The Third Target: A J. B. Collins Novel

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  31

  Our food was sitting in front of us getting cold.

  But I couldn’t eat. I just sat there and said nothing. There was no question I wanted to find Abu Khalif and expose him. I’d even been actively pursuing leads as to his whereabouts. I just didn’t want to die.

  For most of my life—and certainly for most of my career—I’d never really thought much about dying. There was something thrilling, even addictive, about going into dangerous places as a foreign correspondent. I’d always loved taking risks, living on the edge, cheating death, and the exhilaration of coming home alive. But now something was different. Something was changing. I was changing. For the first time in my life, I found myself thinking about what was on the other side, about where I was going when I breathed my last, and whether I was really ready for it.

  And I knew I wasn’t.

  I was haunted by the images of Abdel’s and Omar’s last moments. I was haunted by that soldier dying on the street in Homs, the one who had begged me for help, desperately clinging to life. I couldn’t shake the terrified look I had seen in his eyes as the life drained out of him. The sound of his voice was tattooed in my brain.

  “James?”

  I realized Khachigian was trying to get my attention. I had completely zoned out. “Sorry.”

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I will be.”

  “It’s okay, son. I know what you’re going through. Believe me, I do,” Khachigian said, the tone of his voice changing ever so slightly. “You have to do what you think is right. But may I make a suggestion?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure,” I stammered. “Go right ahead.”

  “Get on a plane to Israel tonight,” he said quietly, almost whispering. “Meet with the Mossad tomorrow. Get that story finished. Get it out there. Make a big international splash with it. And then make a decision about Abu Khalif. But let me suggest that after the Times publishes your story on the chemical weapons, there’ll be no more reason for Khalif to kill you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the reason Jamal Ramzy threatened you was to keep the story from coming out. Once it’s out, then the damage is done. Once it’s out, I think Khalif would want to talk to you specifically to spin the story, not to deny it. What he wants most is the element of surprise, clearly. But he’ll settle for the mystique of being the world’s most dangerous terrorist in possession of the world’s most dangerous weapons. If anything, publishing that story will be your ‘get out of jail free’ card.”

  “That’s your theory?” I asked.

  “That’s my theory,” he replied.

  I shrugged. Maybe the man was right. I wasn’t sure I was ready to find out.

  “Aren’t you forgetting one thing?” I asked after a few moments.

  “What?”

  “How exactly am I supposed to hunt down Abu Khalif with five FBI agents connected to my hip?”

  “I thought you only had four.”

  “One is sitting out front in the driver’s seat of an armored Chevy Suburban.”

  Khachigian pulled an envelope out of the breast pocket of his finely tailored suit. He glanced around the restaurant and discreetly slid it across the table.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Don’t open it,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Just put it in your pocket.”

  “What is it?”

  “Just put it away now,” he insisted.

  I picked up the envelope and slipped it into my pocket.

  “It’s a new identity for you,” he whispered.

  “What?” I asked, completely confused.

  “New name,” he continued. “New passport. New driver’s license. Two new credit cards. And a ticket to Tel Aviv tonight in this new name, not yours.”

  “Why?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Because you’re right,” he said. “You’re going to need to give your new friends from the bureau the slip.”

  Then he pulled out his smartphone and sent a text. “There.”

  “There what?” I asked.

  “I just told my assistant to book you—the real you—on a series of flights tonight from BWI to Bar Harbor, via Boston and Portland,” Khachigian said. “That should provide you with some cover. She’s been waiting for my authorization. I just gave it. Now, in a few minutes, I’m going to order dessert. When I do, I want you to go to the restroom—the one over by the Amtrak waiting area near gate A. You know it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Several of your security team, maybe all of them, will follow you. Ask them to check the restroom and make sure it’s secure. They will. Then ask them for a moment of privacy and go into the last stall along the far wall. They will step outside and give you some space. That’s your moment.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s a ceiling panel there. Stand on the toilet seat, pop out the panel, pull yourself up, and replace the panel below you.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I asked.

  But Khachigian kept talking, low and fast. “You’ll find yourself in an air-conditioning shaft. Go to your left. In about twenty yards, you’ll find an opening. Drop down. You’ll be in a narrow tunnel that eventually leads to another door. Go through that and you’ll end up in an Amtrak storage facility. At this time of night, there won’t be anyone there. Exit on the far side, and you’ll be on First Street, across from the National Postal Museum. Can you picture that?”

  “Yes,” I said, a bit mesmerized by the tradecraft and trying to remember every detail.

  “It’s getting a bit late, but there should still be plenty of cabs. Grab one and head straight for Dulles. By the time the FBI boys figure out you’re gone and start to hunt for you, you’ll be well on your way. They’ll quickly pick up on the reservations from Baltimore back to Maine. Eventually they’ll realize it’s a ruse, but that should buy you enough time to be on your way to Tel Aviv. And since you’ll be using an alias they’re completely unaware of, you should make it to Israel with no problems. That ought to give you plenty of time to do your story and make a decision whether to head to Iraq or not.”

