The Third Target: A J. B. Collins Novel

  “James, His Royal Highness is a dear friend and a most faithful, stalwart ally in the fight against the extremists in the epicenter,” he told me as the three of us talked over brunch. “He is not a public man. He lives in the shadows, and he prefers it that way. Few people outside His Majesty’s inner circle even know his name. But he knows theirs. He knows where all the bodies are buried. And I mean that literally. He has seen all there is in the region—the good, the bad, and the ugly. Confidentially, I will tell you that Prince Marwan is the king’s consigliere when it comes to the peace process. He was an advisor to the late King Hussein, God rest his soul, and upon taking the throne, King Abdullah began leaning on this man—his uncle—for counsel. He’s a devout Muslim. He is worried for the future of his country and region. And whenever I find myself growing pessimistic about the prospects for peace in the Middle East, I sit with Marwan and drink coffee and eat hummus and become hopeful once again. I don’t know why, but I have a feeling that one day—perhaps not too long from now—you two will find it useful to know each other. This is why I wanted to bring you both together now, before the maelstrom comes.”

  Khachigian’s instincts had been remarkable. Daniel Lavi was now not only the head of Israel’s Labor Party; he was also the Jewish State’s prime minister. He had recently toppled the right-wing government of his predecessor and cobbled together a center-left coalition most political analysts had believed to be unlikely at best just a few short years earlier.

  And now, if my sources were to be believed, Lavi was on the phone almost every day with the prince. Together they were trying to fashion a peace deal that the world said was impossible. I too had thought it impossible. But finally, it seemed, it might actually be coming to pass—unless Abu Khalif and Jamal Ramzy had their way.

  I trusted this man implicitly. So what was so important that Khachigian had to tell me tonight or tell the Post if I didn’t show up in time?

  29

  “Omar?” Khachigian asked after a long silence.

  Every muscle in me tensed. This wasn’t a topic I could afford to discuss just then. Too much else was happening. The clock was ticking—for both of us—and I knew if I let myself dwell on the bombing, I wasn’t going to make it through the rest of the day. But I didn’t want to be rude. Nor did I want to dishonor my friend’s memory by brushing off the question or seeming like I didn’t care. I did, and it was the very thought of avenging Omar’s death somehow that was keeping me going.

  “God rest his soul,” I managed, though even as the words came out of my mouth, I wasn’t sure why I’d put it quite that way. It sounded more like something my mother would say, or more precisely, my brother.

  “You two were close?”

  “Yeah,” I said, though inside I was pleading with him to change the subject. He had to know me better than this.

  Then it was quiet again. But instead of spilling his secrets, the man opened his menu and studied it carefully. I wasn’t sure I could wait any longer. He had a plane to catch. I had an editor to meet. Why was he taking so long?

  “Can’t decide,” he finally mumbled.

  “On what?” I asked.

  “Ordering.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get the salmon.”

  “What?”

  “The salmon—it’s excellent.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked, the skepticism in his voice palpable.

  “Trust me,” I said. “It’s delicious. You’ll love it.”

  “Cedar plank roasted salmon?” he asked, reading off the menu.

  “Right, with the steamed snow peas.”

  “Really?”

  “Positive—I’ve had it before.”

  And then it was quiet again.

  A waiter filled our glasses with water. My old friend and mentor wasn’t talking. I didn’t want to think about Omar. I didn’t want to think about salmon. I had no appetite. So I just twiddled my thumbs and tried to stay patient. The last thing I needed to do was pressure this man. He would tell me whatever he had to say when he was good and ready.

  Finally a waitress came to take our order. Khachigian handed his menu to her, leaned back, and folded his hands. “Lobster ravioli,” he said.

  I just looked at him and shook my head. Some things never changed. “Salmon,” I told the woman as I handed over my menu.

  “So . . . ,” he began.

  “So,” I replied.

  Finally this was it. But I was wrong.

  “How’s Laura?” he asked quietly.

  He had to be kidding.

  “Listen, I know you’re rushed for time,” I said. “So maybe the best thing is—”

  But Khachigian cut me off midsentence. “How . . . is . . . Laura?”

  I just stared at him.

  “It’s not a trick question,” he said calmly, though I wasn’t sure I believed him.

  “Why would you even ask?”

  “Simple,” he replied. “I’d like to know.”

  “Well, I have no idea.”

  “You haven’t talked to her?”

  “No.”

  “Haven’t written?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Has she written to you?”

  “No.”

  He paused. He looked at me like he knew something.

  “Has . . . she . . . written to you?”

  It dawned on me that Khachigian was not only a lawyer by training but also a spook. This wasn’t a conversation. It was a deposition, an interrogation, and he already knew the answers.

  “I got an e-mail from her the other day.”

  “When?”

  “Sometime after the explosion, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “I didn’t read it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I deleted it.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “I really don’t know, sir.”

  “Come on, James.”

  “Look, I don’t want to hear from her, okay? I want nothing to do with her. She’s a horrible, spiteful, vindictive person, and—with all due respect—I wish you’d never introduced the two of us.”

