The Third Target (24 page)

“I am not in the intelligence game, Mr. Collins. I am not a military man. I am a simple follower of Allah, and my time in this world is growing short. My eyes are growing dim. My strength is fading. But I intend to give whatever energy I have left in faithful service to Islam. I may not have much influence, but I intend to do my part for as long as I can. The world is changing very rapidly. Forces have been set into motion beyond the West’s control, beyond the media’s control. Muslims are looking for hope. Arabs are looking for direction, for a clear sense of mission. My colleagues are doing what they can. In the end, I have no doubt we will prevail. We
will
make this a better world. But frankly, your article is a weapon of mass distraction. And I must say I am disappointed. I had hoped that you would have known better.”

Just then my phone started buzzing. A text was coming in. Apol
ogizing, I took a moment to silence my mobile when I noticed who the text was from: Hassan Karbouli, the Iraqi minister of the interior.

I got you your interview,
he wrote.
Hope you know what you’re doing. Will meet you when you land.

All the way back to the hotel, my mind was reeling.

How did the prince not see the seriousness of the ISIS threat? He had been around practically forever. He had seen the region engulfed in war time and time again. Now Syria was collapsing. Iraq was collapsing. How could he not see that the forces of Radical Islam were on the move and threatening to undo all the years King Hussein and King Abdullah had poured into peacemaking and moderation? I couldn’t fault him for his loyalty to the king in pursuit of a peace treaty between the Israelis and Palestinians. But calling my article a “weapon of mass distraction”? Saying he was disappointed in me? It wasn’t the first time a person of influence had dressed me down for publishing something he didn’t want to read. But it seemed awfully reactionary from a man I’d never considered prone to such a response.

Nevertheless, the prince’s views were not foremost in my thoughts. Hassan Karbouli’s text message was. Was it true? Was it really possible that before this day was over, I could be sitting face to face with Abu Khalif, the most dangerous terrorist leader on the planet?

What would I say to him? What would I ask him? He had killed my friends. He had very likely tried to have me killed twice. Was I
going to confront him? Could I maintain a professional composure? Could I actually conduct an on-the-record interview? Could I really get him to talk about who he was and what he wanted? How?

At the moment I had no idea. For that matter, I had no idea what Abu Khalif even looked like. Almost no one in the world did. Indeed, most people were only just becoming aware of his name and of the inner workings of ISIS. The profile of Jamal Ramzy I had written had helped, but mostly people were learning about ISIS because of the terrorist regime’s blitzkrieg through northern Iraq and its extraordinary success in capturing major cities and small towns and thousands of square miles of Iraqi territory in the face of limited Iraqi military resistance.

Rare was the occasion before a major interview that I would ever find myself nervous. I didn’t get stage fright. But this was different. This was a big get. Huge.

Finally alone, and suddenly quiet, I toyed with the idea of having a good stiff drink when I got back to the hotel. I knew it was wrong, and I immediately thought of Omar doing his best to keep me sober, one day at a time. A flash of guilt rippled through my system. But what would it really hurt? I’d have a bourbon or two, maybe smoke a fat Cuban cigar, and start jotting down the questions I wanted to ask Khalif. I needed something to take the edge off my nerves. I wouldn’t go crazy, I told myself. I’d be careful.

When the prince’s driver pulled up in front of Le Méridien, I thanked him in Arabic, grabbed my leather satchel, and entered the hotel. I put my things through the X-ray machine in the lobby, as required by every hotel in Jordan after a series of horrific hotel bombings in the days of Abu Zarqawi, the first leader of al Qaeda in Iraq. When I had cleared the metal detectors, I headed to the bar toward the rear of the ornate main lobby.

But to my astonishment, the first person I saw as I strode past the main desk was my brother.

“Matt?” I said, having a hard time believing it was really him. “What in the world are you doing here?”

“I got your text,” he said. “I wrote back but didn’t hear from you.”

“But how did you . . . ? I mean, how in the world . . . ?”

I was floored and not a little peeved that he’d found me. I’d taken every precaution to make sure no one knew I was here. It was one thing for His Royal Highness to track me down. He had all the intelligence resources of the kingdom at his disposal. But my brother was an academic on a sabbatical. If he could find me, maybe anybody could.

“It’s not rocket science,” he whispered, seeing my anxiety. “I called your editor
 
—Allen, right?”

“But Allen doesn’t know I’m in Amman,” I said, my confusion growing. “I didn’t tell him.”

