First Strike (20 page)

“Can you at least tell me where I'm going?”

“Mexico City.”

 

25

MEXICO CITY

Allawi was in traffic when he received the text message from Nazir:

::   UNLEASH THE DOGS   ::

He slammed his hand into the steering wheel. He knew this might happen.

It had been two days now. Allawi had been tracking Raditz, first to Mexico City, then to Tampico to meet with the ship captain, then back to Mexico City. Raditz, as far as Allawi could tell, didn't have a clue.

On the outskirts of the city, he'd been pulled over by the police for speeding. That was when he lost him. Because the tracking technology required proximity of about a thousand feet.

For eighteen hours now, Allawi had driven what seemed like every street in the city, searching for Raditz.

His iPad was on at all times, propped up on the passenger seat. The tracking app was on. Allawi should've been able to see Raditz's location if he was within a thousand feet. Now, the screen was empty.

::   UNLEASH THE DOGS   ::

He hadn't informed Nazir that he'd lost him. Now he would have to. Raditz could be gone from Mexico City. He could've discovered the thin wafer of plastic inside his wallet. He could be anywhere by now. China. Africa. Anywhere.

Yet Allawi remained in Mexico City, searching. False hope, perhaps, but at least there was a chance.

Allawi was exhausted. He knew how disappointed Nazir would be, but he had no choice. He had to tell him.

He took a right off of Rio Hudson and looked for a place to park. He didn't want to be driving when he spoke with Nazir.

He saw the hotel ahead. He took a left and went past the entrance to the employee parking lot, then stopped. He reached for his phone, frustration, anger, above all, fatigue on his face. As he started to dial, his eyes shot to the passenger seat. There, on the screen, a red digital light was flashing.

He'd found Raditz.

 

26

IN THE AIR

Two hours after lifting off from Medellín in the Air America GV, Franco's cell phone buzzed as an encrypted message arrived from Langley. The message was blank except for a link to the encrypted document, which he double-tapped:

ACCESS CONTROL: 741

DOCUMENT REENCRYPTION 00:59:48

A prompt appeared that asked him to press his thumb against the screen. A moment later, a different prompt asked him to stare into the camera on his phone as a remote application scanned his irises. The document opened:

TOP SECRET

NCS

NAT SEC PRIORITY: DDCIA * NOC4899-W

SPEC SHEET: MISSION ARCHITECTURE

RECONNAISSANCE OF VIP

PRIORITY LEVEL TAU

1. GUTIERREZ arrives IATA (Mexico City Benito Juárez International Airport) via COMPANY transport
BRAE BURN TWO
(GV121 ex. Medellín, COL). Flight time 4:12. CREW: OC34OWEN + CR22MEADE.

2.
BRAE BURN TWO
remains at IATA and prepares for exfiltration.

3. GUTIERREZ moves to DROP POINT [St. Regis Hotel (as of 17:35:00) subject to change]. Room under alias MARTINEZ, JESUS (Passport control).

4. GUTIERREZ receives precise location information for recon of TARGET when available.

5.
TARGET is MARK RADITZ, U.S. Citizen [VIP], see photograph and notes below.

6. RADITZ is
in flight
and faces long-term incarceration for violations of multiple national security laws. He should be considered a CATEGORY 1 FLIGHT RISK.

7. RADITZ is combatant level 6 and has specific aptitude with various weapons though no known combat experience and no hand-to-hand skills or experience. He should be considered
moderately
dangerous.

8. This is a PRIORITY TAU action [DCIA 55]: RADITZ has high-value intelligence and should be exfiltrated with extreme intent
but alive.

9.
SPECIAL NOTE 1:
We believe RADITZ is in the immediate vicinity of HAIDER ALLAWI, an Iraqi and known ISIS official. See photos below.

10. ALLAWI is traveling under French alias PIERRE LAGRANGE. It is not known
why
ALLAWI and RADITZ are traveling together. The two men could be meeting or RADITZ could be under watch and at risk.

11.
Rules of engagement:
RADITZ has deep knowledge of U.S. SFO operating protocols.
Use any means necessary
{NOC J-099 RE “1998 transborder exemption”} to secure RADITZ and remove from DROP TARGET and exfiltrate to IATA
BRAE BURN TWO
for flight to U.S.

