The Third Target: A J. B. Collins Novel

  A moment later, we reached two golf carts. Sa’id and I boarded one along with two other agents while the rest of the detail boarded the other. It struck me how much security had suddenly been assigned to me. I don’t think I’d ever had a single bodyguard in my entire life. Now I had nine, including the chief of security for the royal palace. Why? What did they know that I didn’t?

  I assumed we were going to the motorcade to link up with the president for the ride to the palace. But when we passed the long line of presidential limousines, Chevy Suburbans, military vehicles, and police cars, I was a little concerned.

  “Why aren’t we stopping?” I asked a bit more forcefully than I had intended. “His Majesty promised I would be traveling with the president.”

  “And you will be, Mr. Collins,” Sa’id replied. “Please be patient.”

  No sooner had we passed the idling motorcade than we drove through a hangar and came out onto a secure tarmac that could not be seen by the general public. Waiting there were three of the famous green-and-white VH-3D Sea King helicopters. One of them would serve as Marine One and carry the president. The others would serve as decoys to confuse any enemy that might be lying in wait to shoot the president down.

  “You’re not using the motorcade,” I said, more an observation than a question.

  “No,” Sa’id replied. “The president is going by air. You’ll be in the seat right beside him.”

  Ten minutes later, the president greeted me, but he did not look happy.

  “You’ve really made a mess of things, Collins,” he shouted over the roar of the chopper as he saluted a Marine guard and boarded the aircraft.

  “I’m afraid I don’t see it that way, Mr. President,” I shouted back, climbing in behind him.

  The White House chief of staff and national security advisor boarded after us, along with Ali Sa’id and two Secret Service agents. I took my assigned seat beside the commander in chief and buckled up. I guessed the rest of Sa’id’s men would meet us at the palace. Two minutes later we were airborne.

  It was the first time I had ever been on Marine One, and it was hard not to be impressed by the sleek design, classy interior, and high-tech wizardry. It was also one of the quietest helicopters I had ever been on, so while we couldn’t exactly talk in a whisper, we weren’t shouting at one another either.

  “Your articles have rattled the Israelis,” the president told me, his body language and tone suggesting any delay in the peace process would be my fault. “They’ve been raising concerns and asking for changes on the documentation all night.”

  I refused to take the bait. “What are their specific concerns?”

  “You’ll have to get that from Daniel, not from me,” the president said. “The details aren’t important. What matters is that the Israelis were locked and loaded, and then your interview with Khalif comes out and then one story after another about chemical weapons and . . .”

  “And what?”

  “And you’ve got them spooked.”

  I had to smile. “Because of my stories?”

  “You think this is funny?” the president asked, quickly becoming agitated.

  “No, of course not,” I replied. “I just think it’s a bit—I don’t know . . . ridiculous to say the Israelis are getting spooked by me. I’m not making this stuff up. ISIS is a real threat. The Israelis have plenty of reasons to be concerned about getting a final status agreement with the Palestinians just right regardless of what I put into my stories.”

  “Obviously,” the president said. “But Daniel Lavi called me yesterday and specifically said all this talk about Abu Khalif was creating enormous pushback from the members of his coalition.”

  “Does that really surprise you?” I asked.

  “No one would be talking about Abu Khalif if it wasn’t for you, Collins,” the president shot back.

  Was he serious? How could he say that?

  “Look, Mr. President, I’m sorry you’re upset with me. I really am. I’m not trying to rain on your parade. But I truly believe ISIS could be planning an attack today.”

  “On this event?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Based on what?”

  “Based on my interview with Khalif. He made it clear he wants to bring down the king, you, and Daniel Lavi and Salim Mansour as well. Suddenly you’re all in one place, in a country he knows like the back of his hand. He’s got chemical weapons. He’s got the systems to launch them. I’m worried, and honestly, I’m surprised you’re not.”

  “Well, I’m not. The Secret Service is well aware of your interview and the risks, and so am I. But there’s no way I’m going to let Abu Khalif, of all people, stop a peace treaty of historic proportions.”

  “I understand, sir, but I have to ask you a question,” I began, trying to quickly compose my thoughts. “How serious a threat do you think Abu Khalif and ISIS really pose?”

  “To whom?”

  “To the U.S., to Israel, to our Arab allies in the region.”

  “They’re a threat, sure,” he said.

  “How serious?”

  “I don’t know—they’re one of many.”

  “The main threat?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t think they’d like to take you all out today?”

  “I’m sure they would. But that’s not possible.”

  “Not possible?”

  “No.”

  “So what would you say is the main threat in the Middle East, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “The lack of peace between the Israelis and Palestinians, of course,” he replied. “That’s the holy grail, Collins. That’s the missing piece. If we can get that right, everything else falls into place.”

  Marine One began to bank to the left, and then we were heading north. I had always wanted to see Amman from the air, but this conversation was too important to play the tourist.

  “And you believe this treaty will bring lasting, comprehensive peace to the Middle East?”

  “Of course,” the president said. “Why do you think we’ve worked so hard and for so long to create a two-state solution? And not just my administration but all those who went before me.”

