The Third Target: A J. B. Collins Novel

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “Could there be ISIS rebels among them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sleeper cells?”

  “Probably.”

  “You just don’t know.”

  “Not precise numbers, no,” Sa’id told me. “But even if it’s just one percent of the total number of Syrians who have entered the country, that could be more than thirteen thousand jihadis.”

  I winced. “Ready to strike?”

  “Perhaps,” he said again.

  “When?”

  “Who knows? Whenever Abu Khalif gives the order.”

  “Have you captured any ISIS members so far?”

  “Just between us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not for publication?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then yes,” he said. “The answer is yes.”

  “How many?”

  “In the last eighteen months, we’ve captured twenty-four ISIS and al-Nusra cells. We’ve also captured more than four tons of weapons.”

  “Four tons?” I asked, incredulous.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “What kinds?”

  “Light arms and ammunition, mostly,” he told me. “But also mortars, rocket launchers, and IEDs. Look, Mr. Collins, we know Syrians loyal to ISIS and other radical groups have penetrated the country. But as bad as that is, that’s not even our biggest concern.”

  “What is?”

  “Jordanian nationals.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, think of Abu Khalif himself,” he explained as we sped southward along Highway 15 toward the airport. “He’s a Jordanian. Obviously he’s on a watch list because we know about him. And his predecessor, Zarqawi—also a Jordanian national. Again, we knew about him. We kept a vigilant eye out for him. And in the end, we helped the Iraqis and the Americans find him and bring him to justice. But how many other Khalifs and Zarqawis are out there that we don’t know about? How many Jordanian nationals, with Jordanian passports and Jordanian driver’s licenses and Jordanian ID cards work directly for ISIS or one of the other extremist groups, and we don’t know who they are? That’s the X factor, Mr. Collins. And these traitors could be anywhere.”

  “Sprinkled throughout the government bureaucracy?” I asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “The police force?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “What about the army?”

  “Less likely, but I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look—all of us who have served in the military or the security services love the king,” he said. “We’re very loyal to him. He’s an extraordinary man and a great leader. In some ways, he’s even more impressive than his father, may God give his soul rest. Some were worried when King Hussein died in 1999. They were expecting Prince Hassan to take his place. But just a few days before his death, the king changed the laws of succession. He made his eldest son the crown prince. And when Hussein died, Abdullah took the throne. I know the royal family very well. My father and grandfather were personal bodyguards for them. We would give our lives for them. But when the changeover happened, many were nervous. They didn’t say it out loud, mind you. But they weren’t sure the young new monarch was up for the challenge. He proved them wrong.”

  “But . . .”

  “Unemployment among the youth is hovering around 30 percent,” he said as we passed through the last of several military checkpoints and then turned at the airport. “And that’s just the official number. The real number may very well be even higher. And then there are army veterans.”

  “What about them?”

  “Their pensions are not that much, and it’s hard to find a good job, even when you come out as a high-ranking officer. You’re not that old—maybe in your mid- to late forties or early fifties. You still have many years of productive service left in you, but the army doesn’t need you. So what are you supposed to do? How are you supposed to provide for your family? I’m not talking about food and clothing. But how do you help your son put together money to get married, to buy an apartment, to buy a decent car? For that matter, how do you help your daughter pay for college? This is not a wealthy kingdom, Mr. Collins. This is not Arabia. This is not the Gulf. The government does the best it can. But guess where most of the benefits go?”

  “To the refugees from Syria and Iraq?”

  “No, no—that’s a new problem,” he said. “They go to the Palestinians—that is, to Jordanian citizens of Palestinian origin.”

  “Which is about how many people?”

  “Some say up to 70 percent of the population,” Sa’id said. “Some say it’s only 50 percent. Does it really matter? The point is the Palestinians—whom some call the ‘West Bankers’—get a lot of the government’s time, attention, and resources.”

  “And the East Bankers?”

  “Well, we’re the ones who built the country,” he said. “We’re the ones who run the government and fight in the army and are loyal to Jordan first and foremost, not to Palestine.”

  “But the West Bankers are getting most of the perks.”

  “That’s how some people feel.”

  “Enough to join ISIS, enough to actually overthrow the king?”

  “I hope not, Mr. Collins,” he said as we pulled up to the main terminal and a sea of heavily armed soldiers and secret police. “But these are crazy times. If you’d asked me a few years ago whether the Egyptians would try to overthrow Mubarak, and Mubarak would let them, I’d have said you were crazy. If you’d asked me if the Syrians would rise up against Assad, and Assad would have such a hard time stopping them, I’d have said you were out of your mind. But the world is changing very, very fast. I have no idea what will happen next. And that’s what scares me.”

  54

  Air Force One was on approach.

  I was standing ten steps away from Jordan’s foreign minister, right beside Agent Sa’id, with a front-row, all-access pass to President Harrison Taylor’s arrival.