“No, you didn’t. And he’s furious with you. But he figured you weren’t going to hang around in Cairo. He thinks you’re probably headed for Iraq, so he guessed you’d route through here. When I told him about your text, he wasn’t surprised.”

Maybe I hadn’t covered my tracks as carefully as I’d thought.

“But how did you find this hotel?”

“I explained to Allen who I was. I told him Mom was terribly worried about you. I said I was trying to track you down and would be grateful for his help.”

“And he believed you?”

“Of course he believed me, J. B. It’s true. You need to call her. She’s worried sick. Anyway, he mentioned a handful of hotels you tended to use when you came through town. I did a little homework and wound up here. Anyway, it’s good to see you. Thanks for your note. I was surprised to hear from you. Grateful, but surprised.”

Struggling to contain a surge of conflicting emotions, I asked him how he was and how Annie and the kids were.

“We’re fine, J. B.,” he said. “But really, how are you? We’re worried about you.”

“Well, thanks,” I mumbled. “I appreciate it. But I’ll be fine.”

“Fine? Are you kidding? Look at you. You look awful.”

“I’m getting that a lot lately,” I said.

“Come on, let’s have a seat,” Matt replied. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee. What time’s your flight to Baghdad?”

I hesitated but saw little point in being coy. “Five thirty.”

“Good, so we have some time,” he said. “And look, I’ll even drive you to the airport.”

“No, that’s okay, Matt. I really
 
—”

“No, come on; I insist,” he said. “I’m glad to see you. It’s been too long.”

I shrugged and said thank you, and we found a couple of comfortable chairs in a quiet corner of the lounge. A waiter came over and took our coffee orders, and then we were alone.

My brother asked me what had happened back in Washington and how I’d managed to survive. I basically shared with him what I’d shared with Yael. Again I skipped the private details of my conversation with Khachigian, though I did share more with Matt than I had with Yael, in part because Matt had known the man as long as I had, and perhaps better. After all, he had actually worked for Khachigian for nearly two years as a legislative aide in D.C. when Khachigian was serving in the Senate, before Matt decided to leave the Hill and go to graduate school at Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary in Massachusetts. When Matt became an ordained pastor and was called to serve at a church in Bangor, Maine, Khachigian and his wife, Mary, actually began attending the congregation. And when Mary passed away, it was Matt who performed the memorial service and delivered the eulogy. But then Matt and Annie had moved back to the Boston area so Matt could teach at his alma mater, and as far as I knew, he hadn’t had anything but occasional e-mail contact with our old family friend.

“I’m going to miss him,” Matt said as the waiter delivered our
coffees. “He was always so encouraging to me. When I started as a pastor, it felt like I was making every mistake in the book. I had a hard time getting my sea legs, learning how to preach, how to manage a church, how to really care for people. But I could always count on the senator for a kind word.”

Matt was the only one in our family who still called Khachigian “senator.”

I could see how hard this was on him. In many ways, Khachigian had become the surrogate father Matt had desperately needed when our father left home. Matt and I had gone our separate ways, but he and Khachigian had become quite close.

“Mary was always the more devout of the two,” Matt said softly, staring into his coffee. “But after she died, the senator really began to take his own faith much more seriously. He used to come by my office a couple times a week. We’d chat. We’d read the Bible together. We’d pray together. I loved those times. I’d forgotten how much I’d missed them.”

He didn’t even seem to be talking to me, just thinking aloud. But after taking a sip of coffee, he looked up at me. “The senator grew up in the church
 
—literally,” Matt told me. “Did you know his father was an Episcopal priest?”

“Can’t say I did,” I replied, adding a little cream to my coffee.

“He was, but it didn’t seem to take with his son,” Matt said. “After Mary’s funeral, the senator told me he’d always been too busy, too proud, too ambitious to focus much on the things of God. But then he admitted he was suddenly afraid of death. How do you like that? All his years in the military, and all those years as a spy for the CIA in really dangerous places, and he’d never been scared of death. But after his wife died, he told me he had no idea if he was going to heaven when he passed on. He was sure Mary would be there, and he wanted to make sure he’d be with her for eternity. So at one point, I just asked if he was ready to pray to receive Christ as his Savior. He
said yes. So we both got down on our knees, right in my office, and we prayed. From that point forward, he was truly a new man.”

It was a nice story, as far as it went. It certainly spoke to the sincere affection the Khachigians had had as a couple and Matt’s sincerity as a pastor. But the trajectory of this story was beginning to make me very uncomfortable. I wasn’t Robert Khachigian. And Matt wasn’t my pastor. He was my older brother, and he was about to cross a line.

