The First Hostage: A J. B. Collins Novel

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “Have you seen it?” I asked.

  “No, not yet,” the monarch said. “None of us. Whatever it is, I thought you’d want to break the story.”

  “Isn’t the whole world going to see it at once?” I asked.

  “The video, yes,” he replied. “But I want you to report my reaction and the next steps we take against ISIS.”

  I took a deep breath and tried in vain to steel myself for what was coming. The king ordered Sharif to play the video, and I turned so I could see the monitor. It took a moment before Sharif could get the images from the e-mail on his laptop to the main screen, but a few seconds later, the image appeared. When the video began to play, I felt I could hardly breathe.

  The first shot was that of a man who had become all too familiar to me in recent days: Abu Khalif, the emir of ISIS and self-proclaimed caliph, wearing a kaffiyeh and flowing white robes. While I had met him and spoken to him and even interviewed him in person, face to face, this image startled me because it was the first video ISIS had ever released with its leader in the starring role. Until a few days earlier, Khalif had been locked away in a maximum-security prison in Abu Ghraib, Iraq, not far from Baghdad. But now, as the world knew because of my reporting, the forces of ISIS had attacked the prison, killed most of its leaders and guards, and freed the spiritual and political leader of the Islamic State. The photos I had taken that had accompanied my front-page story in the Times just a few days ago were some of the first the world had ever seen of this barbaric tyrant. Now they were going to see him on television and hear his voice, and I didn’t dare imagine what he was about to say.

  What struck me in particular was not the dark eyes or carefully trimmed beard of the emir but the setting he’d chosen in which to shoot this video. He was standing in the courtyard of what appeared to be an ancient, crumbling, perhaps even abandoned mosque. There were several decaying arches behind him, though one of the archways had collapsed entirely and was just a heap of stones. It wasn’t obvious whether this was from recent bomb damage or from an earthquake centuries before, but it was clear that the video had been shot at night. The partially collapsed structure revealed the night sky, and stars were clearly visible, as was part of the moon. The rest of the courtyard was awash in klieg lights that created harsh and oddly formed shadows in the background.

  “I am Abu Khalif, the head of the Islamic State,” he began, speaking in flawless, classical Arabic and looking straight into the camera. “I greet you in the name of Allah, the most beneficent, the most merciful. All praise and thanks be to Allah, the Lord of the ’Alamin, the only owner, the only ruling judge on the Day of Recompense, the Day of Judgment, the day of the glorious resurrection. The Day of Reckoning is coming, the Day of Decision you used to deny.”

  He was citing various passages from the Qur’an, pretending to be the spiritual and political leader of a billion and a half Muslims worldwide rather than the savage, soulless terrorist he was in reality.

  “Truly, all praise belongs to Allah. We praise him and seek his help and his forgiveness. We seek refuge with Allah from the evils of our souls and from the consequences of our deeds. Whoever Allah guides can never be led astray, and whoever Allah leads astray can never be guided. I testify that there is no god except Allah, alone without any partners, and I testify that Muhammad—peace and blessings be upon him—is his slave and messenger. It was this messenger who instructed us in the holy Qur’an that ‘he who deceives shall be faced with his deceit on the Day of Resurrection, when every human being shall be repaid in full for whatever he has done, and none shall be wronged.’ Tonight judgment has begun for some of the worst deceivers on our planet. As many of you know by now, forces of the Islamic State have launched an operation inside the heart of Jordan, territory that once was held by the dark forces of the Hashemite infidels but has been liberated by our brave forces and is now part of the ever-expanding caliphate.”

  The image quickly changed to shots of distinctive black ISIS flags flying over various landmarks in Amman as well as over villages that could conceivably be Jordanian but weren’t immediately distinguishable from villages throughout Syria or Iraq. I glanced at the king, but he was inscrutable. He was serious and intently focused on both the images and what Khalif was saying, but his expression hadn’t changed at all. Colonel Sharif, on the other hand, looked like he was about to become violently ill.

