by Ben Coes
Part of him wished it was a rougher sea. It would’ve taken his mind off the job at hand. He hated the Middle East and especially Syrians. The fact that he was delivering the guns to ISIS made it a hundred times worse. They were evil. He’d seen it in their eyes on the two other occasions he’d brought cargo to them. He knew that it was only the fact that they might need him in the future that kept him alive. Now, it actually was the last shipment, according to Raditz. What if the people from ISIS knew this as well? It would mean he and his crew were expendable after the ship reached port. The terrorists would simply kill them all and unload the boat.
On the other hand, if he didn’t make the delivery, he’d never see his money. Raditz had made sure of that. As with Raditz’s prior shipments, the anonymous banker needed confirmation, in this case a signature from Nazir himself, that the weapons had arrived.
Miguel cued the radio. “Sammy, come here.”
A few minutes later, a short older man entered the bridge.
“Take the helm,” Miguel said.
“Yes, boss.”
Miguel walked out onto the bridge, beneath a cloudless sky. In front of him and behind him he could see the lights of other ships. He lit a cigarette and leaned on the railing.
His eyes moved to the water on the starboard side of the ship—then the gunnel. What he saw caused him to gasp. In one frightening, mesmerizing moment, a swarm of black figures appeared along the edge of the ship. In the dim light of the deck, he could see black rubber covering each man, glistening with water that shimmered in the low light. The cigarette dropped from his mouth as he turned and ran.
Miguel charged toward the bridge. Inside was his pistol. But as he neared the open door, he heard the click of a weapon. It was close by. Close enough to hear the friction of metal as a bullet was chambered.
“Don’t move,” came the voice.
American.
Hidden by the shadows, Miguel made out two men—commandos—dressed in all black tactical gear, dripping water on the deck. How long had they been there?
The man speaking held a short rifle with a silencer jutting from the muzzle, aimed at Miguel’s head. The other man signaled silently to the others with his left hand as, with his right, he swept his weapon in a 270-degree arc behind the first commando.
Miguel raised his arms.
“Get down on the ground on your stomach, arms behind your back,” the gunman said calmly.
Miguel got to his knees and dropped onto his stomach.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The gunman said nothing. Instead he pulled a pair of flex-cuffs from his belt and tied Miguel’s hands together.
As Miguel felt the cold steel of the bridge against his cheek, he listened.
“Aegis Formation, this is Ryan, Lion Team One. We have the target secure. Repeat, we are on board the boat and have the CON. Over.”
31
OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
On the ride back from Chantilly, Calibrisi briefed the president and the National Security Council on the Raditz interrogation. The meeting was already under way when he walked into the Oval Office.
President Dellenbaugh, seated on one of the sofas, had returned from Andrews Air Force Base, where he had been about to take off on a three-day campaign swing through New England, campaigning for various congressional and Senate candidates. Amy Dellenbaugh, in the middle of a doubles match at Bethesda Country Club, had hastily forfeited the match, then been choppered to Andrews in order to fill in for her husband.
Most presidents would’ve welcomed the change of plans. Three days on the campaign trail meant more speaking than a man was supposed to do, pastries, lobster rolls, hot dogs, cheeseburgers, donuts, every hour or two, in front of local photographers clamoring for a shot of the president doing the local shtick. It meant random harangues by angry citizens about this tax or that bill, most of which Dellenbaugh had as much to do with as they did. And yet, Dellenbaugh was disappointed. He loved the campaign trail the way a runner loves the course or the hunter the woods.
But there was no choice. Raditz and the arms-for-influence program—more than a billion and a half dollars and counting—threatened the very presidency. Whatever progress had been made in working with Islamic countries in the Middle East to stomp out Islamic terrorism would be gone if the information got out, which it would. But what weighed on Dellenbaugh’s mind was not his job.
