The First Hostage: A J. B. Collins Novel (28 page)

52

After a few minutes, she pulled away.

She said she was embarrassed. I told her not to be.

“This isn’t like me,” she said, fishing a tissue out of her purse and wiping away the tears. “I should know better.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

She wasn’t amused. Well, a little. But only a little. She took a small mirror from her purse and checked her makeup.

“You took a couple of nice shots,” I said.

“You too.”

“At least no one can see mine.”

“That’s true,” she said. “I saw you noticing the makeup.”

“Was I that obvious?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’d never seen you wear makeup before.”

“I usually don’t.”

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“The bruising?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Could be worse.” She shrugged. “You should see the other guy.”

I smiled for the first time in days. “I did.” A pause, then I asked, “You on meds?”

She nodded. “Are you?”

I nodded back.

“How bad is yours?” she asked.

“I’ll live.”

“Me too.”

“Good,” I said. “I hope so.”

“Not all of us have been so lucky,” she replied, a sadness coming over her again.

“Danny?”

She nodded and looked away.

“Unreal.”

She walked to the other side of the room and stared out the little window in the door to the hallway.

“How’s Miriam doing?” I asked of the prime minister’s wife.

“She’s a mess.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“I was there,” she said, “with her, at the hospital, when she got the news.”

I said nothing.

“The shriek that came out of her mouth . . . the grief . . . the anguish . . . I’d never heard anything like it. Just total . . . total despair.”

Then she said something that surprised me.

“And I knew just how she felt. . . .”

Her voice trailed off. I wanted to ask her what she meant. But I held back. She wasn’t really talking to me. She was talking to herself. I just happened to be in the room.

“The kids are worse,” she said, staring at the crumpled tissue in her hands. “They’re in shock, all of them . . . except little Avi.”

“The two-year-old?” I asked.

She nodded. “He’s oblivious,” she said, her voice quiet and distant. “Doesn’t understand what’s happened, just playing with the nanny like he hasn’t a care in the world. I mean, he knows Mommy is sad. He can see that. And he was so precious holding her hand and drawing little pictures for her. He just doesn’t know what’s happened. I’d like to be like that. . . .”

We were quiet for a while.

“Do you have kids, J. B.?” she asked, looking up, completely out of the blue.

The question startled me, but I shook my head. “No.”

“Did you want them?”

“I did.”

“And?”

The questions were suddenly so personal. But I didn’t mind. “Laura didn’t.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged. What else could I do? I didn’t know then. I certainly didn’t know now. Not really. Not for certain.

“Do you regret it?” she asked.

“All of it.”

“No, not the marriage. I mean . . .”

“I know,” I said and looked down at the floor and thought about it more. “Yeah, I regret it.”

“You’d have liked kids?”

I nodded but didn’t say anything for almost a minute. I didn’t know what to say. It seemed like an odd conversation to be having under the circumstances. Strange. Unexpectedly intimate. But surreal. We’d never really had time to talk personally. I realized I knew hardly anything about her.

“What about you?” I finally asked.

“What?”

“You want to be a mom someday?”

“More than anything,” she said, still looking out the little window.

Again she’d surprised me. I’d thought of Yael Katzir as the consummate professional. She was completely immersed in her work. She’d labored incredibly hard to get to where she was. She was working among the most highly respected experts in the world in her field and was one of the few women to reach such heights in the Israeli intel community
 
—or in any intelligence, especially since she was only thirty-four.

“Really?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“A little, yeah.”

“Why? You don’t think I’d be a good mom?”

“No, I’m sure you’d be great. I just . . .”

“Just what?”

“I don’t know. You seemed like . . .”

“Too old?”

“No.”

“Too self-centered?”

“No.”

“Too married to my job?”

At that I hesitated. The last thing I wanted to do was offend her. “So, speaking of married, how come a pretty girl like you never got married?” I asked, almost wincing at how uncomfortable I felt asking such a stupid question and feeling like I’d crossed a line.

“Who said I’ve never been married?” she asked, raising her eyebrows and giving me a sly look.

“You were married?” I asked, trying not to sound as stunned as I felt.

“Right out of the army.”

“How old were you?”

“Twenty, almost twenty-one.”

“Oh . . . I had no idea.”

“It’s not the kind of thing that always comes up on a first date, is it?”

“Have we had a first date?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Collins,” she said. “I seem to recall us making out in front of the Blue Mosque.”

