First Strike (11 page)

He changed into the new clothing and left the motel at 9
P.M.,
throwing his old clothing in a Dumpster behind the motel. He was on the 10:07
P.M.
ferry out of Larnaca to Tartus.

The ferry was surprisingly modern—a triple-pontoon craft built for speed with a large passenger hold built atop the pontoons. The ferry was packed with people. Mallory sat inside reading a book called
Angel's Envy
in Arabic. Almost everyone aboard the vessel was Syrian, and they were overwhelmingly male and young. A few days in Cyprus was a cheap respite from the war raging inside Syria.

Normally, a meet-up like this would have involved some sort of tertiary support, such as a Delta or two, in the background. But other than Calibrisi and Polk, nobody knew of Mallory's plans. If al-Jaheishi's information was accurate, it meant a covert arms program had taken place directly under Langley's nose, without ever being detected. It also meant it was an extremely high-level operation, possibly involving the Pentagon or State Department. The information al-Jaheishi possessed would, if true, get people in very hot water. They couldn't run the risk of tipping off whoever was inside the U.S. government about al-Jaheishi.

Mallory had grave doubts as to whether al-Jaheishi would show up, and if he did, if the evidence was even real. But as long as there existed the possibility that someone inside the U.S. government was funding ISIS, he had to go to Damascus and work the contact alone.

But the lack of backup was not what worried Mallory most. What worried him was the fact that al-Jaheishi had known him from Damascus and then had somehow had the guile to locate him in Milan.

As he sat alone, beneath the dim lights of the ferry's interior, surrounded by sleeping people, he realized it was likely a setup. A suicide mission. It was at those moments when Mallory thought not of his country but rather of Allison. The hole he'd felt for more than a year now was not going away. If he died, maybe there was a heaven. If there was, she would be waiting for him. It would be just her style to be right there, waiting, with her carefree Iowa smile on her face. Mallory shut his eyes and folded the book shut on his lap, feeling the cold wet of tears on his cheeks.

Mallory was awakened by a hard push on his shoulder. He opened his eyes, startled, then looked up to see a soldier staring at him. He had the olive-and-red beret of the Syrian Army.

“
Waraqa,
” the soldier barked, extending his hand.

Papers.

“
La bd li raqduu,
” said Mallory, in flawless Arabic.

I must have fallen asleep.

He pulled the passport from his pocket.

“May I stand up?” asked Mallory politely.

The soldier ignored him.

“What brings you to Tartus?”

“I live in Damascus,” said Mallory.

“Where in Damascus?”

“Rija.”

“What number?”

“One hundred seventy-seven.”

The soldier pored over the passport for nearly half a minute.

“What do you do in Damascus?”

“I worked at my brother's store, but he was killed by the terrorists. I look for work, always.”

“The terrorists?”

Mallory nodded. “ISIS,” he said.

The soldier handed the passport back to Mallory. He stared a few extra seconds at him.

“You should be in the army if you care about your country. They killed your brother? You're a coward.”

Mallory nodded, bowing his head. “I know,” he whispered, staring at the floor.

The soldier shook his head in disgust, then turned and walked to another Syrian, still asleep.

Mallory exited the ferry. The sky was still dark. He looked at his watch: 4:45
A.M
.

In the parking lot bordering the terminal, he approached a cluster of men loitering against their cars.

“Damascus?” he asked. “I will pay for a ride to Damascus.”

An old man with short gray hair nodded, then walked to his car, a dented yellow sedan.

“Forty dollars.”

As he climbed into the backseat of a small, beat-up Citroën, Mallory glanced at the ferry, now moored in the distance, then the ocean beyond.

“Twenty,” said Mallory.

“Twenty-five.”

 

15

DAMASCUS, SYRIA

Al-Jaheishi entered Nazir's office. In his hand, he held a manila folder. Nazir still clutched his cell phone to his ear. He stared without emotion at al-Jaheishi.

Here it is.
Al-Jaheishi mouthed the words.

