Third Target (9781496403674)

by Rosenberg, Joel C.

  Ramzy said nothing, but his eyes told me I was right.

  “That must mean Abu Khalif told you to talk to me,” I continued. “Why? Because he’s about to start a new war, a war that’s going to set this region on fire. You don’t want to talk to me about the chemical weapons? Fine. I’ve got two sources. I’ll run the story with or without your comment or his. But I’m giving you something no one else can, something money can’t buy. I’m giving you and your boss the opportunity of a lifetime, the opportunity to be the new face of al Qaeda, to be the new face of global jihad. Forget your blood feud with Zawahiri. Forget all the men in the caves. Their time has come and gone. Your day has arrived. But I can’t do it just by profiling the number two guy. I’m sorry. I can’t. I need to talk to the emir. I need to get him on the record. You know it. He knows it. So give me access—exclusive access—before the war begins, before—”

  I caught myself just in time. I was about to say, “Before you’re both dead.” But at the last moment I said, “Before you both go underground forever.”

  When I was finished, I gave him a little space, a little time, to take the bait. But Jamal Ramzy did not bite.

  “We’re done here, Mr. Collins,” he said through gritted teeth. “But know this: you have made a terrible mistake. You will not write one word about chemical weapons, or you will not live to see it printed. You certainly will not meet Abu Khalif. And you will never presume to lecture me again about what is best for our cause. You are an infidel, Mr. Collins. You and your friends are alive because Abu Khalif chose to keep you alive. You will continue to live until he decides your usefulness to him is over. And when that day comes, he will give me the order, and I will kill you—all of you—and believe me, I will take my time and make you suffer.”

  15

  Ramzy’s men led us back through the tunnels.

  When we emerged aboveground, they put black plastic bags over our heads and led us through the driving rains across one neighborhood after another until they told us to stop.

  “Count to one hundred,” one of them ordered, his voice seeming to echo a bit.

  “Why?” I asked, worried.

  “Just do it, and don’t ask questions.”

  I had a lot of questions. Omar, Abdel, and I hadn’t been permitted to talk since we left Ramzy’s lair, and I was eager to know what my colleagues were thinking. How had they wound up with Tariq Baqouba? What did they make of the ISIS commander? Why did they think he wasn’t willing to talk about the chemical weapons? Was he really lying, or was I being misled by more faulty Western intelligence? And what was the deal with Ramzy clamming up about Abu Khalif? Something wasn’t right about that, but at the moment I was too scared to figure out what.

  The good news was we weren’t dead. That much was clear, but not much else. I was freezing. I was dripping wet. I was eager to get out of Syria and back to Beirut. I needed someplace warm and dry and equipped with Wi-Fi so I could write my story and get it filed.

  So I started counting. Out loud.

  I could hear men breathing near me. I assumed these were Omar and Abdel. I wanted to be certain. I wanted to know they were okay. But we were not supposed to ask any questions. So I didn’t. I just counted.

  When I reached one hundred, I stood there in silence, the bag still over my head, having no idea where we were and no idea what to do next.

  Finally I tore the bag off my head and held my breath. No one shot me. No one beat me. We were alone. Or at least we seemed to be.

  We were standing in the stairwell of some building, and Ramzy’s men were gone. Relieved, I exhaled and tried to start breathing normally. Then I leaned in and whispered to Omar and Abdel that they could both take the bags off their heads but that they should keep quiet and follow me. They quickly complied and I led them up five flights of stairs.

  As we stepped out onto the roof, we were immediately greeted by multiple flashes of lightning. We could see jagged, crackling sticks of lightning hitting a nearby radio antenna and then felt the boom, boom, boom of the thunder rattling our bones.

  “What time is it?” Omar asked.

  I pulled out my grandfather’s pocket watch, unsure why Ramzy and his thugs had not kept it but grateful nonetheless.

  “It’s late,” I replied. “We’d better keep moving.”

  The sun would be coming up soon—if it wasn’t up already. We wouldn’t see it, of course. The ferocious storm slamming western Syria was likely to last for some time. But as dangerous as it was to be caught out on a night like this—in a civil war zone, no less—I knew the only thing worse would be to try to traverse these streets and fields in the full light of day, even a stormy one.

  A quick look around revealed we were standing atop one of the least damaged high-rises in the city. It had been hit numerous times, to be sure. There was an enormous crater in the center of the roof, no doubt a direct hit by one of Assad’s fighter jets. But overall, the structure seemed sound. We spread out in three directions, looking over the edges and trying to get our bearings. Then we regrouped inside the stairwell.

  “I saw the playground we came across last night,” Abdel said.

  “What about the machine-gun nests?” Omar asked.

  “From this height, I could see them too, both of them—they’re empty.”

  “Snipers?”

  “I saw no signs of movement,” he replied. “Can’t make any promises. But with this weather, and with the sun about to come up, I’m guessing they’re all gone for the night.”

  “Would you bet your life on it?” I asked.

  “What choice do we have?” he responded.

