“What’s your take on this new intel?” she asked. “Is it possible Abu Khalif is really in Turkey?”
Five days earlier, such a question would have seemed nonsensical. But no longer.
Following my meeting with Prince bin Zayed and Pritchard, the Israeli security cabinet had met in emergency session to discuss the progress Yael’s team was making and the need for the Israeli government to make direct contact with the leaders of not only Egypt and Jordan but now the United Arab Emirates, as well. The vote was unanimous—direct contact was authorized. By seven that morning, Ari Shalit had called and given me explicit permission to formally introduce Yael and her Mossad team to the prince and to Pritchard. I was to explain why and how I was working with the Mossad to bring Abu Khalif to justice and request permission for Shalit to call the prince directly and discuss how the two countries could work toward this common objective.
Once so authorized, I’d called the prince immediately, requested another face-to-face meeting, and been invited to meet with him in his palatial office.
To my surprise, the prince wasn’t caught off guard in the slightest. In fact, he told me he’d been quite certain I was in some way connected to the Mossad and had simply wondered when I would come clean. He wasn’t offended or upset, and he agreed to take Shalit’s call at once. Ten minutes later, the two spy chiefs were on a secure line, briefing each other on developments and comparing notes on their latest theories. When the call was over and the prince explained those theories to Yael and me, we could hardly believe our ears.
As the prince explained to Shalit, his agency’s hunt for Khalif’s wives and children was pointing not toward Syria or Iraq but toward the Republic of Turkey. Three of Khalif’s wives, they had determined, had taken flights through Dubai, Abu Dhabi, and Doha in late November and early December. One had traveled to Beirut. Another had flown to Cairo. The third had gone to Cyprus. But none of them had stayed there. All of them—and several of the children—had eventually wound up flying to Istanbul.
These flights—the last ones Khalif’s family members had taken on commercial airlines—raised all kinds of new questions. Were they still in Istanbul? Had they all been given false documents and flown on to Europe or some other destination? Or had they been picked up by ISIS operatives and driven someplace, perhaps deeper into the interior of Turkey?
For his part, Shalit briefed the prince on the latest from Egyptian intelligence. They’d struck pay dirt in their surveillance operation of the bank manager in Doha. By studying the usage of the manager’s mobile phone, home phone, and office phone—along with e-mail traffic from several accounts he was using simultaneously—a curious picture was emerging.
The guy’s tradecraft was stellar. Nothing pointed directly to a specific location for the Baqouba brothers or any other couriers. But the patterns were intriguing. Over the last year, there hadn’t been a single call or e-mail originating from a single city or town in Syria. Zero. Zip. Nada. There had been many calls and e-mails to and from the Gulf states, North Africa, and Europe, as one would expect of a banker. But there were also thirty-seven messages from Turkey—twenty-one from in or around the Istanbul metropolitan area, the nation’s commercial capital, and the rest from in or around Ankara, the nation’s political capital. And a good 80 percent of these messages had come in the last three months.
Of course, a Gulf banker receiving messages from Turkey wouldn’t normally be cause for interest, much less concern. The Republic of Turkey was a country of nearly 80 million people, at least 96 percent of whom were Muslims, and the country had a gross domestic product of more than $1.5 trillion. Naturally Turkish citizens were doing business in Doha, arguably the epicenter of Islamic business activity in the region. However, what made these thirty-seven messages unique, the Egyptian intelligence analysts noted, was that they weren’t returned. The bank manager—whom we now knew for certain was an ISIS operative—had received thirty-seven phone calls and e-mails from people in Turkey over the past eight months, most of them in the last ninety days, yet he had not replied to a single one of them.
This raised even more questions. Were these unreturned messages from Turkey instructions or directives of some kind? Was it possible Khalif and the Baqouba brothers weren’t in Syria after all? Was it possible they were actually in Turkey? Turkey was a NATO ally. Turkey was ostensibly part of the regional Sunni alliance against ISIS. Turkey was supposedly bombing ISIS camps in northern Syria. Why, then, might Khalif and the Baqouba brothers be in Turkey?
