The Third Target (35 page)

Air Force One was on approach.

I was standing ten steps away from Jordan’s foreign minister, right beside Agent Sa’id, with a front-row, all-access pass to President Harrison Taylor’s arrival.

But as impressive as the sight was, I had seen the gleaming blue-and-white Boeing 747 land at foreign airports before. To the enormous crowd of at least ten thousand Jordanians, I’m sure there was electricity in the air as the leader of the free world prepared to land in the country they loved so dearly. For many
 
—indeed, probably for most
 
—all the pomp and circumstance of a state visit was exciting. The bedouin honor guard. The military band. The freshly vacuumed red carpet. The reviewing stand and the camera platform and the klieg lights and the rest of the hoopla.

But all that barely registered for me. My eyes were trained on the United States Secret Service agents and their Jordanian counterparts scanning the crowd for trouble. I was watching the sharpshooters on the roof and the spotters at their sides with their high-powered binoculars. What interested me was the enormous military presence on the perimeter of the airport, the tanks and armored personnel carriers and hundreds upon hundreds of Jordanian soldiers at the
ready, as well as the squadron of Jordanian F-16 Fighting Falcons that were streaking through the sky flying CAP
 
—combat air patrol
 
—in airspace that had been closed the entire day except for official travel. Was the king right? Was his upcoming trip to Baghdad more vulnerable than this? Or were the traitors among us, ready to strike when and how it was least expected?

Every face in the cheering crowd looked, to me at least, genuinely excited. News of a final deal had been leaking out all morning. There was a buzz in the air. Peace was at hand. A sovereign if largely demilitarized Palestinian State, fashioned in a confederation with the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, was about to be established once and for all. Why wouldn’t this nation so filled with West Bankers be overjoyed for their brothers and sisters across the river and even for themselves?

Yet every face on the security personnel, the vast majority of whom were East Bankers, looked worried and grim. They knew everyone here had been screened by metal detectors and X-ray machines. They knew these observers had been patted down and their purses and handbags and briefcases and backpacks thoroughly searched hours ago. But they still had to be vigilant for the unexpected. That was their job. Was there a killer among them? And if so, were they looking for a lone gunman or a highly trained, carefully coordinated movement?

Sa’id’s words on the drive to the airport were bothering me enormously. I had been through Jordan numerous times. I had developed friends and sources among senior government officials. But I was not an expert on Jordan. Like most reporters, indeed like most Americans, I had never carefully studied the nuances of this country. To me, Jordan was a lovely, safe, friendly country, and I rarely gave it another thought. But after Iraq and Syria, was Jordan the third target of the ISIS terrorists? Was this the crown jewel they wanted to help them build their Islamic caliphate?

And what of my brother Matt’s words? Was it possible that the future of Jordan was as dark as the Bible seemed to foretell? Could ISIS really be some kind of instrument about to unleash hell on earth? Was today the day?

If so, would a mere assassination or two
 
—even today
 
—satisfy them? How could it? ISIS hadn’t simply tried to take Assad out. They were trying to bring his entire government down. They were trying to seize full control of Damascus and the rest of Syria. The same was true in Iraq. For a Sunni extremist like Abu Khalif, merely beheading Ismail Tikriti or any Iraqi official, even the prime minister, who was a devout Shia, couldn’t possibly be enough. Khalif was looking for a way to bring down the democratically elected government of Iraq and establish a Sharia-governed state with himself as the emir. So, too, Khalif wouldn’t just want to kill the king of Jordan. He would want to obliterate the royal family and the entire government as well. He would want to create the conditions upon which he and his forces could seize full and complete power. Could that be accomplished on the upcoming royal trip to Baghdad? Not nearly as well as it could be if ISIS struck today, I concluded. But when? How? Who?

As Air Force One touched down to the surprising cheers of the crowd
 
—a crowd that obviously now believed the American president was bearing the gift of a Palestinian State
 
—someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, expecting to see Sa’id or perhaps a colleague from the
Times
. Instead, it was Yael Katzir.

“Hey, stranger,” she said with a gracious smile and a warm hug.

“Yael . . . what are you doing here?” I asked, as baffled as I was pleased.

“Ari sent me with the PM’s delegation,” she said. “But I also came to see you. I was so worried about you.”

“Thanks. That means a lot.”

“You don’t look so bad, considering.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

“I tried to reach you.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s been crazy. Nonstop. I’ve hardly eaten a thing. And don’t ask me the last time I slept.”

“Well, you don’t look so bad,” I said. “Considering.”

“Aren’t you sweet.”

“Where are you staying?” I asked, hoping that didn’t sound too forward.

“Grand Hyatt, and you?”

“Le Méridien.”

“Nice.”

“Beats a safe house in Mosul.”

“I bet,” she said, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Speaking of which, we need to talk.”

“Dangerous developments?” I whispered back.

“I’m afraid so.”

“You’re worried there’s going to be an ISIS attack today.”

Yael raised an eyebrow. “I see we’re thinking the same thing. How did you know?”

“Just a hunch, but one I tried to share with the king yesterday,” I said.

“What did he say?”

“Told me not to worry
 
—they’ve got the city sealed up like a drum.”