  “You’ve thought of everything,” I said.

  “This is what I do,” he said. “Well, what I used to do.”

  I was impressed.

  “There’s just one thing,” he added.

  “What’s that?”

  “You need to turn off your phone right now and remove the battery.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t turn it on for any reason until after you file your story from Tel Aviv.”

  “Or they’ll find me?”

  “Exactly.”

  Then he took a smartphone out of the pocket of his trousers, slid it across the table, and told me to quickly slip it into my pocket.

  “What’s this for?” I asked, putting it in my pocket.

  “You’re going to need a phone.”

  “But they’ll know it’s yours.”

  “No, it’s totally new. It’s not connected to me. It’s not even connected to your alias. But it does have all your contact information on it.”

  “How . . . ?”

  “Don’t ask,” he said. “Use it sparingly, only for emergencies. And whatever you do, don’t call your mother.”

  I nodded, though somewhat reluctantly. This was not a plan I felt comfortable with. I wasn’t even sure it was going to work. Still, I was grateful for all the thought and planning he had put into this, and I certainly didn’t have a better idea. It wasn’t clear to me at that moment that the men from the bureau would prevent me from flying to Tel Aviv that evening if I just decided to head to Dulles and try to book a ticket. But they might. The president didn’t want the story out there. Neither did Vaughn. Who knew what excuse they might come up with to keep me in the country. It was not a risk I was willing to take.

  Khachigian began to eat his lobster ravioli. I, on the other hand, had no appetite whatsoever.

  “Listen,” I sai
d, gathering my thoughts, “you said earlier that your sources are telling you that ISIS has mixed the precursors, that they’ve loaded sarin nerve agents into artillery shells and missile warheads, that they’ve moved their men into position, and all they are waiting for now is authorization. Right?”

  Khachigian nodded as he washed down his pasta with a sip of water.

  “So where do your sources say ISIS is going to strike?” I asked. “Here in D.C.? New York? Tel Aviv? Where, and how soon?”

  That’s when the first gunshot rang out.

  32

  More gunfire came in rapid succession.

  It sounded like it was coming from below us, but with the explosions echoing throughout the main hall of Union Station, I couldn’t be certain. People began screaming and running in all directions. Under different circumstances, I might have assumed a random shooting spree was under way. But I knew instantly someone was coming for me, and for a moment I was paralyzed with fear.

  The first line of defense was the FBI agent standing post at the bottom of the stairs. Had he been hit? Was he returning fire? The agents at the top of the stairs and the table next to us had already drawn their weapons and were preparing for the possibility of a gunman—or several—charging up those stairs. But as I watched, each of them—one by one—was shot in the back before any of them realized what was happening. Someone was now firing from a position above us.

  Khachigian reacted instantly. “Get down, get down!” he shouted, reaching across the table and trying to pull me to the floor.

  But it was too late. Just then, Khachigian was hit directly in the forehead, right in front of me. His whole upper body snapped backward. The back of his head exploded. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. And yet, somehow, rather than remain frozen in horror, my brain and nervous system reacted to his last words. I immediately dove to the floor, knocking over chairs and crashing into other patrons who were doing the same thing, all of us scrambling for cover.

  There had to be at least two shooters, I concluded—one on the main level, creating a distraction, and a sniper firing from the floor above me.

  Crack, crack, crack.

  Each shot echoed through the hall. I could hear wineglasses and china shattering all around me. People were being hit. They were writhing on the floor, covered in blood, screaming in pain, but there was nothing I could do to help them. Not yet. Not now. Not while I was so exposed.

  The sniper, I realized, had to be in one of the arched alcoves ringing the upper level. I desperately scrambled past several tables, trying to get behind the bar, which I hoped might keep me safe. But then I saw one of the agents, a pool of blood all around him. To my astonishment he was still alive, though he wouldn’t be for long. His face was a ghostly white, but there was still fire in his eyes.

  “Get down!” he yelled, then aimed his government-issued sidearm at one of the alcoves over my right shoulder and unloaded an entire magazine.

  My instinct was to flatten myself to the ground and cover my head, but I was still too exposed. The only chance I had to make it through this was to use this agent’s covering fire to get to a safer position. So as he pulled the trigger again and again, I climbed over broken glass and bleeding bodies to one of the other agents lying motionless next to the bar. As I reached him, I heard more gunfire erupt from the alcove behind me. A split second later, the agent I had just left was dead. But I kept moving.

  Lunging forward, I grabbed the Glock handgun lying beside the nearest agent and quickly found his spare clip. Then I rolled behind the bar just as the shooter in the alcove turned his fire on me. I could hear bullets whizzing over my head. I could hear more bottles exploding and the wood counters being shredded. I was pinned down, and I was terrified. I knew full well the FBI agents and tourists sprawled all around me were not the targets. Khachigian had been, and so was I. This was not another mass shooting event like the ones Americans were becoming all too used to in schools and movie theaters and churches all across the country. It might seem that way. It might even get reported that way at first. But this wasn’t random. The shooters weren’t going to turn out to be a few drugged-out high school kids overly influenced by violent video games. This was terrorism. This was a professional hit. This was al Qaeda—or more likely ISIS—and Khachigian was right; they weren’t going to stop until anyone trying to break the story about the chemical weapons was dead.

