The Third Target: A J. B. Collins Novel

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  The moment the e-mail went through, I jumped in a cab, raced back to the airport, and bought the last seat on the last flight to Amman, Jordan, that night. I didn’t want to be in Cairo when my story hit the newsstands. Besides, from Amman I could get a direct flight to Baghdad.

  In the meantime, now that my story had been filed, it was time to put the battery back in my iPhone and go to work. I e-mailed and texted every contact I knew in the Iraqi government. Yet again I pleaded for their help to locate and then secure an interview with Abu Khalif. I also said I was coming to Baghdad in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours and would be deeply grateful for their assistance. It was an enormous risk, especially after filing a story about chemical weapons and ISIS. Jamal Ramzy had been crystal clear that I was to go nowhere near that story. But I was going anyway. I had to.

  Live or die, I was going to hunt down this story to the end.

  The next morning, I woke up at Le Méridien, an upscale hotel in downtown Amman.

  I glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand beside me. It was 7:23 a.m. I got out of bed, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and powered up my laptop. As I ordered room service for breakfast, I wondered what Allen had done with the story I’d sent him. Had he run it or buried it? I didn’t dare guess. I’d defied his direct orders. He had insisted that I come meet with him in Washington, and I’d planned to, of course. But events had taken a turn I could never have expected. In any case, I had gotten him the third source he’d insisted upon with regard to the WMD story. The final draft I’d sent him was written with significantly more care and precision than the previous versions. But it was still an explosive piece.

  If Allen had signed off on it and it was really going to be published soon, it was going to create an international firestorm. Just a few months earlier, few people outside the intelligence community had ever even heard of ISIS. Now the jihadist movement had captured half of Iraq and much of Syria and could very well be in possession of large amounts of sarin gas. Not only that, they were threatening to hit a third target beyond Iraq and Syria. The implications for U.S. and Israeli national security were chilling, to say the least. But would Allen really run with it? I hoped so, but I didn’t know.

  I pulled up the New York Times home page and held my breath.

  There it was, on the front page.

  ISIS Forces Seize Syrian Base Where Chemical Weapons Stored, read the enormous banner headline, with a subhead that read, “Intelligence experts warn al Qaeda faction, now signaling new terror attacks, may have WMD.”

  My body tensed. I thought I’d be excited. But as I scanned the story, I actually felt full of dread. The weight of what this all meant began to come down on me. I read through it quickly. It was all there. Allen had made only minor edits. Now the story was available for the whole world to see. There was no turning back. The president was going to wake up to it. So was the director of the CIA. And Prime Minister Lavi. And Jamal Ramzy. And, I had to assume, Abu Khalif. What would they say? What would they do?

  I had included all the caveats the president and CIA director had warned me about—though not citing them, of course. I had carefully noted that while three different intelligence agencies had clear proof of ISIS seizing the base and carrying off hundreds of crates, none of them could give definitive evidence that ISIS now actually possessed WMD. The Times didn’t want to get burned on another bogus Mideast WMD story. Neither did I. It was my reputation on the line, and I guarded it jealously.

  I had woken up hungry. Now I had lost all interest in food. Instead, I pulled up airline schedules online and considered my meager options. I was going to Baghdad. ISIS could kill me, but they couldn’t stop me from letting the world know what they were up to. I had Ramzy’s interview. I had the WMD angle. Now I wanted Abu Khalif, and the only way to get him was to get to the Iraqi capital and hunt him down.

  I booked a seat on Royal Jordanian Airlines flight 810, departing at 5:30 that evening and landing at about 8 p.m. local time. From the airport, I would head straight for a hotel in the Green Zone where I had stayed in the past.

  It would be a return to familiar but dangerous territory: the hotel had a well-trafficked bar. During the second Iraq war, I’d spent countless nights there. I’m guessing that’s where I officially became an alcoholic. Everyone who was anyone hung out there in the evenings, after the Western submission deadlines had passed. It was the kind of place I could pick up leads and get the lay of the land. But it was all done over whiskey and bourbon and an occasional bottle of vodka. For that reason alone, it was probably suicide to go back. But that’s where the sources were, so that’s where I had to be too.

  I opened the door to the hallway, picked up my complimentary copy of the Jordan Times from the carpet, and brought it into the room. Pulling back the drapes to let in some light, I looked out over the sprawling skyline of the Jordanian capital and thought about Yael. I debated calling her, but what was there to say? We couldn’t have a personal conversation on the phone. She had work to do, and so did I. She had probably given me her real number in case I had a follow-up question. She was a professional. She was a spy. She hadn’t suggested I ask her out. Even if I did, when was I going to be back in Israel? The whole thing suddenly seemed ridiculous and awkward. Here I was, a grown man. Divorced. Single. Not seeing anyone. Yet I felt like a boy trying to get up the nerve to ask a girl to the junior high dance.

  I grabbed my phone off the desk. It had finished charging overnight. Yet instead of calling Yael or even texting her, I found myself sending an SMS message to my brother. He was in Amman. Maybe I should say hi. Seemed like the decent thing to do. I couldn’t avoid him forever, and it would make my mom happy.