Calibrisi looked slightly ashen as he walked into the Oval Office. Seated on two large tan leather Chesterfield sofas were Dellenbaugh, Bill Polk, Secretary of State Tim Lindsay, Arden Mason, head of homeland security, National Security Advisor Josh Brubaker, White House Communications Director John Schmidt, and Harry Black, secretary of defense.
“Hi, everyone,” said Calibrisi, sitting down in one of two red velvet wing chairs at the end of the Chesterfields. “Sorry I’m late.”
Dellenbaugh looked at Calibrisi. “Where’s Dewey?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“If he’s dead, I will authorize the entire United States military to go in and retrieve his body,” said Dellenbaugh. “And if he’s alive, God forbid…”
Dellenbaugh paused, momentarily flummoxed with emotion.
“They’re not cutting his head off, Hector,” Dellenbaugh said. “We can’t let that happen.”
“A decorated Special Forces soldier, an American one, getting executed,” said Schmidt, shaking his head. “That would be a fucking disaster.”
Dellenbaugh shot Schmidt a hard look.
“I’m not talking about the goddam PR!” yelled Dellenbaugh, his face red, slamming his fist on the coffee table, causing his coffee cup to spill. “I’m talking about Dewey. He—of all people—doesn’t deserve it! Goddammit! All I want to know right now is how the hell are we getting him out of there!”
Calibrisi nodded. He was silent for several moments, trying to rein in his own emotions. Slowly, he started to shake his head, but he didn’t say anything.
The room went quiet for a long, pregnant pause.
Finally, it was Polk who spoke up.
“Dewey’s a big boy,” he said calmly. “If he could hear you all now, he’d be laughing. He’ll be fine, trust me. Frankly, if they were smart they would’ve shot him already. In which case, he ain’t gonna have his head chopped off. If they were stupid enough the keep him alive? Well, all I can say is, my money’s on Dewey.”
Calibrisi’s eyes met Polk’s.
“So basically let him fend for himself?” barked Dellenbaugh.
“No, of course not, Mr. President,” said Polk. “He was brought into Syria by the Israelis. I spoke with Menachem Dayan half an hour ago. He’s mobilized a couple of teams from Shayetet 13 and Sayeret Metkal. Kohl Meir is running the operation.”
Dellenbaugh looked at Harry Black. “Have we located the ship, Mr. Secretary?”
“Yes, sir,” said Black. “Less than two hours ago, a team of SEALs took control of the ship in the Mediterranean. The ship is now in international waters and is under lockdown. We have an Aegis destroyer within sight line of the boat. In addition, the captain and crew are cooperating. They’re not going anywhere, Mr. President.”
“Harry,” said the president, “what is the scale of the shipment in terms of the civil war?”
“I don’t follow, sir.”
“What would have happened if we hadn’t caught the shipment? If it had been delivered.”
Black let out a whistle and pulled his glasses from his head.
“This is almost nine hundred million dollars’ worth of guns, bullets, and shoulder-fired missiles. Nothing fancy, just a ton of it. It’s all Mexican, copies, and cheap. If it was American-made, we’re talking about two billion dollars’ worth of firepower.”
Black paused.
“ISIS is already sweeping across Syria,” he continued. “They control major parts of Iraq. They have an unlimited supply of fresh soldiers. Mr. President, if this
shipment were delivered, ISIS would have strategic advantage. They’d control all of Syria and about half of Iraq. They’d have a country.”
Calibrisi spoke up.
“They would also control a petroleum supply sufficient to ensure long-term stability. Permanence. It would be the straw that broke the camel’s back in that region, sir. If we thought the last decade was hard, with a madman like Nazir presiding over a well-resourced state, we would enter a new era. Once he stabilized Syria and Iraq, we would have to anticipate more aggression, more terror, and the possibility of a wider arc of jihadist influence. Israel, Jordan, Kuwait, even Iran. Just as Hitler did, Nazir would try to expand his reach—and quickly. It could be Jordan, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia—even Israel.”