  We all stood there contemplating the question. We weren’t out of this thing yet. We had the story—part of it, anyway—but a lot could still go wrong before we were in the clear. Snipers were one concern, but there were others. Mines. Booby traps. Night patrols. Drones. Random twelve-year-olds bearing Kalashnikovs.

  “Look, the only question that really matters right now is this: Do you know how to get back to the border?” I asked.

  “I think so,” Abdel said.

  “Good,” I said. “Then I want you to lead the way.”

  Abdel nodded.

  “But I want you to do something for me first,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Take a picture of my buddy Omar and me on this roof,” I explained.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Collins,” Abdel said. “I’ll call it ‘The Survivors.’”

  Omar put his massive arm around me and chuckled. “I’ll call it ‘The Lunatics.’”

  Abdel snapped a few pictures, then asked if he could take one with me too.

  “Of course,” I said, and Omar did the honors.

  Then I instructed Abdel to use my satellite phone and transmit all his pictures back to the bureau.

  Abdel nodded, fished my satphone out of my backpack, grabbed a cord from his own backpack, and digitally transmitted more than a hundred photos he had taken in the past twenty-four hours, including all the ones of Jamal Ramzy. I texted Allen MacDonald, my editor in Washington, telling him that we’d found Ramzy and gotten the interview and were heading back to safety. I knew he would be simultaneously furious with me for going into harm’s way without his permission and ecstatic to get the story. But I would have to deal with all that later. Right now, we just needed to get out of there.

  We headed down to the first floor, using our cell phones to light the way. When we got to the main level, Abdel motioned for us to follow him down a long hallway, but I grabbed his shirt and held him back.

  “Maybe we should . . .” I stopped midsentence.

  “Should what?” Abdel asked.

  “Find another way,” I said.

  “Why?” Omar asked. “What other way?”

  “I don’t know,” I confessed. “There’s got to be another way out.”

  “So what?” Omar said. “Let’s just go. It’s going to be light out there soon.”

  “No,” I said.


  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “What can I say?” I half mumbled. “I just have a bad feeling about this.”

  They looked at me like I was crazy. Both of them. Maybe I was. I couldn’t explain it then. I can’t explain it now. But I didn’t want to go down that hallway. Something wasn’t right. I didn’t have anything to back it up. It was just a gut feeling, but they were every bit as cold and tired as I was, and they had had enough.

  “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Collins; I just want to get home,” Abdel said. “I need to call Fatima. She worries about me. You go any way you like. But if it’s all the same to you, I’m going this way.”

  It wasn’t all the same to me. Still, I appreciated his humility. Abdel had a kind and decent heart. I knew he wasn’t trying to be contrarian or disrespectful. He loved his girl. I got it. I could still remember feeling that way. I’d been married once. It had been a disaster. But even with all the pain, I hadn’t forgotten what a good romance felt like. So I nodded, and Abdel left. But I wasn’t going to follow him. I poked my head into another room, shining the flashlight on my phone from right to left and back again. It was a large, empty hall that had probably been used as a dining room, I figured, though it had long ago been looted of every furnishing and anything else that was valuable, from the light fixtures to the copper wires and pipes in the walls. Everything had been ripped out. It was all gone.

  “You coming with me?” I asked Omar.

  “Allen says I have to,” he replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He told me to watch your back,” Omar replied. “I’m already feeling guilty for having gotten separated from you last night. I don’t plan to let that happen again.”

  “You’re a good man, Omar,” I told him. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  16

  Omar and I moved through the cavernous hall.

  Then we made our way through the gutted kitchen right behind it and then a large but completely empty pantry before we found a back door. It was unsettling to walk through a totally abandoned building knowing it had once—not so long ago—been teeming with boys and girls and women and men trying to make a life in this little corner of the world. Once families had eaten breakfasts, lunches, and dinners here, held birthday parties and wedding receptions, graduation parties and anniversary celebrations here. Once these walls had echoed with laughter and inside jokes and gossip and fights and tears and memories, but now the place was hollow and empty, silent and dark. It was eerie. It felt like one of those early scenes in Titanic when Bill Paxton’s character—you know, the Jacques Cousteau meets Indiana Jones character who’s hunting for the blue diamond—directs that robotic camera through the underwater passageways of the great, sad ship, down long, dark hallways and through ballrooms and stairwells long forgotten, haunted by memories so joyous and so tragic. It was as if Homs had sunk to the bottom of the ocean, and Omar and I had come to navigate our way through its dark and forlorn rooms.

  When we got to the back door, we were careful not to go bursting through it. We peered through the jagged shards of what remained of the window, out to the rain and fog. Ahead of us was the large field we had come across the night before—the old VW van, the broken-down school bus, the deserted playground, the charred Russian tank, and all the rest. Ringing the field were dozens of ruined apartment buildings. We looked for Abdel and for any other signs of life, but we saw nothing and no one moving.

  “He’s probably already made a run for it,” Omar said.

  “Hope so,” I said. “Come on—let’s go this way. Stay close, and keep an eye behind us as well.”

