First Strike (5 page)

After many hours of driving, the pickup truck in the lead moved off the main road, followed by the two SUVs. Soon the three vehicles were crossing a beautiful hillock of burnt orange dirt at more than 50 mph, off road, clouds of dust flaming behind the cars. They came to a high, shrub-pocked hill that suddenly dropped away. A vast valley of flat desert sat below. In the middle of the valley, several miles away, there was activity. Like a village of ants, a small cluster of buildings could be seen. There were trucks, cranes, and at least a dozen trailers. It looked like the beginning of a settlement or a construction site.

As they moved closer, men started walking toward them in a line that spanned several hundred feet. The men were dressed in black, their heads covered. There were at least a hundred of them. Soldiers.

The three vehicles continued to rip across the orange and brown dirt.

As the vehicles charged at the line of gunmen, they went from walking to running, weapons out. As the vehicles drew closer, the figures grew clearer. Every single soldier was sprinting directly at the vehicles. Each clutched an assault rifle, which he trained out in front of him as he ran.

Nazir looked up as the distance between the vehicles and the soldiers disappeared. The pickup truck abruptly sped up so that it was in the lead. The other SUV fell in behind the Land Cruiser. They came closer and closer to the line of gunmen. Every muzzle along the line was arrayed in a steady fracture, like dark eyes. A quarter mile became a tenth of a mile became a hundred yards became a hundred feet. The gunmen stopped running. In unison, they raised their rifles and trained them at the three vehicles, preparing to fire. And then, with a suddenness that made even Nazir jerk in his seat, the two SUVs shot out—one to the left, one to the right, and the three vehicles crossed the line of soldiers at the same time, cutting between black-clad gunmen who, as the vehicles crossed between them, raised their muzzles in unison, aiming them at the sky, then shot off rounds into the air as they all screamed: “Nazir! Nazir! Nazir! Nazir!”

The vehicles ripped past the men toward the collection of trailers, vehicles, and soldiers.

There were eighteen trailers in all. Most of them were steel shipping containers, arrayed in a line. There were also a few mobile homes with windows.

Smoke came from a burn pit several hundred feet away.

Hundreds of men milled about. The temperature, by 8
A.M.,
was in the eighties.

The vehicles emptied, save for Nazir, who remained inside.

The soldiers greeted the arriving ISIS men with handshakes and hugs. After more than a minute, Nazir opened the door and climbed out.

He was dressed in a light blue short-sleeve shirt and light gray trousers. Nazir's hair was parted on the right and combed neatly back. He was the only individual not wearing the uniform that had come to be, throughout the world, the feared uniform of ISIS: black pants, black shirt, black bandanna wrapped around the head.

As Nazir emerged, everyone turned and let out a raucous, sustained cheer. Several soldiers fired their guns into the sky.

Nazir didn't react.

He moved into the throng of men, greeting them with handshakes, which he gave as he looked each in the eye and said nothing. He moved down the line of men. At some point, he noticed something to his right, in the distance. In the middle of the trailers was a large steel cage. It was empty.

“Where are they?” asked Nazir after he finished greeting his soldiers.

“In the trailer, sir,” said one of the men.

“Is the cameraman in place?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” said Nazir. “Proceed.”

The soldier nodded to one of the guards near the first trailer. The guard acknowledged the silent order and walked down the line of trailers, opening the door to the third one. After almost a minute, a gunman stepped back out. He was followed by two more gunmen. Then came the American couple.

The woman had long blond hair. She was slightly overweight. She was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. Black tape was wrapped around her mouth. Her hands and feet were tied with rope. She moved slowly, inch by inch, as one of the gunmen pressed the muzzle of his gun to her back.

Her husband came next, followed by two more gunmen. He was tall, bald, with a beard and mustache. He was shirtless. His wrists and ankles were bound. But, unlike his wife, the man's mouth wasn't taped. It was no longer necessary. Blood trickled over his lower lip. A wash of crimson stained his beard and chest from where they'd cut out his tongue.

This was Sheets.

