Without Warning

  I knew full well she remembered the commander of Egyptian special forces, whom we had first met in the war room with King Abdullah as he and his fellow Sunni military commanders made their final plans to assault Dabiq and Alqosh.

  Yael kept typing furiously, albeit only with her right hand.

  “Well, the other day I got an e-mail from someone saying he was an Egyptian colonel who worked for El-Badawy. Said the general wanted to speak with me. The subject was too sensitive to discuss by e-mail.”

  Again, nothing.

  “I was thinking we should probably call him when we get to Cairo,” I continued. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Hussam is a dead end. But El-Badawy is a key player. What do you think?”

  Zero.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream, but this silent treatment was getting ridiculous. I glanced around the cabin. The cockpit door was closed and surely locked. The pilots couldn’t see or hear us. There were no other passengers on the flight, and unlike on the helicopter, we could actually hear ourselves think. We could have a conversation if we wanted to, and I wanted to. This was the first time I’d been alone with Yael Katzir since the underground bunker with the king and his generals in northeastern Jordan, before we headed out to Alqosh, and there were things that had to be said.

  “Yael,” I began, “we need to talk.”

  “Not now,” she replied, hunting and pecking on the keyboard with her right hand since her left was still healing.

  “It’s not even an hour-long flight.”

  “I said, not now.”

  “Look, you’re not happy with me being here, with Shalit putting me on this team. That much is clear. But you owe me the courtesy of telling me why.”

  At this, she looked up. “The courtesy?” There was astonishment in her voice. “The courtesy? Seriously? Where do you get off, Mr. McClaire?”

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “I thought we were friends.”

  “I thought so too.”

  “Then what happened?”

  She just shook her head. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Collins, you know that?”

  “I’ve obviously done something to offend you. But I have no idea what. So just tell me.”

  “No, J. B., this isn’t the time or the place. People’s lives are at stake. So just give me some space and let me do my job.”

  No matter what I said, it was clear I wasn’t going to break into the ice palace. I regretted it, but there was nothing I could do about it. Except perhaps one thing—keep talking. If she didn’t want to tell me what was bothering her, fine. But I hadn’t come halfway around the world to get shut down. We both had a job to do. She didn’t like it, but that was tough. At this point, I didn’t care. Shalit had brought me onto this team. He’d forced her to work with me, over her numerous—and vociferous—objections. So we’d better get started. I pulled out my grandfather’s pocket watch. We’d be on the ground in twenty-two minutes.

  “Did your team find any intercepts referencing Isra and Mi’raj?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, still typing.

  “Did they find anything in Israeli databases indicating any terrorist detainees have referenced Isra and Mi’raj in recent months?”

  She mumbled something.

  “What’s that?” I asked. “I’m sorry; I didn’t catch that.”

  “No, they didn’t,” she replied.

  “What about the U.S. or Interpol databases?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What about historic connections between Isra and Mi’raj dates and acts of war or terrorism?” I pressed.

  “What about them?”

  “Did your team find any?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But they’ve picked up chatter about coming strikes in the U.S.,” I said.

  That stopped Yael cold. She quit typing and looked at me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The papal visit,” I said. “The pope is coming to the States soon for Palm Sunday in Chicago, Easter in Los Angeles, then back to New York to address the U.N. Your guys are picking up chatter from ISIS operatives. You think Abu Khalif is plotting to take out the pope?”

  Yael looked astonished. “Who told you that?”

  “I’m on your team,” I said. “I think you were supposed to.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “I didn’t,” I said. “It was a guess. A pretty good one, as it turns out. Remind me to play poker with you someday.”

  She cocked her head to one side, then nodded and leaned back in her seat. “Touché,” she said at last. “You saw the Reuters story out of Vatican City that the pope had just accepted an invitation to return to the States. You saw the dates. You saw all the flurry of activity, and you guessed.”