  Omar nodded, and we began. There was no way I was heading across that field again. Maybe the snipers had gone home. Maybe they hadn’t. I wasn’t taking that chance. Instead, I decided we should work our way around the perimeter. By moving fast and sticking close to the walls of the surrounding buildings, under the cantilevers that jutted out from most of them over a wide sidewalk that encircled the park, I hoped we could stay out of the rain and out of the view of any gunmen operating from the buildings on the south side. That’s where they had been the night before. We had taken no shots from anyone in the buildings on the north side. If there were snipers in the south-side buildings, we would essentially be underneath them for most of our run, almost impossible to see. If someone did start shooting from the other side of the field, unless they took us out on the first shot, we should be able to quickly duck through doors into abandoned apartments that would hopefully provide us some measure of protection.

  It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the best I could do on short notice, and once we started running, I was convinced we were home free. But when we were about halfway to our objective, we suddenly caught a glimpse of Abdel. He was running out of one of the buildings on the other side, across the field, toward us. I stopped dead in my tracks. Omar nearly ran me over. We looked at each other and then back at Abdel. It was clear that he hadn’t gone ahead of us to the rendezvous point at the border. Rather, he had been waiting for us all along. Now that he saw us, he was apparently afraid of being left behind. But why he would run out into the open was beyond me. Worse, he was yelling for us to stop and waving his arms frantically so that we would see him. My heart almost stopped.

  “What in the world is he doing?” Omar whispered. “He’s going to get us all killed.”

  I was glad Omar had said it first. Honestly, I’d have felt guilty saying it out loud. But he was right.

  Then it was as if Abdel realized what he was doing. When he had nearly reached the wreckage of the Russian tank, he abruptly stopped running, stopped yelling, stopped waving his arms. He just froze and stood motionless, his hands in the air like he was being robbed.

  Lightning flashed. More thunder boomed overhead.

  “Now what’s he doing?” Omar asked.

  I had no idea. I scanned the perimeter and found myself backing slowly into one of the buildings. Omar noticed what I was doing and followed suit. He didn’t want to get picked off by a sniper any more than I did. We scanned the room behind us. No one was in there. There were no signs that anyone had been recently. We crouched down and watched to see what Abdel would do next.

  More than a minute passed, but Abdel kept standing there.

  Why?

  Didn’t he understand the danger he was in?

  Come on, Abdel. Move.

  Didn’t he remember what we had been through the night before?

  You can do it. Just start walking.

  I wasn’t making a sound, but in my mind I was screaming at him, trying to will him to get going with all the mental energy I could muster. But with every second that passed, I grew more scared. I could barely look.

  Come on, Abdel; come on. Think of Fatima. She’s counting on you, buddy. She’s waiting for you. Come on, just one foot in front of the other.

  But Abdel just stood there, looking terrified and confused. My hands were trembling again. I desperately needed something to drink. I reached for my water bottle, but it was gone. I dug through my backpack, but it was not there. Another full minute went by. I couldn’t bear it. I actually put my hands over my eyes. I had this palpable fear that a sniper was going to blow Abdel’s head off and that would be my last memory of him.

  Finally Omar nudged me.

  “Maybe we should go out there and get him,” he said.

  I opened my eyes. “Are you crazy? You want to get killed?”

  But Omar persisted. “Something’s wrong. Something’s out there. Maybe he’s found something.”

  “Then he should bring it here.”

  “I’ll go,” Omar said and moved toward the door.

  “No way,” I responded, grabbing his arm. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I turned and shouted out the window. “Abdel! Come on! We can’t wait any longer!”

  But Abdel didn’t move. I yelled again. I knew I was giving away our position. But I also knew if I didn’t, Omar would go rac
ing out there like a fool.

  “Abdel!” I yelled again through the thunder and the rain. “It’ll be okay. Come on. Let’s go home!”

  Even from such a distance it was clear how scared he was. He still held his arms high over his head. I had to assume he could see a sniper and was wondering why the guy wasn’t pulling the trigger. I was wondering the same thing.

  Abdel was soaked to the bone by now. But he still didn’t move. And he still hadn’t been shot. I had no idea what to do. So I just stared at him and did nothing. Then I saw Abdel’s hands slowly beginning to lower. His head began to droop as well. His shoulders slumped forward. He hadn’t started walking yet, but something was changing. I could only guess that he knew he had done something terribly foolish, but he also had to know there was no turning back now. If he didn’t start walking, he’d never get to us, never get home, never see Fatima. Maybe the sniper was going to let him go.

  “That’s right, Abdel!” I shouted. “You can do it!”

  My heart started beating again. Clearly Abdel was steeling himself for what was ahead. I found myself praying God would somehow help him make it across the field without getting shot. I just couldn’t bear the thought. There had been too much sadness already.

  But then the entire park was rocked by an enormous explosion.

  Abdel Mahmoud Hamid disintegrated before our eyes.

  He had stepped on a land mine. Now he had just stepped off it. And just like that, he was gone.

  17

  BEIRUT, LEBANON

  Omar battled his way through rush-hour traffic.

  Finally we reached downtown Beirut. Omar took a left past the promenade along St. George Bay. Then he worked his way around the beautiful tree-lined campus of the American University before pulling up to the main entrance of the Mayflower Hotel.