“I thought that was you being a spy,” I said.

“It wasn’t.”

“No?”

“No.”

“But I thought . . .”

“What?”

“I thought you said we had to seem like lovers or the police would think you were . . . you know . . . ?”

“A lady of the night?”

“Something like that.”

“Did I say that?”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Oh, well.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugged.

“Was it true?”

She shook her head and smiled again.

“It wasn’t true?”

Again she shook her head. Now I was really confused.

“You made it all up? We didn’t have to walk the streets like a couple?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“It was Istanbul, J. B., not Mecca,” she replied. “It’s a modern, Western, sophisticated city. They don’t care whom you meet on the streets late at night
 
—not if you’re not Muslim, anyway.”

“So why . . . ?”

“Why what?”

“Why’d you tell me to do it?”

She shrugged again. “Seemed like fun.”

“Fun?”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Well, yeah, but . . .”

“Come on, it was a rainy, foggy night in Istanbul, under the streetlights.”

“Right out of the movies.”

“Exactly. And I thought you were . . .”

“What?”

“You know.”

“No.”

“Adorable.”

“Adorable?”

“Yeah, adorable.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you
 
—and it worked, didn’t it? The police didn’t suspect a thing. Neither did you. So yes, I’d say that was our first date. And it was going rather nicely until . . .”

She caught herself, and it was quiet again. Neither one of us wanted to talk about the car bomb that had killed my friend Omar. I changed the subject.

“So you were married?”

“I was.”

“And it didn’t go well?”

“No, it went fabulously.”

I guess I looked as startled as I felt.

“I was head over heels for him,” Yael explained. “We met in the army on the first base I was assigned to, up north in a town called Yoqneam.”

“And?”

“And we got married the day after I got out of the army.”

“And?”

“And what? He got promoted, became an officer. We were just crazy for each other.”

“What happened?”

“Hezbollah happened. Lebanon happened. He was on a patrol along the border, and one day someone fired an antitank missile at his jeep. His buddies survived. Uri did not.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well, what can you do?”

Her eyes began filling with tears again. I wanted to cross the room and hold her once more
 
—not to kiss her, just to comfort her. But just then we heard footsteps coming down the hall. Then the door opened. It was Sharif.

“His Majesty would like to see you both.”

Yael dabbed her eyes with a tissue, composed herself, and stepped out first. I followed close behind. But I had no idea what was awaiting us back in the war room.

53

Or rather
who
was awaiting us.

Prince Marwan Talal.

He was hunched over in his wheelchair, sitting beside His Majesty at the far end of the conference table, upon which sat a large reel-to-reel tape deck. Wearing his white robes but with a wool blanket wrapped around him to keep him warm, the man looked as bad as I’d ever seen him. His face was gaunt. His skin was sickly pale. Clearly his health had taken a turn for the worse in recent days, and I couldn’t imagine the brutal conditions through which he had just returned from Baghdad. Had he actually flown through this treacherous weather, or had someone driven five-hundred-plus miles to get him here?

King Abdullah welcomed Yael and me back into the room, and we took a seat beside each other. Then the king recapped what his uncle and most senior advisor had been discussing with the group, namely that Iraqi intelligence had become convinced that President Taylor and Abu Khalif were now in Dabiq. His Majesty noted that Hassan Karbouli, the Iraqi interior minister, had played for Prince Marwan tape recordings of two intercepted phone calls between two senior ISIS commanders
 
—one in Mosul and the other in
Aleppo
 
—discussing preparations to take “the jewels in the crown” to Dabiq. The two commanders had apparently discussed routes, accommodations, fueling stops, and security precautions, and one had insisted that “time is of the essence.”

“We’ve been discussing the meaning of the tapes since you left,” the king said, “and how best to move forward.”

“And have you come to a conclusion?” I asked.

“We have. First, the group is agreed that our highest priority is to rescue the president. Capturing or killing Abu Khalif is an urgent task, but it must come second to the president’s welfare. Second, the group is divided on what the evidence shows. We all now agree the data indicate both the president and Khalif were in Alqosh in recent days.”

Then His Majesty addressed me directly. “Mr. Collins, Colonel Sharif shared with us the information provided by your brother, including pictures of him visiting Nahum’s tomb.”

The photos
 
—which I had not yet seen
 
—flashed on the screen, alongside still images from the latest ISIS video. There was no question both sets of images had been taken at the same place, and that place was the town of Alqosh on the plains of Nineveh.

