Third Target (9781496403674)

by Rosenberg, Joel C.

  “ISIS with sarin is a worst-case scenario,” she said, seeing me process the unthinkable. “An attack like this in my country—or yours—would be catastrophic. You need to write about this. You need to warn people, and fast.”

  “I agree,” I said. “But like I told you, my editor insists I get another source. Will Ari show me what you have?”

  “How soon can you come?” she asked.

  “To Tel Aviv?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You wouldn’t be allowed to take notes or pictures. You couldn’t make copies, and you wouldn’t be able to quote anything you hear in your articles or to anyone else you speak with. But since you’ve already got two other sources, Ari is prepared to show you what we’ve got and confirm your story based on the intel we’ve developed.”

  “Why?”

  Yael leaned across the table. “The prime minister has decided Israel needs the world to know who ISIS really is and what they now have,” she whispered.

  “Yes, but why now?”

  “He’s concerned the White House isn’t taking the ISIS threat seriously enough.”

  “But if the public knows, maybe they’ll light a fire under Congress, and Congress can light a fire under the president?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So why give the story to me?” I asked.

  “Honestly?” she asked as she finished her tea. “Because you already have it, and as you say, time is of the essence. Of course Jamal Ramzy doesn’t want to say he’s got WMD because that will put every government in the world on heightened alert. But that’s exactly why two other governments—and now ours—are giving you the story. We need to make sure everyone knows who ISIS is. We need to make it that much harder for them to operate freely. We have no choice. The attacks could start any day. They’ve already had the stuff for nearly a month.”

  “So who do you think is the main target, you or us?” I asked.

  “I have no idea, but it’s probably us.”

  “Because you’re closer?”

  “That, and because of the timing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Because the peace process is coming to a head.”

  “What?”

  “I mean if we actually strike a final deal with the Palestinians in the next few days, ISIS is going to go ballistic.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “I thought the peace process was going nowhere.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  “Wait, I don’t understand—your prime minister keeps saying the talks are going nowhere, and President Mansour says he’s going to walk out of the talks by the end of the month if no progress is made,” Omar said, referring to Salim Mansour, the president of the Palestinian Authority. “King Abdullah keeps warning the parties to get serious or a new regional war will break out. If that’s all true, it wouldn’t seem like Jamal Ramzy and his brethren have much to worry about.”

  “Actually none of that is true—it’s all spin,” she said, leaning back in her seat.

  “What do you mean by that?” Omar asked.

  “Spin,” she repeated. “Dissembling. Sleight of hand.”

  “You’re saying the peace talks are moving forward?” he asked.

  Yael looked disappointed. “Don’t tell me you two have really been buying all this nonsense in the press.”

  “It comes from the highest officials,” I said. “Of course we have.”

  “Well, stop,” she said. “The deal is done.”

  “What deal?” Omar asked.

  “The peace deal,” Yael said.

  “A full treaty?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Yael said. “I’m just telling you what I know. My PM has made major concessions—more than I’m comfortable with, frankly, but that’s another story. They don’t ask for my opinions on such matters. Anyway, I can’t say more about this. I’m definitely not authorized to speak about any of these things. And you can’t write about this. Seriously. Nobody knows what I’m telling you right now. But it’s important you understand what’s motivating Abu Khalif. We don’t know where he is—somewhere in Iraq, we think—but we’re guessing he knows more about the true state of the peace talks than the New York Times. We’re also guessing he’s about to give orders to kill a whole lot of people to keep this peace treaty from being finalized. Look, James, I’m glad you got your interview with Ramzy. I’m sure it’ll be an important story. But don’t get distracted. Jamal Ramzy is a supporting character. Abu Khalif is the lead actor. He’s the big story. He’s the guy you need to talk to, ideally before all hell breaks loose.”

  “I’m trying,” I said. “But I can’t find him. No one will tell me where he is. All I know is he’s in prison in Iraq. Can you guys help?”

  “We don’t know any more than you,” she said. “If we knew where he was, believe me, he’d be a corpse.”

  “I assume that’s off the record as well.” I smiled.

  Yael smiled back. “Look, I wish I could give you more specifics, but I can’t. But you should hunt him down like you did Ramzy. Find him. Talk to him. See what he says. Then brace yourself for some serious blowback. Because I’m telling you, this is why Abu Khalif is getting ready to strike. He’s a barbarian. He’s livid at the prospect of the Palestinians cutting a deal with the ‘dirty Zionists.’ He’s enraged that President Mansour is about to legitimize the presence of a single Jew in ‘Palestine.’ He’s hell-bent on doing everything he can to disrupt the peace process, and if that means killing a whole lot of innocent people, then he figures, so be it.”

  At that, she looked at her watch and stood. “Well, gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure, but it’s late, and I’m afraid I’ve got to go,” she said. “I fly back to Tel Aviv around noon. If you’re smart, you’ll come with me.”

  Omar and I stood as well.

  “Thank you, Yael,” I said, taking her hand in mine. “It’s been a lovely evening.”

  “Let’s do it again soon,” she said and then winked at me.

  “I’d like that,” I replied.