  Khachigian leaned forward. “You don’t mean that,” he said.

  “Actually, sir, I do.”

  “You were in love.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Not that long.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  He sighed. “Nothing,” he said at last.

  There was a long pause. I had nothing to say, and he seemed to be trying to formulate the right words.

  “The truth is I haven’t seen my niece much since your divorce was finalized,” he said at last. “We talk from time to time by phone. We e-mail occasionally. But I want to tell you something I never told you before.”

  I sat there and waited, my stomach in knots.

  “After she left you, after she moved in with . . . Well, anyway, after it all happened, I went to see her on the Upper East Side. I took her out to dinner—just the two of us—and I asked her what went wrong. You two seemed so happy. And she . . .”

  The words just trailed away.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I asked her about that summer when you both interned in my office. If there were still any embers of the love that caught fire that summer.”

  “And?”

  “She said yes.”

  “I’m not sure I can put into words how much I don’t want to have this conversation.”

  “Well, I thought you should know—she’s not with that guy anymore, and she doesn’t hate you. I think she feels quite guilty.”

  “Good.”

  “And she’s moving back to Maine to start her own practice. That’s all I wanted to say. Now, tell me about the president.”

  “You knew I met with him?”

  “Of course I knew.”

  “How?”

  “I’m s
till reasonably well connected in this town, James.”

  “Did you know Jack was there?”

  He nodded.

  “So you knew we were talking about the status of the peace process?”

  “The peace process is a done deal,” Khachigian replied.

  “I’d been hearing rumors, but that meeting confirmed it. Until the last few days, I’d have thought the whole process was going nowhere.”

  “It’s not going nowhere. That’s why ISIS is getting ready to strike.”

  “How much do you know?”

  “A lot.”

  “How much can you tell me?”

  “Not much. And you can’t print any of this. Not yet. But soon.”

  “I understand,” I replied. “Just cut to the chase.”

  “I have a good friend, still at the Agency. He left yesterday to visit Jerusalem to do advance for a possible presidential visit.”

  “Jack said he expected a signing event at the White House just before Christmas.”

  “I have no doubt,” Khachigian said. “But that doesn’t preclude a presidential visit to the region. Based on what I’m hearing from old friends here and over there, the White House is planning a surprise trip to Jerusalem in the next week or so. Big photo op. Great optics. Huge international headlines. Signing a ‘declaration of principles’ or something like that. Then they’ll come back and do a big signing ceremony of the final peace treaty in late December, or better yet, in early January as a lead-in to the State of the Union.”

  “Have you talked to Danny?” I asked, referring to the Israeli premier.

  “Among others.”

  “And he’s confirming this?”

  “You can’t write this,” Khachigian said. “That’s not why I’m telling you.”

  “Don’t worry; I’ve got a deal with the president on an exclusive when they’re ready. But as you just said, this is tied into why ISIS is preparing a strike.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which is why you wanted to talk so urgently,” I said. “What do you have?”

  Khachigian looked around to make sure no one was listening in on our conversation.

  “ISIS has loaded sarin nerve agents into artillery shells and missile warheads,” he whispered. “My sources say they’ve moved their men and launchers into position. All they’re waiting for now is a final authorization from Abu Khalif.”

  30

  “How soon?” I asked.

  “That I don’t know. But I suspect it’s very soon, possibly before this peace deal gets done. That’s why you have to finish this story and get it out there fast.”

  “Jack Vaughn says ISIS doesn’t have WMD.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “He said those exact words, that ISIS categorically does not have chemical weapons?”

  “Well, no,” I clarified. “He said it couldn’t be confirmed what was in those crates the rebels were taking out of the Aleppo base.”

  “Jack’s wrong.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I am,” he replied. “But it doesn’t matter what I think. I’m not the director of Central Intelligence. Not anymore. I don’t have the ear of this president. And I’m not the New York Times. I don’t have the ear of the public. But you do. So it’s you who has to be sure.”

  “But how can I be sure?” I asked. “Sure enough to go public with the story?”

  “Isn’t Ari Shalit going to help you?”

  “Maybe. But maybe that’s not enough.”

  “Then talk to the prime minister. Talk to Danny. Ask him to show you what the Mossad has.”

  “I’m already authorized to see all they have,” I said, growing anxious. “Who do you think was with Omar and me in Istanbul? It was a woman from the Mossad. She invited me to Tel Aviv to see what they have. But Jack says that while what I’ve seen so far is solid, it’s also circumstantial. He says it’s not proof. He says I need more or I risk panicking a whole lot of people and possibly blowing up the peace process.”

  “It’s spin,” Khachigian said. “The president doesn’t want you to rain on his signing ceremony.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t, but that doesn’t mean they’re wrong. The case is circumstantial. Don’t get me wrong—it’s still a hot story. I can fly to Tel Aviv tonight. I can see what they’ve got tomorrow afternoon. I can go back to my hotel room and finish my story tomorrow night, and the whole world will read it on Tuesday morning. But it’s incomplete. I don’t have the whole story. Just because the ISIS rebels captured that base and carted away a bunch of boxes, that doesn’t prove they have WMD.”