“We all found your brother’s photos conclusive proof the president
was
in Alqosh,” the king continued. “Unfortunately, that doesn’t prove the president is
still
in Alqosh. Some around this table are convinced the president has been moved to Dabiq. Others are equally convinced that he remains in Alqosh.”

“So what are you going to do?” I asked.

“We’ve decided to launch simultaneous operations against both targets,” the king replied. “General Ramirez will lead a force into Alqosh. General El-Badawy will lead the mission into Dabiq. If we can maintain the element of surprise
 
—and synchronize the two assaults
 
—we may just have a shot at success.”

The analysis seemed solid. But it was a stunning change of plans.
Ramirez had come to Jordan determined to take Dabiq. The vice president had been equally adamant. Now everything had changed.

The king then turned the presentation over to Ramirez.

“For the record,” the American general began, “I still lean toward the president being in Dabiq, though I concede the data is not as conclusive as I’d come here believing. And I will be honest with you all that when I spoke to Vice President Holbrooke a few moments ago, I recommended sticking with our original game plan to have me lead the force into Dabiq. But the vice president has decided to accept the counsel of His Majesty, as well as President Mahfouz in Cairo, the king in Riyadh, and the emirs in Abu Dhabi. I know you all believe that if we Americans try to take Dabiq, we will be giving Khalif and his men exactly what they want
 
—a reason to call even more Muslims into the jihad against the infidels of ‘Rome.’ So given this unanimous opinion that it would be more prudent to have a joint Sunni Arab Muslim force handle the attack on Dabiq, I can support this approach. Therefore, I’ll lead a Delta strike on Alqosh. Let’s just pray the president is still breathing and that one group or the other can find him and bring him back alive.”

I glanced at Yael and at Ari, who was sitting to her left. Both seemed pleased with the decision, as was I, but Ramirez wasn’t finished. He explained that the vice president was about to address the nation in a live televised broadcast from the White House Situation Room. The goal was to comfort a country rattled by the events of recent days and to explain the American government’s intended course of action.

First, Holbrooke was going to explain his official role as acting president under the current circumstances.

Second, he was going to say that while he had no constitutional authority to require the American people to convert to Islam, he certainly personally had a great deal of respect for “this religion of peace.”

Third, Holbrooke was going to say that his military advisors had
examined options for trying to rescue the president but had ruled all of them out. He would say the Pentagon was not clear on where the president was being held at the moment and that weather conditions in the region prevented any serious effort to move forward with such a plan, even if one existed.

Fourth, he was going to explain that he was in the process of recalling Congress to pass emergency legislation that would authorize him to transfer several hundred billion dollars to the numbered account in Switzerland designated by the Islamic State. However, he would add that even if the legislation passed, he would not sign it in his role as acting president unless ISIS offered incontrovertible proof that President Taylor was still alive.

“It’s all a ruse, of course,” Ramirez said. “Under no circumstances is the vice president going to transfer more than $300 billion to a terrorist organization. Nor would Congress authorize such a transfer in the first place. But we’ve got to create the impression that he is open to capitulating to at least some of Khalif’s demands. So members of the House and Senate will start flying back to Washington. The White House will whip up a media feeding frenzy over the possible imminent transfer of the funds. The VP will summon the Speaker of the House, the Senate majority leader, and the minority leaders of both houses of Congress to the White House within the hour. Drafts of the proposed legislation will be leaked. The treasury secretary will confer with the Fed chairman, and so forth
 
—all to buy as much time as possible.”

“I’m not convinced Khalif will fall for it,” said Prince Marwan, his voice strained and hoarse. He was barely able to lift his head off his chest.

“I’m not sure there’s another way,” Prince Feisal weighed in, perhaps sparing the king from having to.

The Egyptian general then spoke. “We are presently about five hundred kilometers
 
—more than three hundred miles
 
—from Dabiq.” El-Badawy clicked a button and brought up a map on the main screen
over His Majesty’s left shoulder as he spoke. “We’re nearly eight hundred kilometers
 
—some five hundred miles
 
—from Alqosh. It would typically take about an hour’s flying time to Dabiq, and about an hour and twenty minutes to Alqosh. The X factor right now is the weather. At the moment, the situation outside is so bad that neither General Ramirez nor I believe it is wise to put any planes or choppers in the air. But the meteorologists are telling us we should have a window where things are slightly improved in about four or five hours, and we expect to launch then. In the meantime, we’ll work with our men, update them on the changes, brief them on the latest intel, and answer their questions. But first, are there questions from any of you?”

