Without Warning

  But Harrison Taylor could not be trusted to do the job. That much was clear.

  42

  I worked straight through the afternoon.

  No lunch. No breaks. I was burning pure rage and fighting a lust for hard liquor. My only hope was to stay busy.

  By sundown, I’d finalized the service order, edited and signed off on the program and made sure it got to the printer on time, and talked to the florist multiple times, answering myriad questions while trying not to go insane. All the while, I did my best to make sure everything was coordinated with the pastor, the local police chief, the head of the advance team for the Secret Service, and the vice president’s chief of staff. And there were still twenty-six e-mails remaining that had to do with the service, not to mention another thirty-nine from colleagues in D.C. and sources around the world offering their condolences or giving me leads I ought to be following up on.

  Rubbing my eyes, I plugged my phone into a wall charger and stood for a moment to stretch. Then I stepped into the bathroom. I splashed warm water on my face and dried myself off with a towel and tried to decide what to do next. Order some room service? Turn my phone off and watch a movie on pay-per-view? Go down to the gym and work out? None of the options sounded attractive. I had no appetite. No interest in the latest garbage from Hollywood. No desire to be babysat by my FBI handlers while I spent an hour on the treadmill. What I ought to be doing—what I wanted to be doing, I decided—was tracking down everything I could find on Paul Pritchard, Walid Hussam, and Mohammed bin Zayed and finding a way to contact them. The clock was ticking. The information was valuable, Khachigian had made clear, but it might also be perishable. Use it or lose it. I had to move quickly.

  I still didn’t want to use my own phone for anything sensitive, in case anyone—the FBI or ISIS—might be watching. Instead, I grabbed the satellite phone Khachigian had left me in the safe-deposit box. Powering it up, I quickly got a signal, pulled up Google, and ran a search on the three names mentioned in the spymaster’s letter to me.

  The first was Paul Pritchard. I didn’t immediately find a LinkedIn bio for him, but I did find a 2012 profile on him in the Washington Post that would have to suffice for now. Pritchard, it said, was a former intelligence officer in the U.S. Army who had served in both Iraq and Kuwait in the first Gulf War before joining the CIA. From there, he’d been recruited into the Clandestine Service, working his way up to the rank of station chief in Damascus. But this was odd. The Post article said that Pritchard was ultimately fired from the agency by Khachigian for reasons that weren’t immediately clear. Then, in 2013, the Wall Street Journal reported that he had been killed in a car bomb in Khartoum. Was that possible? Was he really dead? Then why was he on Khachigian’s list?

  I found several mentions of Walid Hussam, who, according to Al Arabiya, was a former chief of Egyptian intelligence back during the days when Hosni Mubarak was president. Once again I was confused. At first glance, it seemed like Hussam had been out of the spy game for a long time. He’d written a book on the Arab Spring that hadn’t sold many copies, though I found a few unflattering reviews. He’d briefly taught at the American University in Cairo. Then he’d dropped off the radar screen. I couldn’t find a single news story about him, or even mentioning him, from the past half decade. Why, then, would Khachigian send me to him?

  The third name on Khachigian’s “must-see” list was Mohammed bin Zayed. The name was vaguely familiar to me. I knew he was a member of the royal family in the United Arab Emirates, but I couldn’t remember anything else about him. The Google search, however, struck pay dirt. I found a wealth of stories about him, all indicating he had served for almost two decades as the UAE’s ambassador to Iraq before being severely injured in a bomb blast in Baghdad almost three and a half years earlier. That, apparently, had retired him, which was likely why I hadn’t ever done any business with him. More recently, however, he had been named the UAE’s chief of intelligence.

  So, I thought, at least one of the people on Khachigian’s list was still active in the intelligence business. The others seemed to be out of the game or, in Paul Pritchard’s case, maybe even no longer alive. Was it possible the old spy chief’s information was out of date?

  Just then I heard footsteps in the hallway and a soft voice outside my door. “You sure that’s the room?”

  I quickly powered down Khachigian’s satphone and put it back in the briefcase and tucked the case under the bed. Then I turned and faced the door, my heart pounding fast and hard. I waited for a movement and noticed flickering shadows under the door to the hallway. Someone was pacing. I couldn’t tell exactly if it was one or two, but whoever they were, they were deciding what to do next.

  Rising to my feet, I moved quickly across the carpet and pressed myself against the wall to the left of the door, straining to hear more of their conversation. I expected them to burst into my room at any moment, and I had no idea what I would do when they did. Everything got quiet. The pacing stopped. So did the talking. Whatever was happening, it was happening now.

  I decided not to wait. Grabbing the handle with my left hand, I gave it a hard turn and flung the door open, determined to face the threat head-on.

  I was prepared for the worst. Instead, standing in front of me—startled and alone—was Agent Art Harris, holding a cell phone against his ear.

  “Never mind,” he said to whoever was on the other end. “It’s the right room. I’ll call you back.”

  I started breathing again.

  “Hey,” Harris said calmly. “Expecting someone else?”

