First Strike (25 page)

Sirhan let the lighter go off, then lit it again. He glanced across the faces of the men.

“You have the basement,” he said to Tariq. “You'll need to take a few students with you to form a shield.”

“Yes, Sirhan.”

Tariq pulled on a tan full-length raincoat from a pile. He reached for an assault rifle.

“Please, be patient, Tariq,” said Sirhan calmly. “I want to say something.”

Sirhan again cast his eyes across the faces of the men.

“What we do today will create headlines. It will create history. We will be condemned. Hated. Reviled.
We will die today.
We will be a part of history that is called terrorism. But there is another history. It is the history of Allah, and it is within that history that we will be heroes. That is the only history that matters, my friends. Our actions will be celebrated for eternity. We are here because we are soldiers. One day, earth will be a caliphate, and ISIS will be a significant chapter in its creation on earth, and our actions, our success or our failure, will be written as part of that chapter. We're soldiers in the greatest war humankind has ever known. The war between two great enemies, and I'm not talking about America and ISIS or even about the West and the Middle East. The true battle is between
Allah and God!
Each one of you should feel humbled by the privilege of being called to serve in that war. I know I am. Today, we strike a blow deep into the very heart of God … into his children … into his corrupt world. Praise Allah.”

 

33

ALEPPO HOSPITAL

SYRIA

Aleppo was a ruined city. Half its buildings were gone, destroyed in the sixteen-day battle for control of the city. The sky above Aleppo was still misty with smoke, dust, and the aroma of war. Every road into the city was closed off, controlled with checkpoints. On the main highway into the city, four armed gunmen stood across the road. They were dressed in the uniform of ISIS—black shirts and jeans, cloaks of black wrapped around their heads and hiding their faces.

A vehicle approached, a white Ford Explorer, filthy with reddish-brown dust, its windows tinted black.

Two of the gunmen stood directly in the vehicle's path; another moved behind the front two to provide backup in case the vehicle wasn't friendly.

A fourth gunman—a bearded man with dark skin, smoking a cigarette and clutching an AK-47—stepped to the window. He aimed his firearm at the driver, who lowered the window.

“Garotin,” said the driver.

He nodded to the backseat, where Dewey was sprawled out, shirtless, hands tied at the wrists in front of him. A piece of material—his own T-shirt, now torn up—was wrapped tightly across his mouth.

“The one from Damascus?”

The driver nodded. The gunman lifted the rifle and aimed it at the sky.

“Why didn't you kill him already?” asked the gunman.

“Shut up and do your job,” said the driver, who raised the window and sped forward.

The streets of the city were cratered and pockmarked with the remnants of battle. Whole blocks of buildings had been turned to rubble. In certain places, sidewalks were littered with corpses, pools of black—blood, dried in the sun—surrounded the eerily still bodies in puddle-size splotches.

After two miles, a sign read
DAR AL-SHIFA HOSPITAL.

Two men dragged Dewey from the vehicle and led him at gunpoint along a crowded, chaotic, filthy hospital corridor. Every door was open, every room filled with injured ISIS soldiers and the occasional doctor or nurse. The hallways were jammed with yet more injured soldiers, who sat against walls or lay on the floor, all waiting for treatment. Doctors and nurses appeared in the hall, then disappeared into the next room, their hospital garb covered in blood. There was total confusion, and the humidity and sweltering heat only made it worse. Yelling in Arabic filled the air. A din of low groans was punctuated every few minutes by a far-off scream of someone in acute pain. The smell was overwhelming—body odor mixed with antiseptic, along with dust and smoke still wafting in from the neighborhood outside.

Dewey was pushed into an elevator, which they took to the fifth floor. It was quieter and less chaotic there. Armed gunmen stood just outside the elevator doors, eyeing Dewey as he was pushed down the hallway.

Dewey heard a horrible scream from somewhere behind him.

He was led to a grimy-looking, unsanitary operating room and pushed down on top of a stainless steel table still wet with blood. A gunman stood watch as Dewey tried to shift his weight and get more comfortable. The gag in Dewey's mouth was tied so tight that the sides of his mouth were worn bare, the T-shirt dabbed with small stains where the blood had seeped. He was thirstier than he could ever remember being. He shut his eyes and tried to block out the realization that he would soon die.

