As I climbed up an embankment, I spotted a gas station. I ran to it, found the men’s room, and locked myself inside for a few minutes to wash up and catch my breath.
I could still hear sirens screaming toward Union Station. I knew I had to keep moving. I slipped out of the men’s room and jogged several more blocks to the north. There I found a cab. I thrust a wad of cash in the driver’s face. Fifteen minutes later, I was back at my apartment.
I took a quick shower, changed clothes, packed a bag, and drove my own car to Dulles airport. I was going to Tel Aviv and then on to Iraq. I was going to finish this story. I’d come this far. I couldn’t stop now.
33
TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
I landed at Ben Gurion International Airport just after 4 p.m. local time.
Fortunately, I’d fallen sound asleep even before taking off from Washington. I’d woken up only on hearing the pilot say we were on final approach into Tel Aviv. But I hardly felt rested, and I was starving. I’d missed both meals and the snacks.
Then again, I’d missed the chance to buy alcohol too.
Low blood sugar was not helping me. The challenges ahead were daunting. I was about to go through Israeli passport control using a fake passport. For all I knew, I would then be arrested for traveling with false papers. I’d never done this before. I wasn’t a trained CIA operative. I had no idea whether I could bluff my way through Israeli security. Even if I could, I still had to get myself to Mossad headquarters, where I had no idea if Ari Shalit would receive me. But I didn’t dare contact him yet, lest the FBI pick up my trail.
And these were just my immediate problems. The next set—getting to Iraq and tracking down Abu Khalif—was more daunting by far. Yet I didn’t feel scared. At the moment, I just felt numb.
The lines to go through passport control were crazy long. Four international flights had arrived within minutes of each other, and the arrival hall was mobbed. The good news was that the Israeli border control officials were in a hurry to get people processed and through. When it was my turn, I handed over my fake passport and tried to act natural. I waited for the questions, but they didn’t come. I waited to be pulled aside, but it didn’t happen. Moments later, I was through without a problem. But I was hardly relieved. I was still battling shock.
I headed out into the chilly winter rains to grab a cab when someone suddenly came up behind me. I turned, and to my astonishment, it was Yael Katzir.
“James, thank God you’re safe,” she said, giving me a hug. “Welcome to Israel.”
She had scrapes and contusions all over her face and neck. She had burns and bandages on her hands and arms. But she was alive and holding me.
“Yael,” I stammered, “how . . . ? What . . . ? I don’t understand.”
“Didn’t you come to Israel to see me?” she asked.
“Well, I . . .”
“You didn’t really think we’d be fooled by your new passport, did you?” she said with a wink.
I just stared at her blankly as a jet-black, four-door BMW pulled up. Yael opened the back door for me.
“Come on; we can talk on the way,” she said, her eyes sober but warm.
Rattled by all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours but grateful to see her, I said nothing, just got into the car. Yael got in the other side and gave the driver orders in Hebrew. Then we were off, presumably to Mossad headquarters in Tel Aviv.
“I’m so sorry about Omar,” she said, taking my left hand and squeezing it gently. “I know you two were close.”
I nodded, still numb.
“And I’m sorry for taking off after the explosion,” she continued as we got onto Highway 1, headed west through the increasing rain. “I wanted to see you. I wanted to make sure you were okay. But I was under orders not to draw the attention of the Turks under any circumstances. I hope you understand.”
I nodded again. “But you’re okay?” I asked.
“I’ll live,” she replied.
It was a professional answer, polite and succinct and completely expected, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I wanted the truth. I wanted to know how she was really doing. Yet what was I supposed to do? I wasn’t entitled to anything. She didn’t owe me anything. We weren’t a couple. We weren’t even friends. Not really. After all, we had only just met.
Yael, I was certain, could see the struggle in my eyes. So she changed the subject and offered her condolences for the death of Robert Khachigian. She said she and her colleagues had known Khachigian quite well and had admired him greatly over the years. “We worked together on several operations,” she confided. “He was a class act.”
“He was,” I said, wanting to say more and embarrassed that the words would not form.
The car was silent for several miles. It was awkward, but not just for me. Yael seemed uncomfortable as well. She turned away and looked out the rain-streaked window. I turned and looked out mine. A hundred questions rushed through my mind, but I didn’t ask a one.
“Can you tell me what happened in Union Station?” she said after several kilometers. “Ari’s going to want details.”
It was hardly a topic I wanted to discuss. I still hadn’t fully processed the fact that I had very probably killed someone during my escape. Nevertheless, I shared as much about the attack as I could remember, though I left out the details of Khachigian’s and my conversation. Some things were private. But there was no good reason not to tell her the rest, and in the end it was helpful to have someone I could talk to, someone who understood the enormous trauma I was going through.
“The media in the States are reporting this as a ‘mass-casualty event,’” she said, handing me several printouts of articles off the websites of my own paper and the Washington Post. “The FBI is telling the media that one suspect was shot dead at the scene. That’s the female shooter you brought down. But a second suspect is on the run. They’re not releasing any names or descriptions or any details at all. There are just a few leaks from ‘unnamed senior law enforcement sources’ hinting that right-wing white supremacists may be responsible.”