Four or five hours?
I glanced at the clocks on the wall behind the king. It was already several minutes past seven in the evening. There were fewer than eleven hours until the deadline. With an hour to an hour-and-a-half flight
 
—perhaps significantly longer because of the weather, even if things did improve slightly
 
—El-Badawy was saying the strikes wouldn’t even begin until two or two thirty in the morning. Wasn’t that cutting things awfully close? Then again, what more could they do? If Mother Nature didn’t cooperate, all these plans could be for naught.

“Seeing none, then I respectfully give the floor back to His Majesty and just want to say what an honor it will be for me to lead this joint Arab operation. May Allah grant us favor and a great and resounding victory.”

At this, the king rose from his seat. We all followed suit, save Prince Marwan, of course, who appeared to me to be in great pain and in deep emotional anguish over everything that was happening to his country and to the region. I suddenly felt a renewed pang of guilt for ever having doubted his fealty to the king or the kingdom and hoped he never found out what I’d said to Agent Harris when my own loyalties were being attacked.

“Dr. Shalit and Dr. Katzir, I want to thank you and your government
for your immense help,” the king said. “The world may not know for many years
 
—or perhaps ever
 
—what a significant role you have played in helping your Sunni Arab neighbors and the Americans prepare for this moment. Especially because I have no intention of letting Mr. Collins go on either of these missions or write about any of these matters going forward. But
I
know. And each of the men in this room knows. And I think your involvement is a testament to the tremendous good that can be done when neighbors work together despite their real and deep and many differences. And I want to personally thank you, in the presence of all these gathered.”

Ari and Yael bowed slightly to acknowledge the king’s gracious words. But I was livid.

“Your Majesty, may I say something?” I asked, restraining myself as best I could.

“Not right now, Mr. Collins. We don’t have time.”

“But, Your Majesty, I really must insist you let me cover American forces going into battle to rescue an American president.”

“Sorry, Mr. Collins,” the king replied. “The answer is no.”

“Why the sudden change?” I pressed. “You brought me here to make sure the world had an unbiased view of what was happening.”

“The situation has changed.”

“I don’t see how it has.”

“The unanimous view of every single person in this room says it has,” the king replied slowly and firmly.

I was about to protest further, to insist they embed me with the Delta team, but as I scanned the faces around the table, I could see there was no point. There wasn’t a sympathetic gaze in the bunch. I sensed that Ari was about to say something, but I was certain it was an intelligence matter, nothing to support my case.

But the king was not finished. “There is one piece of unfinished business to which I must attend,” he said, turning his attention to Yael. “Dr. Katzir?”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“I have a favor to ask of you.”

“I am at your service, Your Majesty,” she replied.

“Is that a yes?”

“Of course.”

“Very well,” said the king. “I would like you to accompany General Ramirez and his forces to Alqosh.”

I did a double take.

“I beg your pardon?” Yael asked, her countenance betraying that she was as surprised by the king’s request as I was.

“You know more about that town, that compound, and the chemical weapons that are stored there than any person in this room,” the king explained. “I realize, of course, that it would be politically unwise to have an Israeli Mossad officer formally participating in the invasion of an Iraqi village, especially launching from Jordanian soil. But at my request, General Ramirez is prepared to make you an honorary American for the night. He will give you a uniform to wear and a weapon to fight with, and you’ll be at his side for the entire operation.”

My stomach clenched. I turned to Yael. The whole room was staring at her. The blood was draining from her face. I knew what she was thinking. She’d thought she was through with all this. She’d done her part; she was finished. She had no intention of going into battle. She just wanted to go back to Tel Aviv and take a nice hot bath and a long, well-deserved break. I could see it in her eyes, in the way her whole body tensed.

That’s what I wanted for her too. At the very least, I wanted her at my side here in the war room as we tracked the latest developments in Alqosh and Dabiq. I was still hoping to write dispatches on the operations that were about to unfold, and who better than her to help me make sense of what exactly was happening and its significance? The thought of her going back into harm’s way physically
sickened me, as I’m sure it did her, especially after the conversation we’d just had, and I was proud of her for her ability to respectfully decline the king’s invitation. She’d certainly earned her right to say, “No thank you.”