12. ALLAWI is
not
target. Tactical consequence should in no way contravene main mission architecture. However, if opportunity presents itself, ALLAWI can and should be
terminated with extreme prejudice.

13. RADITZ should be secured once on board for flight to U.S.

14. Exfiltration to Joint Base Andrews, Maryland, USA via
BRAE BURN TWO.

Franco reread the mission spec a few more times, then scanned the photos attached to the file. He didn't recognize Raditz, but he knew damn well who he was.

“You fucked up,” Franco muttered aloud as he studied the photos.

Next he looked at the photos of Allawi. Like all of them, Allawi was young, with a look of cold determination on his face.

Franco's mind swirled with questions. Why would Raditz be running? If Allawi was nearby and wanted to kill Raditz, why hadn't he already? Of course, maybe he had. And if Allawi was there to meet Raditz, why?

Franco had long ago gotten used to the way information was segregated and filtered out when it came to operations. The fact that the orders contained no further information about Raditz and what he'd done, Franco knew, was to protect the United States. Whatever Raditz had done was bad, so bad they didn't want it ever to see the light of day. SOP.

Standard operating procedure.
Yet something about the assignment troubled him.

“Twenty minutes out, Franco,” said one of the pilots over the Gulfstream's intercom.

Franco reread the brief one last time. As he moved once again to the photos, the screen shot abruptly red and the document reencrypted and disappeared.

He went to the back of the cabin. A steel cabinet, four feet high, six feet wide, was bolted to the right wall. Inside were several rows of weapons, all arranged neatly. The top two shelves were various carbines, submachine guns, and sniper rifles. The next two rows contained handguns of many shapes and varieties. Another row was lined with knives, suppressors, lights, holsters, disposable international cell phones, and a few other accessories. The bottom four rows were stacked with ammo.

Franco picked out a Kimber Super Match II .45 ACP with an undermounted halogen light. He slammed in a fourteen-round extended magazine. He didn't expect Raditz to require the use of the gun, but that's not who it was for. He also grabbed an SRD45 suppressor—eight inches long, titanium—and a custom-made drop-leg holster that could accommodate the pistol with the suppressor locked into the muzzle. He found a SOG S37K SEAL Team fixed-blade combat knife and sheathed it around his left calf. He scanned quickly and then, just in case, took a backup gun: a small, highly concealable Ruger LC9, which he sheathed to his right calf.

He grabbed two disposable cell phones.

Franco shut the doors. He opened a cabinet across from the weapons store. It was the jet's field trauma kit, filled with various tools, bandages, and medicines. He reached for a small bottle filled with a milklike liquid: propofol, a short-acting, intravenously administered amnestic agent. He also took a syringe.

A few minutes later, the Gulfstream taxied to a stop near a nondescript building.

Franco unlocked the cabin door and hit the hydraulic button. The door began moving out and a set of air stairs lowered to the tarmac.

Franco leaned into the cockpit. “Hopefully, it'll be quick,” said Franco.

“Any time estimate?”

Franco shook his head.

“A few hours. It could take longer. It's a priority exfiltration. Get this thing refueled.”

 

27

SOUTH BENTALOU STREET

BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

South Bentalou ran through one of the poorest neighborhoods in Baltimore. It was a street more accustomed to police cruisers than BMWs, but that's what Daisy Calibrisi was driving, her mother's shiny red BMW X5 SUV. Both sides of the block were lined with small two-story homes made of brick or concrete. Most were dilapidated, with peeling paint and broken windows, and a few had long ago been abandoned, their doors and windows covered in boards or plastic. In some places, garbage lay strewn on the sidewalk, empty beer cans and wine bottles, chairs missing legs and with torn fabric, a hubcap here, even a mattress leaning against a neglected tree. People milled about on the sidewalks. In a few places, front steps were occupied by people sitting and watching the street as if it were a television set.

Daisy parked the SUV in front of a brick home about halfway down the block. In front, two black children passed a worn football. Daisy turned off the car and climbed out.

One of the boys turned to look at her. An enthusiastic smile flashed across his lips. “Daisy!” he yelled.