  We exchanged numbers. I said I’d call my editor and get back to her as quickly as possible. Then I offered to give her a ride back to the hotel. Given how hard it was now raining, she readily accepted.

  “Where’s the car?” I asked Omar.

  “Just up the street a bit,” he said.

  “Fine, I’ll pay our tab and meet you there,” I said, trying to get our waiter’s attention to bring the bill.

  “And I’ll get our coats,” Yael said.

  As she went to find them and Omar headed out into the pouring rain, I gave the waiter my credit card and pulled out my iPhone. There were twenty-seven new e-mails, none of which were useful, so I sent three of my own.

  First, I wrote to Youssef Kuttab, a senior advisor to Palestinian president Salim Mansour.

  Y—We need to talk. Hearing rumors a deal is almost done. Eager to know more. Can I come see you?—JB

  If I was going to Tel Aviv, I figured, I might as well start working on the next story too.

  Next, I wrote to Hassan Karbouli, Iraq’s minister of the interior. We’d known each other for years, and typically he’d been quite helpful, so long as he wasn’t quoted. But he’d gone dark for the last few weeks, and I was getting desperate. If anyone could help me track down Abu Khalif, it was Karbouli.

  Hassan—This is my fifth e-mail. Where are you? Running out of time. Must ask you directly: where is AK being held? Just interviewed Jamal Ramzy. Story to run in tomorrow’s paper. Now need to follow up with AK. Have gone through all the proper channels, but no one will help me. Know you’re swamped, but asking for your help. Thanks.—JB

  Finally, I sent a quick note to Prince Marwan Talal in Amman, an uncle of the Jordanian king and one of His Majesty’s most trusted advisors. Marwan was getting up in years, but because he had been around so
long, he knew everyone in the region and had his finger on the pulse of all that was happening.

  Your Royal Highness—I need your help. Trying to track down AK. Planning a major attack. Solid sources say he has WMD. Can we talk soon?—JB

  A moment later, Yael came back with our coats. I finished paying the bill and helped her with her coat, then put mine on as well. We were about to leave when she realized she had forgotten her umbrella.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  I offered to get it for her, but she insisted it was no problem. So much for chivalry, I thought. I waited for her by the front door.

  Outside, I could see Omar climbing into the driver’s seat of the rental car up the street. But I wasn’t thinking about Omar. My thoughts were consumed with Yael Katzir. I could still smell her perfume. I could still feel her lips on my own. I pulled her business card out of my pocket and looked it over. It was a simple card, black and white, bearing only the initials YK and a European mobile number. No Mossad logo. No mention of the intelligence agency at all. No address or even post office box number. For a moment, I wondered if the phone number was even real. Then I started asking myself whether she was at all interested in me or if she had just been doing her job. If I asked her to dinner in Tel Aviv, might she accept? If I asked her to join me for a movie, what would she say? Omar and Hadiya kept telling me it was time. I kept telling them I wasn’t ready. But maybe they were right. All I knew for certain was I liked this girl. I wanted to see more of her. The moment wasn’t convenient. But when would it ever be?

  Yael sidled up beside me with her polka-dot umbrella. She slipped her arm through mine and smiled.

  “Ready when you are,” she said.

  “After you,” I replied.

  As I opened the door for her, I could hear Omar trying to start the car. He turned the engine over several more times, but to no avail. Suddenly a wave of physical and emotional exhaustion washed over me. Frustration, too. I had neither the time nor the energy to hang out while Omar waited for a tow truck, if that’s really what was needed. I wanted to get back to the hotel, type up my notes, take a hot shower, and get to bed.

  As we stepped out of the café, I glanced to my left to see if any cabs were coming. Unfortunately, it was now almost three in the morning. The streets were empty. There were no cabs to be found. So I looked back at Omar trying to get the thing started and began wondering how long it would take to call for a taxi.

  And that’s when the Hyundai erupted in a massive explosion.

  23

  I woke up screaming, but this was not a nightmare.

  Soaked in sweat, my whole body was shivering. I could see Omar inside the car, trying to start the engine. I could feel Yael at my side, her arm in mine. I could feel the heat and force of the massive explosion, the flames shooting into the sky, glass and shards of metal flying in all directions. I could smell burning gasoline, burning flesh. I could hear the ear-piercing boom. It wasn’t distant or hazy or detached. It was as if I were still standing on that street, walking out that doorway. It was real, and it was happening again and again and again.

  I sat bolt upright in some bed in some dark room illuminated only by the red numbers of a digital alarm clock that read 2:14 a.m. I looked down and found myself dressed only in my underwear. Disoriented, my heart racing, I had no idea where I was or how I’d gotten there. I was breathing so hard I was in danger of hyperventilating.

  Dizzy and nauseated, about to vomit, I lay back down in the bed. The pillow was damp with perspiration, so I turned it over and was relieved to find the other side cooler and dry. I kicked off the covers and tried to get comfortable.

  Exhausted, I closed my eyes, desperate to regain a sense of equilibrium. But as soon as I tried to fall back asleep, the explosion replayed all over again.