Nazir nodded to the door, indicating that he wanted him to shut it. After he'd done that, al-Jaheishi stepped to Nazir and handed him the folder.

“It must be written just as I have said,” said Nazir into the phone. “If you can't write it, I will find someone else.”

Nazir covered the mouthpiece and glanced at al-Jaheishi.

“Sit down. This will only be a minute.”

Nazir removed his hand.

“It must be as simple as the United States Constitution. The Bill of Rights. Do you understand? The same structure, Mohammed, but with entirely different content. This will be the foundational document of a caliphate. It must be every bit as charismatic and timeless. It must show strength and…”

Nazir glanced suspiciously at al-Jaheishi.

“… compassion.”

Nazir hung up and dropped the phone on the desk. He opened the folder.

“Is this the only record of our transaction with the Americans?”

“Yes,” said al-Jaheishi. “Have I done something wrong?”

“Have you photographed this?” asked Nazir, ignoring the question as he flipped through the pages, then flashed a cold look at al-Jaheishi.

A warm burst of heat spiked at the base of al-Jaheishi's skull, then bloomed in his head.

Fear.

“No, Tristan. Of course not.”

Nazir seemed to study him for a few extra moments, then let a slight grin come to his lips.

“Let me see your phone.”

His hand shaking, al-Jaheishi reached to his pocket. He handed his phone to Nazir. Nazir turned it on.

“What is the code, Marwan?”

“Nine nine eight one.”

Nazir typed in the code, then thumbed through al-Jaheishi's phone. He opened his photo collection and quickly scanned through it. It took more than a minute. When he was finished, he tossed the phone to al-Jaheishi.

Nazir took the folder. He grabbed a section and reached to the right of his desk, stuffing the section into the shredder. The grinding noise was loud. As al-Jaheishi watched, Nazir stuffed the entire contents into the machine.

“I thought this was our leverage, Tristan—”

“Don't think,” said Nazir. “I'll do the thinking, Marwan.”

“Yes. I'm sorry.”

Nazir nodded to the door, telling al-Jaheishi to leave.

*   *   *

After al-Jaheishi was gone, Nazir sifted through the thin strips of paper in the trash can beneath the shredder.

His mind raced. He thought the hard part had already taken place. People, weapons, money—all those hurdles were past him. Now he was in the part of the process that came after the hard part. It was the interplay of people, countries, and other factors beyond his control, factors like al-Jaheishi's loyalty fighting against his weakness, Raditz's courage and patriotism at war with his desire for self-preservation.

What is your battle, Tristan?
he asked himself.

“It is the battle between my desire for infamy,” he whispered aloud, staring into the shreds of paper, though seeing nothing, “and my hatred.”

Nazir's mind flashed to the mountain, Everest. He'd been a member of the Oxford Mountaineering Club. The spring and summer of his junior year, he'd climbed Everest, or most of it. To get within a hundred feet of the summit required a year's preparation, two months in Nepal, a week in Base Camp, and countless days at various points along the way, acclimating. The final hundred feet—that was what no time could achieve for any man. For once you began, your body could not acclimate; it began to wither in the oxygenless heights. No, to climb the last hundred feet was about luck, fate, and confidence. The bitterness of his failure to climb the last hundred feet ate at Nazir every day, every hour. He tasted it now. He realized that ISIS was similar—the creation of a country—and he now stood at the same high precipice as so many years ago; the oxygen was thin, few had ever stood where he now stood, he could die due to factors beyond his control.

Yes, the first part was hard. But now you are at the place beyond the hard
.
The summit is in sight.

He thought of Raditz. It was an interesting fact—another fascinating fact in this whole thing—that something valuable can, in an instant, become worthless. That someone who offered protection could become your greatest enemy.

The evidence of his deal with Raditz had offered Nazir protection and, he thought, tremendous leverage. But no longer. Raditz was a destroyed man. He didn't care anymore.

Now, Nazir understood, the evidence could threaten everything he had created. Like a backpack filled with food and oxygen on Everest, the deal with Raditz had taken him to within a hundred feet of glory, but he could nevertheless die atop the summit. The evidence of the deal with Mark Raditz threatened everything.

