The Third Target (36 page)

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.

I can’t explain it really, but all my hard-bitten professional cynicism began to melt away for a few moments. This was really happening. This was no longer talk. This was no longer a “backgrounder briefing” about how the parties were going to talk about the ground rules for the discussions about the negotiations. This was the real thing. The Israelis and Palestinians were really going to sign a final, comprehensive peace treaty.

And people were excited. Not just the students but the palace staff and hundreds of other government workers who apparently had been invited to see it all unfold.

I had no idea exactly how it was all going to play out. Nor did anyone else. But this was history in the making, and I was here at the center of it all, and I couldn’t really believe it. I can’t say I felt pride at that moment. To the contrary, I felt humbled. My grandfather would have loved this, and he would have done an amazing job covering it all. But I was just a kid from Bar Harbor, Maine. Who was I to be a witness to a moment in history as profound as the birth of the Palestinian State? Who was I to become a friend and confidant to presidents and prime ministers, much less a king? I was nobody. But at that moment I felt like God was looking down at me with pleasure. I didn’t deserve it. I still wasn’t even sure I really believed it. But God did seem to have saved my life countless times and was now opening these doors and seemed to be putting me exactly where he wanted me. And I have to say I felt grateful. I couldn’t escape the feeling this was a special moment. I only wished Omar and Abdel could have been here to see it too.

Sa’id walked me to my seat at the end of a riser situated immediately behind the main stage, the signing table, and the speaker’s podium, then took a seat directly behind me.

It was an excellent spot. From this vantage point, while I wouldn’t be able to see the faces of the various leaders as they addressed the crowd and the cameras, I still had a commanding view of the environment. I could see what the king would be seeing and how the crowd reacted. It was certainly a much better position than any of my colleagues in the media enjoyed. Plus, seated near me in this VIP section were a number of Jordanian ministers, members of Parliament, judges, and generals, along with their many aides. In part, I’m sure, this was simply because there was no other place to put these dignitaries. The courtyard wasn’t small, but there were limitations. I suspected, however, that the royals’ media advisors wanted to project TV images around the world of Jordan’s government fully behind this treaty, literally as well as figuratively.

The one person I didn’t see was Prince Marwan. I wanted to congratulate him on all his hard work. He had a great deal to be proud of, and I wanted to get his thoughts for my next story.

Scanning the crowd, I found the media pool in the back of the large courtyard. They were at least half a football field away, and there were a lot of them, but I was fairly sure I could pick out Alex Brunnell, our Jerusalem bureau chief, standing with the
Times
White House correspondent and chief diplomatic correspondent. At Allen’s direction, the Gray Lady was covering this event from all angles, and rightly so.

I realized at that moment that I had absolutely no idea what else was happening on the planet. Surely there were floods and droughts, elections and resignations, weddings and babies being born, and every manner of news being made
 
—“all the news that’s fit to print, and quite a bit that isn’t,” as my colleagues and I liked to joke
 
—but I’d had neither the time nor the capacity to pay attention to any of it. Since entering Homs, I hadn’t been able to think about anything but the ISIS threat. But now, finally, I breathed a sigh of relief.

I pulled out my grandfather’s pocket watch. It was two minutes before two o’clock. Almost showtime. And then Yael Katzir sidled up beside me.

“Is that seat taken?” she asked, pointing to the empty chair to my left.

“As a matter of fact it isn’t,” I replied, standing and pretending to doff my cap. “Would you care to join me, young lady?”

“I would be honored, kind sir. Thank you.”

We sat down and she scanned the crowd.

“Impressive,” she said.

“It is.”

“Maybe we’re overreacting a little,” she added.

“Maybe,” I said. “I was half-expecting to see you next in a chem-bio suit.”

“It’s in the trunk.” She smiled, but I couldn’t quite tell if she was kidding.

I looked up at the F-16s flying their missions, though they were way out in the distance, not close enough for the roar of their jet engines to disrupt the moment. I looked at the soldiers and Secret Service agents on the roof and tried to pick out the plainclothes agents intermingled in the crowds. Generally, it wasn’t hard. Everyone else was smiling. The security guys were not. Plus they had those little squiggly earpieces, of course, a dead giveaway. Still, I was very glad they were there.

Five minutes passed, then ten, but there was still no sign yet of the principals or the prince. Aides continued scurrying around on the platform, making last-minute tweaks. They were setting out fountain pens, pouring glasses of water, checking the microphones, and resetting audio levels. A newcomer to state events would naturally assume all these things would have been taken care of already, but I knew from years of covering such functions how many details there were to be handled, and how rarely such events began on time.

Still, the schoolkids were clearly becoming a bit restless. They had already been sitting there for the better part of an hour, and their chairs couldn’t be the most comfortable in the world.

At least it was December, so the sun wasn’t blazing down on us all. Rather, there was a blanket of dark-gray clouds overhead and a slight breeze that made it chillier than some might have wanted but also made the flags flutter perfectly for the cameras.

“Everything okay?” I said to Sa’id.

“Of course,” he said. “But you know how these things go. I’m sure they’ll be out soon.”

“Where is Prince Marwan?” I asked. “And where will he be sitting?”

“I don’t know where he is
 
—that’s a good question,” Sa’id replied. “He should be here by now. He must be conferring with His Majesty. He’ll be sitting directly behind the king. Should I radio my men to find him?”

“No, no, they’ve got enough to do. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

I turned to Yael. “So I guess we have a little time to kill,” I said, trying to come up with some small talk that didn’t sound completely ridiculous.

“We try not to say ‘kill’ in this part of the world,” she replied. “But yes, I guess we do. Got something on your mind?”