First Strike (24 page)

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 rifles 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.

“God, I hate America,” sneered Ali from the back of the van. “Look at the greed—”

“
Shut the hell up,
” snapped Sirhan. “Save your politics for someone who gives a shit.”

Meuse drove slowly past the families to a quiet stretch down the block. Other than an old woman walking a small white poodle, there was no activity. He spotted an empty parking spot and backed the van in and shut off the engine. He and Sirhan climbed in back. They sat low, out of sight, and waited in silence.

Fifteen minutes later, the passenger door opened. It was Ramzee, from the subway. He climbed in the back. Mohammed joined him a minute later.

The terrorists sat in the van, parked on the side street next to Columbia, and waited without uttering a word. Half an hour later, both bus riders, Fahd and Omar, climbed in, Fahd getting in the driver's seat, Omar in the passenger's. They slouched down, out of view. Omar opened the glove compartment and removed two cans of black spray paint. He handed one to Fahd. They popped the tops off the cans. Fahd scanned the sidewalk and street. Other than a woman at the far end of the block, at least a hundred feet away, he saw nothing.

Over the next few minutes, Fahd and Omar spray-painted the interior windshield and side windows. Fahd handed his can back to Ali, who sprayed the rear windows.

The van was as dark as night. The chemical smell of paint was strong. The van was silent; no one said anything. Sirhan flicked a lighter, casting a campfire-like glow across the interior of the van.

He spoke in Arabic.

“We run a triangle formation. Tariq, Jabir, and I go first. Tariq, you carry the big case. Once we're out of sight, Mohammed, Ali, and Meuse, you need to move. Ramzee, Fahd, and Omar—you're the third group. The dormitory is over there.”

Sirhan pointed with his thumb in the general direction behind the van and to the left, across the street.

“It's called Carman. There's a gate and then steps that lead to campus. Up the steps is the entrance to the dorm. We'll approach quietly and, hopefully, without any commotion. We'll take the lobby. You three come behind us and take point at the top of the triangle, after the steps. You need to be able to see the lobby and the gate at the same time. You'll give the signal for you three to move.”

Sirhan pointed at the other men.

“This is very important. The first point is about getting inside the dorm and securing the lobby. The second point must establish the outer perimeter. This is the kill zone. We want to soften up the surrounding environment in order to buy time. So listen carefully: you shoot anything you see as you approach the dormitory. We won't, you will. Got it? Students, teachers, a man wandering around, dogs, cats, unicorns:
anything.
We want to clear out the area. Just as important, we need chaos. The few minutes after we enter the lobby are the most important. They determine if we succeed or fail.”

“What if they haven't noticed us yet?” came a voice from the back.

Sirhan stretched his arm out, holding the lighter, trying to see who had asked the question.

“Tariq,” said Sirhan, smiling ever so slightly, “good question. No such thing as a bad question.”

Every eye in the van was trained on Sirhan.

“Our goal is to take the building, but we are but a part of a larger objective. That objective is unknown to me. The announcement of our arrival is essential. It must be done in blood, with maximum violence. Those are our orders. If we take over the dormitory quietly, we will have failed. Do you understand?”

The young man nodded.

“Approximately five hundred students live in the building,” continued Sirhan. “I have no idea how many will be there, how many parents will be there today. It doesn't matter. There are only three ways to get into the building. We're going to secure those points of access. That is our duty. With so few ways inside, if we control them, we will have won. The only way for them to then get the building back is to attack. They will not want to attack, because that would mean dead students. It's the problem with hostages: in order to save them, one must risk killing them.”

“What about security?” asked Mohammed.

“Columbia will have a lot of security. The dormitory will have security. They won't be as well-trained as you or even as police. But they'll be armed. This is the important part. They have lockdown procedures designed to stop attackers in the first two minutes and close off access. We're talking about steel gates that slam shut with the push of a button below the security desk. Alarms that call in the police, et cetera. If the police arrive before we establish a perimeter, then there will be a firefight and we will lose. Repeat,
we will lose.
We need to establish the line of control. This is the basement, first floor, roof. If we do that, then we have the students. Students are what we need. Students. Once we have control of the students, we control the building.”