by Ben Coes
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-ra
nking 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.”
“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.