The First Hostage: A J. B. Collins Novel (18 page)

32

AZRAQ, JORDAN

Jack Vaughn.

I still couldn’t believe it. I’d known the man and his family for ages. I’d never have suspected him in a million years. Betraying his wife? Betraying his family? And in the end betraying his country? I felt as sick as Harris now looked.

I pulled out my pocket watch
 
—it was almost twelve thirty on Tuesday afternoon. Just seventeen and a half hours to go before ISIS executed the president.

A brutal winter storm had descended upon the country. Driving rains and hail the size of marbles blown by whipping winds from the northeast buffeted the chopper as we came in on final approach. Sizzling sticks of lightning could be seen on the horizon. Great booms of thunder rocked the craft even more.

I turned to Harris to ask where we were. But he was white as a sheet. “You okay?” I asked.

But it was too late. Harris started heaving his guts out all over the chopper’s floor. The stench was overpowering. I turned back to the window. We certainly weren’t in Amman anymore.

As the pilot and copilot fought to maintain control, one of the
MPs explained that we were arriving at a top-secret facility known as the Muwaffaq Salti Air Base in the Zarqa Governorate, in the desert east of Amman. I’d heard of this place. The base was built in 1976 near a landing strip once used by Lawrence of Arabia during World War I. The modern base was completed in 1980 and named after a Jordanian pilot who was killed in battle with the Israelis.

The first thing that struck me as we got closer
 
—other than the fact that Harris was still puking his guts out
 
—was how crowded the airfield was. Despite the brutal conditions and limited visibility, there were dozens of Jordanian F-16s taking off and landing, no doubt conducting sorties over the capital and some of the outlying towns and villages where ISIS had been making gains. But what really caught my eye was the number of American, Egyptian, and Saudi fighter jets, long-range bombers, attack helicopters, and special operations aircraft
 
—dozens and dozens, perhaps well over a hundred, including a handful of American B-2 stealth bombers
 
—being amassed at a base very few people had ever even heard of. Something was brewing, something big, and I wanted to know what.

The moment we touched down
 
—hard but safe
 
—near one of the hangars and exited the chopper, Colonel Sharif pulled up in an armored personnel carrier. He waved us over.

I turned to Harris. “You all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, wiping his mouth and his brow.

I handed him a bottle of water. He took several sips.

“Just give me a moment with Sharif,” he said. “I need to let him know what’s happening with you.”

I nodded and waited while Harris briefed the colonel on the latest developments with me and the case against Vaughn. I could see Sharif’s eyes grow wide. The man was as stunned as I had been. But time was fleeting. The king was waiting.

“Welcome to Azraq, Mr. Collins,” Sharif shouted over the storms
and the Black Hawk’s rotors. “Thanks be to Allah that you’re safe
 
—and innocent.”

“Thanks, Colonel,” I replied. “You’re telling me.”

“I’m afraid we can’t linger,” Sharif said. “Something urgent has come up. We need to go.” The colonel asked me to get into the APC. By the time he got in beside me, we were both soaked to the bone and freezing cold.

I looked back and noticed an MP guiding Harris into another vehicle.

“Where’s he going?” I asked. “Isn’t he coming with us?”

“No,” Sharif replied. “He’s heading to the infirmary first and then to one of the administrative buildings. He’s got a case to manage, and a fast-moving one at that.”

Our driver took us around the hangar and across the air base to a nondescript strip of garages housing various tow trucks and other service vehicles. He pulled into an empty stall, parked, and turned off the engine. “We’re here,” he said, checking his watch, jumping out of the APC, and motioning for us to disembark as well. “There are dry clothes for both of you
 
—fatigues, I’m afraid; that’s all they have here. Find whatever fits. There are clean socks and boots of various sizes too. But make it quick.”

We did as he suggested, and soon I found myself wearing a private’s uniform. I also found a towel and dried off my face and bald head. The colonel changed as well, and then the MP who had driven us here punched a code into a keypad on the only door inside the garage. When the electronic lock released, he led the two of us down a stairwell.

We descended several levels, then reached a security checkpoint manned not by MPs but by elite members of Jordan’s special forces. The colonel showed his photo ID and was cleared, but all of my personal possessions were taken from me, including my grandfather’s watch. Then we stepped through an X-ray machine and were patted
down and carefully examined by a team of heavily armed soldiers before being allowed to proceed.

After being cleared, we headed down a long, poorly lit concrete tunnel and passed through two more checkpoints, each manned by a half-dozen soldiers, all of them toting machine guns, before we finally reached a small waiting area with four more soldiers guarding the vaultlike door to the inner sanctum. A captain checked our IDs again and told us to take a seat.