  “Then just say that in the story,” Khachigian insisted. “You’re not writing a book. You’re not making a documentary film. You’re writing a newspaper story. You have a piece of the puzzle that no one else has. It’s important. It’s relevant. It’s not complete—I grant you that. But what you have is news. ISIS rebels under Jamal Ramzy’s authority captured a known Syrian chemical-weapons base. They carted away hundreds of crates. They claim to have captured the ‘crown jewels’ of the Syrian regime. And they’re threatening not just to attack but to annihilate the United States and Israel with a Third Intifada. Some senior intelligence experts inside the U.S. and two foreign governments believe ISIS now has sarin gas. Ramzy denies it. Senior White House officials downplay the threat. But if ISIS really does now have the very weapons Osama bin Laden only dreamed of obtaining, we are rapidly approaching the most dangerous moment in the history of the War on Terror. There. I just wrote the story for you. That’s news, my friend. Game changing. So get it out there, and then go get more.”

  “More?”

  “Go find the source.”

  “You mean Abu Khalif.”

  “Absolutely,” Khachigian said, leaning toward me. “He’s the big story.”

  “What if Khalif was behind the Istanbul bombing?”

  “He wasn’t. That was al Qaeda.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I can’t,” Khachigian admitted. “I’m guessing. But I don’t think ISIS is finished with you yet. You’re useful to them.”

  “So you want me to go track him down, even though ISIS is beheading people, crucifying people, blowing them to kingdom come?”

  “Look, James, it’s a very simple equation,” Khachigan said, looking me straight in the eye. “Abu Khalif wants the world to know that ISIS—not al Qaeda—is the most dangerous force on the planet. Now that Zawahiri is dead, he may very well be right. But make no mistake: ISIS doesn’t want the world to know they have chemical weapons. Not yet. They want the element of surprise. That’s what they have at the moment, and they’re going to do everything they can to keep it. That’s why you have to get this story out there. You don’t work for the president. You don’t work for Jack Vaughn or any of the rest of them. You work for the American people. And the American people—not to mention the Israelis, the Palestinians, the Europeans, and the whole world—they all have the right to know just how dangerous this moment is. They have a right to know the president is pushing, pushing, pushing for this deal that is supposed to bring peace but might actually lead to the most catastrophic chemical weapons attack in human history. What people do with that information, what governments do, that’s not your business. Your business, like mine, is obtaining intelligence and passing it on to your boss. My boss was the president. Your boss is your readers. Solid, actionable intelligence is worthless unless the people who need it actually have it, know it, and can make decisions based on it. You follow?”

  “I do,” I said, then paused as the waitress brought out our meals and set them before us. When she had departed again, I said, “But you’re not just asking me to publish a story. You’re asking me to publish a story Abu Khalif doesn’t want out there—a story Jamal Ramzy specifically said he would personally kill me if I published—and then go to Iraq and meet with these guys.”

  “You think I’m wrong?” Khachigian asked.

&nb
sp; “I think you’re crazy.”

  “Maybe, but am I wrong?” Khachigian pressed.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. I told you weeks ago the real story wasn’t Ramzy. It’s Abu Khalif. You agreed. Why?”

  “You made a persuasive case—Ramzy is the muscle; Khalif is the brains.”

  “And what did Sun Tzu say?”

  “I know, I know,” I said.

  “So say it.”

  Back when Khachigian was the chairman of the Senate intelligence committee, he used to make all of his staff interns learn a few lines from The Art of War. He’d made me memorize them too.

  “‘The reason the enlightened prince and the wise general conquer the enemy whenever they move—and their achievements surpass those of ordinary men—is foreknowledge.’”

  “Keep going,” he prompted.

  Reluctantly I continued. “‘What is called foreknowledge cannot be elicited from spirits, nor by analogy from past events, nor from calculation. It must be obtained from men with knowledge of the enemy situation.’”

  “Exactly,” Khachigian said. “The only way to really know for sure what ISIS has and what they’re going to do with it is to go talk to their leader. That means talking to Abu Khalif.”

  “Even if he kills me.”

  “He won’t kill you.”

  “Yeah, well, with all due respect, isn’t that easy for you to say?”

  “Yeah, well, with all due respect, don’t think of yourself more highly than you ought.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means every single one us—this tiny group of us who are trying to get this information out to the American people—we’re all in danger. You have friends who have already died because of this story. You of all people should know how very high the stakes are. But, James, many, many more Americans—and Israelis, too—are going to die very soon if Abu Khalif has his way. He needs to be stopped. And the only way he’s going to be stopped is if he is exposed. Vaughn isn’t going to do it. The president isn’t going to do it. The Israelis want to be able to react to the story, not put it out there themselves. So that leaves you . . . or the Post. Which is it going to be?”