left arm, its tube connected to a bag containing a liquid.

  As Calibrisi entered, the man stared up at him with a sorrowful, defeated expression. Calibrisi held the man’s eyes with an icy stare.

  The man tried to speak but couldn’t. All he could do was grunt. A red ball gag was stuffed in his mouth, held in place by a nylon strap wrapped around his head.

  Calibrisi followed the colorful wires from behind the man, which led to a large mirror at the back of the room. He opened the door next to the mirror, went inside, then shut the door behind him.

  The room was small. It had been built by a private contractor with top secret security clearance based on specifications provided by the CIA. The back and side walls were stacked with a variety of monitors and computer equipment, like the control room on a nuclear submarine. The front of the room was a large two-way mirror. The room was soundproofed and air-conditioned.

  Two individuals were seated in front of the mirror.

  “Did we run the pharmaceuticals?”

  “Yes,” said the woman. “We initiated the suite two hours ago. We gave him a second round just now.”

  Calibrisi looked at the man seated next to her.

  “And the polygraph is ready?”

  The man nodded. “Yes, sir. I ran him through three sessions of control questions as well as a GKT,” he said, referring to an agency interrogation protocol known as a guilty knowledge test.

  “What are shock levels?”

  “Five milliamperes for the first violation. Second is ten. Third is fifteen.”

  “Make the first sixteen,” said Calibrisi.

  “What about the second?”

  “There won’t be a second.”

  Calibrisi returned to the interrogation room. He went behind the man and unlatched the nylon at the back of his head, releasing the gag. He stepped around the table and stood behind the lights.

  The man panted. He flexed his jaw as he stared up at Calibrisi. Calibrisi remained silent for more than a minute. Calmly, he stared at the man in the chair.

  “What took you so long?” asked Raditz.

  “Traffic,” said Calibrisi. “Sorry, am I inconveniencing you, Mark? I can reschedule if you want.”

  Raditz shook his head, stretching out his mouth.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “I thought you would find out sooner. That someone would.”

  Calibrisi stood still, arms crossed.

  “My apologies,” said Calibrisi. “We were busy trying to stop ISIS from killing more innocent Americans.”

  Calibrisi shook his head in pure anger, then stepped forward, raising his right hand to his left shoulder and swinging right to left, viciously slapping Raditz across the cheek.

  “How the hell could you do this?” asked Calibrisi. “What were you thinking? I never, never would’ve tagged you as a traitor, not in a million years.”

  Raditz looked crestfallen, embarrassed, and humiliated.

  “I’m not a traitor, Hector,” said Raditz.

  “You supplied ISIS with more than a billion dollars’ worth of guns, missiles, and ammo. Garotin has now taken half of Iraq and Syria with those guns.”

  Raditz nodded. “I know. If you’re here to make me feel worse, there’s nothing you could say or do to make me feel any worse than I already do.”

  Calibrisi glanced at the control room. The agent manning the polygraph nodded: so far, he was telling the truth.

  “Who else is involved?”

  Raditz shook his head. “Nobody.”

  The agent on the polygraph held up two fingers. Raditz was lying.

  “You did this yourself?” he asked, holding up a finger to the control room. Don’t hit him yet. “And by the way, I set the amps to sixteen.”

  Raditz knew what it meant.

  “I did it alone. I mean, people were involved, but they didn’t understand what they were involved in.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “The authorizations on the dark pool money, for example. I was the only one who knew where that piece of it was going. The manufacturers didn’t have a clue.”

  “Harry Black needs to sign off on all black pool funds.”

  “And he did sign the protocols, but he had no idea.”

  “How could he not have any idea?”

  “Because I lied. I told him it was for weapons, but that they were to be used to fight terrorists. Because that’s what I was doing … It’s what I was trying to do.”

  “I still don’t understand why.”

  “You were there,” said Raditz. “It was the RAND report.”

  Calibrisi considered what Raditz said.

  “I remember.”