  But as impressive as the sight was, I had seen the gleaming blue-and-white Boeing 747 land at foreign airports before. To the enormous crowd of at least ten thousand Jordanians, I’m sure there was electricity in the air as the leader of the free world prepared to land in the country they loved so dearly. For many—indeed, probably for most—all the pomp and circumstance of a state visit was exciting. The bedouin honor guard. The military band. The freshly vacuumed red carpet. The reviewing stand and the camera platform and the klieg lights and the rest of the hoopla.

  But all that barely registered for me. My eyes were trained on the United States Secret Service agents and their Jordanian counterparts scanning the crowd for trouble. I was watching the sharpshooters on the roof and the spotters at their sides with their high-powered binoculars. What interested me was the enormous military presence on the perimeter of the airport, the tanks and armored personnel carriers and hundreds upon hundreds of Jordanian soldiers at the ready, as well as the squadron of Jordanian F-16 Fighting Falcons that were streaking through the sky flying CAP—combat air patrol—in airspace that had been closed the entire day except for official travel. Was the king right? Was his upcoming trip to Baghdad more vulnerable than this? Or were the traitors among us, ready to strike when and how it was least expected?

  Every face in the cheering crowd looked, to me at least, genuinely excited. News of a final deal had been leaking out all morning. There was a buzz in the air. Peace was at hand. A sovereign if largely demilitarized Palestinian State, fashioned in a confederation with the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, was about to be established once and for all. Why wouldn’t this nation so filled with West Bankers be overjoyed for their brothers and sisters across the river and even for themselves?

  Yet every face on the security personnel, the vast majority of whom were East Bankers, looked worried and grim. They knew everyone here had been screened by metal detectors and X-ray machines. They knew these observers had been patted down and their purses and han
dbags and briefcases and backpacks thoroughly searched hours ago. But they still had to be vigilant for the unexpected. That was their job. Was there a killer among them? And if so, were they looking for a lone gunman or a highly trained, carefully coordinated movement?

  Sa’id’s words on the drive to the airport were bothering me enormously. I had been through Jordan numerous times. I had developed friends and sources among senior government officials. But I was not an expert on Jordan. Like most reporters, indeed like most Americans, I had never carefully studied the nuances of this country. To me, Jordan was a lovely, safe, friendly country, and I rarely gave it another thought. But after Iraq and Syria, was Jordan the third target of the ISIS terrorists? Was this the crown jewel they wanted to help them build their Islamic caliphate?

  And what of my brother Matt’s words? Was it possible that the future of Jordan was as dark as the Bible seemed to foretell? Could ISIS really be some kind of instrument about to unleash hell on earth? Was today the day?

  If so, would a mere assassination or two—even today—satisfy them? How could it? ISIS hadn’t simply tried to take Assad out. They were trying to bring his entire government down. They were trying to seize full control of Damascus and the rest of Syria. The same was true in Iraq. For a Sunni extremist like Abu Khalif, merely beheading Ismail Tikriti or any Iraqi official, even the prime minister, who was a devout Shia, couldn’t possibly be enough. Khalif was looking for a way to bring down the democratically elected government of Iraq and establish a Sharia-governed state with himself as the emir. So, too, Khalif wouldn’t just want to kill the king of Jordan. He would want to obliterate the royal family and the entire government as well. He would want to create the conditions upon which he and his forces could seize full and complete power. Could that be accomplished on the upcoming royal trip to Baghdad? Not nearly as well as it could be if ISIS struck today, I concluded. But when? How? Who?

  As Air Force One touched down to the surprising cheers of the crowd—a crowd that obviously now believed the American president was bearing the gift of a Palestinian State—someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, expecting to see Sa’id or perhaps a colleague from the Times. Instead, it was Yael Katzir.

  “Hey, stranger,” she said with a gracious smile and a warm hug.

  “Yael . . . what are you doing here?” I asked, as baffled as I was pleased.

  “Ari sent me with the PM’s delegation,” she said. “But I also came to see you. I was so worried about you.”

  “Thanks. That means a lot.”

  “You don’t look so bad, considering.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You should.”

  “I tried to reach you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It’s been crazy. Nonstop. I’ve hardly eaten a thing. And don’t ask me the last time I slept.”

  “Well, you don’t look so bad,” I said. “Considering.”

  “Aren’t you sweet.”

  “Where are you staying?” I asked, hoping that didn’t sound too forward.

  “Grand Hyatt, and you?”

  “Le Méridien.”

  “Nice.”

  “Beats a safe house in Mosul.”

  “I bet,” she said, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Speaking of which, we need to talk.”

  “Dangerous developments?” I whispered back.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You’re worried there’s going to be an ISIS attack today.”

  Yael raised an eyebrow. “I see we’re thinking the same thing. How did you know?”

  “Just a hunch, but one I tried to share with the king yesterday,” I said.

  “What did he say?”

  “Told me not to worry—they’ve got the city sealed up like a drum.”

  “Same with my PM,” she said. “Ari won’t rule it out, but we don’t have proof. Just the interviews Khalif did with you. Seems to me Khalif made it about as clear as he could he was coming after the king. And if he could take out my PM, Mansour, and your president all in one shot, it seems kind of irresistible, doesn’t it?”