  “Presently the warriors of the Islamic State are embarked on a brave and glorious mission to overthrow the wicked regime in Amman, to rid the holy lands of corruption and betrayal of the Qur’an and the Prophet. Our forces are determined to restore this land and its people to the rightful rule of the caliphate and Sharia law. As I speak to you, this operation is already bearing great fruit. For tonight, by the power and greatness of Allah, I announce to you that our forces have captured the leader of the arrogant powers, the dog of Rome, the president of the United States.”

  An audible gasp went through the command center as the image panned from the emir to a shot of President Harrison Taylor wearing an orange jumpsuit, his hands and feet in shackles, standing in the middle of a grotesque iron cage.

  15

  The camera zoomed in on the president.

  And then, on cue, Taylor spoke directly to the camera.

  “My name is Harrison Beresford Taylor,” he said slowly, methodically, wincing several times as if in pain. As he spoke, Arabic subtitles scrolled across the bottom of the screen. “I am the forty-fifth president of the United States. I was captured by the Islamic State in Amman on December 5. I am being held by the Islamic State in a location that has not been disclosed to me, but I can say . . . I can say honestly . . . I can say honestly that I am being treated well and have been given the opportunity to give ba’yah—that is to say, to pledge allegiance . . . to the Islamic State. I ask my fellow Americans, including all my colleagues in Washington, to listen . . . to listen carefully . . . that is, to listen carefully and respectfully to the emir, and to follow the instructions . . . he is about to set forth for my safe and expeditious return.”

  I could envision the experts and analysts back at Langley carefully scrutinizing the video in every possible manner. But there was no doubt. The face. The voice. The inflections. He was being forced to read a prepared text, to be sure, but there was no question it was really the president. This wasn’t a look-alike. This wasn’t a trick. ISIS had really captured him, and it was really, tragically, Harrison Taylor in the cage. For me, the real questions were where exactly this had been recorded and when.

  When Taylor was finished, the camera panned back to Khalif.

  “Allah has given this infidel into our hands,” he continued, once again speaking in Arabic. “O Muslims everywhere, glad tidings to you! Raise your heads high, for today, by Allah’s grace, you have a sign of his favor upon you. You also have a state and caliphate, which will return your dignity, might, rights, and leadership. It is a state where the Arab and non-Arab, the white man and black man, the Easterner and Westerner are all brothers. Their blood mixed and became one, under a single flag and goal, in one pavilion, enjoying this blessing, the blessing of faithful brotherhood. So all praise and thanks are due to Allah. Therefore, rush, O Muslims, to your state. Yes, it is your state. Rush, because Syria is not for the Syrians, and Iraq is not for the Iraqis, and Jordan is not for the Jordanians. The earth is Allah’s. Indeed, the earth belongs to Allah. He causes to inherit it whomever he wills of his servants.

  “We make a special call to the scholars, experts in Islamic jurisprudence, and especially judges, as well as people with military, administrative, and service expertise, and medical doctors and engineers of all different specializations and fields. We call them and remind them to fear Allah and to come to the caliphate so that they can answer the dire needs of their Muslim brothers.

  “And I make a special call to you, O soldiers of the Islamic State—do not be awestruck by the great numbers of your enemy, for Allah is with you. I do not fear for you the number
s of your opponents, nor do I fear your neediness and poverty, for Allah has promised your Prophet—peace be upon him—that you will not be wiped out by famine, and your enemy will not conquer you or continue to violate and control your land. I promised you that in the name of Allah we would capture the American president, and I have kept my word. The king of Jordan will soon be in our hands. So will all the infidel leaders in this region. So will all the dogs in Rome. The ancient prophecies tell us the End of Days is upon us, and with it the judgment of all who will not bow the knee and submit to Allah and his commanders on the earth.”

  Khalif now turned to his right and we had a new camera angle of him, against the backdrop of a shadowy stone wall. When he resumed speaking, it was in English.