  “Are you saying you believe the region will become quiet once this treaty is signed?”

  “Not immediately, but in time, yes.”

  “The Iranians will stop pursuing nuclear weapons?”

  “Once we conclude our negotiations with them, yes, I believe they will. Why would they need nuclear weapons if the Palestinians have made peace with Israel?”

  “What about their vow to ‘wipe Israel off the map’?”

  “That’s rhetoric, not policy,” the president said.

  “And ISIS—do you believe they will lay down their arms and give up their goal of establishing an Islamic caliphate if the Israelis and Palestinians make peace?”

  “Eventually, yes, I do.”

  “Isn’t it possible that the peace deal you’ve helped bring about today could actually trigger more war, more violence?”

  “How?”

  “By enraging Abu Khalif and other militants who have sworn they will stop at nothing to destroy Israel and anyone who tries to make peace with her.”

  “Are you saying we should stop trying to make peace because some lunatics like Abu Khalif are going to get mad? That’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m not saying you shouldn’t try to make peace,” I clarified. “I’m just saying a signing ceremony isn’t going to stop the jihadists from trying to kill. It is more likely to inflame them. I mean, Anwar Sadat made peace with Israel in ’79, and the Radicals killed him for it.”

  “And King Hussein made peace with Israel in ’94 and lived a long and happy life,” the president responded. “Look, Collins, I want peace. The Israelis want peace. The Palestinians want peace. The Jordanians want peace. It’s what we all want, and a two-state solution is what’s going to make it happen. That’s what everyone has been demanding for decades, and that’s wha
t I’m delivering, beginning today. You guys in the press can snipe and carp and give all kinds of reasons why it won’t work and why it’s not worth it. But you’re wrong. Dead wrong. You’re on the wrong side of history.”

  I couldn’t believe how personally he was taking this. “Mr. President, I’m not trying to be cynical or critical. I’m just asking the questions, trying to understand your thinking about this whole process.”

  “Well, now you know.”

  “Yes, I do; thank you,” I said, taking a deep breath and pulling my digital recorder out of my jacket pocket to turn it off.

  “Whoa, whoa, wait a minute—this is all off the record,” the president suddenly said.

  “What are you talking about?” I replied, genuinely confused. “No, it isn’t.”

  “Of course it is,” he shot back.

  “You never said that,” I responded. “I was told I had an exclusive interview with you. I thought it was going to be in the limousine, but clearly we’re doing it here instead.”

  “No, no, no—absolutely not. I’d be happy to do an interview with you when the ceremony is over, but this is just a friendly off-the-record discussion, nothing more.”

  “You can’t just say that after the discussion is over, Mr. President. That’s not how the game is played.”

  “It’s not a game,” he replied, incensed. “These are highly sensitive background discussions, not for public consumption.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but that’s not how it’s done,” I said, holding my ground. “I’m sorry you think I’m complicating your life. But with all due respect, sir, I’m just doing my job.”

  “By playing gotcha? By undermining the entire peace process in its final hours?”

  “I’m not playing gotcha, and if anyone undermines this peace it will be ISIS, not me. I know these people, Mr. President. I’ve talked with them face to face. I’ve seen who they are. I’ve seen what they do. And I’m telling you, ISIS and the rest of these radical Salafist jihadists pose a clear and present danger to the national security of the United States, Israel, Jordan, and everyone who loves peace in this region. And anyone who thinks Abu Khalif is going away after this treaty gets signed ought to have his head examined. He’s not going to stop. He’s going to redouble his efforts until he wreaks havoc and creates mass carnage throughout this region or until he is hunted down and killed.”

  “This conversation is over,” the president said. “And off the record. If you print it, I swear to you the New York Times isn’t going to have access to me or my administration in any way, shape, or form ever again. You’re playing a game, Collins, but you just went too far.”

  “I could give a flying leap whether the Times has access to you or not, sir. Abu Khalif is a serial killer. He’s murdered my friends. He’s tried to murder me. He’s threatened my family. And he’s coming after you and every single leader who signs this treaty. I’m not saying don’t sign it. I’m saying you’d better be ready for what comes next. Maybe ISIS won’t strike today or this week. Maybe you’re right and all the security in place will suffice. But every day ISIS is recruiting more foreign fighters into their movement. And they’re not just coming from Arab and Islamic countries. They’re coming from Europe. They’re coming from Asia. They’re coming from America, Mr. President. Americans are signing up for jihad. They’re fighting in Syria and Iraq for Abu Khalif and Jamal Ramzy. They carry American passports. If you don’t get serious about stopping them, they’re coming home to unleash jihad on American soil. And when it happens, it won’t be the fault of the New York Times. I’m just the messenger. The buck stops with you.”

  56

  AL-HUMMAR PALACE—AMMAN, JORDAN

  It was deadly quiet in the chopper for the next five minutes.

  Then Marine One touched down inside the royal compound. As soon as the engines shut down and the rotors came to a stop, the side door opened and the president was immediately greeted by the king and the crown prince. The three of them chatted for a few minutes, out of my earshot, and then headed inside the palace.

