First Strike (6 page)

“You have as much to lose in that equation as we do.”

“You yourself said America wants out of the Middle East. ISIS
is
your way out. I never lied to you. I just refuse to do things the way you want me to.”

“Cutting people's heads off? Destroying antiquities? You're no better than Hitler. In fact, you're worse. At least he
kept
the art after he stole it from the Jews.”

Raditz's voice was rising as his face flushed crimson. He pointed at his laptop, despite the fact that Nazir couldn't see it.

“And now … now …
burning people alive?
You're a sick fuck.”

Nazir said nothing for several seconds. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You need to let go.”

“You invaded Iraq,” said Raditz. “Weapons that we paid for have been used to kill American soldiers. We had a deal: we give you arms, you leave us alone, you leave Israel alone, you leave Jordan and Saudi Arabia alone. You leave us
the hell alone.
You broke that deal, not to mention the atrocities your men are committing. You really think that's how you build a movement?”

“Not a movement, a country,” said Nazir. “It might not be the way
you
would do it, Mark, but it is the way I am doing it.”

“Beheading reporters? Burning them alive?”

“Every time we air the tape, recruitment goes through the roof.”

“Which just shows how fucked-up you Muslims are.”

“What can I say? Yes, I lied to you. But that was then. This is now. I need guns and ammunition. Missiles. One more shipment. If you do this, you have my word—”

“Stop,” said Raditz. “Your word is shit. You want to embarrass me? Embarrass the United States? Go ahead. Why haven't you done it yet?”

“Because I knew I would need one last thing. This is what I need.”

“I'll tell you what,” said Raditz. “I'll do it.”

“That's more like it.”

“Tell me where you are and I'll send an Exocet right now,” said Raditz, laughing. “Immediate delivery.”

Nazir joined him in laughing.

“So is that your answer?” asked Nazir.

“Yes, that's my answer, fuckhead. Go fuck yourself. I have to go. It's my bedtime.”

“Very well,” said Nazir, clearing his throat. “I'll leave you alone.”

“Don't call me again.”

“I won't,” said Nazir. “I'll respect your wishes. Oh, one more thing. Can you deliver a message to my friends?”

Raditz's mouth opened as a shot of cold fear hit his chest. He was momentarily speechless. Slowly, he put the wineglass down.

“What have you done?” whispered Raditz.

“Go to the window.”

“Are you threatening me? You don't get it, do you, Tristan?
I'm already dead.
Dead!
This will come out and I am a dead man, even though all I was trying to do was stop you lunatics from taking over the world. There won't be a trial or even a discussion. Go ahead and kill me. Send 'em in.”

“I need you alive,” said Nazir. “They're not there to kill you.”

“What have you done?” Raditz asked anxiously.

“Go look,” said Nazir. “When the answer is yes, I will release them. I would decide relatively soon, though. Your ex-wife is fine but your daughter doesn't seem too happy.”

Silence took over the call.

Raditz felt tears abruptly dampen his eyes.

“You miserable fuck … they didn't do anything.” Raditz's voice trailed off amid pathetic sobs.

Nazir waited for several moments.

“Mark?”

Raditz was silent, except for his low crying, a sound he himself had never even heard—animal desperation, like a wolf caught in the steel maw of a hunter's trap.

“Is the answer yes?”

“What about my family?”

“Open your garage. I'll have them back the van in.”

“It'll take a few days,” said Raditz, barely above a whisper.

“Fine, I understand. I know it's complicated. I'm going to take you at your word that it will happen. You see, Mark, I'm trusting you. But if you fail me, next time they'll be delivered in bits and pieces.”

 

7

U.S. CONSULATE

VIA PRINCIPE AMEDEO

MILAN

Mallory couldn't sleep. He looked at his watch: 2:18
A.M
. He turned on the light and walked to the chair where he'd thrown his pants. Searching the pockets, he found the card, reached for his cell, and dialed. After three rings, someone picked up.

“Hello?”

“Al-Jaheishi?” asked Mallory.