  “It does to me,” I said. “The question is, does Khalif have the means to launch such a massive attack?”

  “The PM doesn’t think so,” Yael said, scanning the crowd from behind designer sunglasses. “And Ari could hardly stop him from coming without solid evidence of an imminent attack. Lavi insists Amman is the safest city in the world today, between the Jordanian police, the army, the Mukhabarat, the Palestinian security services, the U.S. Secret Service, the Mossad, and Shin Bet. The PM says ISIS would be crazy to launch an attack today.”

  “Unless they had someone on the inside,” I said.

  “You mean a mole?”

  “Maybe, or maybe more than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look, there’s no question Khalif has someone inside one of the four governments here today. He has to. He knew about the treaty before anyone else. He knew it was a done deal. He knew the Jordanians were involved. He knew the king was the broker. No one could have known all that several days ago unless they had inside access to at least one of the principals.”

  “But just that knowledge wouldn’t be enough.”

  “No, which means ISIS would have to have a force already on the ground inside Jordan, inside Amman.”

  “Inside the palace?” Yael asked.

  “That’s what worries me,” I said. “But how?”

  A military band was now playing “Hail to the Chief” as the door of the 747 opened and the president of the United States stepped out and waved to the roaring crowd.

  “What about al-Hirak?” she asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve never heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “What kind of foreign correspondent are you?”

  “The kind that has never heard of al-Hirak. What is it?”

  “It means ‘the movement,’” she said. “It’s a secret underground network of Islamists throughout Jordan made up of disaffected East Bankers. They’re devout Muslims, over-the-top, and they think the king has gone soft on Islam. They say the royal family and the government are riddled with corruption. They say the king gives too much money and attention to the West Bankers. They think he doesn’t care about the East Bankers or about Islam. They want him to govern like a true Muslim. They want Sharia law.”

  Again I thought about Sa’id’s words in the car. It seemed Yael’s intel was correct. “So I’m guessing the king is too pro-Western, too pro-American, and too close to Israel for their tastes?” I said.

  “Absolutely. They’re Salafists. They want to annihilate the Jews, not have a peace treaty with us. And don’t get them started on the queen.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with her?”

  “Doesn’t wear the veil, wears the latest fashions from London and Paris, likes to hobnob with the rich and famous in Davos and Monte Carlo. They say she dishonors Islam and must be humbled.”

  “So basically they’re just like the Muslim Brotherhood?” I asked.

  “No, no, much worse. They loathe the Brotherhood, say they’re a bunch of sellouts. And the Brotherhood isn’t so strong here anymore. They used to be. But they’ve made some missteps in recent years. Plus, the Brotherhood isn’t illegal in Jordan like they were and now are again in Egypt. They’re aboveground here. That’s made it easier for the king and the secret service to keep tabs on them.”

  “So how big is this Salafist movement, this al-Hirak?”

  “We don’t have any hard numbers, but the analysts that track this stuff back in Tel Aviv, the ones I’ve talked to at least, say it’s metastasizing quickly.”

  “And these guys are jihadists?” I asked. “They’re violent?”

  “Hard to say,” she said. “They haven’t launched any type of operation yet. But our guys are picking up evidence that some of them seem inspired by the message and methods and success ISIS is having.”

  “You thin
k they’re getting ready to launch a coup?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. Alone, I’m not sure ISIS could pull off here what they’re doing in Iraq and Syria. But remember, Khalif is Jordanian. He has a lifetime of contacts here. He knows Jordan better than either of the other two countries. He very likely has thousands of warriors stashed around the country using the Syrian refugee crisis as cover. And if he could activate the al-Hirak network . . .”

  She didn’t finish the sentence, but she didn’t need to.

  “Could al-Hirak have loyalists inside the police?”

  “Probably.”

  “The military?”

  “Possibly.”

  “The palace?”

  “I don’t know,” Yael told me as the president descended the steps of Air Force One and prepared to address the crowd.

  “But that’s why you’re here.”

  “Right,” she said, “me and the IDF’s most elite NBC unit, hoping to God we’re not needed.”

  NBC unit. She wasn’t talking about the National Broadcasting Company.

  She was talking about a team of specialists trained in handling nuclear, biological, and chemical warfare.

  55

  Ali Sa’id turned to me when the arrival ceremony was nearly finished.

  “We need to go,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Just come quickly.”

  “What about my friend Yael?”

  I introduced her as part of Prime Minister Lavi’s delegation, though I said nothing about her expertise in chemical warfare. But Sa’id had his orders, and they didn’t include an Israeli.

  “It’s okay,” she said, putting a hand on my arm. “I’ve got my own orders. But I’ll see you at the ceremony.”

  “Great—and what are you doing afterward?”

  “Hopefully nothing.”

  “Maybe we can think of something.”

  “Maybe.”

  I turned back to Sa’id. Neither President Taylor nor the foreign minister was saying anything particularly memorable or newsworthy. The military band was about to strike up the music again. It was all pomp and circumstance and precious little substance, and there was no reason to stay. So as discreetly as possible, I followed Sa’id out of the VIP section with our security detail spread out around us.