  “That was a watershed moment for me,” said Raditz. “I’ve spent half my life fighting radical Islam, and yet what did I have to show for it? Nothing.”

  “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

  Raditz shut his eyes, shaking his head.

  “No!” he yelled angrily. “Is that what you think?”

  “That’s certainly what it looks like.”

  Raditz took a deep breath.

  “I know it does,” he said, calming. “But the idea was just the opposite. Vet up-and-coming players, find one we could work with, aggressively fund someone who had the potential to scale. In other words, back winners in the region not as radicalized as Al Qaeda. A group that might be sympathetic to U.S. interests, at least in private. Arms for influence. Nazir fit the bill.”

  Calibrisi listened with a blank expression.

  “When was the last time you communicated with Nazir?” asked Calibrisi.

  Raditz’s mouth opened. He looked at Calibrisi, then he turned and looked at the two-way mirror.

  “Over a year ago.”

  Raditz screamed in the same instant his entire body contorted as if he was having a seizure. It lasted two seconds.

  Raditz looked up, panting, his face beet red and wet with perspiration.

  Calibrisi waited, giving him a few seconds to recover.

  “Sunday,” he panted.

  Raditz started to cry.

  “They took Zoe,” said Raditz, referring to his daughter. “They came and took Zoe and Susan.”

  Calibrisi took a step forward, a stunned look on his face.

  “Who’s they?”

  “They have a cell here,” said Raditz.

  Calibrisi pulled his cell phone from his pocket, hitting a button.

  “How many men?”

  Raditz glanced back at the mirror.

  “I don’t know. I swear, Hector. A van full. They came to my house. Threatened me.”

  “Did they take them?”

  Raditz nodded.

  Calibrisi heard the phone pick up.

  “Get me George Kratovil at the FBI,” said Calibrisi into the phone, then put his hand over the speaker.

  He looked at Raditz, who was now sobbing pathetically.

  “They took your daughter and your ex-wife and you didn’t let anyone know?” he asked. “You would let them die just to keep this whole thing secret? You’re contemptible—”

  Raditz was still panting. Every few seconds his body made an involuntary twitch.

  He looked up at Calibrisi. “No, they let them go.”

  “Hector—” The FBI director came on the line. Calibrisi removed his hand from the phone.

&nbs
p; “Hold a sec, George,” said Calibrisi as he stared at Raditz, studying him, as if his mind was trying to put the pieces together. There was something here; he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  It was Raditz who broke the silence.

  “Just kill me,” he whispered, pleading, tears of shame on his face. “We both know where this is going. I didn’t mean for it to end up this way, but it did, and I accept responsibility.”

  But Calibrisi wasn’t listening to Raditz. His mind continued to process. Finally, the quizzical look disappeared.

  “Why did Nazir release them?”

  Raditz shook his head back and forth, his eyes shutting.

  “Why, Mark?” asked Calibrisi calmly.

  “No,” cried Raditz. “No, I can’t—”

  Calibrisi nodded at the mirror.

  “No!” screamed Raditz. “I’ll tell you.”

  Calibrisi brushed the air with his hand, telling the control room to hold off.

  “Why did Nazir release them?” snapped Calibrisi.

  “Because I did what they asked.”

  Calibrisi paused. He put the phone back to his ear.

  “George, I need to call you back,” he said.

  He took a step toward Raditz. “Money?”

  Raditz shook his head.

  “My God,” said Calibrisi, anger rising. “You didn’t—”

  Raditz had an awful expression on his face. He fought against involuntary sobs that caused him to convulse.

  “Yes,” said Raditz.

  “Guns?”

  “Yes, guns. Ammo. And … missiles.”

  “You fucking idiot. How much?”

  Raditz returned Calibrisi’s stare. He remained silent. After several moments, he finally relented.

  “Almost nine hundred million dollars’ worth.”

  Calibrisi’s eyes went wide. He was speechless.

  “Nine hundred million!” he stammered.

  “Forty thousand rifles, thirty million rounds.”

