The First Hostage: A J. B. Collins Novel (14 page)

23

Without warning, the cell door burst open.

“Who’s there?” I asked, shielding my eyes as light flooded the cell.

“Dr. Hammami,” came the reply.

But he was not alone. There were two MPs at his side.

“What time is it?” I asked, trying to get my bearings.

“Just after nine.”

“In the morning?”

“No, at night.”

“What day is it?”

“It’s still Monday. Now sit up. I need to check your vitals.”

I had a hard time processing that. “You’re saying fifteen hours have gone by already?”

The doctor nodded and took my temperature.

“How is that possible?”

“I administered a sedative while you were sleeping,” he replied, then shone a penlight in my eyes to check my pupils.

“You
drugged
me?”

“I medicated you, Mr. Collins
 
—for your own good. I’ve been monitoring you. You were in danger of hyperventilating. And you
needed the rest. You’ve been through a great deal in the last few days. You needed to take it easy. You still do.”

Take it easy? Was this guy insane? The president of the United States was being held by ISIS and threatened with his life. There were only thirty-three more hours to go before the deadline, and I was helpless either to make a difference or to cover the unfolding drama. How exactly was I to take it easy? “I want to make a phone call,” I said, fighting to stay focused.

“Out of the question,” Hammami replied as he wrapped a cuff around my arm and began taking my blood pressure.

“I’m an American citizen. I deserve at least a phone call.”

“This is not America, Mr. Collins. Now settle down so I can get your readings.”

With that I was on my feet. “Forget my blood pressure. I want a phone call. I have rights.”

“Sit down, Mr. Collins,” the doctor said with a tone I’d neither heard nor expected from him.

“Not without a phone call.”

The lightbulb overhead suddenly flicked on. The MPs moved toward me. I immediately thought better of escalating a confrontation. I sat back down and tried a different tack. “Fine, fine; I’m sorry. Look, I’m just not used to . . . I need to speak to Prince Feisal.”

“Be quiet and let me take your pulse, please.”

“I just need a moment with the prince.”

“Your pulse, Mr. Collins.”

I stopped talking and tried to settle my frayed nerves as Dr. Hammami checked my wound and changed my bandages. “That’s healing nicely.”

I was glad about that, but I could also see the doctor was about to leave.

“Please, Dr. Hammami,” I said, looking the man in the eye. “You know I saved the king’s life, and the queen’s and the crown prince’s.
You know I’m not a conspirator. I’m not a traitor. I’m a reporter. I traffic in information, and there’s a critical piece of information I need to tell Prince Feisal. Please. It’s a matter of life and death.”

“His or yours?” the doctor asked, putting two pills in my hand and not waiting for an answer. “Take this for the pain, and I’ll see you in twelve hours.”

I protested, but he didn’t seem to care. He turned and left as quickly as he’d come. The door shut and locked behind him. A moment later, the slot at the bottom of the door opened and another plate of food was slid to me. Then the slot closed, the footsteps faded, and once again I was alone.

I couldn’t believe it. I just stared at the plate of steamed rice and overcooked carrots and potatoes and tried to comprehend what was happening to me. Was there a way out? I couldn’t think of one. Wasn’t Allen suspicious that I was no longer in touch with him? Was he asking questions? Was he taking action? I very much doubted it. He had too much else happening. And he probably thought I’d check in when I could. Which, I had to admit, had been my modus operandi lately.

Again I stared down at the food. In the dim overhead light it looked singularly unappetizing. But it could have been a fine steak. It wouldn’t have mattered. There was no way I could eat.

Instead, I paced about the cell. I felt my blood pressure spiking again. My face and neck were once again hot. I was perspiring all over. Finally I looked at the painkillers in my hand and took them both, washed them down with a cup of water, splashed some water on my face, and then slumped back on the bed. It was clear the prince wasn’t coming. I wasn’t going to have a chance to warn him about the suspects on my list. I doubted he would even listen if I could. Maybe the doctor was right. Maybe sleeping through this nightmare was my best option. Maybe it was my only option.

I lay back on the cot. As I stared up at the lightbulb and listened to the ticking of my pocket watch, I thought about my mom and
Matt and Annie and my niece and nephew. Were they together now? Were they safe? I knew they were praying for me. They couldn’t know exactly what I was going through, but I had no doubt they were praying. It was about the only thing I knew for certain. Even little Katie was praying. Though she had only just turned four, I knew she was praying every night for her uncle James
 
—to be safe, to be happy, and to give my life to Jesus. The last time we’d talked, Matt had said they’d all been praying for me, and there was no reason to think Katie was going to give up on me now, even if I was beginning to give up on myself.

