by Ben Coes
Thus, it works as such: when consolidating power, one must exert control on behalf of whatever agenda is that of the consolidator, and administer control with widespread and unfathomable violence, fear, and bloodshed. The Nazis, in summary, were not evil enough if their goal was permanence and political legitimacy—and power. The point is not that Nazism is good or bad. It has nothing to do with Nazism or, for that matter, with Anne Frank. The point is, when one has an objective, whether a government or an individual, one must bring to bear unbridled, unvarnished terror and pain in the pursuit of that objective. Anything less leads to defeat.
—T. Nazir, 1 Jan.
* * *
Nazir finished reading the passage. He flipped the page. Taped to the next page was a newspaper clipping.
Oxford Student Drowns
Francis Highgate III, an undergraduate student at Brasenose College, Oxford University, drowned two days before he was to graduate, it has been reported. Highgate, twenty-one years of age and the son of Vaughan Nazir and Barbara Highgate, was a resident of Kensington, London. According to Oxford police, Mr. Highgate was found floating in the Thames near the lower acres of Port Meadow. No further information has been released in the matter. A memorial service is to be performed this Saturday, 17th May, 12:30 P.M., in the Brasenose College Chapel.
48
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Dewey stared out the window as the chopper took him from Andrews Air Force Base across Washington, D.C. He was alone. When the chopper landed on the helipad at GW Hospital, he was greeted by a pair of plainclothes CIA paramilitary.
They stepped onto a waiting elevator, which descended to the second floor. When the doors opened, Dewey’s first sight was the expressionless face of J. P. Dellenbaugh, standing next to Amy Dellenbaugh, both consoling Vivian Calibrisi.
A cadre of other officials, staff members, Secret Service agents, and a medical team was also in the corridor. The tone was hushed.
On the wall above the nurses’ station, a television displayed live coverage of the hostage crisis at Columbia.
Behind him, on his cell phone, stood Polk. His normally friendly face was ashen, even haunted.
It was Vivian who saw Dewey first. Tears streamed down her face. Dewey wrapped his arms around her.
“Dewey,” she whispered, sobbing.
“He’s going to be all right, Vivian,” he said. “He’s the toughest son of a bitch I know.”
Dewey felt his own tears begin to moisten his eyes, but he fought to hold them back.
Dewey stepped to Dellenbaugh and extended his hand, but the president instead reached his arms out and hugged him.
“I need to talk to you,” Dellenbaugh whispered. “Go see him first.”
A nurse accompanied Dewey to the room. A sliding door—like a barn door—was moved aside by a nurse. It was a large, modern operating room. Dewey registered three nurses and four doctors. The walls were lined with plasma screens displaying digital readouts. The steady monotone of the heart machine seemed familiar.
In the center of the room, on a large, elevated steel table, covered in light blue blankets, was Calibrisi. His eyes were closed. An oxygen tube protruded from his mouth, running down his throat. Three separate IVs were attached to his arms. His skin was the color of parchment.
Dewey placed his hand on Calibrisi’s hand, clutching it. As hard as he tried to not cry, he felt tears on his cheeks.
“You’re not leaving yet,” said Dewey, squeezing his hand. “This is not how it ends.”
One of the doctors stepped forward. He placed his hand on Dewey’s shoulder.
“Are you family?” he asked.
Dewey looked at him but didn’t answer.
“It’s okay,” said the doctor.
“How bad is it?” Dewey asked. “People recover from heart attacks all the time.”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, they do. He’s alive. For now, that’s all that matters. We’re going to do everything in our power to bring him back.”
Dewey gripped Calibrisi’s hand as tears now rolled down his cheeks. He held onto his hand for more than a minute, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see J. P. Dellenbaugh.
“He’s going to be fine, Dewey,” said Dellenbaugh, forcing a smile. “You know it and I know it.”
Dewey walked back into the hall. Polk stood near the elevator, still speaking on the cell phone.
It was then that Dewey felt a cold, terrible emptiness, a chemical feeling of silent terror. He looked around the corridor, searching for her.
“Where’s Daisy?” he asked, his voice a little too loud.
Dellenbaugh motioned for Dewey to follow him. They walked to an empty room.
“Daisy is in the dormitory at Columbia,” he said. “The one taken over by ISIS. We haven’t told Vivian. I’m not sure if you agree, but she’s in a tough state.”
Dewey stared blankly into Dellenbaugh’s eyes.
“How did she end up in a Columbia dorm?”
“She was bringing a girl there. Her Little Sister, a precocious kid from inner-city Baltimore she’s mentored since the girl was eight.”
Dellenbaugh was choked with emotion.
“The information you got out of Syria detailed a massive illegal arms program involving the deputy secretary of defense,” Dellenbaugh said. “We supplied ISIS with everything. More than a billion dollars’ worth of guns and missiles. We made them. We created ISIS.” Dellenbaugh looked angry.
“Who did it?”
“Mark Raditz.”
Dewey was quiet. He knew who Raditz was. In fact, Dewey had a high opinion of him. Raditz was a key player in the discovery of the plot to detonate a nuclear device on American soil just a few months ago.