  “Good morning, James. Are you awake?”

  I heard the voice but could not place it. It was a woman’s voice, gentle and comforting, but it also seemed distant and far away. Was it Yael’s? Had she survived? Had she found me, come back to rescue me?

  Foggy and confused, I tried to open my eyes but my head was pounding terribly. My limbs ached and my breathing was labored.

  The woman I saw in the morning light was not Yael. It was a nurse, checking my vital signs and giving me a shot in my left arm.

  “Hush,” she said. “Don’t move. Don’t try to get up. It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”

  I passed out again.

  The next time I opened my eyes, the digital clock said it was 8:56 p.m.

  I squinted through the darkness and then noticed the date in a corner of the display as well. I blinked hard and looked again. That couldn’t be right, I thought. But sure enough, the date read November 27.

  A shot of adrenaline coursed through my system, and once again I sat straight up in bed in the pitch-black of night. Four days? It couldn’t be. Or was it five? How had so much time gone by so quickly? Where was Omar? I had a story to file. The deadline had long since passed. Allen had to be furious. I had work to do. Where was my laptop? Where were my notes?

  My head still ached, but it no longer felt like it was clamped into a vise, being squeezed without mercy. That was progress, and I would take it.

  “Good morning, Mr. Collins,” a voice off to my left said.

  I turned my head and saw three men standing in my hospital room. One was Turkish, probably in his early thirties, medium height, medium build, jet-black hair, spectacles—a physician of some kind, judging from his white lab coat and the stethoscope around his neck. The other two wore suits. They certainly weren’t Turkish. From their manner and their wing-tip shoes, they struck me as Americans, probably from the American embassy or consulate. The younger of these two appeared to be in his late twenties, and it was obvious he was packing heat. He stood near the door. He was security. But it was the older of the two—in his midfifties, I guessed—who was talking.

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure that was true, but I said nothing.

  “I’m Art Harris,” he continued. “I’m a special agent with the FBI.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you know what day it is?”

  “The twenty-seventh.”

  “Do you know the month?”

  “November.”

  “But you read that off the clock radio, correct?”

  I nodded again.

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “Looks like a hospital,” I said. “Am I still in Istanbul?”

  “You are indeed,” Harris said.

  But now it was the doctor who spoke as he stepped forward and checked my pulse. “How do you feel, Mr. Collins?”

  “I’m fine,” I lied. “How soon can I leave?”

  “In a few days probably,” the doctor said.

  “Do I have any broken bones?”

  “No,” he said. “Fortunately you do not.”

  “Did I require surgery?”

  “Some stitches here and there, but no, surgery wasn’t necessary.”

  “Did I require a blood transfusion?”

  “No, nothing like that,” he said.

  “Then I want to leave today,” I said.

  “Not quite yet,” he replied. “We want to keep you a bit longer for observation. You’ve been through quite a trauma.”

  “Perhaps I could have a few minutes alone with Mr. Collins,” the man named Harris said.

  There was an awkward silence, and then the doctor stepped out of the room, followed by the other FBI agent, who was apparently not there in an investigative capacity. As the door swung open, I noticed two other agents just like him in the hallway.

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you think I did this?”

  “No.”

  “Then why all the suits and guns?”

  “Someone’s trying to kill you, Mr. Collins,” he replied. “My job is to figure out who, and these
men have been assigned to protect you.”

  He handed me a business card. It bore the FBI logo, a local office address, an e-mail address and phone number, and the words Arthur M. Harris, Special Agent in Charge.

  “What do you remember about the other night?” Harris asked.

  I did my best to describe the final moments of watching Omar get into the Hyundai, his efforts to start the car, and the enormous explosion.

  “Do you remember being thrown through the plate-glass window of the café?”

  I didn’t.

  “How about the local ambulance crew giving you first aid?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t remember anything after the explosion until I woke up here.”

  “What about the woman?” he asked.

  “What woman?”

  “The woman you and Mr. Fayez were having tea with,” Harris said. “The owner says you were leaving the café with her when the bomb went off. We have a description. We have a sketch artist working with several of the witnesses right now. But in all the commotion, she disappeared. I’m hoping you can help us identify her.”

  My pulse quickened. I wasn’t sure what to say. Was Yael okay? Was she safe? Why had she fled the scene? Didn’t she know that would raise suspicions? I supposed she must not have been seriously harmed if she’d had the wherewithal to slip away. Apparently she hadn’t turned up in any hospitals or medical clinics in Istanbul, or Harris would have known about it by now. Surely he and his team were canvassing every location. Yael, after all, was either a material witness to a serious crime or a suspect.

  Now that I’d had two seconds to think about it, it was clear why she’d fled. She was a senior intelligence agent for the Israeli government, operating in Turkey, which didn’t exactly have close working relations with the Israelis at the present time. She didn’t want to be interviewed by local Turkish authorities or by the FBI. She didn’t want there to be any traces back to the Mossad; that was for sure. So she’d bailed before emergency crews had arrived on the scene. Which meant she didn’t want me talking about her.

  Still, Harris was a federal agent. I couldn’t lie to him. That would be a felony.