“Yes, who is this?”

“The reporter gave me your number.”

“Why has it taken you so long to call? Do you understand my life is at risk?”

“What do you want?” asked Mallory, ignoring the question.

“I have information.”

“What do you have … and what do you want for it?”

“I need to meet you.”

“Okay, this call is done,” said Mallory.

“
Wait!
” he pleaded. “I need to meet you to give you information. I have evidence. You have to know this: The United States Government is behind ISIS. Your government. You provided the money and the weapons.”

“That's absurd.”

“It's true.”

“How do you know?”

“I know. That's all you need to know. Do you not care?”

Mallory paused. Within the quiet, and the dim light of his bedroom, he experienced the same feeling he had earlier: confusion bordering on futility, crossed with fear.

“My government is not involved with ISIS, Al Qaeda, or any other group of terrorists. We hate you all.”

“You are,” said al-Jaheishi. “I'm sending you a photo.”

A few moments later, Mallory's phone chimed. He opened the photo. There were two men, standing before a large shipping container, its end open. Stacks of RPGs were visible. The two men were shaking hands. One was unmistakable: the most wanted man on earth, Tristan Nazir, leader of ISIS. The other man was in a suit and tie. His face had a black mark across it, redacted.

“This proves nothing.”

“He is one of the highest-ranking officials in your government, Mr. Mallory.”

“Send me the information.”

“No. As soon as I give it to you, I'm a dead man. I want asylum. I will put it all onto a SIM card. Meet me in Damascus.”

“How soon?”

“Tomorrow.”

 

8

BIRCH HILL

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

A black Jaguar F-Type R convertible roared along a secluded country road, then came to a stop at a pair of brick pillars separated by iron gates. Beyond, brick walls covered in ivy ran in both directions, surrounding the property and shielding whatever was behind it. Security cameras were visible atop each gate and every dozen feet along the wall.

A small, weathered sign on one of the pillars said
BIRCH HILL
in ornately scrolled brass lettering.

Across the street, a black Chevy Suburban was parked, its windows tinted dark. It was one of four such SUVs dotting the roads around the property. Inside each vehicle sat CIA paramilitary.

The driver of the Jaguar reached out and hit a six-digit code into the intercom keypad next to the driveway. The gate clicked, then swung slowly open. The driver sped forward.

The driveway curved gracefully between two symmetrical rows of old birch trees whose branches hung over the drive, creating a shadowy canopy. Past the trees spread lawn to the property's border, demarcated by the brick wall in the far distance. At the end of the driveway, in a clearing at the top of a small rise, stood a rambling whitewashed brick mansion. A circular parking area was in front. In the middle was a small flower garden.

A young woman in jeans and a T-shirt was leaning over a spray of bright red peonies and cutting them.

The Jaguar coughed a few times as its driver forgot to downshift, nearly conking out. When he finally downshifted, the car shot forward, engine revving furiously, tires kicking up stones.

The woman watched with a bemused smile as the car sputtered up the driveway.

She had long brown hair and was barefoot. She took a few steps toward the approaching car, her hands holding a large bunch of flowers, as the Jaguar came to a stop just in front of her.

She stepped to the side of the car and leaned down toward him.

He had on sunglasses and a run-down camouflage baseball hat. His skin was a deep, rich brown.

“Hi, Dewey,” she said.

“Hi, Daisy.”

“Nice driving.”

Dewey fumbled for the handle and stepped out of the car. He removed his sunglasses and looked at Daisy Calibrisi with a slightly embarrassed expression.

“It's not mine.”

Daisy stepped toward him and reached out her arms.

“I'm glad you're here,” she said, hugging him. “Thanks for coming. At the rate Dad's going, he won't be done until Christmas.”

“Where is he?”

“In back.”

Dewey leaned down to give her a polite kiss on the cheek. At the last moment, she moved her face slightly to the right so that their lips met. Dewey kissed her quickly and took a step back.

Daisy grinned. There ensued a few moments of awkward silence.

“You're tan,” Daisy said. “You been sunbathing?”