Josh Brubaker, the national security advisor, took a remote and aimed it at a bookshelf along the wall of the Oval Office. The bookshelf slid to the side, revealing a large plasma screen. He hit it again. Three photos of Nazir appeared.
“What few writings we have by Nazir are revealing,” said Brubaker. “They’re sober-minded, well-written, and thoughtful. He’s studied every important political theorist since Thucydides. Machiavelli, Marx, Sun Tzu, even Thomas Paine. Deep down he’s a political scientist. He believes in something called ‘accretion and permanence.’ Get control over resources and land—the rest will take care of itself. Nazir actually admires the United States’ rise to power, which he calls the most successful example of accretion and permanence in human history. This might shock you, but I don’t believe he’s a terrorist, sir. He uses terror as a means to the achievement of political power—and it’s working. In a way, he’s worse than a terrorist. With control of a state he would be a very challenging adversary for a long time to come.”
“But he isn’t there yet,” said Dellenbaugh.
“No, sir. Thank God for that.”
“What are we doing with the ship?”
“It will be rerouted back to Virginia.”
The door to the Oval Office opened. The president’s assistant, Cecily Vincent, inserted her head.
“Mr. President, there’s a call for you,” said Cecily, glancing around the room, obviously aware of the importance of the meeting and yet still willing to interrupt it.
“I don’t care who it is,” said Dellenbaugh. “It needs to wait.”
“The FBI ran it through a voice recognition program to confirm it,” said Cecily. “It’s Tristan Nazir, sir.”
Dellenbaugh’s mouth opened. He glanced to Calibrisi. The room was silent for several moments.
“He wants the guns,” said Calibrisi.
“Why would I take the call?” asked Dellenbaugh.
Calibrisi paused, deep in thought, then looked at the president.
“If Nazir’s calling, he’s not admitting defeat,” he said. “Which means he has leverage, or at least believes he does. If there’s something deeper going on, it would be better to find that out sooner rather than later. We understand the risk of the weapons falling into his hands. We don’t have to negotiate or do anything. He knows this and yet is still pursuing the guns. If he has something up his sleeve, he might reveal it.”
Dellenbaugh nodded.
Calibrisi turned to Cecily.
“Have Langley CENCOM initiate the call back through DST,” he told her. “Get DST to see if they can do anything in terms of Nazir’s location. We also need a layer or two of encryption and protective jamming so he can’t record it.”
Cecily looked slightly confused.
“Ask for Tammy Krutchkoff and tell her what I told you. She’ll understand what you mean.”
“Got it.”
The Oval Office was dead quiet for several seconds, then the speakerphone on the coffee table started ringing. Brubaker, who was closest to the phone, leaned in and hit the Speaker button. The phone clicked several times. Another few moments of silence, then a voice.
“President Dellenbaugh, this is Tristan Nazir.”
“What do you want?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“I want to negotiate a deal.”
Dellenbaugh paused. “The United States doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”
“That is absurd and we both know it. You negotiate with terrorists all the time. I’m not here to debate you, President Dellenbaugh, but if I was, I would win.”
“When have we negotiated with terrorists?”
“Well, Iran, for example. What, they aren’t terrorists? Now that they will be nice to you a little?”
“Okay, you got me,” said Dellenbaugh. “I guess I won’t negotiate with people who cut the heads off of innocent people.”
“How many American Indians do you think had their heads chopped off by Americans?” asked Nazir. “I am building a country, just as you built a country. And while we have different ideologies, the tactics are quite similar.”
“You’re a sick man,” said Dellenbaugh. “And I’m done trying to have a conversation with you. I repeat, what do you want?”
“You know what I want: the shipment.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“If the world knew how many weapons America has already sent, Mr. President, I would think that would prove rather embarrassing.”
“Not as embarrassing as that knowledge would be to you,” said Dellenbaugh. “Your loyal band of nutjobs would abandon you.”
