The Third Target: A J. B. Collins Novel

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” I replied.

  “Can’t or won’t?” Harris asked.

  “Look, she’s a source—and a confidential one at that,” I explained. “She made me promise I wouldn’t reveal her identity. I’m sorry.”

  “Is she American?”

  “I really can’t say.”

  “Turkish?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Is she an Arab, Mr. Collins?” Harris pressed. “Someone connected to your trip to Syria?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  Harris looked confused. “The whole world knows you went to Syria, Mr. Collins,” he replied. “You wrote about it on the front page of the New York Times.”

  “The story is already out?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “Of course it is. It ran several days ago.”

  Of course it had. I’d been in the hospital four days, which meant the stories on ISIS and Ramzy had already been read by millions around the globe.

  I apologized. I was still trying to clear my head and orient myself to all that had happened. But Harris kept pressing.

  “What do the initials YK stand for?” he asked.

  I was startled but said nothing.

  “They were on the business card in your pocket,” he explained. “We’ve tried the phone number. It’s local, but it’s been disconnected. Imagine that.”

  “You think my source is trying to kill me?” I asked.

  “You tell me.”

  “It’s not possible.”

  “No?”

  “No. She’s trying to help me on a very important story.”

  “About Jamal Ramzy and Abu Khalif?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “About ISIS?”

  “I told you, I’m not at liberty to tell you anything about her.”

  “You understand why I’m asking.”

  “Of course.”

  “Someone just murdered your colleague,” Harris said. “And they were trying to take you out as well.”

  “And you think she’s connected?”

  “I don’t know what to think, but it’s my job to track down every lead,” Harris said. “Right now I have a car bombing in Istanbul in front of an all-night café frequented by foreign nationalists. I’ve got a Jordanian reporter for the New York Times dead. I’ve got an American correspondent for the same newspaper who should be dead but isn’t and a mysterious woman who has vanished off the face of the earth. No name. No address. No working phone number. Just the initials YK. See what I’m saying?”

  “I do, but I can assure you she’s trying to help me, not kill me.”

  “You’ve known her a long time?”

  “No.”

  “Months, years?”

  “No, we just met here in Istanbul.”

  “But you’re vouching for her?”

  “I know her boss. He sent her to meet with me.”

  “You trust him?”

  “I do.”

  Harris said nothing. He just looked at me, and I could see him trying to decide whether I was telling the truth.

  “I’m not the kind of person to go around lying to the FBI,” I said in my defense.

  “I don’t know what kind of person you are,” Harris replied.

  “I tell the truth for a living,” I explained. “All I have in this world is my reputation for explaining events to my readers as accurately as I possibly can. That’s something I guard very jealously, Mr. Harris.”

  He nodded, then pulled out a small notebook and a pen and began jotting something down.

  “The reason I’m so concerned, Mr. Collins—the reason I’m asking so many questions—is we have evidence that suggests the bombing was the work of an al Qaeda cell.”

  “Al Qaeda?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not ISIS.”

  “No.”

  “What evidence?” I asked.

  “The design of the car bomb was distinctive—very similar to those used by al Qaeda in Afghanistan,” Harris said. “The explosives used in the bomb have the exact same chemical composition of a bomb used three weeks ago to kill an American diplomat in Kabul—a case that led to the capture of three al Qaeda operatives, all of whom have since confessed.”

  “But why would al Qaeda want to kill me?” I asked.

  “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  24

  The moment Harris left, I powered up my iPhone and called Allen MacDonald.

  “Thank God,” he said when he heard my voice. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine—just a little shaken up,” I said. It wasn’t exactly true, but I was feeling increasingly desperate to get back in the game. “But I’m devastated by Omar.”

  “I know,” Allen said. “We’re all in shock. First Abdel, and now this. It’s hitting everyone hard.”

  “I’d like to go to the funeral,” I said.

  “For Omar?”

  “Of course.”

  “In Jordan?”

  “Where else?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, J. B.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the FBI thinks al Qaeda is gunning for you.”

  “They told you that?”

  “Told me, and then demanded I not print it,” my editor replied.

  “Why not?”

  “Obviously they’re afraid AQ is going to try again,” Allen said. “Didn’t they send an agent to talk with you? They said they would.”

  “Yeah, he just left.”

  “They think someone working for al Qaeda might have spotted you in the airport in Beirut and tipped off the leadership. They say it’s not uncommon.”

  “But why me?”

  “Their working theory at the moment is that AQ got wind of your meeting with Ramzy somehow and wanted to stop you from writing your story elevating ISIS,” Allen explained.

  “Seems a little petty.”

  “Maybe,” Allen said. “But I don’t like the idea of you making yourself a target in Amman. I want you on the next plane back to D.C., first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “They won’t let me leave,” I said. “The doctor says he wants to keep me for observation.”

  “I’ve already spoken to the chief administrator at the hospital. He’ll clear your release so long as I promise to put you in an American hospital for a few more days when you get back.”

  “No, Allen, I need to go meet another source.”

  “Where?”

  “I can’t say—but in the Middle East.”

  “Absolutely not,” he shot back. “Are you crazy?”