  “Now I speak directly to Vice President Holbrooke, the new leader of Rome. Fearful and trembling, weak and unsteady, you and the infidels you lead have lost your way. You have three choices—convert to Islam, pay the jizyah, or die. You have these three choices, but you do not have time. You must choose your fate and choose it quickly. If you and your country choose to convert, you must give a speech to the world doing so under the precise language and conditions of Sharia law, and you will be blessed by Allah and have peace with the caliphate. If you choose to pay the jizyah, you must pay $1,000 U.S. for every man, woman, and child living in the United States of America. I have just sent to the New York Times the details of a certain bank account. I am certain they will forward the information to you. Upon its receipt you must immediately deposit the full amount into the account to cover the jizyah tax. If you do not, or if you act with aggression in any matter against me or against the caliphate, the next video you see will be your beloved president beheaded or burned alive. From the time of this broadcast, you have forty-eight hours, and not a minute more.”

  Khalif turned again, back to the first camera, and spoke in a close-up, once more in Arabic.

  “The spark was lit in Iraq,” he concluded. “It spread to Syria and now to Jordan. Its heat will continue to intensify until it burns the crusader armies in Dabiq. Let there be no doubt. Let all the world understand. Rome is falling. The Caliphate is arising. We are waiting for you in Dabiq.”

  16

  When the video was finished, the room was deadly silent.

  No one spoke for several moments. Everyone seemed to be processing both the chilling words and images. Every minute that went by, I had more questions, but I didn’t feel it was my place to ask. Not yet. I wanted to see how the king and the prince and the generals would react to the tape, not to me.

  Meanwhile, the young military aide who attended to the king’s every need was typing furiously on a laptop. I would soon learn he had been creating a precise transcript of Abu Khalif’s words in Arabic and then producing a flawless English interpretation. When he was finished, he printed out copies of both and handed them to each person in the room. I’d gotten most of what Khalif had said the first time. He had spoken slowly and deliberately, so in that sense it was easier for me to process. There was some vocabulary and several theological references that I didn’t immediately understand. But reading both the Arabic and the English versions just moments after watching the video and hearing the words spoken was enormously helpful.

  I glanced at the clocks on the wall and then at my pocket watch. The video was going to air across the globe on Al Jazeera in less than twelve minutes. But the king had yet to react.

  When he finally spoke, rather than revealing his own thoughts, he asked his war council for theirs. The suspense was killing me, but I held my tongue.

  Lieutenant General Abdul Jum’a went first. “I don’t believe he is on Jordanian soil, Your Majesty,” he began.

  “Why?”

  “Too risky,” the army commander replied. “They know our forces are fully deployed. Yes, we have lost control of some towns and parts of some cities in the north as the ISIS uprising has spread. But they know it’s a matter of hours, at most a few days, until we reclaim full control over those places. I don’t think Abu Khalif would risk being captured—and the president being rescued—here in Jordan. Not when he has other, better alternatives.”

  I could hardly process the information. This was the first I’d heard of additional ISIS offensive operations outside of Amman, and certainly no one had mentioned that any Jordanian territory had actually been seized by ISIS in the north—not in my hearing, anyway.

  “So where do you think they are?” the king asked.

  “I cannot say for certain, of course, but in my opinion the most logical thing to do would be to evacuate the president and take him into Syria or Iraq.”

  “Dabiq?”

  “No, that’s too far north—past Aleppo, almost to the Turkish border,” Jum’a said. “They wouldn’t have had time to get him up there this fast.”

  “What about Homs?”

  “Maybe, but again, that’s quite a ways north. And if they were driving, they’d have to make a wide berth around Damascus, given that Assad’s forces are still in control of most of the capital.”

  “Then where?”

  “If it were me, I’d take him to southeast Syria, to the heart of ISIS territory, somewhere along the Euphrates, someplace the Americans would never go.”

  “Deir ez-Zor? Mayadin?”

