First Strike (2 page)

“A popular revolution brought me to power,” said Morsi. “I cannot abandon those who elected me. I certainly would not
behead
people in order to preserve my own power.”

Nazir glanced above the conference table in the direction of the window, where he had been standing.

“Marwan,” said Nazir. “Come here.”

Al-Jaheishi, who was dressed similarly to Nazir, looked up. His face turned red. His eyes darted about nervously.

“Don't be nervous. Come here.”

Al-Jaheishi walked tentatively from the corner of the room to Nazir. He glanced nervously at Morsi, then to the conference table, then stared at the floor.

“Put your hand on the table,” said Nazir quietly.

The young man slowly moved his hand to the table.

Nazir glanced at Garotin. “Minister, might I borrow your knife?”

Garotin reached beneath the table and pulled a knife from the sheath at his ankle. He placed it on the table and slid it to Nazir, who picked it up.

Nazir looked into the boy's eyes.

“Would you sacrifice yourself, Marwan, if it was part of something bigger than you?”

“Yes, Tristan. You know this.”

Nazir looked at Morsi.

“When George Washington was fighting the British, he did not have enough money to buy shoes or socks for his men, even in the dead of winter. The greatest military victory of the Revolutionary War occurred when Washington led his troops, many in bare feet, across the Delaware River in temperatures that no man at this gathering has ever experienced. Bitter cold, the kind that kills men. Most of Washington's troops either died or lost their legs to frostbite and gangrene. But Washington knew what needed to be done.”

Nazir raised the blade over his head and slashed down. The sharp tip of the knife cut into the top of al-Jaheishi's hand. It sliced through skin, muscle, and sinew. There was a horrendous, dull noise in the moment the blade entered. Then a low thump as the steel entered the wood table. Al-Jaheishi winced but said nothing as blood spilled out.

Pandemonium erupted throughout the room, though al-Jaheishi himself remained calm.

Nazir looked around as blood gushed onto the table. He looked at Morsi, then extended his arms out in front of himself, prepared for arrest. The doors to the room burst open. Two presidential guards charged inside. Their eyes went to the table. Dark crimson was now spreading.

Carnage.

Several people pointed at Nazir. The guards turned. He was waiting, calmly, his hands extended.

“Arrest him,” said Morsi. “He's insane.”

 

 

BLT STEAK

WASHINGTON, D.C.

SIX MONTHS LATER

In a city with more than its fair share of fancy steakhouses, BLT was a cut above the rest. It was Washington's most popular, where professional athletes, businessmen, senators, diplomats, and lobbyists filled the tables. Even the president of the United States was known to dine here at least once a month.

On this particular Friday evening, BLT was crowded and busy. The mood was boisterous, with laughter echoing against the Makassar ebony of the ceiling and walls, a few shouts from table to table as diners recognized each other, chefs and waitstaff communicating in barked give-and-take, always a sense of underlying fun, as if meeting the high demands of BLT's reputation was some form of athletic contest.

At the back of the restaurant, a set of mahogany doors led to the large private dining room. Behind the closed doors, a massive wood table was designed to accommodate several dozen people.

This night, the table was empty—except for two men in dark suits.

The din from the restaurant penetrated the walls, creating a low, comforting hum inside the elegant room.

They sat at one end of the table. The table was bare except for a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a steel briefcase, unopened. It was between the two men, though it was a little closer to the man on the right, Stedman. A thin tungsten cable ran from a padlock on the briefcase to the man's wrist. The case hadn't left his wrist since departing London seven hours before.

Stedman's dirty-blond hair was parted in the middle and swept back. His face was weathered and handsome. His chair was pulled slightly back from the table and he was leaning casually back, his legs crossed in front of him. Stedman studied the large room, a quizzical look on his face.

He turned to the other man. “What is the American obsession with steakhouses?” he asked, his British accent sharp and crisp, Eton-educated, confident, and, above all, aristocratic.

The other man, Cannon, grinned but said nothing.

“It just baffles me,” Stedman continued. “I would hardly place the destruction, preparation, and consumption of cow in such glory.”

“That's because the English could never figure out how to catch the cows,” said Cannon, a slight Texas twang in his voice. “They outrun you guys.”

Stedman laughed. Then his smile disappeared.

“Where is he?”

Cannon took a sip of wine.

“His country is currently fighting two, some would argue three, wars,” said Cannon calmly. “I could be wrong, but I'm guessing the deputy secretary of defense might be a little busy.”

At that moment, the door slid open and a short, slightly roundish middle-aged man with brown hair stepped inside and slid the door shut: Mark Raditz, the deputy U.S. secretary of defense.

“James, Bill,” said Raditz apologetically, stepping toward them with his arm outstretched, “I apologize. I was at the White House.”

“I think that's a pretty decent excuse,” said Cannon, shaking his hand. “Anything you can tell us?”

“Nothing you don't already know,” said Raditz, an anxious look on his face. “Afghanistan is a fucking mess. Iraq's even worse.”

Raditz took a seat at the end of the table just as a waitress stepped into the room.

“Good evening, Mr. Raditz,” she said. “May I get you something to drink?”

“Sure, Jenny. A bourbon would be great.”

Raditz noticed the briefcase on the table. His eyes moved to the steel cable attached to Stedman's wrist.

“What's up?”

Stedman reached into his pocket, removed a set of keys, and opened the briefcase. He removed a stack of paper. He dropped it with a thud on the table in front of Raditz.