  “Do you have the ship contact info?”

  “There’s a cooler in my basement, a YETI. The SAT number is taped to the bottom.”

  Calibrisi walked quickly to the door, grabbing the handle.

  “You need to understand something,” said Raditz. “The cell is still active.”

  Calibrisi jerked his head around. He glared at Raditz with contempt.

  “Where’re your daughter and wife?” asked Calibrisi.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Hector, be reasonable. I don’t want them involved,” Raditz begged.

  “Too late. You should’ve thought about that a long time ago.”

  “I don’t know. I told them to disappear.”

  Calibrisi took an angry step toward Raditz. “Where are they?”

  “No, leave them alone.”

  “We need to get them in front of a sketch artist,” said Calibrisi. “Immediately. We need to know how big the cell is and what they look like.”

  “You have to promise me—”

  Calibrisi nodded to the window. Raditz screamed as his body was kicked by another intense blast of electricity. After three seconds, Calibrisi waved his hand across his neck, telling them to stop.

  Raditz was shaking uncontrollably as sobs hiccupped from his throat.

  “I’m not going to promise you a goddam thing,” said Calibrisi, “but I would never hurt two innocent people. Because of you, we now have an active cell of terrorists on U.S. soil. We need to find that cell and we need your family’s help.” Calibrisi was seething. He leaned close to Raditz and spoke barely above a whisper. “I’m going to give you one more chance to tell me where they are or I swear to God I’ll put enough electricity through you to make you look like a fucking Christmas tree.”

  * * *

  Calibrisi walked quickly across the driveway, redialing George Kratovil at the FBI. An agent pulled open the back door of the black Cadillac DTS and Calibrisi climbed in, the phone to his ear.

  “Move it,” he said.

  Kratovil came on the line a few seconds later.

  “Hector,” said Kratovil. “What do you have for me?”

  “Do you still have people at Raditz’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell them to go into the basement. There’s some sort of cooler down there, a YETI. They need to find it. Taped to the bottom of the cooler is a number. As soon as you get it, text it to me.”

  “Got it. We’ll take care of it.”

  Calibrisi hung up on Kratovil and dialed CIA CENCOM.

  “Identify.”

  “This is Hector Calibrisi,” he said.

  “Hold, Director Calibrisi.”

  Several beeping noises could be heard on the line, followed by another operator.

  “This is CENCOM. Go, sir.”

  “I need you to patch me through to Torey Krug at EUCOM along with Tammy Krutchkoff in DST.”

  EUCOM was the U.S. European Command. DST was the CIA’s Directorate of Science and Technology.

  “Bridge it, sir?”

  “Yes. Hurry.”

  As Calibrisi waited, he thought about how best to bring in Raditz’s ex-wife and daughter. Raditz had finally admitted they were in Montreal. Calibrisi could’ve told Kratovil to dispatch a team, but he thought better of it. He trusted Kratovil, but it was impossible to predict what would happen if information was delegated beneath him at the FBI. Calibrisi had worked for five years at the FBI and he knew how good some of the agents were and how bad some of the agents were.

  The reconnaissance of Susan and Zoe Raditz had to be handled delicately. At this point, they were the only link to a cell of terrorists on U.S. soil. If it was not done correctly, they could run or not cooperate, and the last thing Calibrisi wanted to do was strap either of them to a machine like the one Raditz was currently attached to. But he would.

  Even more important, the fact that a cell was on U.S. soil was explosive information, the kind of thing an ambitious FBI agent might feel compelled to leak to a reporter or member of Congress.

  Calibrisi also worried about his Montreal chief of station, Charlie Couture. There was no question Couture could get the job done. He was one of the most trustworthy agents Calibrisi had. But he could be a little rough around the edges.

  The phone beeped several times, then the voice of the CENCOM operator came on the line.

  “This is CENCOM four two four, encryption protocol Panama Epsilon. Director Calibrisi, you’re live.”