  “Wasn’t expecting you, that’s for sure,” I said.

  He stood there for a moment, waiting for me to say something.

  “Would you like to come in?” I asked finally.

  Expressionless, Harris entered, and I shut the door behind him.

  “Please tell me it’s not that easy for someone to approach my room,” I said.

  “No, don’t worry,” Harris replied. “There are agents stationed in the lobby, at every exit in the hotel, and at both ends of your hallway. And video cameras feeding into a makeshift operations center on the first floor. Believe me, we’ve got you covered. I just forgot your exact room number, that’s all.”

  “So why are you here?” I asked.

  “We have a problem,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “We’ve arrested a suspect.”

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Yes and no.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, yes, we’ve captured an ISIS operative. Wonderful. The problem is that from the information we’ve pulled off this guy’s phone, we now believe there are at least two more ISIS sleeper cells operating in New England.”

  “And you’re worried they’re going to hit the memorial service tomorrow?”

  “No. Between the Secret Service, the bureau, and the local authorities, we’re confident the service will go safely and without a hitch.”

  “Then what?”

  “We’re worried about what could happen after the VP goes back to D.C. and the circus leaves town,” Harris said. “We believe these two cells may have orders to kill you and the rest of your family.”

  It was as if Harris had just sucker punched me. “You’re saying they’re coming to finish us off?”

  Harris didn’t say anything just yet, but I could see it in his eyes.

  “I see,” I said, forcing myself to take deep breaths. “So what exactly do you recommend?”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “I already don’t like it.”

  “I wish there was another way, but honestly, I don’t see one.”

  “What is it?”

  “We need to move you into WITSEC,” Harris said.

  “Into what?”

  “The federal Witness Security Program.”

  43

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I snapped.

  I had barely
eaten. I had barely slept. I was completely overwhelmed by everything I had to do to get ready for the next day. And now this?

  “That’s your plan?” I asked. “You and a bunch of geniuses in Washington want the four of us to put on fake mustaches and move to Utah or New Mexico or Alaska or wherever, and change our names and raise ostriches and be completely cut off from our friends, our relatives, and everything connected to our previous lives? Are you nuts?”

  “Well, I’m not sure about the ostriches and fake mustaches, but if you’ll just take a moment and listen—”

  “No,” I said, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. “That’s not something I have time to listen to.”

  “J. B., you need to sit down and listen to me very carefully,” Harris said calmly but with authority. “You and your family are being systematically hunted down by ISIS. Why? Because you know Abu Khalif. Because you’ve seen him. Because you’ve talked to him. Because you’ve watched him—personally watched him—kill people. And because he personally told you his plans to attack Americans inside the homeland. No other American citizen that we know of has met him. No other American could actually identify him in a lineup, could identify his voice. That’s why he wants you dead. He needed you at the beginning to get his message out. And now that he’s done with you—now that you’re no longer of value to him—he’s going to kill you. You’re a threat to him. When we capture Abu Khalif—and we will; make no mistake about it—he’s going to stand trial. He’s going to give an account for all the blood he has spilled, all the lives he has destroyed. And then you’re going to testify against him. If my colleagues and I do our job right, he will pay for his crimes against humanity. He will be executed by lethal injection. But that’s going to take time, and at this moment, you and your family are in grave danger. And that’s why I’m saying—”

  “Forget it,” I said, cutting him off. “You’re wasting your time.”

  But Harris would not be dissuaded. “That’s why I’m saying we need you as a federal witness. If you agree to this—”

  “I said forget it. I’m a reporter, not an informant for the FBI.”

  Harris wouldn’t let himself get derailed. He just kept on talking. “If you agree to testify, the federal government is empowered to protect you and your family. We can’t force you. But if you agree, we can relocate you. We can give you all new identities. We can make sure Abu Khalif and his men never find you or your family. But only if you sign this.” He pulled a document out of his breast pocket and handed it to me.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “It’s a memorandum of understanding,” he said. “It explains exactly what will happen, how it’ll all work, and what your responsibilities will be.”

  “Keep it,” I said. “I don’t want it.”

  “What about Matt?”

  “He doesn’t want it either.”

  “And Annie and Katie—what about them?” he countered. “You’re saying they don’t want federal protection after all they’ve been through? You’re saying they don’t want a chance to heal from their wounds and go on with their lives free from fear that one day Abu Khalif and his men will come and finish what they’ve started? Are you really going to blow this off and put their lives—all of your lives—in jeopardy again?”

  I didn’t want to hear any of it.

  “Come on, Collins. You owe it to them—and to yourself—to at least read this over, talk to Matt, think it through, and then decide. But you’re going to need to move quickly. We don’t have much time.”

  My mind was reeling. I couldn’t believe what I was being told. On the face of it, it all sounded ridiculous, like something out of the movies. But as much as I didn’t want to admit it, Harris had a point.

  “So how would it work—big picture?” I asked.

