The Third Target (23 page)

Why?

This was Jordan’s largest English-language daily newspaper. The palace was clearly using it to lay the groundwork for the peace talks “to the west,” but why were they not making it clear how serious was the “storm to the east”?

I did a quick Google search to see how much coverage of ISIS this and other Jordanian papers had published in recent weeks. Some, but
not much. Again, why? To be sure, well over half of Jordan’s population was of Palestinian origin. Some said the number was as high as 70 percent. Most held Jordanian citizenship. They were certainly deeply concerned about the future of their Arab brothers and sisters on the west side of the Jordan River. They strongly supported the creation of a Palestinian state. Most believed it was a terrible injustice of the West not to have helped create a Palestinian state sooner. But ISIS posed a clear and present danger to the region.

The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan sat wedged between Iraq, Syria, the Palestinians, and Israel.

A threat to the others surely posed a threat to Jordan, too.

The phone rang.

Not the room phone but my mobile. I glanced at the caller ID to see who in the world it could be. The screen read simply,
Unknown caller
.

My pulse quickened. Maybe it was Yael. Then again, maybe it was my brother.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Collins?” asked the voice at the other end. “Is that you?”

“Who’s asking?” I replied, now somewhat guarded.

“Good, it is you,” he said. “I’ve been worried about you. Are you all right?”

“I’m sorry; who is this?” I asked.

“Come now, my friend, you don’t recognize my voice?”

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“It’s Marwan. Are you dressed?”

Startled, I suddenly found myself rising to my feet. I had not expected a call from Prince Marwan Talal.

“Your Royal Highness, forgive me,” I said. “No, I’m sorry. I just woke up.”

“I have sent you a car and driver
 
—they are waiting in front of your hotel,” he said. “Take a quick shower. Get dressed. And meet the driver in ten minutes. We need to talk.”

I had met with Marwan Talal many times over the years, but never at his home.

But the farther we drove from the hotel and veered away from any of the main government buildings with which I was familiar, the more I became convinced that’s where I was being taken.

Though we e-mailed occasionally, it had been quite some time since I had actually seen the king’s eldest uncle. He was now in his eighties, and I’d heard rumors his health was not so good. But as the Mercedes pulled through the security gates of a palatial home on the outskirts of Amman
 
—past the Humvee out front with the soldier manning a .50-caliber machine gun, past at least a dozen other heavily armed guards, and up the long, winding palm tree–lined driveway
 
—I was not prepared for the man who awaited me.

The prince was confined to a wheelchair now. His gray hair had thinned considerably. His face looked gaunt, and I wondered if I was detecting a bit of jaundice as well. But when I stepped out of the car and came over to him, he greeted me with the same warm smile and twinkle in his eye for which I had come to know him. And though his hands trembled slightly as he took both of mine, and though his voice was somewhat raspier than I remembered, there was also an indescribable air of confidence about him that gave me the sense he was still in command of his faculties. That was reassuring, I thought. But that was pretty much the only thing about our time together that was.

We gave each other a traditional Arab kiss on both cheeks, and then I followed as a steward wheeled the prince through the handsomely appointed entry hall to a veranda overlooking the capital.
Soon we were served the best Turkish coffee I think I’ve ever had, and then we were left alone to chat.

“You are a survivor, Mr. Collins,” Marwan said to begin our conversation.

“I’ve been lucky.”

“No,” he said, wagging his finger at me. “Your protection is Allah’s doing. Your enemies have tried to kill you twice. But clearly Allah is not done with you.”

“Not yet,” I quipped.

“Indeed,” he said. “Not yet. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look terrible.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“I just mean all the cuts and bruises and bandages. And you’re as pale as a ghost.”

“Yet I’m sitting in Amman with an old friend.”

“That you are. But you were sitting with an old friend at Union Station when all the shooting broke out.”

“Are you saying I’m in danger here?”

“I’m saying one never knows where danger lurks.”

“True,” I said. “One never knows.”

The prince did not touch his coffee. He just sat there and looked at me as if he were studying me, as if he were trying to make sense of who I was despite the many years we had known each other.

“Mr. Collins . . . ,” the prince began, and then his voice trailed off for a moment.

He was not the only prince in the royal family. Indeed, there were many, and some of them were very close to the king. But Marwan Talal was the most senior of the princes. Perhaps it was because of his age and insistence on tradition and protocol that he persisted in calling me Mr. Collins. I had long since given up on persuading him to call me James
 
—much less J. B.

“Yes, Your Royal Highness?” I prompted.

“Mr. Collins, are you ready to become a follower of the Prophet, peace be upon him?”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. He knew I wasn’t a religious man. But then again, there were few if any Muslims in the royal court as devout as Marwan Talal. He was a direct descendant of the prophet Muhammad. He had been trained as a Sunni cleric and for years had taught Sharia law in Jordan’s most prestigious seminary. And honestly, I think he’d been trying to convert me
 
—at least to deism, if not Islam
 
—since the day I’d met him. I appreciated the gesture, but this question still made me uncomfortable.

I briefly considered telling him that my days of atheism and agnosticism had apparently passed. I did, in fact, believe in God. I just didn’t know how to find him, though I was becoming increasingly convinced I had to try. But not here. Not today. And with all respect to Marwan and his impressive family, I was not about to become a Muslim. I’d been raised in a Christian home by a very devout mother. I wasn’t exactly ready to embrace my mother’s beliefs. I wasn’t really sure where I stood with Jesus at this point in my life. But I certainly wasn’t about to give my mother a stroke by asking her to come down to the local mosque to pray with me five times a day.