  “I found another source,” I explained. “They’re going to confirm the WMD story. It’s solid. They have proof. But I need to see it in person.”

  “You’re out of your mind. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Look, I just need twenty-four hours,” I insisted. “I’ll turn in this story, and then I’ll come back.”

  “No. I’ve booked you on a flight back to D.C. that leaves in the morning.”

  “Allen, all I’m asking for is twenty-four hours.”

  “The answer is no.”

  “This story is going to win the Pulitzer.”

  “Not if you’re dead.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Fine like Abdel? Fine like Omar? Nice try. Get on the plane. Then come straight to the office. We’ll regroup. I’ll go over your notes and we’ll figure out our next moves. End of discussion. And don’t try to do an end run around me again, J. B. You went into Syria in direct defiance of my orders. You’ve gotten two of our guys killed. You make one more move like that, and you’re fired. Got it?”

  Stung by his vehemence, I said nothing.

  “Good,” he concluded. “See you tomorrow.”

  I was angry as I hung up the phone. I didn’t need a lecture from my editor on how much danger I was in, but to my way of thinking, the very fact people were trying to kill me only reinforced how important these stor
ies were. There was no way I was going to give up, but at that moment I wasn’t sure I was in a position to disregard Allen’s explicit directive to come back to D.C. And if I was honest, I had to admit that nothing he had said indicated he was trying to stop me from doing the WMD story. He’d said he was willing to review the evidence I’d gathered and figure out what to do next. But for the moment, he was simply trying to save my life. I appreciated that, and there was a part of me that was grateful. But in the end, what did my life matter when tens or hundreds of thousands of other lives—American and Israeli—hung in the balance?

  Looking down at my phone, I was amazed to see there were more than twelve hundred e-mails and two hundred text messages waiting for me, along with a few dozen voice messages. The first wave was from colleagues and friends calling to congratulate me on the Ramzy stories, and TV producers inviting me on their weekend talk shows to discuss Ramzy and the rising threat of al Qaeda and ISIS.

  The second wave of messages—and the overwhelming majority, by far—were people checking on me after reading the front-page Times story that ran the day after the Ramzy piece, describing the car bombing in Istanbul. There were messages from correspondents and bureau chiefs all over the world. The White House press secretary had called. So had several members of Congress, including the chairmen of both the House and Senate select intelligence committees. There were also messages from a wide range of sources at the Pentagon and the CIA, including Jack Vaughn, the current CIA director, even though he’d specifically warned me not to go. Again, I was grateful and touched by the messages I read and listened to. But I couldn’t let myself get bogged down in it all. I needed time to think, not type e-mails and write thank-you notes and chitchat on the phone.

  I sent a quick text message to my mom, letting her know I was all right and that I’d call her when I got back to the States. I deleted a voice-mail message from Matt and an e-mail from Laura. Then I tapped out a generic e-mail thanking everyone for their kind words and assuring them I was okay and would be back on the beat soon. I BCC’d my entire contact list and hit Send, then copied the message and pasted it into all the text messages and hit Send over and over again.

  Noticeably absent were any messages from Prince Marwan Talal in Amman or Ismail Tikriti in Baghdad. That bothered me. I’d always been good to both men. We’d helped each other in the past. Why were they ducking me now?

  Eventually I came across a text from Robert Khachigian. The onetime director of Central Intelligence had responded to my urgent request for a meeting by saying he’d be happy to meet but was leaving for Asia on Monday.

  That was only two days away. Can we talk by phone? I wrote back to him. When’s best for you?

  Next I found three e-mails from Youssef Kuttab, senior advisor to the Palestinian chairman. I had e-mailed him about the peace process from the café here in Istanbul just before the explosion. It is always a pleasure to have coffee with you, my friend, he wrote in his first response to my inquiry. Call me when you get into town. The second was more urgent. I thought you were coming to Ramallah. Things are getting complicated. We need to sit down in person. Where are you? The third read simply: Just heard the news. No words—are you okay?

  “Getting complicated”? What did that mean? I had no idea, but whatever it was, one thing was clear: I wasn’t going to find out by e-mail or phone. I was going to have to go to Ramallah and sit with Kuttab personally, or I wasn’t going to hear it at all.

  Not sure how to thread that needle just yet, I focused on two text messages from Hassan Karbouli, whom I’d been trying to contact about finding Abu Khalif. His first message, written the day the Ramzy story was published, read, Good to hear from you, my friend. Wish I could help. Sorry. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or throw the phone across the room. Karbouli was the Iraqi interior minister, for crying out loud. He oversaw the country’s bureau of prisons. If he wanted to help me, he certainly could. He answered only to the prime minister and Allah.

  If Karbouli’s first text message was infuriating, however, the second was ominous. Dated the day the car bombing story was reported, it was brief: Drop AK story. Not safe.

  “Not safe”? I wondered. For whom—for me or for him?

  Perhaps both.

  To be sure, Karbouli had always struck me as a good man in a tough spot. Born and raised near Mosul, he was one of the few Sunni Muslims serving in a predominantly Shia government in Baghdad. In the past I had always felt I could trust him. But now I wasn’t sure. Was this a warning or a threat?