“Hey, slugger,” she said, as the boy ran to her and threw his arms around her waist.

“She said you were coming,” he said.

“Of course I'm coming, Anthony,” said Daisy, holding him an extra moment. She glanced at the other boy, who was small and wore glasses. He stood still, holding the football, a dour expression on his face.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” the boy responded shyly.

“You must be Rex?”

A slight grin hit his lips. “Yeah.”

Daisy stepped toward him and extended her hand.

“I'm Daisy,” she said, kneeling down so that she was at eye level with him, then taking his hand and shaking it firmly.

“I know. Gramma told me about you.”

“Well, she told me about you, Rex, and it sounds like you're one of the smartest students in your whole grade.”

He smiled, saying nothing.

“He ain't smarter than me,” said Anthony from behind Daisy.

Rex continued to look at Daisy, then rolled his eyes knowingly.

“Anthony, you're the smartest in
your
grade,” she said, standing up and signaling to Rex for the football. He underhanded it to her.

“But what's even more important than being the smartest?” she asked, holding the football.

Anthony rolled his eyes. He'd heard this sermon before.

“Hard work,” he said.

“That's important,” she agreed, “but there's something even more important.”

“Staying in school,” said Rex.

“Oh, yeah, that's
very
important,” said Daisy as she took a step back and held the football, preparing to throw it. “But it's not the most important thing.”

“Don't do drugs,” said Anthony.

Daisy shook her head.

“That's
incredibly
important. But it's not what I'm thinking of.”

Daisy took a few more steps back, then nodded to Anthony, indicating she wanted him to go out for a pass.

“I give up,” Anthony said.

“Man, I'm really surprised,” she said as Anthony continued back until he was down the block a ways. “The most important thing—”

Daisy leaned back, brought her arm behind her head, and prepared to throw.

“… is being the best female quarterback in the United States of America and most likely the world.”

Daisy's arm whipped smoothly forward. A clean spiral lofted through the warm morning air. The ball arced high, then dropped in a perfect slope into Anthony's arms.

“You're telling me Joe Flacco can throw like that?” she asked.

Rex laughed, while Anthony shook his head.

After a few minutes of catch, Daisy climbed the steps to the front door. Tacked to the door was a light blue pennant emblazoned with the words
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
.

She knocked. After a moment, a thin gray-haired woman with glasses opened the door. Her face melted into a smile.

“Hi, Miss Betty,” said Daisy.

“Well, God bless you, dear,” said the woman, who threw open the door and wrapped her arms around Daisy. “She is so excited to see you.”

“Where is she?”

“In her room. Now stand back, let me look at you.”

The woman scanned Daisy from head to toe, shaking her head.

“You get more beautiful every day, child, I swear.”

“You're pretty cute yourself, Miss Betty.”

The woman erupted into a loud, enthusiastic laugh.

Daisy walked through the apartment, through the kitchen, then down a hallway. She arrived at the last door, which was open. Several cardboard boxes were stacked near the door, along with a few duffel bags.

Seated on the bed was a girl. She wore glasses, a white T-shirt, and khakis. She was thin. If there was anything unusual about her, it was her hair, which arose in an unruly, beautiful Afro. She said nothing as she took in Daisy.

“Hey, Little Sister,” said Daisy.

“Hey, Big Sister,” said the girl, whose name was Andromeda, though everyone called her Andy.

“So, you ready to become a big-time, hotshot, fancy-pants Ivy Leaguer?” asked Daisy, entering the room and sitting on the bed.

Andy looked at her but said nothing. She had a morose expression on her face.

Daisy put her hand softly on her shoulder.

“You forgot to pack your fancy pants, didn't you?” she asked, shaking her playfully.

Andy said nothing. She stared at the floor.

Daisy knew her well. After eleven years, of course she knew her, like the way an older sister knows a younger sister, or a mother a daughter. Andy wasn't crying, but Daisy could see the light salty white of dried tears on her cheeks.

“I'm scared,” whispered Andy.

“Every freshman at every college is nervous before they get there,” said Daisy, wrapping her arm around Andy's neck and pulling her closer. “I almost threw up.”