  Pressing myself as far under the counter as I could, out of the line of sight of the shooter in the alcove, I aimed the gun at the end of the bar, fearing that the second shooter—if there really was a second shooter—would be coming around the corner at any moment. In all the chaos and confusion, I couldn’t be sure exactly what was happening. Nor did I see any way out. If there were multiple assailants, what exactly was I supposed to do? Even if I could take out one of them, how could I stop the rest of them from sending me to the afterlife?

  In that moment, I suddenly thought of my brother. Of the two of us, it was Matt who had become religious. It was Matt who had married the daughter of an Anglican priest and then become a seminary professor. Though I’d ridiculed and mocked him for it all through high school and college, it was he who was always talking about the Bible and urging me to “get right with God.” What if he was right and I was wrong? What if he was going to heaven and I was about to go to hell?

  I felt my fear shift to rage. I wasn’t ready to die. But if I did, it wouldn’t be cowering under a counter. I determined I would fight back. I was not going to surrender to these bloodthirsty barbarians. I was going to do everything in my power to expose them to the world.

  A surge of adrenaline shot through my body. All my senses seemed to go to a higher level of alertness. I began to move, crawling over the lifeless body of the bartender until I came around the corner and saw an opening to the stairs.

  This was the only way out. I had no other choice. The shooter behind me knew it, and he had the advantage. But I knew I could not wait. If I didn’t go now, I might never get out. Above all the screaming and cacophony down below, I could hear sirens coming from all directions. Within moments, the place was going to be swarming with D.C. Metro police, SWAT teams, and the FBI. They would find the shooters. They would kill them, and then they’d lock the place down. I’d be a witness to yet another crime scene. They’d never let me out of the country.

  I checked the pistol to make sure it was ready to fire. It was. I waited for the shooter above me to fire more rounds. When he paused to reload, I popped my head up, aimed for the alcove, and fired off three rounds. Then I jumped to my feet and ran for the stairwell.

  As I did, though, I heard more gunfire erupt from down below. I saw a policewoman drop to the floor, blood spraying from her neck. I’d been right. There were two shooters. One was firing from above. The second was on the main level, and he was firing at police now arriving on the scene. It was a suicide mission. Both shooters would be dead within minutes. They certainly weren’t going to outlast all the layers of police on Capitol Hill. But obviously they knew that, and obviously they didn’t care.

  My heart was pounding. My adrenaline was surging. I was going on instinct, and my instinct was to move. I raced down the curved stairway—my white knuckles gripping the pistol in front of me for dear life—even as both shooters kept firing on everyone in their path.

  As I neared the bottom, I was surprised to see that the first shooter was a woman. She was dressed in dark-blue sportswear as if she’d just come from a gym. She was wearing a black ski mask, holding an AK-47, and spraying anyone and everyone she could. At the moment, her back was to me. But as she started to turn, I pulled the trigger. Again and again I fired. Though several shots went wild, I hit her once in the shoulder and once in the neck. She went sprawling across the blood-spattered marble floor. Then I aimed up to the alcove, emptied the rest of the magazine, and began to sprint.

  I couldn’t tell for sure if I had killed the first shooter, but I thought I had. I couldn’t allow myself to think abo
ut it now. I’d never killed anyone before, but for now I just had to keep going.

  I had no illusions that I had taken out the upstairs shooter, but I figured I’d at least bought a few precious seconds of cover, and I wasted none of them. I ran across the main terminal and deeper into the station, past the Amtrak ticket counter, past shops and boutiques, and headed for the men’s room in the back by gate A. I was following Khachigian’s plan. I would use the utility door and the escape tunnel, just as he’d told me to. But when I got there, I found the door barricaded shut by people huddled inside, desperate to protect themselves. I pounded and yelled and begged for them to let me in, but all I got was an earful of curses in return.

  I froze with panic. I hadn’t anticipated this, and I had no idea what to do next. I couldn’t just stand there, vulnerable and exposed. No one was left in this section. It was completely deserted. But it wouldn’t take long. Someone would see me. Someone would find me, either the second shooter or someone in law enforcement, and I didn’t dare be caught by either.

  I glanced to my right and saw glass doors. Beyond them were row upon row of railroad tracks. There were no trains coming or going at the moment—it was clear this was my only way out. Hopping over a barricade, I tried to burst through the doors, but they were locked. I moved right and tried to exit through gates B and C, but they were locked as well. Perhaps they had been automatically locked once the shooting started. I had no idea. But I had a pistol in my hands and didn’t think twice. Backing up, I ejected the empty magazine and loaded the spare. Then I fired away until the glass shattered and I could crawl through. Ditching the pistol in a nearby trash can, I sprinted down the tracks. I ran as fast as I could until the sounds of the sirens began to fade. Only then did I dare leave the tracks.