“I don't sunbathe, Daisy.”

“Well how'd you get so tan?”

“I don't know. I played golf the other day.”

“
Golf? You?
”

“Yeah,
me.
Why so surprised?”

“It just seems like an old man's game.”

“I
am
an old man.”

Daisy smiled.

She glanced down at Dewey's flip-flops, then let her eyes move up his legs, which were tan, a little hairy, and, above all, thick with muscle. Her eyes stopped when they hit a pair of old plaid Bermuda shorts with paint stains on them and a rip near one of the hems.

“Are you any good?” she asked.

“Let's put it this way: I got three hole in ones once.”

“My God. Really?”

“Yeah. One round.”

“You're serious?”

“Yes, Daisy. I know how to play.”

She gave Dewey a suspicious look, not sure if she should believe him. She nodded slowly.

“Well, if it
is
true,” she said, “that's pretty amazing.”

“Thanks.”

“Where was it? One of the courses around here?”

“No. It was in Maine.”

“
Maine?
” she asked disparagingly. “They have golf in Maine?”

“Yes, they have golf in Maine, dickhead.”

“So where was this so-called golf course where you supposedly got this hole in one?”

“Plural,” said Dewey. “Three of them.”

“Okay, what's the name of the course?”

“Bangor Acres. It's an eighteen-hole golf course. I grew up going there.”

“
Bangor Acres?
That sounds like a cemetery.”

“It's the best miniature golf course in northern Maine. It's off Main Street, out near the railroad. Take a right. It's a little run-down, but it only costs five bucks to play.”

Daisy started laughing uncontrollably.

“
Miniature
golf?”

“I've always been able to get it through the windmill.”

Daisy was still laughing.

“Sometimes I think about what could've been if I'd focused on golf. You know, the wealth, limos, that sort of thing.”

“You're a jackass,” she said.

Dewey kicked his foot against the pebbles. Then he glanced at her. Daisy's dark hair was in a ponytail. Her nose was sharp, long, and pretty. Her eyes were deep brown, with long lashes. She looked warm, elegant, and mysterious. A young Sophia Loren.

Dewey found himself staring at her for perhaps a moment too long, and he forced himself to look away, glancing past her, at the plot of dirt she'd been digging.

“What are you planting?” he asked, nodding toward the dirt. “You guys getting in on that medical marijuana thing?”

Daisy didn't answer. Instead, she waited for his eyes to return to hers. When at last they finally did, she gave him a Cheshire Cat grin.

“
What?
” he asked innocently.

She smiled and shook her head.

“Nothing.”

Dewey didn't say anything for several moments.

“I hear you graduated,” Dewey finally coughed out.

“Yeah.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“Law school. That's a biggie.”

“Let me guess,” Daisy said. “
Thank God the world has another lawyer,
right?”

“I wasn't going to say that,” he protested.

“You weren't?”

Dewey shook his head.

“No. I think lawyers are misunderstood.”

“Really? You're serious? I totally agree.”

“Yeah, ninety-nine percent of lawyers make the other one percent look bad.”

“Jerk,” she said. “Total jerk. Why do I fall for your jokes every time?”

“All kidding aside, I'm proud of you, actually,” said Dewey.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

*   *   *

He followed her around the side of the house to the backyard. A tall orange ladder was propped against the house, Calibrisi at the top, slapping black paint on a shutter on the second floor. Calibrisi's face had a smattering of black paint spots and smudges.

“Hi, Hector,” said Dewey.

“Dewey!” yelled Calibrisi. He jerked his head around to see Dewey. “You just get heeeeeere—”

Calibrisi's voice inflected into a high-pitched, panicked howl as he suddenly felt the ladder shift to the left. He reached out to grab hold of something to prevent his falling. His hand grabbed the shutter, which was covered in wet paint and slippery. The ladder shifted some more and now Calibrisi reached out with both hands, scrambling desperately for something hard to stem the fall. The wet hand left a black handprint as he continued to slide, creating a hideous track of paint across the white wall.