  “Khalif doesn’t even have to hit the pope—not directly,” I said. “There are 69 million Catholics in the U.S. They’re 22 percent of the population. Bomb a few dozen churches around the country—all soft targets with little or no security—and you’ll create enough panic.”

  She looked at me long and hard, then closed her laptop. “Unfortunately, you’re dead-on. Ari already briefed the PM, and the PM is going to call the president. Given everything that’s unfolded in recent weeks in the States, I suspect the Vatican will call the trip off. But there’s more.”

  “Like what?”

  “We’re picking up all kinds of chatter that ISIS is plotting major attacks against theme parks across the U.S.—Disney World, Disneyland, SeaWorld, Universal Studios, Kings Dominion, Six Flags, you name it.”

  “Spring break,” I said.

  “Exactly. Schools let students off for a week at a time, right?”

  I nodded.

  “But different schools in different states take different weeks?”

  “Right.”

  “So all together it’s about a five- to six-week period—and it’s coming up fast,” she said. “And while you’re thinking about that, think about this: Three hundred million guests visit American theme parks, water parks, and amusement parks each year. These businesses are responsible for over $220 billion in overall economic impact and something like six hundred thousand jobs. If Khalif successfully targets that industry, he’s going to do real and lasting damage to the American economy.”

  “When does the spring break season begin?” I asked. It had been at least two decades since I’d gone down to Miami or Daytona or Panama Beach.

  “This year it starts on Saturday, March 12,” she said.

  That was only eleven days away.

  64

  JORDANIAN AIRSPACE

  “I thought we were going to Cairo,” I said.

  “We are,” Yael replied.

  “Then why are we flying southeast? Cairo is southwest.”

  “Because we’re making a stop on the way.”

  Yael explained that the Sinai Peninsula had become infested with jihadists of all stripes. ISIS was there. As was al Qaeda, Islamic Jihad, members of Hamas, and factions of the Muslim Brotherhood, among others. And some of them, she said, had shoulder-mounted surface-to-air missiles.

  “But I thought the Egyptians were rooting out the jihadists,” I said.

  “They are. And President Mahfouz is making progress. The Mossad even provides targeting assistance and other aid sometimes. Still, it’s not safe for a business jet coming out of Israel to fly across the peninsula. There’s too high a risk we’d be shot down, and I for one don’t want to wander in the desert for forty years.”

  “Okay, so why aren’t we arcing out over the Mediterranean?” I asked.

  “We’re heading to Aqaba first,” she said, referring to Jordan’s resort city at the northern tip of the Red Sea.

  “Why?”

  “We’ll land. We’ll refile our flight plan. We’ll change our transponder number and even our tail number. Then we’ll head to Egypt.”

  “I don’t understand. Israel has a peace treaty with Egypt.”

  “True. And we have a close working r
elationship with Cairo on the security side. But it’s not normal for business flights to emanate out of Tel Aviv and head straight to Cairo. Not at this time of year. Not in this weather. We don’t want to draw attention.”

  “So, what? We’re going to play an Arab couple flying to Cairo for a few days?”

  “Canadian, actually,” she said. “You’re Michael McClaire. I’m your wife, Janet. We’re from Edmonton—on holiday.”

  “No wonder you’re not happy,” I laughed.

  “This wasn’t my idea, believe me,” she snapped.

  “Oh, I believe you. This has Ari’s name written all over it.”

  “Shut up, and just let me do my job.”

  “Fine,” I said. “When do we land in Cairo?”

  “We’re not landing in Cairo.”

  “Isn’t that where Hussam is?”

  “Yes, but we’re flying to Asyut.”

  “Why?”

  “Again, security precautions. We should land around seven.”

  “And then?”

  “We’ll drive to Cairo.”

  “You and I are renting a car together?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “We’ll have a driver.”

  “Well, won’t this be interesting.”

  We landed a few minutes ahead of schedule.