  Matt—hey, in town for a few hours. You free?—JB

  I debated calling Hadiya, Omar’s wife, but I wasn’t sure she would be happy to hear from me. Instead I sent her an e-mail telling her how much her husband had meant to me and how sorry I was for her loss. Perhaps in time I could express my sorrow and regret to her in person. For now, I decided, she probably needed some space.

  With no one else to contact at the moment, I scanned the local headlines. None were what I expected.

  King Says ‘Historic Breakthrough’ Possible in Palestinian Peace Talks with Israel

  Prime Minister Says ‘Peace to Our West’ Would Help Calm ‘Storm to Our East’

  Palestinian President Mansour to Meet with King in Aqaba

  Gas Prices Climb, but Food Prices Stable in November

  To my astonishment, there was nothing about ISIS on the front page, only an allusion to the implosion of Jordan’s next-door neighbor. I knew the palace kept a pretty tight grip on news coverage, but were they really going to try to act like ISIS wasn’t on the move? I quickly flipped through the pages, but there was little mention of the Islamic State inside the paper either. One story focused on a new refugee camp Jordan and the U.N. were building in the north. Another noted that the U.S. had just authorized the sale of new Hellfire missiles and other arms to the Iraqi government. Only deep inside did I find this headline: Jordan Does Not Fear ISIS Rebels, Says Interior Minister. But the accompanying article was only six paragraphs long.

  Why?

  This was Jordan’s largest English-language daily newspaper. The palace was clearly using it to lay the groundwork for the peace talks “to the west,” but why were they not making it clear how serious was the “storm to the east”?

  I did a quick Google search to see how much coverage of ISIS this and other Jordanian papers had published in recent weeks. Some, but not much. Again, why? To be sure, well over half of Jordan’s population was of Palestinian origin. Some said the number was as high as 70 percent. Most held Jordanian citizenship. They were certainly deeply concerned about the future of their Arab brothers and sisters on the west side of the Jordan River. They strongly supported the creation of a Palestinian state. Most believed it was a terrible injustice of the West not to have helped create a Palestinian state sooner. But ISIS posed a c
lear and present danger to the region.

  The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan sat wedged between Iraq, Syria, the Palestinians, and Israel.

  A threat to the others surely posed a threat to Jordan, too.

  35

  The phone rang.

  Not the room phone but my mobile. I glanced at the caller ID to see who in the world it could be. The screen read simply, Unknown caller.

  My pulse quickened. Maybe it was Yael. Then again, maybe it was my brother.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Collins?” asked the voice at the other end. “Is that you?”

  “Who’s asking?” I replied, now somewhat guarded.

  “Good, it is you,” he said. “I’ve been worried about you. Are you all right?”

  “I’m sorry; who is this?” I asked.

  “Come now, my friend, you don’t recognize my voice?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I don’t.”

  “It’s Marwan. Are you dressed?”

  Startled, I suddenly found myself rising to my feet. I had not expected a call from Prince Marwan Talal.

  “Your Royal Highness, forgive me,” I said. “No, I’m sorry. I just woke up.”

  “I have sent you a car and driver—they are waiting in front of your hotel,” he said. “Take a quick shower. Get dressed. And meet the driver in ten minutes. We need to talk.”

  I had met with Marwan Talal many times over the years, but never at his home.

  But the farther we drove from the hotel and veered away from any of the main government buildings with which I was familiar, the more I became convinced that’s where I was being taken.

  Though we e-mailed occasionally, it had been quite some time since I had actually seen the king’s eldest uncle. He was now in his eighties, and I’d heard rumors his health was not so good. But as the Mercedes pulled through the security gates of a palatial home on the outskirts of Amman—past the Humvee out front with the soldier manning a .50-caliber machine gun, past at least a dozen other heavily armed guards, and up the long, winding palm tree–lined driveway—I was not prepared for the man who awaited me.

  The prince was confined to a wheelchair now. His gray hair had thinned considerably. His face looked gaunt, and I wondered if I was detecting a bit of jaundice as well. But when I stepped out of the car and came over to him, he greeted me with the same warm smile and twinkle in his eye for which I had come to know him. And though his hands trembled slightly as he took both of mine, and though his voice was somewhat raspier than I remembered, there was also an indescribable air of confidence about him that gave me the sense he was still in command of his faculties. That was reassuring, I thought. But that was pretty much the only thing about our time together that was.

  We gave each other a traditional Arab kiss on both cheeks, and then I followed as a steward wheeled the prince through the handsomely appointed entry hall to a veranda overlooking the capital. Soon we were served the best Turkish coffee I think I’ve ever had, and then we were left alone to chat.

  “You are a survivor, Mr. Collins,” Marwan said to begin our conversation.

  “I’ve been lucky.”

  “No,” he said, wagging his finger at me. “Your protection is Allah’s doing. Your enemies have tried to kill you twice. But clearly Allah is not done with you.”

  “Not yet,” I quipped.

  “Indeed,” he said. “Not yet. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I just mean all the cuts and bruises and bandages. And you’re as pale as a ghost.”

  “Yet I’m sitting in Amman with an old friend.”

  “That you are. But you were sitting with an old friend at Union Station when all the shooting broke out.”