“A ship left Mexico four days ago loaded with another shipment of weapons,” Dellenbaugh continued. “We stopped the ship in the Mediterranean. That’s when Nazir’s men took over the dorm. They want the guns and ammo. They need the guns and ammo.”
When Dewey climbed aboard the jet earlier that day, he thought he would enjoy a calm ride home followed by a few weeks off. He felt battered and bruised. Not to mention the horrible feeling he could not shake, the feeling of having a knife against his throat.
The knowledge that he had asked Garotin to kill him.
Shoot me. A soldier’s death.
He was planning to head up to Castine and see his family. He needed some time. He figured Calibrisi would start looking for him in late October. He was going to avoid his calls for a few weeks, spend Thanksgiving in Castine, then head back to Langley. But when he found out Calibrisi had had a heart attack, everything changed. By the time he landed at Andrews, he was prepared for the worst. Calibrisi might die. Now he understood the gravity of it all. And as much as he wanted to think about the hundreds of people who were now hostages, who, if he knew ISIS, were slated to die, he could only picture Daisy. He could only ask, Why? Why, Daisy? Why did you need to be there, this day, that college, that dorm?
“No wonder he had a heart attack,” whispered Dewey.
“What?” asked Dellenbaugh.
But Dewey remained silent. Only someone who’s lost a child can understand. He reached out and grasped Dellenbaugh’s arm, trying to ease the anguish that now coursed through him.
Dewey shut his eyes for several moments, steadying himself. He knew what needed to happen. He knew what he needed to do. He alone could change it all. He could never bring Robbie back, but he could save the hundreds of Robbies who at that moment were slated for death. He could save Daisy. But he would need to strip away the feeling of helplessness. Replace it with anger.
He thought of the knife at his throat and let the memory course through him. He pictured the moment in the basement of the hospital, the two men dragging the corpse, the feeling of the trigger beneath his finger as he sent slugs into the terrorists. The sound of blood hitting the wall behind them. The look in their eyes as they understood, these monsters who pretended to not value life, that they were slated fo
r death. That he would be the one. It was a look of pure human fear. Cowardice. For him, a feeling of superiority and victory, a feeling that nothing else on earth had ever given him.
Dewey grabbed that anger then, in that moment. He took it and didn’t let it go. Whatever sadness, guilt, and sorrow caused him to reach for Dellenbaugh slipped away. He stood tall, spreading his legs, and a look came over his face that caused Dellenbaugh to flinch.
“Who’s running Columbia?” he asked.
“The FBI has command authority,” said Dellenbaugh. “Domestic terrorism.”
“I want to be involved, Mr. President.”
“You work for the Central Intelligence Agency. Technically, it’s illegal.”
Dewey stared into Dellenbaugh’s eyes. The president, a former professional hockey player, was the same height. He was also built similarly to Dewey—wide and stocky, his legs, arms, shoulders, chest, everything packed with muscles.
“The FBI has a lot of experience with this sort of thing,” said Dellenbaugh. “Obviously, their top CT team is on it. Half the guys in the group are former Special Forces or CIA.”
“You’re probably right,” said Dewey.
Dellenbaugh grinned. “Then again,” he said, “I’m not a lawyer. Plus I hate lawyers.”
Dewey nodded and turned.
“I’ll call George Kratovil,” Dellenbaugh said. “Dewey, keep me in the loop. You have my personal cell.”
“I’m not looking to make problems, sir. If they know what they’re doing, I’ll back away.”
“And if they don’t?”
Dewey stared at Dellenbaugh with a cold, blank expression. He said nothing. Then he walked down the empty corridor, away from the crowd of nurses and doctors and medical staff, away from Polk, away from Vivian. He found the stairs, climbing at a fast run to the roof. On the helipad were two choppers, including the CIA Traumahawk. He opened the cabin door and climbed in.
“Get this thing in the air,” said Dewey.
Both pilots looked back as Dewey took a seat.
“This is an assigned—”
“I don’t care what it is,” said Dewey. “Get it in the air now. Head for New York City.”
Dewey pulled out his cell and hit Speed Dial. He heard the low, groaning rumble of the chopper engine beginning to move the rotors.
A familiar voice came on the line.
“Hey,” said Rob Tacoma.
“Are you in the United States?”
“Yeah.”
“New York City?”
“Maybe.”
“What does ‘maybe’ mean?”
“It means,” said Tacoma, whispering, “that I’m at the Four Seasons with Ilian Gateeva. She’s in the bathtub.”
“Who?”
“She’s a Sports Illustrated model.”
“Congratulations. I’ll call someone who hasn’t turned into a douche bag.”
“Fuck you. What do you need?”
“I need a place to land a helicopter and I need you to meet me there.”
“West Thirtieth Street has a heliport.”
“Better get Katie. Tell Igor while you’re at it.”
“What are we doing, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I need your help with something.”
“‘Something’?”
“Remember the bomb in the harbor?”
“Yeah, sort of.”
“That kind of something.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”
49
CARMAN HALL
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
Sullivan heard a noise coming from one of the stairwells. He walked slowly to the door, his rifle extended, finger on the trigger. At the end of the hallway he leaned carefully out and looked up. What he saw made him gasp. The stairs were covered in a latticework of wire. Near the center, a large object with a flashing red light was perched.