Had Dewey been trapped inside a Chinese prison, or a Russian prison, or even an Iranian prison, he would have leverage in the fact that he was American. He would be a bargaining chip, someone whose death might draw a brutal reprisal from the long arm of the U.S. government. But here it meant absolutely nothing. In fact, it ensured he would die, and soon. He opened his eyes, and the first thing that came into view was a video camera mounted on a tripod. On either side of the video camera stood klieg lights.

They would videotape his death. A beheading. First, they would try to get his name out of him. There was value in that. Perhaps even a scripted confession about the terrible things America had done to the world.

Dewey felt neither calm or panic. Instead, he willed himself to feel nothing at all, except for the physical pain. He knew he couldn't be saved. There wasn't enough time. Even if someone tried—Shayeret 13, Force Recon, Navy SEALs—they had no idea where he was.

Pray for a meteor.
He felt his mouth trying to smile beneath the tight gag.

Several minutes later, a young man in a light blue surgeon's gown entered the room. He reeked of cigarettes. One of the lightbulbs, dangling from the ceiling, flickered and made a buzzing noise. The doctor's gown was splattered in blood. He removed a pair of green rubber gloves, tossed them to the floor at his feet, then pulled on another pair. He stepped toward Dewey and examined the large scar beneath his left shoulder.

Suddenly, another man entered. Dewey recognized him immediately: Garotin.

ISIS's top military commander looked young, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties. He had thick black hair, loosely parted in the middle, and a few days' worth of stubble. He stepped to Dewey's side and looked at him for several moments with a blank expression, then slammed his fist into Dewey's stomach. He punched him six or seven times, hard, which Dewey absorbed with pained grunts.

Garotin untied the cloth from around Dewey's head. He grabbed his hair and lifted it, inspecting his head.

“You killed seven men in Damascus,” said Garotin, staring at him with hatred. “For what? Now you will die.”

He let go of Dewey's head, which fell with a sharp thud onto the table.

“Who are you?” said Garotin.

Dewey ignored him. He stared at the wall, saying nothing.

“So Marwan gave you some information?” said Garotin. “Was it worth it?”

Dewey glanced up at him. “Fuck you.”

“
Who are you?
” Garotin yelled, his voice rising.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“What's your name?” asked Garotin. “Tell me and I'll give you a cigarette.”

“Fuck off,” mumbled Dewey.

Garotin pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, removed one, lit it, then extended it to Dewey.

Dewey ignored the gesture.

“Go on,” said Garotin. “Trust me, you're not going to die of cancer.”

Dewey pulled his bound hands toward him and took the cigarette, inhaling.

“What's your name?”

Dewey ignored the question, staring at Garotin with a cold expression on his face.

“
What is your name?
” Garotin said, louder now.

But Dewey said nothing. He took his time smoking the cigarette. When it was nearly to the filter, he put it between his thumb and middle finger then flicked it through the air. The smoking stub struck the gunman at the door squarely in the forehead.

“
Bastard!
” he yelled.

The gunman stepped forward and pummeled Dewey in the stomach, punching him with both hands, knocking the wind out of him. After several hard punches, Garotin pulled the man back.

“What's your name?” Garotin said again, calmer this time.

“It's confidential,” Dewey said, coughing. “I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.”

Garotin shook his head in frustration. He turned to the doctor.

“The wound needs to be cleaned before we cut his head off,” he said in Arabic. “Nothing fancy, just clean it up. The video is much more effective if he looks healthy.”

Garotin pulled a long KA-BAR knife from a sheath at his waist. He looked at Dewey.

“We're going to cut your head off,” he said, reverting to English. “But first, you tell me who you are and who you work for. If I had to guess, the Central Intelligence Agency. Am I right?”

Dewey said nothing.

Garotin put the blade against Dewey's neck, pressing it against the skin.

“The knife we'll use on you,” he said. “It will hurt, but look on the bright side: you're going to be famous.”

Dewey stared up into Garotin's eyes, still silent. Garotin pressed harder.

“You used to be in the military,” offered Garotin. “Special Forces. Combat Applications Group or Green Beret. Am I right?”

Dewey felt the blade pressing uncomfortably close.

Garotin smirked.