“Same with my PM,” she said. “Ari won’t rule it out, but we don’t have proof. Just the interviews Khalif did with you. Seems to me Khalif made it about as clear as he could he was coming after the king. And if he could take out my PM, Mansour, and your president all in one shot, it seems kind of irresistible, doesn’t it?”

“It does to me,” I said. “The question is, does Khalif have the means to launch such a massive attack?”

“The PM doesn’t think so,” Yael said, scanning the crowd from
behind designer sunglasses. “And Ari could hardly stop him from coming without solid evidence of an imminent attack. Lavi insists Amman is the safest city in the world today, between the Jordanian police, the army, the Mukhabarat, the Palestinian security services, the U.S. Secret Service, the Mossad, and Shin Bet. The PM says ISIS would be crazy to launch an attack today.”

“Unless they had someone on the inside,” I said.

“You mean a mole?”

“Maybe, or maybe more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, there’s no question Khalif has someone inside one of the four governments here today. He has to. He knew about the treaty before anyone else. He knew it was a done deal. He knew the Jordanians were involved. He knew the king was the broker. No one could have known all that several days ago unless they had inside access to at least one of the principals.”

“But just that knowledge wouldn’t be enough.”

“No, which means ISIS would have to have a force already on the ground inside Jordan, inside Amman.”

“Inside the palace?” Yael asked.

“That’s what worries me,” I said. “But how?”

A military band was now playing “Hail to the Chief” as the door of the 747 opened and the president of the United States stepped out and waved to the roaring crowd.

“What about al-Hirak?” she asked.

“What’s that?”

“You’ve never heard of it?”

“No.”

“What kind of foreign correspondent are you?”

“The kind that has never heard of al-Hirak. What is it?”

“It means ‘the movement,’” she said. “It’s a secret underground network of Islamists throughout Jordan made up of disaffected East
Bankers. They’re devout Muslims, over-the-top, and they think the king has gone soft on Islam. They say the royal family and the government are riddled with corruption. They say the king gives too much money and attention to the West Bankers. They think he doesn’t care about the East Bankers or about Islam. They want him to govern like a true Muslim. They want Sharia law.”

Again I thought about Sa’id’s words in the car. It seemed Yael’s intel was correct. “So I’m guessing the king is too pro-Western, too pro-American, and too close to Israel for their tastes?” I said.

“Absolutely. They’re Salafists. They want to annihilate the Jews, not have a peace treaty with us. And don’t get them started on the queen.”

“Why? What’s wrong with her?”

“Doesn’t wear the veil, wears the latest fashions from London and Paris, likes to hobnob with the rich and famous in Davos and Monte Carlo. They say she dishonors Islam and must be humbled.”

“So basically they’re just like the Muslim Brotherhood?” I asked.

“No, no, much worse. They loathe the Brotherhood, say they’re a bunch of sellouts. And the Brotherhood isn’t so strong here anymore. They used to be. But they’ve made some missteps in recent years. Plus, the Brotherhood isn’t illegal in Jordan like they were and now are again in Egypt. They’re aboveground here. That’s made it easier for the king and the secret service to keep tabs on them.”

“So how big is this Salafist movement, this al-Hirak?”

“We don’t have any hard numbers, but the analysts that track this stuff back in Tel Aviv, the ones I’ve talked to at least, say it’s metastasizing quickly.”

“And these guys are jihadists?” I asked. “They’re violent?”

“Hard to say,” she said. “They haven’t launched any type of operation yet. But our guys are picking up evidence that some of them seem inspired by the message and methods and success ISIS is having.”

“You think they’re getting ready to launch a coup?”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. Alone, I’m not sure ISIS could pull off here what they’re doing in Iraq and Syria. But remember, Khalif is Jordanian. He has a lifetime of contacts here. He knows Jordan better than either of the other two countries. He very likely has thousands of warriors stashed around the country using the Syrian refugee crisis as cover. And if he could activate the al-Hirak network . . .”

She didn’t finish the sentence, but she didn’t need to.

“Could al-Hirak have loyalists inside the police?”

“Probably.”

“The military?”

“Possibly.”

“The palace?”

“I don’t know,” Yael told me as the president descended the steps of Air Force One and prepared to address the crowd.

“But that’s why you’re here.”

“Right,” she said, “me and the IDF’s most elite NBC unit, hoping to God we’re not needed.”

NBC unit.
She wasn’t talking about the National Broadcasting Company.

She was talking about a team of specialists trained in handling nuclear, biological, and chemical warfare.

Ali Sa’id turned to me when the arrival ceremony was nearly finished.

“We need to go,” he said.

“Where?”

“Just come quickly.”

“What about my friend Yael?”

I introduced her as part of Prime Minister Lavi’s delegation, though I said nothing about her expertise in chemical warfare. But Sa’id had his orders, and they didn’t include an Israeli.

“It’s okay,” she said, putting a hand on my arm. “I’ve got my own orders. But I’ll see you at the ceremony.”

“Great
 
—and what are you doing afterward?”

“Hopefully nothing.”

“Maybe we can think of something.”

“Maybe.”

I turned back to Sa’id. Neither President Taylor nor the foreign minister was saying anything particularly memorable or newsworthy. The military band was about to strike up the music again. It was all pomp and circumstance and precious little substance, and there was no reason to stay. So as discreetly as possible, I followed Sa’id out of the VIP section with our security detail spread out around us.

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 what 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.”