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” Yael said. “And the FBI hasn’t released the names of the dead. The director is saying not all of the next of kin have been notified.”
“You don’t believe him,” I said. It was an observation, not a question.
Yael shook her head. “Do you?”
I turned and looked out the window again. Why weren’t they officially releasing the names, at least some of them? At the very least, why hadn’t someone leaked Khachigian’s name to the media?
“It’s political,” I said, almost to myself, as I stared out the increasingly fogged-up window and the driving rains pelting Israel’s second-largest city. “They don’t want to say a former CIA director was assassinated in broad daylight. They don’t want to say it’s an act of Middle Eastern terrorism, in the heart of Washington, on the eve of announcing a Middle East peace deal.”
“You may be right,” Yael said. “But I think there’s more.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, turning back to her.
“It’s not just Khachigian,” she said. “I think they don’t want your name out there either. They don’t know what’s happened to you. They don’t know why you left the scene. Maybe you were kidnapped. Maybe you were complicit. Either way, they don’t want the media to report that you were there.”
“Because that would put focus on the threat ISIS just issued.”
“That would be my guess,” she agreed. “You’re a big deal now. You broke the story on how serious a threat ISIS really is and that they are planning a series of imminent attacks on Israel and allies of Israel. But you’re also a big deal because you were just nearly killed in Turkey. Can you imagine how big a story it would be if people knew you were almost assassinated in D.C. as well?”
“You don’t think they really believe I’m involved, do you?” I asked. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.
Nor had the implications.
“No, but I think you need to contact the FBI immediately. Have you even touched base with your editor yet?”
“No, but I have to get this WMD story done first—tonight,” I said, now looking her in the eye. “People need to know about the ISIS attack on that base in Syria. They need to know it’s possible that ISIS now has chemical weapons, and that they may be planning an attack on the U.S. or Israel at any moment. I can’t do anything else until I get that done.”
“I agree, and so does Ari,” she assured me. “And as I told you before, the prime minister has given us full authorization to help you, so long as you don’t quote us or cite any Israeli sources. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“You understand that means you can’t have a dateline on your story tomorrow from Tel Aviv or Jerusalem or anywhere in Israel, right?”
“I can live with that,” I said.
It wasn’t ideal, but it was certainly a small price to pay for a scoop like this.
“Good,” Yael said. “We’re only about ten minutes out. When we get to HQ, I will take you into the vault, as we call it, and show you everything about the ISIS offensive near Aleppo. But there’s something else you should know.”
She set the latest edition of the Jerusalem Post in my lap. The Union Station attacks in Washington had made the front page. But the lead headline read, ISIS Forces Continue in Race toward Baghdad.
I quickly scanned the first few paragraphs. A few thousand Sunni jihadists had already captured control of Mosul, Iraq’s second-largest city, and driven off two U.S.-trained Iraqi army divisions. Now the Post was reporting that ISIS forces had seized the central bank of Mosul, making off with the equivalent of nearly a half-billion dollars in cash, and were continuing to threaten the capital.
“So Baghdad is about to be attacked by what is now the richest terror group on the planet,” I said.
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“The Iraqi government is in full panic mode. Their army is in retreat. Their capital is in jeopardy. The top Shia cleric is calling on fellow Shias to wage jihad against the Sunnis. Tehran—of all places—is offering to help, even offering to send in Iranian military and paramilitary forces to fight ISIS. But President Taylor is doing nothing. The Iraqis are asking for U.S. air strikes, but the president says no. They’re asking for a massive new infusion of military aid. The president says he’ll think about it. Think about it? We could lose Iraq to a bloodthirsty jihadi force. Do you realize what that means? You guys lost four thousand soldiers and Marines fighting to liberate Iraq, and now you’re going to effectively hand it over to ISIS? A group so crazy they were thrown out of al Qaeda for being too extreme? A group that now has chemical weapons and is getting ready to use them at any moment? This isn’t leadership, James. It’s surrender. But your president doesn’t seem to get it. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. Instead of taking action in Iraq, he’s obsessed with carving up the Holy Land. He’s offering all kinds of incentives to my country to sign a deeply flawed peace treaty with the Palestinians, and my prime minister is buying it hook, line, and sinker. It’s absolute lunacy.”
“I’m guessing that’s off the record?” I quipped as we slowed to a crawl and wove through late-afternoon rush-hour traffic.
She didn’t respond.
Changing topics, I asked if she thought the military offensive Jamal Ramzy had promised in his interview with me might actually be against Iraq.
“No, I don’t think so,” Yael said. “Iraq isn’t the third target. It’s the primary target. Syria is second. I’m guessing Israel is third, though it could be you guys. Khalif and Ramzy aren’t idiots. They see the U.S. retreating from the region. They’ve seen their successes in Syria. And they obviously saw an opening, a growing weakness in the heart of the Iraqi regime, and they decided to strike and exploit it for all it’s worth.”
“Heck of a gamble.”
“They don’t call themselves the Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham for nothing. Controlling Iraq, imposing full-blown Sharia law there, and establishing a caliphate in Baghdad is the ultimate objective. It’s the main course. Everything else is dessert.”