He refused to walk. He fell over, lying on the ground. The two gunmen grabbed him by the rope around his ankles and dragged him across the dirt toward the steel cage.

Nazir stepped through the line of soldiers and walked slowly toward the cage. He had a cold expression on his face, with a trace of anger. Nazir's men moved aside to let him through. As they dragged the American toward the cage, Nazir watched.

Every soldier turned and looked at him as he walked forward, toward the man who was now lying on the ground.

They'd captured him in Damascus. A photographer from
National Geographic.
What kind of idiot takes his wife with him to Syria?

They pushed them both inside the cage. The man lay on the ground. A low, muffled groan came from him. The woman stood. Somehow, she had a look of calm. She stared at Nazir as he came closer.

Outside the cage, a soldier stood behind a video camera, framing the picture. With his eye pressed to the viewfinder, he signaled with his left hand.

Another soldier entered the cage with a red plastic gas can and emptied it around the feet of the American woman, then doused the photographer.

The smell of gasoline caught Nazir's nostrils as he came within a dozen feet of the cage, just behind the photographer.

The cameraman leaned back. He turned to Nazir and nodded politely. Nazir nodded back. When he did, the cameraman placed his eye again to the camera, then, a moment later, held up his left thumb. This signaled another gunman, who was standing to the left of the cage, smoking a cigarette. He took a last drag, then, with his middle finger, flicked the butt. It somersaulted through the air, crossing between two grates on the cage, and came to a soft landing a foot from the woman. All eyes were on the smoldering butt as it came to rest on the gasoline-soaked steel platform. All eyes, that is, but Nazir's and the woman's. She stared at Nazir, the man she knew was her executioner. And he stared back, without emotion, without apology, without guilt. He did not look happy; his look was simply that of a warrior, whose actions had been, on some level, predetermined. He was acting out the script that had long ago been written. It was a story of political ascendancy. Actions necessary when one's objectives are clear. A story of jihad.

A loud chorus of cheers began behind Nazir, but he said nothing.

Then came the spark. Flames shot up around the American couple. Red-orange flames climbed into the sky as terrible, inhuman screams fogged the din.

 

6

DANIEL ROAD

CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND

At 11:45
P.M.,
Chevy Chase Village was quiet, its shops and restaurants long since shut for the evening. It was one of the capital's most exclusive enclaves, a gorgeous place of wealth and prosperity, its inhabitants powerful and rich, its small village a collection of excellent restaurants and high-end retailers, Starbucks and Tiffany's within a few blocks of each other.

The village's pretty colonial homes sat dark and still. Streetlights every few blocks cast what little light there was, and on some roads, such as those abutting Rock Creek Park, the weak light intermingled with the overhanging tree branches, creating a spectral atmosphere, like the scene in a horror movie just before the kill.

Daniel Road ran alongside Rock Creek Park. Its homes were larger than on other streets in the village, its lots bigger. Its owners more private. Each was set back from the street by a long driveway. Most were bordered by picket fences. Large old trees with heaving branches cantilevered above the road.

On a particularly dark stretch of Daniel Road, a white van was parked beneath the overhanging branches of a large maple tree. The van looked abandoned. The front seat was empty. A layer of pollen and bug guts was thick on the windshield.

Five individuals were crowded into the back of the van. The air was fetid with sweat. A man named Sirhan was nearest to the front. He was in charge. He sat on the floor with his back against the door. On his lap was a sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun. Next to him were two more men of similar appearance. Ali and Tariq. Both were Middle Eastern, Arabs, in their early twenties. Ali was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. Tariq had on a light blue button-down shirt with patches on the chest and arms, his uniform for his job as a security guard, though at the moment he was off duty.

“Is it time?” asked Tariq, seated behind the driver's seat. He was slouched down in case anyone walked by.