We did as we were told and for a few minutes said nothing to each other. There was a coffee table but no coffee, and there were no magazines or newspapers, nothing to do but awkwardly avoid eye contact.

Eventually I leaned back and closed my eyes. My hands were shaking. My heart was still pounding. I still couldn’t believe how close I’d come to dying in that drone strike. And I still couldn’t shake the sick feeling from the reality that Jack Vaughn was responsible for all that had happened. What would have possessed him to have an affair in the first place? And how could he really not have known whom he was shacking up with? The man was the director of the CIA, for crying out loud. Then again, I couldn’t for one second believe he had known that his mistress was working for ISIS. A philanderer? Maybe. A traitor? I couldn’t get there.

I couldn’t bear to think about it anymore. It was all too ugly. So I turned my thoughts to Yael. What was she doing just then? Was the gash on her forehead healing? What about the blows she’d taken to the face? Had the doctors at Hadassah insisted that she stay for several days so they could treat her wounds and so she could get some rest? Then again, hopefully her injuries weren’t that bad. Maybe Ari had thanked her for her heroic service in saving the life of the prime minister and the king and given her the week off. I hoped so. She deserved it.

Thinking about Yael made me wonder how her people were
responding to this geopolitical earthquake. The Israelis had to be terrified, I imagined. Jordan was a friend, a tacit ally. And now this? A solid, stable, quiet, calm Hashemite Kingdom was the essential cornerstone of the security architecture for this entire corridor, from Jaffa to Jerusalem to Jordan. Now what? Surely the Israeli Defense Forces had mobilized their military after the attacks on the summit. It was now very possible, even probable, that ISIS was going to launch chemical attacks against Israeli population centers at any moment.

Were the Israelis also planning offensive actions against ISIS? They had to be inclined to, and what fair-minded person could blame them? Abu Khalif had just tried to assassinate their prime minister. In the process he had succeeded in killing dozens of Israeli members of parliament and security personnel. But Israeli offensive operations inside Jordan, not to mention in Syria or Iraq, would play right into the hands of ISIS, I worried. Such operations could very well provide the immediate “justification” the ISIS leaders wanted to declare total jihad against the “Zionist enemy.”

The vault door opened. The colonel was asked by a young military aide to come inside. I was asked to wait. Ten minutes later, the vault door opened again. This time the colonel beckoned me to join him. I took a deep breath, stood up straight, and followed him inside. I had no idea what to expect. But there was no turning back now.

33

I entered the war room.

It was buzzing with activity. At the far end, at the head of the table, was King Abdullah himself. At his right hand was Prince Feisal. Both were talking on separate phones. To the king’s left were Lieutenant General Abdul Jum’a and Major General Ibrahim al-Mufti, huddled in conversation as they pored over a map with great concern.

None of them looked up. They neither noticed us nor seemed to care that we had entered. They certainly didn’t welcome us, but unlike back in Marka, they weren’t the only ones in the room. The colonel whispered that he had just briefed the king and Prince Feisal on the latest developments with me, Vaughn, and the criminal investigation Agent Harris was spearheading. Then he introduced me to General Amr El-Badawy, explaining that he was the commander of Egyptian special forces. After this, he quickly introduced me to Lieutenant General Marco Ramirez, though Ramirez I already knew. He was the commander of Delta Force and a legend in the SOF community back in the States. I’d interviewed him numerous times in Afghanistan and Iraq and once in Tampa, at CENTCOM. Finally, Sharif had me say a quick hello to a Saudi general as well as one from the United Arab Emirates. Then he had me take a seat with him, not at the main
conference table but in the back, by the vault door, in a row of seats he said was reserved for aides to the military leaders, though there was only one in the room at the moment, and he was Jordanian.

“Most of these guys just arrived,” Sharif whispered, handing me a pad and pen.

“How long ago?” I asked, trying to get my bearings.

“A few minutes ago. I was told the prince is about to give a briefing. That’s why we were trying to get you here before it started.”

“I don’t understand,” I whispered back. “I get why General Ramirez is here. But why the guys from Egypt, Saudi, and the Gulf?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Sharif. “I suppose we’re about to find out.”

Prince Feisal asked for quiet. Those on landlines
 
—no cell phones were permitted in this bunker
 
—put them down. The generals who’d just arrived took their seats. The vault door closed and locked behind us. The meeting was under way.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Thank you for joining His Majesty and me on such short notice,” the prince began. “We will get into the assault planning in a moment. But first I want to bring you up to speed on several important new developments. I wanted you to be among the first to know that CIA director Jack Vaughn has been arrested at his home in Washington by the FBI. I am told by the attorney general that Vaughn will be charged with espionage and possibly with treason.”

There were audible gasps around the table.