  “General Krug,” said Calibrisi, “you have me and Tammy Krutchkoff from the CIA.”

  “Hi, Hector. What’s going on?

  Just then, Calibrisi’s cell phone vibrated with a text from Kratovil at the FBI. The number flashed across the screen.

  “We have a ship somewhere in the Mediterranean or on its way to the Mediterranean that needs to be stopped. It’s a container ship out of Mexico and it’s loaded with weapons on their way to Syria, and not the good guys either.”

  “What does loaded mean?”

  “Almost a billion dollars’ worth of guns, missiles, ammo.”

  Krug whistled. “That’s a big shipment. Do you know where it is?”

  “That’s why Tammy is on the line,” said Calibrisi. “Tammy, can we pinpoint a SAT phone by its number?”

  “Depends,” said Krutchkoff. “The answer is usually yes; all SAT phones have some sort of GPS. But the scrambling technology is changing every day. Whose phone is it?”

  “The ship captain.”

  “Is he friendly?”

  “Why?”

  “Because we could call. If he answers, it enables us to go around certain encryption layers.”

  “Assume he’s not friendly.”

  “Then it’ll be harder. He won’t answer. He knows he should only return calls. Second, if he’s been operating in a conflict theater like the MED, he’s going to be sophisticated enough to have invested in some cutting-edge encryption. He could be tough to find. Do
you have the number?”

  “I’m texting it to you right now,” said Calibrisi, typing and shooting Krutchkoff the text.

  “We’ll get working on it.”

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Krug. “You want me to sink it?”

  “No, not yet. Just lock it down.”

  30

  MEDITERRANEAN SEA

  The container ship was moving at a brisk twenty-eight-knot clip across the Mediterranean. Since departing Mexico, Miguel had pushed the ship to its maximum speed and not let up. Other than a brief but violent rainstorm somewhere in the Atlantic, it had been smooth sailing.

  That didn’t mean Miguel had enjoyed it. To the contrary. Raditz’s last words had left an indelible sense of anxiety.

  “I wouldn’t come back, not if you value your life.”

  Miguel had moved all kinds of illegal cargo in his long, lucrative career. In fact, for more than two decades he hadn’t moved anything that wasn’t against the law. Moving legal cargo simply didn’t pay very well. But he couldn’t recall feeling such a sense of dread as he did the day he shoved out of Tampico. His first large shipment of cocaine, from Cartagena to Sicily, had been stressful, but not like this.

  Miguel’s ship was a converted oil tanker built in 1957. It was 662 feet long and piled high with containers, a so-called feeder ship. It was one of three vessels he owned. All the boats shared a few similarities. They were rusted and old. The names had long ago faded. And they had been bought after bankruptcies of their former owners. The truth is, there were more ships than people able to captain them. There were literally thousands of abandoned ships throughout the world, some in dry dock waiting for a better day, others rotting husks on rocks and remote shores, near towns few had ever been to in places like Poland, Ukraine, in virtually every country in Africa with coastline, and all over South and Central America.

  There were seven crewmen aboard with him. It was low, even by the loose standards of that part of the shipping world his dilapidated, ugly old boat trafficked in. But seven was enough. He’d made more than a hundred transatlantic crossings in his career and knew what he needed. His men were known to him, handpicked, well-paid, trusted to do their jobs and keep quiet.

  Earlier that day, Miguel had taken the helm through the Strait of Gibraltar, entrance to the Mediterranean. It was clear enough to see—with the help of powerful binoculars—the Morocco Rock to the south. He could sense land, the smell of the earth, a salt aroma from the fishing ports. Now, at night, the lights of Spain were visible off the port side of the ship. Algeria was visible to the south, Tangier glowing orange in the far distance. Miguel loved the Mediterranean on nights like this. He’d experienced the same ocean at its worst, storms of seventy-knot winds and ocean swells twenty feet high. He had been across virtually every known shipping lane, and it was the Med that had given him the greatest highs and the worst lows. Tonight, the black water was like glass.