Nazir was quiet. Finally, he spoke. “Well, perhaps you’re right,” he said, resignation in his voice. “But you can’t blame me for trying.”
The Oval Office was silent. Dellenbaugh locked eyes with Calibrisi.
“The thing is,” continued Nazir, “nutjobs can be very determined, and, as the leader of the nutjobs, I am the most determined.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You leave me no choice,” said Nazir. “Now something is going to happen that will make you reconsider your decision. It is something that you could prevent right this moment by simply letting the ship arrive in Syria. In twenty-four hours, you’ll remember this moment. It was a moment you could have stopped things from escalating.”
“I repeat, what are you talking about?”
“If I told you, then you would be able to stop it. So I’m not going to tell you, obviously. But it will upset some people. American people. Send the guns—or else.”
32
PENN STATION
NEW YORK CITY
A white van with faded lettering—a logo for a Spanish bakery in Long Island—moved down a crowded Seventh Avenue in front of Madison Square Garden, then went right.
Several stories belowground, the 7:42 A.M. Amtrak Acela train from Washington, D.C., arrived on schedule. It was packed. Commuters, businessmen and -women, tourists, families, students, and, sprinkled about the train in random cars like poison, nine men, all in their late teens or early twenties, all of Middle Eastern descent.
Terrorists.
They moved through Penn Station, each man walking alone, blending into the morning commuter tumult. Two of the men headed for the subway, while two others took the crowded escalator to Eighth Avenue and got in line for the uptown bus.
Two moved through Penn Station and then Madison Square Garden, emerging separately from the building a few minutes apart, and walked in opposite directions.
A few minutes later, at approximately the same time the uptown #1 train pulled out of Penn Station, and the bus shut its door and started to move, the slightly beat-up van pulled alongside one of the two men who’d chosen to walk. The man opened the passenger door and climbed in without saying anything. The van started moving, turning right on Thirty-sixth Street. Three-quarters of the way down the block, the van stopped and the second pedestrian climbed inside. The van started to move again. In a few blocks, it went left and headed uptown.
The last man to climb into the van, Sirhan, sat quietly staring out the front window. Behind him he heard movement. He recognized the sound of a magazine being slammed into a rifle. He could even tell the difference between the different assault ri
fles now being assembled, checked, and loaded—three Kalashnikov AK-47s and five AR-15s.
A few minutes later, Ali moved to the seat just behind Sirhan and the driver, Meuse. He said nothing. Instead, he looked in the rearview mirror, catching Meuse’s eyes. Almost imperceptibly, Ali nodded.
The guns are ready.
Meuse registered the nod, then turned to Sirhan, in the passenger seat. He repeated the same silent, barely detectable nod.
“What about the IEDs?” asked Sirhan in a low voice.
Meuse nodded to the back.
Sirhan turned and saw a pile of duffel bags. Inside, he knew, were more than a dozen IEDs. Then he caught the sight of a long, black metal case tucked beneath the seats. Inside were two SA-24 surface-to-air missiles and a shoulder launcher.
The van moved up Broadway, through the Upper West Side. Meuse drove slowly; when he saw a yellow light, he stopped, drawing a horn from a taxi behind him. As he continued uptown, he remained well back from whatever car was in front of him.
By 105th Street, the neighborhood began to change. The sidewalks were less crowded and more youthful. Students. A glance above the rooflines of the low brick apartment buildings revealed the top of a majestic granite edifice some distance away.
Columbia University.
Each block now showed signs of students. Cars, minivans, SUVs parked illegally with hazard lights flashing; families arrayed nearby, carrying bags and boxes and furniture. The beginning of the school year.
At 114th Street, the van went right. On the left side of the street, a maroon minivan was parked behind a dark green Range Rover. Both vehicles had people around them; a father was helping his son remove a large flat-screen television from the back of the minivan as a woman looked on, sipping coffee. Another family, a father, daughter, and a young boy, pulled bags from the shiny SUV.