“You know, I really ought to call Mom and let her know I’m okay,” I said, setting down my cup and leaning forward in my chair.

“Are you ready, J. B.?” Matt asked.

The question seemed to come out of left field.

“For what?” I asked.

“Death,” he said calmly.

The word just hung in the air for a moment as I hesitated to answer. I was about to tell Matt this was too personal. Instead I heard myself saying, “No, I’m not.”

Matt said nothing. We just sat there in awkward silence. After a moment, I glanced at my pocket watch. I really was running out of time. I needed to go up to my room and pack and then head to the airport. I had an interview to prepare for
 
—the most important of my career.

I knew Matt believed he had the answer. But I’ll give him credit for not being pushy or preachy. He knew me well enough not to overreach. He’d made his point. And he let it sit.

In that way, he wasn’t that different from the prince. One was trying to convert me to Christ, the other to Islam. Both were absolutely convinced they had truth on their side, that they’d found the best way to God. Maybe one of them was right. But at that moment I couldn’t say which, and I didn’t have the time to figure it out.

I excused myself and headed up to my room.

I called my mother, but she didn’t answer. I left a voice message letting her know I was safe and telling her I’d just had coffee with Matt. Then I packed and headed back down to the lobby.

Matt was waiting for me in a beat-up old Toyota SUV filled with car seats and all manner of kids’ toys and not a few fast-food wrappers. He was certainly leading a vastly different life from mine, and though I didn’t dare admit it, I envied what he had. A good marriage. Two adorable kids. A measly paycheck but a satisfying profession. Close friends. And a faith that seemed to sustain him and always had.

I threw my bags in the backseat, and we departed for the airport in silence.

What I really wanted to do was ask if I could just go back to their house and crash for the next few days or weeks or months. I had never felt so lost or in so much pain. It seemed almost everyone I knew was dead. I had watched them die. It was killing me inside. I was afraid if I stopped and thought about it too much, I’d lose it
 
—I mean really lose it. So I kept going, kept pushing, trying simultaneously not to think about any of it and yet redeem it as well, make their deaths worthwhile, make them mean something. But
sitting here beside Matt, I could feel the tremors of a coming volcano. Raging, volatile, superheated emotions I had long been suppressing were forcing their way to the surface, and it made me want to jump off the grid and hide.

I needed a room to myself. I needed to shut the door and lock it and turn off the lights and crawl into bed and curl up into a fetal position. I needed to weep for my friends and keep weeping and weeping until there were no more tears in me. I couldn’t take any more. I felt so alone. I wanted to have it all out with God until he either spoke to me or killed me. The thought of getting on that flight in a few hours and going into Iraq and meeting with the leader of ISIS literally made me want to vomit. I couldn’t bear it. It was all too much.

What I needed most of all was time
 
—time to mourn, time to think, time to talk to Matt and Annie. I was sick of eating restaurant food. I was sick of hotels and airports and deadlines and datelines in city after city after city after freaking city. I wanted to eat simple foods cooked by a wife and a mom. I wanted to hear the laughter of little children and sit by the water and lie down in a field and stare at the blue sky and smell freshly cut grass and hear lawn mowers running. I needed time to read Matt’s Bible, time to ask a million questions and wrestle through it all and figure out some answers for myself before it was too late.

“Come on, J. B.; it’s time,” Matt said finally. “Let’s pray together. Right now. You and me. Give your heart to Jesus. Let him forgive you and start to heal you and lift all those burdens off your shoulders.”

“I’m sorry, Matt. I’m just not there.”

“Then don’t go to Baghdad.”

“I wish it were that easy,” I heard myself say in an inexplicable contradiction of everything I’d just told myself. “But I have to go.”

“Actually, you don’t,” he pushed back. “And you shouldn’t
 
—maybe not ever, but certainly not until you’ve gotten yourself right with God.”

“It’s my job.”

“This is not about your job, J. B.,” he said. “It’s about your soul. Look, you’re a great reporter. One of the best in the world. Everyone knows that. I see it, and I’m very proud of you. You meet with presidents and prime ministers and kings and princes. Your articles are read by millions of people, and countless thousands make life-changing decisions because of what they learn from you. But Jesus warned successful people just like you, ‘What does it profit a man to gain the whole world and forfeit his soul?’ Your soul is at stake here. Please listen to me. I beg you. Don’t make another move until you get right with Christ.”

I wanted to say yes. I really did. But I just wasn’t ready. So I thanked Matt for his concern. I would worry about God later. Right now I had to get ready for Abu Khalif.