“I am still finding my way, my friend,” I said.

“There is only one Prophet,” he replied. “There is only one path. There is only one guide, the Qur’an.”

“You’re starting to sound like a member of the Brotherhood,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Why would you say such a thing?” he asked, sounding a bit defensive.

“Didn’t you just recite the slogan of the Muslim Brotherhood?”

“Certainly not,” he replied. “The Muslim Brotherhood’s mantra is: ‘Allah is our objective. The Prophet is our leader. Qur’an is our law. Jihad is our way. Dying in the way of Allah is our highest hope.’”

“Close.”

“A man can be a faithful Muslim and not be a member of the Brotherhood, can he not?”

“Of course.”

“Then I believe you’re trying to change the subject, Mr. Collins. Have you ever read the Qur’an?”

“Yes, I have.”

“And?”

“Again, let’s just say I’m finding my way,” I replied, trying to be as diplomatic as I could.

“If I may be direct, Mr. Collins, you are a young man in great need of Islam. You are, I am sad to say, all alone in this world. You have no wife. You have no children. No faith. No community. That is no way to live, my friend. Why not join us? I would be happy to teach you the path of Islam myself.”

“Thank you,” I said politely. “I will consider your gracious offer. But I suspect this is not why you have brought me here today.”

“Not the only reason, no,” he said.

“Then how can I help you?”

“Your most recent article in the
Times
. It bothered me very much.”

I took another sip of coffee and braced myself. “I’m sorry to hear that, Your Highness. What bothered you in particular?”

“Among many things, your timing,” the prince said. “Didn’t President Taylor specifically ask you not to publish a story of this sort at this time?”

I was stunned that he knew such a thing, but then again he and his king were in very close contact with the White House, especially now.

“I believe I made the administration’s concerns abundantly clear in the story,” I responded.

“Nevertheless, the president and His Majesty are in the very delicate final stages of being midwives to an extraordinary peace
treaty,” he explained. “His Majesty has been working quietly, behind the scenes, with President Mansour and Prime Minister Lavi and their closest advisors for months, along with your president and his administration.”

“For how long exactly?”

“Eight months, maybe nine.”

Suddenly the prince began a coughing spell that was so bad I worried he might have a heart attack. I poured him a glass of water. He drank it all, and soon he was quiet again.

“How involved is His Majesty?”

“His Majesty is overseeing the entire process.”

“Not the Americans?”

“Everything is done under the auspices of the Taylor administration, of course,” he said with a theatrical flair, spreading out his arms expansively. “The president does the talk-talk-talk in public. The Americans take all the credit. But His Majesty is doing the heavy lifting.”

“Right here in Amman?”

“Some of it, yes,” he confirmed. “But mostly at the palace in Aqaba. It’s quieter there. It’s off the media’s radar. King Hussein used to hold many such secret contacts there. His Majesty learned from his father, peace be upon him.”

“And the deal is almost finished?”

“Young man, it
is
finished,” the prince said. “His Majesty got an agreement on the final language yesterday. I can’t give you any of the details, of course. Not yet. But I can tell you both Lavi and Mansour have signed off. Now they are planning the announcement to the media, which will take place in the region in a matter of days. Indeed, your president is coming soon. It’s all very hush-hush, but it could happen by the end of the week.”

“This week?” I asked.

“It will be a shock to everyone,” he said.

“I’ll say.”

“Until the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours, the media has been filled with stories that the parties were far from a deal. Now, as you can see, carefully timed leaks are beginning to raise people’s expectations. When the announcement is made, your president and secretary of state have made it clear they want lots of pomp and ceremony. A big show for the Arab and Israeli and American media. Then the four principals will fly back to Washington, brief members of the House and Senate, and hold a signing ceremony in the East Room of the White House.”

“President Taylor, Prime Minister Lavi, President Mansour, and King Abdullah?”

“Of course, but why do you put His Majesty at the end of the list?” he asked. I could not tell by his tone or expression if he was serious.

Then he began coughing violently again.

“And then comes my article,” I said when he had taken another sip of water.

“It was, shall we say, a ‘monkey wrench.’”

“Not good news.”

“Not good at all.”

“But it’s all accurate.”

“So you say.”

“You just didn’t want it made public on the eve of the big peace announcement,” I said.

“Look, Mr. Collins, this is old news,” he said, his expression becoming more somber now. “The ISIS attack on the base near Aleppo happened weeks ago. No one is certain what they found. Your own reporting says as much. But you and the
Times
have sensationalized the story, made it sound worse than it is, and injected fear into the hearts of millions at a moment when His Majesty is trying to bring quiet and calm.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness, fewer than a hundred people on the planet knew about the ISIS attack on that Syrian base until this story. Now the whole world knows. It’s very much news, and it should be, especially given recent threats by Jamal Ramzy that ISIS is about to hit a third target.”

“But my point is that it’s all circumstantial and hearsay,” the elderly prince shot back. “If ISIS really had chemical weapons, wouldn’t we all know by now? But they’ve neither used them nor admitted to having them; nor do you have any scrap of credible intelligence that Khalif and Ramzy and their people really have these weapons of mass destruction. You seem to be interested in nothing but selling newspapers and making a name for yourself. I expected more from you. I thought we were friends.”

I was stung by the personal nature of his criticism. But for now I ignored his last comments and stuck to the central issue.

“Aren’t you worried about the threat ISIS poses to the peace of the region? Don’t you think it’s possible that ISIS is just holding back these weapons, waiting for the right moment to strike?”