  Either way, the two messages in combination had me firing on all cylinders. This guy knew exactly where the emir of ISIS was, I realized, and if I could get to Hassan Karbouli, I just might be able to get to Abu Khalif.

  25

  My flight out of Istanbul departed at 8:15 in the morning.

  Which meant I had to be at the airport by six.

  Which meant I had to be up, showered, and dressed by four thirty.

  The three agents Special Agent in Charge Harris had assigned to keep me safe at the hospital graciously offered to drive me to the airport and take me to my gate out of an abundance of caution. They also returned my luggage and briefcase, which I’d left at the Hotel Ibrahim Pasha.

  After a grueling mechanical delay, I was finally hurtling down the runway on an Airbus A320 headed for Frankfurt. From there, I’d have a tight connection to catch my flight to Washington Dulles. If all went well, I’d be back on American soil by four o’clock that afternoon, local time.

  Then what? I had no idea.

  There were storms over Frankfurt.

  My flight was late and I had to run to get to my gate on time. But that’s when I got an urgent text from Khachigian.

  Grave development. Need to meet ASAP.

  I wondered if I should stop running and text him back immediately. But I could hear the last call going out for passengers on Lufthansa flight 418 to Washington Dulles International Airport. I was in danger of missing my connection, so I kept running. A few minutes later, I finally made it to the gate and was the last person to board the plane. The moment I found my seat and buckled in, I immediately texted him back.

  What’s happening?

  Five seconds later I got his reply. Can’t explain by text.

  Call?

  Too sensitive.

  Soon, the text messages between us were flying back and forth.

  Topic?

  ISIS.

  Listening.

  Need to meet tonight.

  Can’t—in Germany, but heading back shortly.

  Fine, I’ll go to the Post.

  What??? Absolutely not.

  Can’t wait. Story won’t hold. I have to get it out. And my trip to Asia has been bumped up. I leave tonight.

  Then let’s talk now by phone.

  No. I can’t.

  I touch down at Dulles at four. How about dinner?

  Sorry. Too late. I’m going to the Post.

  Robert, you owe me this.

  I don’t.

  I’ve done everything you asked. Nearly got myself killed on this story you told me to pursue. Lost two colleagues. Now you’re going to the Post???

  Suddenly Khachigian wasn’t writing back. A minute went by. Then two. I was dying. They were closing the cabin door. A flight attendant was asking me to power down my phone.

  You still there? I wrote.

  Another minute went by.

  Yes, he finally replied.

  And?

  Thinking.

  Hold on the story, please, I insisted. Meet me at Union Station.

  There was another long pause. A minute. Two. We were beginning to taxi. A second flight attendant was insisting I shut off my phone. Three minutes. Finally, after four minutes my phone chirped with a new incoming text.

  Fine. Union Station. Center Café. 7:30 p.m. Don’t be late.

  26

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  After repeated weather delays, Lufthansa flight 418 finally landed at Dulles.


  As we taxied to the terminal, I pulled out my grandfather’s pocket watch. It was now 5:35 Sunday afternoon, a full ninety minutes after our scheduled arrival time.

  My nerves were a wreck. I still needed to clear passport control and customs, race home to shower and change before making it to the Times bureau at 1627 I Street downtown to meet with Allen for who knew how long, then arrive at Union Station by seven thirty. Otherwise whatever scoop Khachigian was saving for me was going to the Washington Post.

  With a full flight out of Istanbul, my protective detail hadn’t been able to travel with me. But they’d assured me that I’d be met by agents from the D.C. bureau the moment I arrived. As I stepped off the plane, however, there was no one waiting for me. I had no intention of staying around.

  Already I was checking flights to Tel Aviv later that night or the next day at the latest on the working assumption that Allen would see the light and let me go once we’d talked through the evidence I’d gathered so far. At the same time, I knew I needed to call my mom. I needed to let her hear my voice and know for sure I was really okay. She would insist I come up to Maine, but that wasn’t going to happen. Not for a while. At least not until I got back from Tel Aviv and Amman. After all, I had to visit with Omar’s widow. I had to give her my condolences and tell her what an amazing friend her husband had been to me.

  But the truth was, at that moment my thoughts were mostly on Yael. Where was she? Was she safe? Was she okay? I’d already tried the number on her card. Harris was right. It was no longer working. I’d also sent a text message to Ari Shalit asking about her and asking for permission to come see him as soon as possible. So far, I’d heard nothing back.

  As I worked my way through the airport, I noticed a crowd gathering around a TV set. When I heard the trademark voice of James Earl Jones saying, “This is CNN Breaking News,” I stopped immediately to see what was happening.

  “CNN has just learned that Ayman al-Zawahiri, the head of al Qaeda since 2011, is dead,” said a female anchor in the Atlanta studios while raw, unedited video of a smoldering crater on a crowded street and the burning wreckage of what appeared to be an SUV played on the screen. “Several sources are telling CNN the al Qaeda leader was killed in a drone strike, but at least one former CIA analyst says the images are more consistent with a car bombing.”