  By my watch, it was now 6:48 p.m. As we disembarked, we were met by two Mossad agents. Our driver and bodyguard was a tall and lean young man who never smiled and introduced himself as Mohammed, though I was certain that wasn’t his real name. He struck me to be about Yael’s age—early thirties. The Mossad’s station chief in Cairo was a somewhat-older and somewhat–less fit guy who looked to be in his early forties, about my age. He introduced himself by the name Abdel.

  I would never have suspected these men were Jewish or Israeli or worked for the Mossad. Both looked like the native-born Egyptians they were, and both spoke fluent, flawless, native Egyptian Arabic. Whoever had recruited them had done a remarkable job, and I had no doubt we were in good hands.

  “What time do you think we should get to Cairo?” Yael asked as our large black Mercedes crossed a bridge over the Nile and flew along the Asyut Desert Highway.

  “Just before eleven,” the station chief said.

  “So when do you think Michael here should reach out to Hussam and ask for a meeting?”

  “I’d do it now,” Abdel replied, turning to me. “Say you’re having dinner with a source in Alexandria but you need to see him immediately, at Khachigian’s insistence. Say you could meet him anywhere in Cairo at, I don’t know, eleven thirty tonight. Say it’s very important and very time sensitive.”

  “Why lie about being in Alexandria?” I asked. “The man is a former spymaster. Won’t he be able to find out where we’re coming from?”

  “You’d better hope not. Because if he gets so much as a whiff that you’re with the Mossad, you’ll have big problems.”

  “I thought you all were close.”

  “Not that close, my friend,” Abdel replied. “Not right now.”

  “But your prime minister went to Amman to sign a comprehensive peace deal with the Palestinians, with President Mahfouz’s full approval,” I protested. “When Amman was attacked, Mahfouz sent the head of Egyptian special forces to Jordan to be part of the coalition to rescue President Taylor. I was there. We both were. We met him. We spoke with him. Everyone was working so closely together.”

  I looked at Yael to back up my assessment, but she wouldn’t—or couldn’t. “That was then,” she said. “Now everything’s changed. After the slaughter in Dabiq, there was a tremendous backlash against Mahfouz and the government. People were angry that Egyptian forces had died fighting in Syria, of all places. Then Mahfouz made a mistake. When Yuval Eitan was sworn in as the new Israeli prime minister, Mahfouz immediately called to congratulate him, and it leaked.”

  “And what?” I asked. “I don’t see the problem.”

  “It was too quick,” Yael said. “Emotions were too raw. The street was red-hot, and Mahfouz looked like he was being too friendly with ‘the Zionists.’ It was like lighting a match and tossing it into a sun-scorched forest. The country erupted. Demonstrations in front of the Israeli embassy. People burning tires, cars, Israeli flags. It got ugly fast. I think it rattled Mahfouz and his team. They recalled their ambassador and made us pull ours out too. Mahfouz stopped taking the prime minister’s calls. The defense ministers stopped talking. The spy chiefs stopped talking. It’s been like that for almost two months.”

  “So despite the fact the Egyptians are scooping up dozens of ISIS fighters, you don’t know what they know?” I asked.

  “Just what we read in the New York Times, I’m afraid,” Yael replied.

  So here we are, I thought.

  I looked back at Abdel. He nodded and glanced at my phone.

  I made the call.

  65

  Unfortunately I got Walid Hussam’s voice mail.

  I left a message, then sent a text and an e-mail as well.

  By the time we approached the outskirts of Cairo, I still hadn’t heard back.

  Yael told me to call Hussam again. Again I got voice mail. I was getting worried. Yael told the station chief to call his men who were trailing Hussam and find out what was going on.

  Two minutes later we got the report. The former spy chief and his family had been at a party but were just now leaving the restaurant and getting into cabs. “They should be home soon,” Abdel reported. “What do you want to do?”

  “We proceed as planned,” Yael said. “Take us to the hotel. There’s not going to be a meeting tonight. We just have to hope we can arrange something tomorrow morning.”