Sullivan quietly inched over to the stairs. A thin gap along the banister allowed him to see up and down. His heart racing fast, he leaned into the opening and looked up. The floor above appeared normal, but two floors up, wire was wrapped around the banister, the same way as on the stairs directly in front of him. He looked down. Though it was dark, he could make out more wires two floors below.
“Oh, my God,” he whispered as he tiptoed back to the door.
He took his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one,” came a female voice. “What is the emergency?”
“My name is Jack Sullivan. I’m inside the dormitory at Columbia.”
There was a brief pause, which Sullivan guessed was disbelief.
“We’re aware of the situation. Are you all right?”
“Yes, but I need to speak to someone who is managing things,” said Sullivan.
“Mr. Sullivan—”
“Please listen to me. I’m not a student. I’m a parent. I killed one of the terrorists. I need to speak to someone. There’s a bomb. The building is wired.”
“Hold on, sir.”
As Sullivan waited, he ran to the stairs on the other side of the building. He saw the identical wire lattice and bomb. The floors two up and two down were also wired to blow.
He let out a deep breath, trying to calm down.
“This is Andrew Ronik with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Who am I speaking with, please?”
The voice on his cell phone awakened Sullivan from his shock.
“Hello?”
“The … the building is wired,” whispered Sullivan.
“When you say wired—”
“There are bombs on the stairs. I counted six. There could be more. They’re balanced on some sort of wire netting above the stairs.”
“Let’s take a step back,” said Ronik. “Who is this?”
“My name is Sullivan. Jack Sullivan.”
“Who are you?”
“A parent. My daughter is a freshman. I was dropping her off. I’m inside the dorm. I hid. I killed one of their men.”
“Where are you, Mr. Sullivan?”
“On the third floor.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes. Well, actually, no. There’s an elderly woman. She was too old to jump. She’s hiding.”
“I’m going to ask you to hold for a sec.”
“Okay.”
More than a minute passed, then someone else came on the line.
“This is Dave McNaughton with the FBI. Mr. Sullivan?”
“Yes. Jack Sullivan.”
“Okay, Jack. I need you to do something for me.”
“What?”
“Can you take some photos of one of the bombs? Try to get a close-up. There will be an area with a bunch of wires, maybe a light. I’m especially interested in that. Also, you told Agent Ronik it’s on wires?”
“Yes.”
“Please try to get a close-up.”
“What should I do with them?”
“Text them to me. I’ll give you my cell.”
* * *
As Sirhan started for the stairs, he heard suppressed gunfire.
Fahd.
He ran into a room facing the campus. This time, he was careless, sprinting to the window and looking out. It appeared empty. Green lawn spread in neat rectangles between large, majestic buildings and sidewalks punctuated by statues. He saw a cluster of SWAT-clad law enforcement officers at the top of wide granite stairs in the center of campus, way in the distance. Looking left, in front of a building on the other side of campus, he saw a similar cluster of men in tactical gear.
He heard another suppressed gunshot. It seemed to be coming from directly below him.
He leaned closer to the window, trying to get a better view down the side of the building.
He saw movement below. He pressed his face against the glass.
“Oh, my God,” he said aloud.
Someone was crawling along the side of the building on the sidewalk, dragging a leg. Then he eyed several others, moving away,
a few crawling, some walking, all clinging to the brick façade of the dormitory.
He pressed his face tight to the glass. Then he saw it: third floor. Students were jumping from the window.
Fahd, you stupid idiot!
Sirhan sprinted down the hallway and up the stairs. When he reached the tenth floor, he motioned for Tariq. Another round of gunshots echoed. They scrambled down the stairs toward the sound.
* * *
Sullivan went back to the stairs. He listened for several minutes, making sure no one was on the stairs. He stepped to the area below the bottom stair, a few inches from the beginning of the wires. He took several photos. Back in the third-floor hallway, he texted them to McNaughton.
Sullivan heard gunfire coming from above. Then he heard screaming from the bedroom where the students were jumping.
He ran down the hall and charged into the room. A male student was standing on the ledge.
“Back inside!” Sullivan screamed.
It was too late.
The slug hit the boy’s shoulder. Blood splattered down his front and across the window as the boy screamed.
Sullivan lurched for him, but he fell just as Sullivan reached him. He watched, helplessly, as the boy tumbled out, somersaulting to the ground, landing on his head.
* * *
The sniper, Kulka, was on his stomach on the roof of the School of Journalism, several hundred feet away. His rifle was an FN SPR A3G, the standard-issue sniper rifle of the FBI, manufactured by a Belgian company, and deadly accurate.
The rifle was on a ceramic bipod. He stared through a Millet Designated Marksman Scope, searching for the gunman he knew was somewhere hiding behind one of the hundreds of windows.
For the past minute and a half, Kulka had listened as the gunman fired suppressed shots at the ground below, trying to hit the students. But the angle was too tight. The gunman couldn’t get the correct downward angle unless he leaned the entire weapon out the window. Thus far, he’d remained just inside.