“While I don’t have all the details, I can tell you that Mr. Vaughn was arrested with a mistress who was also at his home
 
—indeed, apparently in his bed,” the prince continued. “Allegedly, he told her various classified details about the peace summit as well as about the location of His Majesty and other principals in recent days. What’s not clear at this hour is whether Mr. Vaughn knew this woman
 
—of Qatari descent
 
—was working for ISIS.”

The men around the table were as stunned as I’d been, and it took a moment for the prince to quiet the room and continue his briefing.

“Furthermore, the FBI has just arrested a suspect at the NSA’s headquarters at Fort Meade in connection to this case,” Feisal explained. “I’m told this suspect is the son of Mr. Vaughn’s mistress. Apparently he was providing the information gleaned from Vaughn back to ISIS, ironically through secure American channels.”

“You’re absolutely certain of this?” asked the Saudi general, visibly shaken.

“This is what we have been told,” the prince said. “Obviously the investigation is ongoing.”

At this, the prince glanced at me. But he did not seem angry. Nor did he mention to the others that I had been considered, for a time, a suspect. Apparently I had been fully cleared. Why else would they allow me to be in this of all rooms, with the king of Jordan, no less?

“I’ve known Jack Vaughn for a quarter of a century,” the Saudi general continued. “I cannot imagine him as a mole.”

“None of us can,” the prince replied. “I’m sure we’ll learn more details
 
—including motives
 
—in due course. For now, I’m afraid that’s all I have.”

“So three arrests thus far?” the UAE general asked.

“Yes
 
—Mr. Vaughn, the mistress, and the son. That’s all we’ve heard about for now.”

“But is that it? Is the situation contained, or are the Americans saying more arrests are coming?” the UAE general asked.

“I really couldn’t say,” the prince said.

Clearly this didn’t satisfy the group.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute
 
—you’re saying ISIS has penetrated the highest levels of the CIA and the NSA?” asked General El-Badawy from Egypt.

“That would appear to be the case.”

“All to trigger an attack on four world leaders, including Your Majesty?” He nodded at the king.

“I’m afraid so.”

“I highly doubt it’s limited to three people,” El-Badawy noted.

“I hesitate to speculate,” the prince said.

“Fair enough, but this is an unprecedented penetration of American intelligence. Can we safely assume every member of the conspiracy has been identified and arrested? That seems highly unlikely, does it not?”

No one said a word. I glanced at General Ramirez. He hadn’t yet said anything, but I guessed the conversation was about to shift to him.

“Look, this story is going to break to the public in the United States in a few hours,” the prince said. “Obviously, as I said, there’s still a great deal that we don’t know. As we get more information, I will certainly pass it on to you all. For now, however, I suggest we shift to finalizing our war plans. I don’t have to remind you that time is not on our side.”

“Not so fast, Your Highness,” El-Badawy protested. “With all due respect, we can’t just shift topics. Clearly there has been a serious breach at the CIA and NSA. Maybe it’s been contained, but maybe not. Maybe the FBI has captured everyone involved; maybe not. Either way, as I see it, this raises two immediate and very serious challenges. First, how reliable and secure is any intelligence coming from the U.S. right now? And second, what is Abu Khalif’s endgame?”

“What do you mean?” the Saudi general asked. “Haven’t the ISIS forces caused enough damage? What more could they possibly want?”

“Are you kidding?” El-Badawy asked. “Abu Khalif wants Mecca. He wants Medina. He wants Cairo. He still wants Amman. And that’s just for starters.”

A hush fell over the room. The king sat back and, for the moment, remained silent. His expression was inscrutable. I was taking notes as fast as I could. No one had laid down any ground rules, but I
assumed we were operating by the same guidelines the king had previously established. Everything had to run through Colonel Sharif. But if he cleared it, I could write it. I knew I couldn’t write anything about the FBI sting operation against Vaughn. But what I was watching had little to do with a crime story and everything to do with the rise of ISIS and the collapse of American credibility in the region.

Ramirez cleared his throat. “May I, Your Majesty?” he asked, directly addressing the king.

Abdullah nodded.

“Gentlemen, I understand your concerns, and I share many of them,” the American general began. “But we don’t have time to get sidetracked. I received this news moments before arriving here. I realize it raises profound and disturbing questions, as many for me as for any of you. But we need to stay focused. The president of the United States is being held by ISIS. By my count, we have only seventeen hours to rescue him before he is executed on YouTube, for all the world to see, if he hasn’t been beheaded or burned alive already. I’m not interested in the long-term goals of Abu Khalif right now. I have one mission: get my president back. You all promised to help me. That’s why we’re here, and for no other reason. Now, are you going to help me or not?”