  A few minutes later, we pulled up to the entrance of the Mena House, the oldest and most beautiful privately owned resort in all of Cairo. Sitting in the shadow of the Great Pyramid of Giza, it looked more like the grand palace of one of Egypt’s ancient pharaohs than a modern luxury hotel.

  Yael pulled a wedding ring out of her pocketbook and put it on her left hand. Then, to my surprise, she gave one to me. It fit perfectly. Shalit had thought of everything.

  “I do,” I deadpanned.

  She didn’t find me funny in the slightest.

  Playing my part as doting husband, nevertheless, I opened my door and got out of the Mercedes. The rain had stopped, but the pavement was wet and the air was cold and the brisk winds made it feel colder still. I stepped around the back of the car, opened the door for my bride, and offered her my hand. This time she took it, smiling at me for the first time all day, and even kissed me gently on the cheek.

  I knew she was only acting, but I liked the role, and I liked the scene.

  We walked into the lobby with Yael leaning on my arm. We passed through the airport-like metal detector, and Yael put her pocketbook through the X-ray machine—standard operating procedure at hotels in the Middle East these days.

  I went to the reception desk and checked us in as a couple and made sure to pay with one of the credit cards under the name McClaire. Abdel, playing the role of the dutiful valet, brought in our bags and helped us up to our room. He unlocked the door and motioned for us to wait. Then he drew a silencer-fitted pistol I had no idea how he got past security and entered the room without us. We watched as he checked the closets, the bathroom, under the bed, behind the curtains, and outside on the veranda. When he was certain no one was waiting for us, he wheeled in our luggage and handed Yael the pistol.

  “Sweet dreams,” he said without expression. “I’ll be in the room across the hall. Mohammed will be in the room to your right. Let us know if you need anything.”

  Then he walked out the door and shut it behind him, and Yael and I were alone.

  We looked around and found ourselves standing in an enormous suite overlooking the palm trees and the heated pool and the dazzling four-thousand-year-old pyramids rising high and proud and surreal into the night sky. I glanced at Yael, then at the king-size bed with its soft Egyptian
cotton sheets and small chocolates wrapped in gold foil sitting atop the pillows.

  “I’ll take the floor,” I said.

  Some things were not in the script.

  Suddenly I heard my phone buzz.

  I’d fallen almost instantly into an uneasy sleep. Now, bleary-eyed and disoriented, I fumbled around in the darkness for my glasses and my phone. It was 11:53, and there was a text message from Hussam. He said he’d been at a family gathering and had just seen my e-mail. He apologized for not getting back to me sooner. Khachigian had been an old and dear friend, he said. He’d be happy to meet me. Was I available now?

  I texted back saying of course and asking where to meet him.

  A few moments later, Hussam sent back his address. I recognized it immediately. It was a high-rise building right on the Nile, close to the American embassy, close to the Hilton where I’d stayed a few months earlier to write the story that had started it all, the one revealing that the Islamic State possessed chemical weapons.

  I found Yael asleep on the bed, still in her jeans and brown sweater. I woke her up, explained the situation, and then called the guys on their mobile phones. Ten minutes later, we were rolling.

  “So, Mr. Collins, what brings you to Cairo on such urgent business?”

  The introductions and small talk were over. So were the condolences for the deaths in my family and so many other Americans in recent weeks. So were the condolences I gave him on the loss of fifty-three Egyptian commandos who had participated in the daring—and disastrous—raid in Dabiq. We had covered it all, but it was time to get down to business.

  Hussam poured us both cups of freshly brewed mint tea as we sat looking out over the twinkling lights of Egypt’s largest city from his thirtieth-floor penthouse suite. It was now past one in the morning. Much of the capital was asleep. But I had clearly piqued Hussam’s curiosity.

  I was alone, of course, and operating under my real name. That’s how I’d known Khachigian, and that’s how I’d initially reached out to Hussam. Yael had stressed again how important it was that I not be connected in any way, shape, or form to the Mossad. My alias, Michael McClaire, was to be used only when I needed to present a passport. Under no other circumstances should I mention that name.