As I listened to the prince’s report on his conversation with Shalit, it dawned on me how enormously complicated our investigation had just become. If Khalif were somehow in Turkey, of all places, who was going to go get him? What country would dare send fighter jets equipped with laser-guided missiles to take him out? I couldn’t think of one. What country was going to send in drones equipped with Hellfire missiles to end Khalif’s reign of terror? Again, I didn’t see it happening. Who was going to send in a team of special forces commandos, or a team of assassins, to bring Khalif to justice? Not the Egyptians. Not the emirates. Certainly not the Americans. Maybe not even the Israelis or the Jordanians, though they had suffered the most from Abu Khalif’s actions.
Simply put, the notion of launching an attack deep inside a NATO ally was virtually unthinkable. An attack against one NATO country could trigger Article 5 of the alliance, requiring a collective response by all NATO countries against the aggressor.
For me, that fact alone dramatically increased the likelihood that Khalif had specifically chosen to hide in Turkey. That’s what I told Yael en route to Jordan while we both tried not to think about the new unspecified but apparently authentic threat on my life.
And to my surprise, she agreed.
82
AQABA, JORDAN
We landed in Aqaba just after midnight in the middle of a brutal winter thunderstorm.
Gone was the gorgeous, balmy weather of the Gulf we’d had no time to enjoy. Now, as the sky flashed and rumbled and driving rain made visibility limited at best, we were met by officers of the Royal Court, carrying large umbrellas, who hustled us into a small motorcade consisting of three silver Toyota Land Cruisers and six heavily armed bodyguards and drivers.
Minutes later we were exiting the airport grounds and driving at high speed along deserted roads under the cover of darkness and fog. Eventually, though, we slowed down and turned a corner onto a narrow, secluded driveway, lined by long rows of palm trees on either side, bending in unison in the gale-force winds. Ahead of us were massive steel gates under a stone archway. Jordanian soldiers in full battle gear stood at attention beside two armored personnel carriers with .50-caliber machine guns aimed directly at us.
We did not come to a full stop, however. We did not show IDs or even have a conversation. The driver of the first Land Cruiser saluted the guards as we approached and slowed down, and the gates immediately opened before us. On either side of us I could see high, thick walls and several well-lit guard towers and the silhouettes of sentries and sharpshooters. But soon we were picking up speed again, snaking our way along the winding driveway until we came to another set of steel gates and more armed soldiers. Again we slowed but did not stop. Again the driver saluted, and again the gates opened for us, and before I knew it, we had arrived at the palace.
The motorcade pulled up under an awning that gave us a bit of protection from the elements, though not nearly enough, and our doors were immediately opened by protocol officers who greeted us and whisked us into the vestibule. They showed us each to separate restrooms and gave us fresh towels and a few moments to dry off and gather ourselves.
As I shut and locked the door behind me, I closed my eyes for a moment. We’d been working eighteen to twenty hours a day for much of the last week. Even when there’d been time to lie down, I hadn’t been sleeping well. There were too many interruptions—calls and e-mails and emergency discussions about new information constantly flowing to us—and even when th
ere was a momentary break in the intensity, I constantly felt the weight of what we were trying to do.
When I finally opened my eyes and stared into the mirror, I winced at what I saw. My skin was pale. My eyes were red. Having not shaved my head since leaving Bar Harbor, I was no longer bald. Rather, my hair was growing quickly, though to my chagrin it was far more gray than the last time I’d let it grow out, maybe five or six years before. I hadn’t shaved my face either since the funeral, and I no longer had a goatee but a rapidly thickening full beard, also far more gray than I’d expected or wanted. I was starting to look old and tired. I was starting to look my age—older, actually—and I wasn’t a fan.
Tossing the towel into the sink, I opened the door and flicked off the light. A few moments later, Yael joined me, and the chief of protocol took us to the king’s private study.