In his head, Nazir replayed Raditz's words: “Go ahead, expose me. I'm already dead. But the moment the world finds out who paid for ISIS's guns, what then, Tristan?”

Nazir had scoffed at Raditz's words, but they stung, and now he realized truer words had not been uttered. If Raditz had done a deal with the enemy, Nazir had done one with the devil himself. If the world knew, it would alter the purity of ISIS's beginnings. The 150,000 men who'd enlisted without even the offer of pay? They would abandon it all—then come for him. The philosophical purity that was the underpinning of ISIS—equal parts religious fervor, loyalty, and, above all, hatred for America—would splinter into disarray and infighting. To compromise was not the way of ISIS. To compromise, and even work, with America … well, Nazir knew, that would be the end.

A knock came at the door, startling Nazir. “What is it?”

“It's Que'san.”

“Come in.”

Que'san, who was in charge of Nazir's personal security team, entered. He shut the door behind him.

“Have you changed the rules on the removal of files from the office, Tristan?” asked Que'san.

“No.”

“Even for Marwan?”

“For nobody. Files are
never
to be removed.”

“Then I believe we have a problem.”

“Marwan?”

“It's from the video camera inside his office,” said Que'san. “I think you should see it.”

*   *   *

Al-Jaheishi walked back to his office. He felt as if the floor was made of quicksand. Every step seemed to take hours. Every pair of eyes down the hall seemed to watch him walk as if they knew.

No one knows. Calm down. He doesn't know.

He sat down and took several large gulps from a water bottle, then removed his jacket.

He looked at the clock on his desk: 7:41.

Why is time moving so slowly?

He flipped up his laptop and went to his e-mail. But before the application had even loaded, he saw Que'san at the end of the long hallway, knocking on Nazir's door. It meant nothing. It happened twenty times a day, and yet, just as he turned the latch, Que'san flashed a sideways glance down the hall.

Al-Jaheishi waited for the door to Nazir's office to shut, then stood up.

He walked back down the hallway. If the steps a few minutes ago had been hard, these were like torture.

Does he know? He doesn't know, Marwan. He would have already killed you!

*   *   *

Nazir watched the video clip for the second time. It showed al-Jaheishi as he frantically took papers from the filing cabinet and switched them with those in the briefcase.

“When was this taken?”

“Less than an hour ago.”

Virtually every intelligence agency in the world was searching for ISIS and specifically Nazir. Nazir knew that everything depended on secrecy and that even one false move, such as accidentally leaving a piece of paper in a coffee shop, could expose him. Everyone inside the offices knew that the removal of files was considered an act of treason, punishable by death. It was difficult to believe anybody could be stupid enough to violate the rules. Al-Jaheishi wasn't stupid.

He already suspected al-Jaheishi had taken files in the past, but al-Jaheishi had always denied it. The video's confirmation was shocking, like a kick in the teeth.

Yet a part of him still gave his oldest friend the benefit of the doubt.

“There could be an explanation,” said Nazir. “Go ask him to come here.”

*   *   *

Each step al-Jaheishi took seemed to echo along the green marble of the corridor. He came to the door just before Nazir's. He glanced into the office. Azalea looked back, nodding. As he neared the door of Nazir's office, he heard the dull click of the latch. The knob was turning.

Before the door could open, al-Jaheishi passed the door, then charged for the lobby. He cut across the reception area, then entered the hallway at a full sprint. He ran to the elevators and hit the button.

He looked back. The hallway was silent. He put his hand into his pocket and touched the small thin SIM card.

“Come on,” he whispered to the elevator.

Faint chimes, indicating one of the cars was coming, chirped from the shaft.

Suddenly, he heard voices. He looked down the hallway just as the loud
ding
of the elevator's arrival punctuated the corridor.

Que'san burst through the suite door. He held a gun.

Oh, my God, what have you done?

As the elevator doors slowly parted, al-Jaheishi lurched inside.