There was enough light from a distant lamppost to cast soft glow through the back window. The light allowed Sirhan to stare at the two other people in the van. One was a middle-aged woman with short dirty-blond hair, dressed in a red bathrobe and an untied tennis sneaker on one foot. She lay on her side on the steel floor, near the back, contorted awkwardly. Her arms and legs were bound by rope. A leather belt was cinched around her head and across her open mouth, pulled tight so that she couldn't close her mouth or speak. From a gash above her left eye, blood trickled down her forehead and beneath her ear. Her hair, face, and clothing were drenched in sweat. She was breathing rapidly.

Next to her lay a teenage girl with long hair. She was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. She too was bound and gagged. Blood oozed from her nostrils. She was soaked in perspiration.

“No,” said Sirhan. “Not yet.”

*   *   *

Inside the home on Daniel Road, Mark Raditz was seated on a large, deep, light-tan leather couch. To his left, on a cushion, was a thick stack of briefing papers, which he'd yet to read. To his right was a similar stack of papers, those he'd already been through.

The low din coming from voices on the TV was the only sound in the room. An Orioles game was on. Raditz, the deputy secretary of the Department of Defense, loved baseball, though he wasn't paying attention.

On Raditz's knees was a laptop computer. He watched the video for the fourth time. It showed a man and a woman being burned alive.

ISIS was growing stronger. Raditz and every other high-ranking Pentagon official were spending all their time trying to stop its spread across Syria and Iraq. That day, Raditz had been to the White House to meet twice with the president.

“What are we doing to stop them?” the president had asked, again and again. “Why haven't we found Nazir? What sort of animal would behead innocent people?”

Raditz had answered each question in the same frustrated tone.

“We're doing everything we can, Mr. President. Nazir is a ghost; he moves anonymously, from town to town, like a drifter, a common citizen; like the wind. What kind of animal, sir? I don't know.”

But Raditz did know. He was the one who'd created the monster.

With every town and village ISIS took, with every church destroyed and innocent person killed, that knowledge—of his own complicity—ripped away at Raditz's mind, overwhelming him. Raditz knew the guilt would soon destroy him—unless he was somehow caught—in which case it would be his own government that did it. They'd call it treason, even though it had been precisely the opposite that drove him to do what he'd done.

If only he could find Nazir before they found out the truth …

It's not your fault. You didn't know. How could you know? Your motives were pure!

But Raditz's inner voice—the only ally he had left—was fading.

In his left hand, he held a glass of red wine. In his right, Raditz clutched a Smith & Wesson .45. For months now, it had been his nightly ritual. A bottle of wine, sometimes more, and his gun, which he held like a talisman, moving it inevitably to his mouth, to his nostril, to the side of his head, always with his finger on the trigger. Sometimes, in the darkest moments, he felt his finger pressing against the trigger. But he couldn't do it.

A soft chime came from one of four cell phones on the table in front of the sofa. He leaned forward and picked up the phone. He stared at the screen.

::   UNKNOWN ID   ::

He pressed the green button and put the phone to his ear “Raditz,” he said.

He leaned back and took a sip of wine, waiting to see who it was, assuming it would be his boss, Harry Black, the secretary of defense, or Josh Brubaker, the White House national security advisor. He waited for someone to say something. All he heard was silence.

“Mark Raditz,” he repeated, a hint of impatience in his voice. “Who is it? If someone's there, I can't hear you.”

“You can hear me, Mark,” said Nazir.

Raditz paused for a very long time, as he debated whether or not to hang up.

“What the
hell
do you want?” he said. “You have some nerve calling me.”

“I think we both know I have plenty of nerve,” said Nazir.

Raditz's nostrils flared.

“Fuck you! What do you want?”

“We need ammunition. Guns and ammo. Shoulder-fired missiles. Nothing fancy. But I need a lot of it.”

Raditz let out a cackle.

“I wouldn't send you a fucking cap gun,” he said. “You lied to me. You lied to the United States of America. Right now, I have at least a dozen UAVs scouring Syria and Iraq for your scrawny little one-eyed cadaver. When I find you, I'm going to fuck you in the ass with a Hellfire missile.”

“Sounds like fun,” said Nazir. “The problem is, I have evidence that I think would prove rather embarrassing for you and for your country. Until you do kill me, that evidence could easily find its way into the hands of a reporter.”