“Could Baghdad really fall to ISIS?” I asked. “Are they that strong?”
“I don’t know if they could seize the capital, but they are definitely getting stronger, especially now that they have WMD,” she replied. “And I’m sorry; they’re not just an extra-radical faction of al Qaeda, as you wrote in your profile on Ramzy. They’re actually becoming a very sophisticated army—highly motivated, well-trained, increasingly experienced, incredibly rich, and very, very dangerous. Imagine what would happen if they truly gained control of all of Iraq. They’d create a base camp from which they could export terrorism, attack American citizens, destabilize moderate Arab nations, terrorize the Iraqi people, drive up the price of oil, and seriously harm the global economy.”
“And attack Israel,” I added.
“And attack Israel,” she agreed. “Wouldn’t that be the ultimate irony?”
“What?” I asked.
“If the U.S. invaded Iraq to protect itself and Israel from weapons of mass destruction—which it turned out the Iraqis didn’t really have or have many of—only to set into motion the conditions that would leave the rulers of Iraq in a position to threaten both of us . . . with weapons of mass destruction.”
Irony didn’t begin to describe it.
34
The next twenty-four hours were a whirlwind.
Yael and Ari were true to their word. They gave me everything I needed and then some.
As I was preparing to leave, Ari explained why he hadn’t personally come to meet me in Turkey. He told me—completely off the record, of course—that the prime minister had sent him on a secret mission to Jordan.
“Lavi is determined to be remembered by history as the leader who nailed down a final peace accord with the Palestinians,” he whispered. “I told him the timing was wrong. I’m not opposed to a two-state solution. Not at all. But to make a deal right when ISIS is about to hit us with chemical weapons? It’s foolish. But he doesn’t agree, and he’s the boss. So I went. I’m sorry I wasn’t with you.”
I thanked him for his candor and all his help and Yael’s. I apologized for putting Yael in harm’s way, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
“That’s what I pay her for,” the Mossad chief said.
“It can’t possibly be enough,” I said.
Yael sighed. “You’ve got that right.”
Ari and I shook hands. Then Yael drove me to a private airfield. On the way, she gave me her real mobile number and asked me to call her when I arrived in Amman. Then she put me on a Learjet and instructed the pilot to fly me to Cairo. She said I could write my story there in peace and quiet and have it datelined from an Arab capital, not from Israel.
It was a good idea, and I was grateful. I would be safe there. No one would suspect me of being in Egypt. I didn’t want to leave Tel Aviv. I wanted to spend more time with Yael. But the clock was ticking. She wished me well, shook my hand, and said good-bye, and with that, she was gone.
Once on the ground in Cairo, I took a cab downtown. I used the phone Khachigian had given me to scan through the headlines back in the States. The nation was riveted on the events at Union Station. The president had called it a tragedy. The mayor of D.C. called it another senseless slaughter. The head of the FBI called it a cold-blooded homicide without rhyme or reason. But that was all spin. The FBI knew there was a reason for the attack. They knew it was terrorism, and they had to suspect it was either al Qaeda or ISIS. But they were still treating the case like another Columbine massacre or the shootings at Sandy Hook, not like a national security emergency.
What’s more, the bureau was keeping what cards it had closer than usual. They still weren’t releasing the names of any of those who had been killed. Nor were they releasing the name of the female shooter who had been pronounced dead at the scene. At least t
hey were no longer sticking to the “right-wing white supremacist” nonsense.
The Feds had now confirmed there had been a second shooter. MSNBC was running grainy video footage from someone’s smartphone showing a sniper on the second floor, back in the corner. An intrepid Washington Post reporter had even gotten a detailed description of the sniper and his weapon from an off-duty D.C. police officer who happened to be eating at the Pizzeria Uno on the second floor at the time of the shooting. The officer had tried to chase the sniper but had been shot twice and was now in guarded condition at a local hospital. The Associated Press, meanwhile, was quoting several witnesses who said there was a third shooter as well. That, I assumed, was me, and I knew I would have to talk to the FBI soon lest I become an active suspect.
I directed the cab to a Hilton I had once stayed in near the American embassy. There were few tourists, few business guests, and plenty of rooms available. I took a spacious suite overlooking the Nile, pulled out my laptop and notes, and set to work.
The process didn’t take long, given that I had already written several drafts over the past few weeks. Essentially, all I needed to do now was add in the new material I had gathered over the past forty-eight hours, including several quotes from Khachigian. I decided to break the story of how deeply involved in this process Khachigian had been, along with the fact that he’d been killed at Union Station. I didn’t connect all the dots about why he’d been killed. I didn’t need to. I just wanted to stick to the facts that I could prove, and I had plenty.
When I was finished, I debated calling Allen and personally updating him on all that had happened. In the end, however, I opted against it. I simply sent him the story by e-mail with a single sentence that I was safe and coming home soon. I didn’t want an argument. I didn’t want a dressing-down. I just wanted to file and keep moving. If he was going to fire me, so be it. I wasn’t going to fight for my job. I was just going to keep doing it until I was either broke or dead.
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