“It doesn't matter,” Dewey said, straining.

Garotin pressed the knife, and Dewey felt the sharp blade cut into his skin.

“Why does it not matter?”

“Because I work for America. We're going to kill every single last one of you motherfuckers.”

Garotin punched Dewey in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Dewey coughed several times, groaning in pain. He felt blood on his neck. Garotin punched him again.

Garotin removed the knife from Dewey's neck and slammed the steel hilt into Dewey's stomach. It took more than a minute for Dewey to catch his breath.

“You were wrong earlier,” Dewey groaned, coughing up blood.

“Wrong?” said Garotin. “How was I wrong?”

“I killed at least twelve of you shitheads. I was counting.”

Garotin turned and repeated his orders to the doctor, again in Arabic. He walked toward the door.

“Allah must be proud of you,” said Dewey as Garotin reached the door.

Garotin turned. “Is that what you think this is about?” His expression grew savage. “This isn't about religion. This is about power.”

“Cutting people's heads off?”

“Power derives from ownership,” said Garotin. “Territory. Resources. Land. That's how you make a country. Look at Israel. Before you stole the land and gave it to the Jews, they were nothing, just a pathetic idea. Now they have a country. They have
power.
”

“Clever,” said Dewey. “You're a bunch of fucking cowards. You can kill me and it doesn't matter because a hundred people just like me are going to take my place.”

“That strategy doesn't seem to be working too well.”

“You'll never have a country. We won't let it happen.”

Garotin grabbed the rifle from the guard, moving it in front of Dewey. It was an M4 carbine, with no markings.

“This weapon, the bullets inside it, all of it was given by your government.”

“I don't believe you.”

“It's true. Why would I lie to you?”

Dewey stared for several moments at the rifle, then his eyes looked away.

The thoughts he'd pushed aside were now unavoidable—the terrible image of his mother and father seeing the video of his beheading.

“Shoot me,” said Dewey, looking up at Garotin. “A soldier's death.”

Garotin stared into Dewey's eyes. He paused, then trained the muzzle of the gun at Dewey's chest. He pulled the trigger back. Dewey's eyes remained open. A look of resignation was on his face.

Garotin moved the rifle away from Dewey, pointing it at the ceiling.

“No,” he said.

“You don't have the balls.”

“I have my orders. We cut your head off when the cameraman gets here.”

 

34

CARMAN HALL

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

Across the street from the van, two car lengths back, Daisy grabbed a duffel bag as Andy lifted the last box from the back of the SUV.

Another girl had joined them. She had blond hair, was slightly chubby, and wore a pink-and-white Icelandic sweater. This was Charlotte, Andy's new roommate. After the last boxes were lifted out of the BMW, Charlotte shut the rear hatch, then looked at Andy and smiled.

“Are you sure you don't need some help?” Charlotte asked.

Andy shook her head. “It's okay.”

At that very moment, on Andy's opposite arm, out of sight, Daisy elbowed her, then gave her a look, as if to say,
That's your roommate, and talk about nice, she's awesome! Let her help you!

Andy rolled her eyes, then turned from Daisy to Charlotte. “Actually, this is sort of heavy.”

“That's what I thought.” Charlotte grabbed the side of the box.

Andy wasn't very good at small talk, but she took a shot.

“So, where are you from?”

“Charleston, South Carolina. How about you?”

“Baltimore.”

“Baltimore? You're kidding. I absolutely
love
Baltimore. I had the biggest crush on a boy from Baltimore. Do you know Owen Shriver? I went to Andover with him. He was a senior when I was a…”

Daisy caught Andy's eye and smiled. She winked, then turned and stopped listening. Instead, she took a few seconds to think about how happy she was, how proud she felt of not only Andy but also of herself. She thought back to the first time she met Andy at Big Brothers & Big Sisters of Baltimore, so many years ago. Andy was still a small girl, but back then she was tiny and painfully shy. Getting her to say anything was like trying to get water out of rock. Daisy laughed at the memory. It was the first time she let herself feel pride for Andy's success, success that was always within the brilliant girl but that Daisy helped to bring out, driving up religiously—by her mother before she got her license, then alone—every other weekend to see the young black girl, father- and motherless, raised by a loving grandmother in a terrible part of a troubled city.