  “Perhaps, though again, if I were Abu Khalif, I’d create my base camp someplace even smaller, a little town or village that was off the radar, discreet, unnoticed. There are a hundred of them up and down the river on both sides.”

  “And what if they took him to Iraq?” asked Prince Feisal, now on his feet and poring over one of the maps on the wall.

  “They wouldn’t,” the general said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ve got too many forces trying to retake northern Iraq,” Jum’a explained. “You’ve got the Kurds, the Americans, the Shia militias, the Iraqi regular forces—they’re all trying to retake the north. Why should Khalif take the risk? Why not set up his base camp in Syria? No one’s trying to retake Syria except Assad, and he simply doesn’t have the strength to get the job done.”

  “Okay, but what if they did go to Iraq?” Feisal pressed.

  “Then they’re crazy.”

  “And they’re not?”

  “Abu Khalif is crazy like a fox. He’s not a lunatic. Take my word for it. He’s not in Iraq. He’s in Syria.”

  “But Khalif was just in Mosul,” noted the prince. “He was just there with Mr. Collins. They’re testing chemical weapons there. They have a warehouse full of munitions, captured from Aleppo.”

  “Had,” the general insisted. “They had a base in Mosul. They had a warehouse full of chemical weapons. The only reason to reveal it all to Collins and the New York Times was if everything was being moved. I guarantee you—none of it is there today.”

  The prince let it drop.

  The king nodded but made no comment before turning to Major General Ibrahim al-Mufti, his air force commander. “Could they have moved the president by air?”

  “Not from Amman, Your Majesty,” al-Mufti replied. “They would have moved him in the trunk of a car or the back of a van or truck, driven him a few kilometers, switched vehicles, and kept moving like that until they could get well outside our initial perimeter.”

  “But then, couldn’t they have put him on a small plane or helicopter and flown him out of the country?”

  “If they had help from locals, yes, I’m afraid they could have.”

  “Did we detect air activity heading to Syria or northern Iraq overnight?”

  “I don’t know, Your Majesty. I just sent an e-mail to my intel chief and told him to run the tapes on all air traffic control stations for the last twelve hours. It’ll take some time, but I will let you know when I hear something.”

  For several moments the king said nothing. He showed no emotion. He had a pretty strong five o’clock shadow and was clearly exhausted. He had to be. Yet he struck me as remarkably calm, given that his kingdom was under attack
from all sides, much of his government was dead or incapacitated, and ISIS had captured the leader of the free world on Jordanian soil.

  “What do you make of the video?” he asked al-Mufti.

  The general leaned back in his chair and took some time to answer. “Abdul is right,” he said at last. “Khalif is crazy like a fox. He has a plan. He’s trying to draw us into a much more dangerous war, a ground war, a war in Dabiq.”

  “You think he’s in Dabiq?” the king asked.

  “No, I don’t,” al-Mufti replied. “But I think he’s trying to draw us and the Americans into a ground war there.”

  The room grew silent again, but I couldn’t hold back any longer. “Why?” I asked. “Why Dabiq?”

  “Because that’s where he believes the last battle will be fought.”

  “The last battle?”

  “The End of Days,” said al-Mufti. “The Day of Judgment. It’s all going to consummate in Dabiq. That’s what they think.”

  “Who?”

  “Abu Khalif, ISIS, all of them,” said the general. “They believe the Prophet—peace be upon him—spoke of a final, catastrophic, apocalyptic battle between the Muslims and the forces of Rome that would unfold on the plains of northern Syria in a place called Dabiq.”

  “The forces of Rome? What does that mean—the Italians, the Vatican?”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no,” said al-Mufti. “You heard Khalif call the president ‘the dog of Rome’?”

  “I did, but why? What does that mean?”

  “Some Sunnis believe the Americans are the new Crusaders, that Washington is the new Rome, that the president is the new Caesar. The ISIS crowd certainly believes it. No question that Khalif does. Believe me, they’re never going to give up the president of the United States, even if your entire country converts or pays the tax. The president is their prize. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was dead already.”