It was strange to think a little girl on the other side of the planet was praying so faithfully for me. Was I praying for them? No
 
—not beyond my awkward prayer last night. I wasn’t even praying for myself. But why not? What was really so hard? Why couldn’t I turn to God the way they did? I didn’t know. And that bothered me.

I tried to remember the Bible verses Annie had asked me to read. I tried to remember the ones Matt had said Katie was memorizing at Sunday school. It was all a blank. And that bothered me too. I had a nearly photographic memory. Yet for the life of me I couldn’t remember the Scriptures that had meant so much to them, the ones they’d so wanted me to know and consider.

What was so different between us? I wondered. Why had Matt and I grown so far apart? After Dad had left us when we were kids, we were raised in the same broken family by the same great mom in the same loser little town, in the same lame church. Yet Matt had become a man of true faith. I’d become a man of so many doubts. Why?

This wasn’t helping, I decided. All this introspection was just making me feel worse. If God was really up there, if he was really listening to the prayers of my family, then great
 
—I’d be out of here soon enough. But I had nothing to say to him right now
 
—certainly nothing he didn’t already know.

And that’s when Yael’s face came to mind.

24

When I woke up
 
—groggy yet somehow content
 
—the light was off.

I couldn’t tell what time it was, but I didn’t care. It was the pills. It had to be.

Somehow, despite my mental fog, I vaguely recalled I was being held on suspicion of treason against the king. But at that moment, nothing seemed to matter. I couldn’t feel my arm. I was in no pain at all. I couldn’t even remember being in pain.

But I did have an intense desire for a drink. Vodka. Bourbon. Rum. A beer. It didn’t matter. Just something alcoholic.

Before I realized, I’d drifted off.

*   *   *

The light was still off when I rolled over and pulled the blanket over my head.

I knew I’d been sleeping again, but I had no idea how long. And still I didn’t care. But something had changed. There was someone in the cell with me. Even in the darkness I could see the face of Yael Katzir.

I knew it was a hallucination, yet her presence gave me great comfort. “Hello, Yael,” I said to the darkness.

“Mr. Collins, over here,” she whispered. “My, my, you’re getting soaked. Please, won’t you join me?”

It was what she’d said to me the first time we met, back in Istanbul, in front of the Blue Mosque at midnight. She’d been standing there, in the rain, wearing a stylish trench coat and holding a polka-dot umbrella. I could see it as clearly as if I were there.

I remembered thinking she was lovely even before knowing who she was. I also remembered being suspicious. I’d been expecting to meet Ari Shalit, the deputy director of the Mossad. Instead I’d met this striking brunette who somehow knew everything about me. She’d claimed Ari had sent her, and eventually I had believed her. But it had taken a while.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Katzir,” I whispered into the darkness.

“Likewise,” she whispered back. “Now let’s start walking arm in arm, like true lovers.”

We had walked together through the streets of Istanbul, the ancient metropolis that once served as the eastern capital of the Roman Empire, holding hands so it seemed natural for us to be out together that late. When a pair of policemen had taken an interest in us, I had impulsively leaned in and kissed Yael. Anything to keep up appearances. The kiss had been all too brief as the policemen soon turned their attention elsewhere.

Now, in my dark, lonely cell, I relived the kiss. In my semiconscious state, I could actually feel her lips on mine, sense her breathlessness as we pretended to be lovers.

I blinked, and the mirage evaporated in the darkness.

Where was Yael right now? I wondered. Was she thinking of me? Did she remember our first meeting as fondly as I did? Did it matter to her at all?

I doubted it. It might have mattered yesterday, when she’d agreed to have a late dinner with me after the summit, after she put her prime minister on the plane back to Tel Aviv.

Now everything had changed. Everything she’d tried to warn her bosses about
 
—an imminent attack by ISIS, the use of chemical weapons
 
—had been ignored. Yet her worst fears had all come to pass. She’d been right. The world had taken a very dark turn.

And now I feared I would never see her again.

25

The electronic locks released.

The door swung open, again flooding the cell with light. Then the lightbulb overhead turned on. Dr. Hammami and the two MPs at his side were back.