  I was now persona non grata, at least as far as the president was concerned.

  When it was all clear, Sa’id exited the chopper and I followed him. He gave me a special pin to wear on my lapel and a lanyard attached to a laminated press pass with my photo and media credentials. He explained the combination of these two would give me nearly complete backstage access for the remainder of the day. I put them on and followed him inside.

  We entered through a back portico, then turned right and walked down a long hallway to a wing on the northeast side of the building. We stepped into a large, ornate hall. It had enormous crystal chandeliers and original paintings in gold-leafed frames and a massive antique table of polished wood with matching chairs. I couldn’t tell at first if it was supposed to serve as a cabinet room or a formal dining room, but it didn’t really matter at the moment, for there was no food set out and no drinks were available. Rather, I saw President Mansour chatting with Prime Minister Lavi. I didn’t see Prince Marwan, but I did see my old friend Youssef Kuttab talking with some of Lavi’s men. I nodded to him, and he nodded back. But I decided now might not be the best time to approach him. He was deep in conversation, and at the moment I wasn’t quite sure what was wanted or expected of me, especially after the dustup I’d just had with President Taylor.

  To be candid, though, I was excited about the exclusive he had given me. Despite his protestations, his remarks had been on the record, and they provided a fascinating picture into the thinking of a president with whom the American people already had serious and growing concerns. Taylor’s approval ratings were dropping steadily. They were lower than those of Presidents Bush and Obama, and it wasn’t due solely to the weak economy. Americans were souring on his handling of foreign policy. The latest CBS News/New York Times poll found that most people saw the president as “disengaged” and “aloof” on national security matters. They specifically believed he was “on the wrong track” when it came to handling the Middle East, particularly vis-à-vis the dual crises in Syria and Iraq. Those numbers could change quickly, of course, if the new peace treaty was popular. But the rapid ISIS takeover of large sections of Iraq—and now the clear and convincing proof that this al Qaeda breakaway faction actually had acquired, on the president’s watch, the very weapons of mass destruction the country had gone into two wars to keep al Qaeda and Saddam Hussein from having—were weighing heavily on the public’s mind.

  I looked carefully to see if there were any visible signs of discord or disunity between Lavi and Mansour. From my angle, I couldn’t see any. They actually seemed quite jovial and relaxed. Whatever concerns had been voiced earlier in the day—assuming the president wasn’t spinning me—had apparently been worked out. From all evidence, the ceremony was on.

  Ali Sa’id came over and whispered in my ear. “Mr. Collins, we’re about to begin. His Majesty would like to get you in place.”

  “Thanks, Ali,” I said. “By the way, where are the king’s younger children? I don’t see them anywhere.”

  “The queen sent them to spend a few days with their cousins,” Sa’id replied.

  That made sense, I guessed, given all that was happening, though I would have liked to meet them. At some point it might make sense to do a story on the entire royal family and how unique they were in the region for being so committed to peace.

  For now, I followed Sa’id out a back exit. As chief of security for the Royal Court, he was certainly a senior official in the General Intelligence Directorate in addition to being very close to the king and the royal family. Yet he had been assigned to take care of me in every way, and I was touched by His Majesty’s kindness. This was not standard operating procedure. This was special. I couldn’t let it skew my coverage, I knew. That had to be straightforward and as objective as humanly possible. But given that the king and I had never met until the previous day, I was certainly grateful on a personal level. I was still anxious something terrible was
coming. But honestly I didn’t see how. And I did feel safer with Sa’id at my side.

  We walked down a series of hallways, and Sa’id was clearly in his element. This was a palace he knew and loved dearly. He gave me a little history lesson along the way, making comments about various paintings and artifacts as well as about some of the interesting leaders he had met over the years.

  He also briefed me on various security protocols that were in place, including escape routes if there was a fire or some other incident. He made very clear from the beginning that this information was not for publication, a lesson I thought he might want to share with the president of the United States. Sa’id wasn’t giving me any classified or proprietary information. He was just making sure I knew what to do in case of emergency, and he stressed that no matter what, I should stick close to him.

  In his own way, he also seemed to be expressing a sense of deep professional pride. I realized that in many ways this palace was as much his home as it was the king’s. Sa’id cared deeply about making sure everyone here was secure and cared for. He shared His Majesty’s tradition of warm Arab hospitality, and everything he said and did showed it.

  It was a much longer walk from that formal dining room to the main entrance of the palace than I had expected. But finally we arrived, and I could hear another military band playing. Then we stepped through a side door into the courtyard where I had been dropped off the day before.

  The Mercedes was gone, and so were the large moving trucks and all the workers. I saw the crowd and the cameras and the television lights. I saw the stage and the red carpets and all the Jordanian, Palestinian, Israeli, and American flags, snapping in the crisp breeze. I saw the bleachers filled with five hundred or more smiling, excited, fascinated high school students—Arabs and Israelis, Muslims, Christians, and Jews—and for the first time, I have to say, I was moved by it all.