DRAFT TOP SECRET/ /NOFORN DRAFT

U.S. SENATE SELECT COMMITTEE ON INTELLIGENCE

The Metrics of Jihad:

Committee Study on the Current State of Radical Islam

Forward by Senate Select Committee on Intelligence Chairman Saul Kennedy

Rates of Enlistment

Financial Strength

Force Ranking of the Different Groups

DRAFT TOP SECRET/ /NOFORN DRAFT

Raditz stared at the cover sheet.

“Saul Kennedy called me last fall,” said Cannon, referring to the senior senator from California, who was chairman of the senate intelligence committee. “In October, SSCI hired RAND to conduct a bottoms-up assessment of the current state of jihad.”

“What do you mean by ‘bottoms-up'?”

“Numbers,” said Cannon. “Nothing but numbers.”

“We analyzed all militant Islamic groups in the Middle East, Africa, and Europe,” said Stedman. “We used a specific set of metrics and then we benchmarked the various groups. Rates of enlistment, finances, technical skills, and a bunch of other quantitative measurements. We went deep into the field. We had an unlimited budget. Needless to say, we spent a great deal of money. Intelligence is not cheap. SSCI wanted a comprehensive picture of radical Islam's health, as well as the relative strengths and weaknesses of the various jihadist groups compared against one another.”

The door slid open. The waitress returned. She handed Raditz a glass.

“Let me guess. It's a shit show.”

“Radical Islam is gaining momentum,” said Stedman, “even in places where the West has focused its resources. In virtually every category and across every metric, in every geography, the battle against jihad is being lost, and lost badly.”

“It's worse than that,” said Cannon. “Where the U.S. invested money in the form of troops, or even in such things as schools, well building, and food programs, growth was especially acute.”

Raditz skimmed over the five-page executive summary. When he was finished, he rubbed his eyes for a few moments, then looked up. He drank the bourbon in one large swig, reached for the bottle of wine, and filled his bourbon glass. He pushed his chair back.

Raditz had spent his entire career fighting terrorism. What did he have to show for it? America's vaunted war on terror was like dust in the wind, only the wind in this case was a hurricane. The two wars, the drone strikes, the kill teams, the covert operations, Gitmo, enhanced interrogation, NSA eavesdropping, and tracking had all, if anything, spurred the jihadists on and made them stronger, tougher, more capable—and more committed. Like the pruning of a tree, each American attempt at cutting off jihad's limbs had only made it stronger.

“You could've just e-mailed this to me.”

Cannon reached into his coat pocket and removed a small black object that looked like a radio. It was a signals-jamming device, designed to prevent electronic eavesdropping. He turned it on.

“We have an idea we want to run by you.”

 

 

SADDATTHA REGIONALE FACILITÉ PENALE

YOQUM, EGYPT

ONE YEAR LATER

Raditz was led by the prison director to a windowless suite in the basement of the sprawling prison near the border of the Sinai. The director said little. His instructions from Cairo were very clear: Give the man what he wants.

The prisoner Raditz was there to see had been at Saddattha for a little more than half a year. He was one of a dozen individuals RAND had identified as potential “up-and-coming” radicals to be tracked for possible backing in an off-balance-sheet “arms-for-influence” program.

During his brief time in Egypt's most notorious prison, the man had become the de facto leader of the prison's sizable secretive jihadist community. No one foresaw how quickly he would rise and how much power such a young, quiet, calm, almost professorial man could aggregate.

That his ascension within the bitterly competitive ranks of the prison's radical militant community came almost exclusively from his writings, and that those writings were for the most part reasonable, respectful to the West, and devoid of the usual bile and hatred only increased his mystique—and Raditz's interest.

Raditz stepped through a steel door into the anteroom of an interrogation chamber. Through the two-way mirror, he saw Nazir. Dressed in khaki prison garb, with his hands shackled in front of him, he was staring down at the wooden table. When he glanced in the direction of the mirror, Raditz noticed the eye patch.

Raditz made a gesture to the director with his right hand, turning an invisible key, indicating he wanted the key to the prisoner's cuffs.

“He's a dangerous man,” said the director, squinting. “He's the—”

“I know who he is.”

Raditz entered the small blue-walled interrogation room. Nazir looked up at him. His skin was olive. He was clean-shaven, and his hair, like that of most of the prisoners, was cut short. He looked clean-cut. He smiled.

“Hello,” said Nazir.

Raditz sat down across from him. “Hi, Tristan.”

Raditz leaned forward and unlocked Nazir's cuffs. He removed his cell phone, a customized device with a variety of applications built by DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. He turned on an app that made it impossible to record the conversation that was about to occur.

“My name is Mark Raditz. I work for the U.S. government.”

Nazir nodded politely.

“Is this the visit just before you send me to Guantánamo Bay?”

“That's up to you.”

Nazir grinned.

“Have you read something that I've written?”

Raditz nodded. “All of it. Even the stuff at Oxford. Are you a jihadist?”

“No, I'm not a jihadist, at least not in the definition
you
have,” Nazir said. “I do believe in the idea of a Muslim state. However, I would base the government itself, the system, that is, on your country. Representative government. A judiciary. An executive branch. A constitution.”

“But first you need the country.”

“That's right.”

“Why did you drop out of Oxford?” asked Raditz.

Nazir's mood shifted noticeably. His eyes seemed to darken and his light mood became sad.

“I would rather not talk about it. It has nothing to do with any of this.”

“Your brother drowned.”

Nazir's eye shot to Raditz. But if Raditz expected to see anger, the expression he saw instead was cold, black, and emotionless, like stone.

“I'm sorry.”

“Stop trying to figure me out.”

Raditz leaned back. “If you were given your freedom, what would you do?” he asked.