  “Are you saying I’m in danger here?”

  “I’m saying one never knows where danger lurks.”

  “True,” I said. “One never knows.”

  The prince did not touch his coffee. He just sat there and looked at me as if he were studying me, as if he were trying to make sense of who I was despite the many years we had known each other.

  “Mr. Collins . . . ,” the prince began, and then his voice trailed off for a moment.

  He was not the only prince in the royal family. Indeed, there were many, and some of them were very close to the king. But Marwan Talal was the most senior of the princes. Perhaps it was because of his age and insistence on tradition and protocol that he persisted in calling me Mr. Collins. I had long since given up on persuading him to call me James—much less J. B.

  “Yes, Your Royal Highness?” I prompted.

  “Mr. Collins, are you ready to become a follower of the Prophet, peace be upon him?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that. He knew I wasn’t a religious man. But then again, there were few if any Muslims in the royal court as devout as Marwan Talal. He was a direct descendant of the prophet Muhammad. He had been trained as a Sunni cleric and for years had taught Sharia law in Jordan’s most prestigious seminary. And honestly, I think he’d been trying to convert me—at least to deism, if not Islam—since the day I’d met him. I appreciated the gesture, but this question still made me uncomfortable.

  I briefly considered telling him that my days of atheism and agnosticism had apparently passed. I did, in fact, believe in God. I just didn’t know how to find him, though I was becoming increasingly convinced I had to try. But not here. Not today. And with all respect to Marwan and his impressive family, I was not about to become a Muslim. I’d been raised in a Christian home by a very devout mother. I wasn’t exactly ready to embrace my mother’s beliefs. I wasn’t really sure where I stood with Jesus at this point in my life. But I certainly wasn’t about to give my mother a stroke by asking her to come down to the local mosque to pray with me five times a day.

  “I am still finding my way, my friend,” I said.

  “There is only one Prophet,” he replied. “There is only one path. There is only one guide, the Qur’an.”

  “You’re starting to sound like a member of the Brotherhood,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Why would you say such a thing?” he asked, sounding a bit defensive.

  “Didn’t you just recite the slogan of the Muslim Brotherhood?”

  “Certainly not,” he replied. “The Muslim Brotherhood’s mantra is: ‘Allah is our objective. The Prophet is our leader. Qur’an is our law. Jihad is our way. Dying in the way of Allah is our highest hope.’”

  “Close.”

  “A man can be a faithful Muslim and not be a member of the Brotherhood, can he not?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I believe you’re trying to change the subject, Mr. Collins. Have you ever read the Qur’an?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “And?”

  “Again, let’s just say I’m finding my way,” I replied, trying to be as diplomatic as I could.

  “If I may be direct, Mr. Collins, you are a young man in great need of Islam. You are, I am sad to say, all alone in this world. You have no wife. You have no children. No faith. No community. That is no way to live, my friend. Why not join us? I would be happy to teach you the path of Islam myself.”

  “Thank you,” I said politely. “I will consider your gracious offer. But I suspect this is not why you have brought me here today.”

  “Not the only reason, no,” he said.

  “Then how can I help you?”

  “Your most recent article in the Times. It bothered me very much.”

  I took another sip of coffee and braced myself. “I’m sorry to hear that, Your Highness. What bothered you in particular?”

  “Among many things, your timing,” the prince said. “Didn’t President Taylor specifically ask you not to publish a story of this sort at this time?”

  I was stunned that he knew such a thing, but then again he and his king were in very close contact with the White House, especially now.

 
“I believe I made the administration’s concerns abundantly clear in the story,” I responded.

  “Nevertheless, the president and His Majesty are in the very delicate final stages of being midwives to an extraordinary peace treaty,” he explained. “His Majesty has been working quietly, behind the scenes, with President Mansour and Prime Minister Lavi and their closest advisors for months, along with your president and his administration.”

  “For how long exactly?”

  “Eight months, maybe nine.”

  Suddenly the prince began a coughing spell that was so bad I worried he might have a heart attack. I poured him a glass of water. He drank it all, and soon he was quiet again.

  “How involved is His Majesty?”

  “His Majesty is overseeing the entire process.”

  “Not the Americans?”

  “Everything is done under the auspices of the Taylor administration, of course,” he said with a theatrical flair, spreading out his arms expansively. “The president does the talk-talk-talk in public. The Americans take all the credit. But His Majesty is doing the heavy lifting.”

  “Right here in Amman?”

  “Some of it, yes,” he confirmed. “But mostly at the palace in Aqaba. It’s quieter there. It’s off the media’s radar. King Hussein used to hold many such secret contacts there. His Majesty learned from his father, peace be upon him.”

  “And the deal is almost finished?”

  “Young man, it is finished,” the prince said. “His Majesty got an agreement on the final language yesterday. I can’t give you any of the details, of course. Not yet. But I can tell you both Lavi and Mansour have signed off. Now they are planning the announcement to the media, which will take place in the region in a matter of days. Indeed, your president is coming soon. It’s all very hush-hush, but it could happen by the end of the week.”

  “This week?” I asked.

  “It will be a shock to everyone,” he said.