  “First, you and Matt would need to read and sign this agreement. Second, we’d put you all on an air ambulance—preferably tomorrow afternoon, after the memorial service. I’ve been instructed to personally take you to the location we’ve chosen for you.”

  “Which is where?”

  “You’ll know when we get there.”

  “Don’t we get to choose?”

  “It’s better if you don’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Less chance you’ll pick someplace you’ve already talked about with family and friends, someplace people might know—or guess—where to look.”

  “Fine,” I said, even less happy with that scenario. “What then?”

  “You’d have a medical team taking care of Annie and Katie twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, until they recover. You’d have private tutoring for Katie when she starts to recover, until she’s well enough to go to a local school. You and Matt would each receive a stipend of about $60,000 a year for the first few years, until you find jobs and get on your feet. And of course, you’d all have new identities. You’d be completely off the grid—no linkage with your past life whatsoever.”

  “No contact with family?”

  “No.”

  “Friends?”

  Harris shook his head.

  “Colleagues from work?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Harris said. “If you agree to this, it means you agree to all the stipulations—first and foremost that you can have absolutely no contact with anyone from your past. I realize that’s hard to contemplate, but believe me, it’s for your own safety.”

  “And if we do this, you think it’ll work?” I asked. “You can really keep us all safe?”

  “We can,” Harris insisted. “Since we started the program in 1971, we’ve protected nearly twenty thousand people.”

  “And how many have you lost?”

  “Of the people who followed the rules?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “None.”

  44

  Matt arrived at the hotel just after ten.

  I’d already spoken to him briefly by phone to give him a summary of what Harris was proposing. Neither of us was permitted to use our own cell phones. So Harris had insisted I use his phone and that Matt use the phone of one of the FBI agents guarding him.

  The bureau’s technical division was still trying to determine how the terrorists had known we had been planning to be home by seven o’clock that fateful night. Until they could rule out the notion that ISIS had somehow tapped either or both of our numbers, Harris said we needed to be extra careful.

  Matt greeted me in the lobby of the Harborside with a bear hug and wouldn’t let go.

  “You look horrible,” I whispered, trying to break the ice.

  “Thanks,” he whispered back, finally releasing me.

  “You eat anything today?” I asked.

  He looked at me for a moment, then shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so,” I said, motioning him to follow me down the hallway to the hotel’s main restaurant. Since the bureau—in cooperation with the U.S. Secret Service—had commandeered the entire hotel, there were no other diners. I asked Harris if he could get someone to whip up a couple of omelets, some sausage and bacon, and a fresh pot of coffee. He radioed for one of his guys to make it happen. Then he and his colleagues took a few tables by the door.

  Matt and I sat at a table in the back. As Matt removed his coat, scarf, and gloves, I asked about Annie and Katie. There was still nothing to report. Nothing good. But nothing bad either. I asked if Matt had been getting any sleep. Not much, he said. He’d tried, he insisted. But sleep simply would not come. He’d experienced too much horror, and now the FBI was telling us we had to give up our very identities and all contact with family and friends.

  “So what do you think?” I began, bracing myself because I already knew the answer.

  “What do I think? What do I think? I think Harris is insane,” Matt replied. “Who does he think we are? Cowards? He thinks we’re just going to give up our lives? Absolutely not. No way.”

  “That’s what I told him,” I said calmly.

  “What we need is for
the president to go after Abu Khalif and take him out—period,” Matt continued. “Khalif should be on the run, not us.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed.

  “Then why are we even having this conversation?”

  “Because the president isn’t going to do it,” I said. “The country might be buying this latest bombing attack—and the new drone strikes—but it won’t last. He’s not serious. You know it. I know it. Abu Khalif knows it. And though he won’t say it, Harris knows it too. That’s why he wants to get us out of harm’s way now, while there’s still time.”

  “But it’s crazy, J. B.—completely nuts.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m not going to do it—I’m not,” Matt insisted. “Are you?”

  Just then one of the agents brought over a pot of coffee, two mugs, some fresh cream, and some sugar. I kept quiet.

  The moment the agent had gone back to the kitchen, Matt pressed me for an answer. “Is that what you want to do, J. B.? Hide for the rest of your life? Is that how we were raised?”

  “It’s not just about us, though,” I said in a hushed tone, leaning toward him. “It’s about Mom and Josh. More important, it’s about Annie and Katie. If we stay out in the open, they’re going to hunt us down and kill us. That’s it. That’s the deal.”

  “Can’t these guys protect us?”

  “Yes, if we go into the program.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “Then pretty soon we’re on our own.”

  Matt said nothing. He poured us each a cup of coffee, put a packet of sugar in his, and started stirring with a fork, as the agent had forgotten to bring us any spoons. But he didn’t take a sip, and neither did I.

  “Look—if it was just me, I’d probably take my chances,” I said quietly. “And maybe if it were just the two of us, we’d do the same. But if we could wind the clock back and give Mom and Annie and the kids the chance to slip away and live safely in Montana or Arizona or wherever, just the six of us, don’t you think they’d have taken that in a millisecond?”