“Good morning, Mr. Collins.”

“Is it morning?” I asked, certain I couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly.

“It is indeed,” he replied, pulling out his stethoscope and starting through his routine again. “It’s just before 10 a.m.,” he said.

“Ten o’clock
Tuesday
morning?” I clarified, still not seeing how this could be true.

“That’s right, Mr. Collins
 
—six minutes before ten on Tuesday morning, to be precise. So how are we feeling today? Did we get some rest? How’s the arm?”

The patronizing tone alone made me want to strangle him.

“Fine, yes, better,” I said, fighting the urge to go ballistic.

Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I did the math. I’d been locked up for almost twenty-eight hours. That meant there were merely twenty hours left until the deadline. I had to get out, find a phone, let someone know what was happening to me. I feigned grogginess,
but with a burst of adrenaline I was wide awake now
 
—wide awake and trying to develop a plan to escape.

“Blood pressure’s still a bit high,” he said when he’d completed the exam.

It was all I could do not to let the sarcasm fly. The only thing that stopped me was the overpowering urge to break out of this cell. Yet I knew that even if I overpowered the doctor (not a problem) and one of the MPs (not easy but doable), I was still going to have to get the jump on the other MP (which seemed close to impossible). And even if I did succeed, how exactly was I going to get out of the hallway? The doors at both ends were electronically locked, and there were surveillance cameras watching 24-7.

“Would you put on your socks and shoes, please, Mr. Collins?” the doctor asked.

“What for?”

“You have an appointment.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Come now. You don’t want to be late. Best get moving.”

“An appointment? With whom?”

“I’m not authorized to say.”

“Why not?” I shot back, my discipline slipping.

“Let’s just put on our shoes and socks, Mr. Collins, and be on our way, shall we?”

“Where are we going?”

“The clock is ticking, Mr. Collins. Let’s pick up the pace.”

Clearly this banter was going nowhere. He wasn’t about to answer my questions, so there was no point continuing to ask. When I did as I was told, my hands and feet were promptly shackled, and I was led down several hallways, through a series of electronically locked doors, to a windowless little room. There I was told to sit on a metal stool on the far side of a rectangular metal table. Both the table and the stool were bolted to the floor, and I was too after the MPs fastened
my shackles to steel hooks near my feet. I was reminded of my first meeting with Abu Khalif, which had taken place in a room not too dissimilar from this.

The doctor excused himself. Now it was just me and the two MPs, stone-faced and obviously prepared for any foolhardy escape plan I was idiotic enough to concoct.

The minutes ticked by, and as I waited, I pretended I was in Vegas. I laid down odds for who was going to walk through that door at the appointed hour.

At the top of my list was some Jordanian prosecutor or perhaps a state-appointed attorney charged with my defense. This was the most logical. But next on my list, with two-to-one odds, was Prince Feisal. I had asked for the meeting, after all, and there was an outside chance he would take a break from the hunt for the president and Abu Khalif to humor me. I was ready for him, prepared to give him my list of suspects and the pros and cons for each. Seeing Colonel Sharif seemed a long shot at best, so I put him at seven-to-one odds. The king was even less likely, certainly not in a room like this, so I put those odds at five hundred to one.

Toughest to calculate were the odds of seeing Allen MacDonald or a lawyer from the
Times
, or someone from the U.S. embassy coming to help me out of this mess. All three were in roughly the same category, though clearly an embassy official had a far better chance of reaching me than the other two. Still, that would require the king or the prince or someone else in that bunker reaching out to the embassy and informing them of the suspicions
 
—if not the charges
 
—against me. Were they ready to do that with everything else on their plate right now? Prince Feisal had assured me the answer was a definitive no. Why would he have changed his mind?

Complicating matters even further was this question: Was the American embassy in Amman even open at the moment? Much of the staff, including the ambassador, had been at the summit, helping
coordinate the visit of the president, secretary of state, and other high-ranking officials from the White House, State, and Defense. The ambassador was dead. How many others had survived?

In the end, I decided it was no better than a thousand-to-one shot that I’d see Allen or a lawyer this fast, while someone from the embassy was about fifty to one
 
—possible but unlikely.

But when the door opened and a man I actually recognized stepped into the room, it suddenly became clear that not only was I playing the wrong odds, I wasn’t even in the right casino.