The room was empty. We were told the king was on a call but would be here momentarily. A steward brought in a large silver tray bearing a teapot and three teacups, each hand-painted with the royal coat of arms. The steward poured us each a cup of mint tea and then backed out of the room.
A moment later the king arrived with his several bodyguards, though they did not enter the study. Rather, the king entered alone and immediately closed the door behind him. He looked tired but greeted us warmly. “Welcome back to Jordan,” His Majesty said with a broad smile and a firm handshake. “It’s a joy to see you both again,” he said in his flawless English with that trace of a British accent picked up from years of military schools and British special forces service in his youth. “Still, I do wish it were under more favorable circumstances.”
“Thank you for having us to your home, Your Majesty,” I said. “It is truly an honor to see you again—alive and well and victorious over such a cruel and heartless enemy.”
“The fight is not yet over, I’m afraid,” the king replied as he beckoned us all to take our seats.
He expressed his profound regrets for the attacks against my family and the loss of my mother and nephew, and as he spoke, it was quickly apparent he had tracked the news coverage and knew many of the details of what I had been through. He asked me how I was holding up, and then just as generously he asked Yael about her health and the status of her recovery. Even in the midst of a crisis, the monarch had a personal touch. It was one of the many qualities that impressed me.
We answered his questions and likewise shared our condolences for the tremendous loss of life he and his kingdom had experienced, especially for the deaths of Kamal Jeddah, the chief of Jordanian intelligence, and Ali Sa’id, the chief of security for the Royal Court, both of whom had died in the ISIS attacks during the peace summit in Amman, as well as our friend and comrade-in-arms Colonel Yusef Sharif, the king’s senior advisor and personal spokesman, who had joined us on the mission to rescue President Taylor and had died in the firefight at the compound in Alqosh. Yael also asked how the queen and the children were doing. We hadn’t seen the king since all these events had transpired, and we were both eager for an update on his family, the government, and all the reconstruction efforts that were under way.
It became immediately evident, however, that these were not the topics he wanted to discuss at present, as important as they were to him. He said his family was well and safe, and seemed to intimate—though he didn’t say outright—that they were not currently in the country. But he turned quickly to the reason he had summoned us in the first place.
“J. B., I’m sorry to have to say this to you, but I’m afraid you’re in grave danger,” he said, looking straight into my eyes and ignoring his tea.
“Okay,” I replied, trying to stay calm. “What exactly does that mean?”
“Over the last few weeks, we’ve been picking up a lot of chatter among ISIS operatives we’re surveilling,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “They’re furious that they weren’t able to kill the president during the attack on the State of the Union. They’re even more enraged that they didn’t kill more members of Congress during the sarin gas attacks on the Capitol. They believe you’re an easier target. They also believe you have a high enough profile—a high enough value—that they can score a major propaganda coup in the U.S. and perhaps globally if they can capture and behead you. From what we’ve been able to gather, they think you went into hiding after the funeral, and they’ve been pleading with Khalif to issue a fatwa authorizing them to find you and kill you posthaste.”
83
“With all due respect, Your Majesty, this isn’t really news,” I said.
I explained that the FBI had expressed their concerns to me back in Bar Harbor, noting that they were particularly anxious about sleeper cells operating in New England.
“I know,” the king said. “I’ve spoken directly to President Taylor and CIA Director Hughes—an old friend of yours, I understand. I also spoke to Director Beck at the FBI. Beck told me he personally gave Agent Harris the assignment to keep you and your brother and his family safe.”
“Yes, he did, and that’s very kind of you, Your Majesty, to discuss my safety with each of them,” I said. “I’m touched—really—and I can tell you that Agent Harris has, in fact, gone to great lengths to make sure Matt, Annie, and Katie are secure and we’re very grateful.”
“Yet here you are, J. B. You’re not in protective custody. You’re not under the watchful care of Agent Harris and his team. You’re jetting about the Middle East, hunting for the very man who is hunting you.”
“I’m not worried,” I said.
“You should be,” the king retorted. “Really, J. B., this could not be more serious.”
“Is there proof Abu Khalif has agreed to his men’s wishes?” I asked. “Has he issued the fatwa?”
“He did,” the king said. “Tonight, while you were flying here from Dubai.”
At this, I set my cup down on the coffee table, sat back on the couch, and took a deep breath. This king had earned a special place in my heart. He was an Arab. He was a Muslim. He was a direct descendant of the founder of Islam. We didn’t share the same background or ethnicity or theological views. But this was a good man. A man of peace. A man of tolerance and respect for Christians and Jews and those of a wide range of other backgrounds and beliefs. This was a man who had welcomed millions of refugees into his country, not because he had extra resources lying around to provide for their food, clothing, housing, medical care, and education, but because he felt it was the right thing to do—despite the potential risks. Because they were fleeing from Assad and the al-Nusra Front and from ISIS and from genocide.
In the face of extraordinary threats, this king had not surrendered or cowered in fear. To the contrary, he had courageously gone to war against the forces of evil and extremism. He was engaged in a winner-take-all civil war inside Islam, a war that pitted the forces of reform and modernity against the radicals and those pursuing the apocalypse.
His Majesty had aged considerably in the last few months. His hair was grayer. He had new lines etched in his face. Yet he was still in remarkably good shape for a monarch in his midfifties. I had to ascribe that to his lifelong discipline of being a soldier and even head of Jordanian special forces and to the singular commitment he had to protecting his people and his kingdom. But events were clearly taking their toll on him. He looked as tired as Yael and I did. Maybe more so.
“Look, J. B.,” the king said since I had not replied, “the chatter about you was worrisome before the funeral in Maine. But it has spiked enormously since then. Now Khalif has issued this fatwa calling for your head with extreme urgency. Once it is announced publicly, probably in the next few hours—no more than a few days—your life is . . . Well, it’s hard to explain just how serious this is. It won’t just be active ISIS operatives who will be authorized to find and kill you. It will be any radicalized Muslim, anywhere in the world. That’s why I asked you to come here. I wanted to tell you in person what we’ve learned and to impress upon you just how dire I view this. It’s not safe for you t
o be out in the field. It’s not safe to be here in the region like this. Not anymore. You were in Egypt—and were nearly killed there. You were just in Dubai. You’re here now. The number of people who have seen you, who are talking to you, who are interacting with you—that number is growing by the day, by the hour. That’s a problem, because it significantly raises the possibility that your presence in this region will be exposed and that the people who want to kill you will find you.”
“So you want me to stop,” I said.
“I want you to live.”
“By stopping.”
“By going home.”
“Your Majesty, I don’t have a home.”
“Then going back to wherever Agent Harris put you, wherever he thinks you’ll be safe.”
“Or what?” I asked.
“Honestly, J. B.—if you remain here, I doubt you’ll make it a month, if that. You’re playing a very dangerous game, my friend, against very dangerous adversaries. You’ve beaten the odds so far, but now they’re targeting you. It’s time for you to stop. It’s time for you to go back to your family and leave this game to us. We’ve been trained to play and win. And let’s be honest, you have not.”
84
RAMAT DAVID AIR BASE, ISRAEL
“J. B., can I talk to you outside?” Yael asked.
We were back at the command center at the Ramat David Air Base and had been here for four days. So far the question of whether I was going to voluntarily choose to go home, as the king had suggested, or be sent home by Yael or even Ari Shalit, had gone unaddressed. But I feared the time had come.
In the past four days, the team and I had been following every lead imaginable related to the new information about Khalif’s wives and children. But there still was absolutely no concrete evidence that could direct us to a specific, definable location. The only thing we knew for certain was that chatter was growing of another coming mass casualty event, inside the United States, against civilian targets, and soon.