The Third Target (31 page)

We finally got out of the car and headed into Matt’s building.

As Matt pressed the button for the elevator, I realized I couldn’t procrastinate any longer. “Listen, Matt, there’s something else.”

“What?”

“You guys need to leave Jordan.”

The elevator door opened, and Matt shot me a look. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re not safe here. You need to go back to the States
 
—immediately.”

“Immediately?”

“Tonight,” I said as we stepped into the elevator and the door slid shut behind us.

“J. B., are you crazy? I’m on a yearlong sabbatical. I’ve still got four months to go.”

“No, you and Annie have to take the kids and leave. Don’t worry about the cost. I’ll cover your tickets.”

“Because you think ISIS is going to attack Amman?”

“No, it’s not just that.”

“Then what?”

“It’s Abu Khalif.”

“What about him?”

“He mentioned you guys by name. He knows you’re here in Amman. He knows where you live. You’re not safe here, any of you. Mom’s not safe either. Abu Khalif made it clear that when he’s good and ready, he’s coming after all of us.”

The bell rang and the door opened. We stepped out into the hall, but Matt stopped me before we went any farther. “You’re serious about this?”

“I’m afraid so. And you’ve got to move fast.”

“But why us? What does Khalif want with any of us?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I told you, the guy is a psychopath, a Hannibal Lecter with sarin. I’m just telling you what I saw and heard. What kind of brother would I be if I didn’t?”

Matt stood there in the hallway for a moment. I could see him trying to process all that I’d told him and what it meant for him and his precious family.

“Katie turned four last week,” he said softly.

“Already?” I said. I desperately wanted to make sure nothing happened to her.

“She’s in a Sunday school class at the church we’re going to,” Matt continued. “She loves it. Can’t wait to get there every week. And there’s a competition. For every Bible verse she memorizes, she gets a point. Whichever kid gets the most points by the end of the semester gets a prize. Right now, she’s in second place.”

I nodded but said nothing, not quite sure where this was headed.

“Do you know what her verses were for last week?”

“No,” I said. “What?”

“1 John 5:11-12.”

“Okay . . . ?”

“Do you remember that from when we were kids?”

“Can’t say I do; why?”

“‘And the testimony is this, that God has given us eternal life, and this life is in His Son. He who has the Son has the life; he who does not have the Son of God does not have the life.’”

“All right,” I said. “I guess I remember something like that, vaguely.”

“I’m not worried about us, J. B. The four of us know where we’re going. But what about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Annie and the kids and I have trusted Christ as our Savior,” he replied, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. “We have the Son. We’ve been forgiven our sins and adopted into the family of God
 
—by grace, not because of anything good we did. Have you? We’ve been praying for you for years. And we were praying for you from the moment you left for Baghdad
 
—for your safety, but more importantly for your soul. So I have to ask you: where are you with Christ right now?”

I tensed. “I appreciate your concern for me, Matt, I really do, but I
 
—”

I suddenly had no idea how to finish that sentence, so I just stopped midflight.

“Look, this isn’t some game. Everywhere you go, people around you
 
—people close to you
 
—are dying. Someone’s gunning for you. And sooner than later, they may get you. I hope to God they don’t. I pray every day and every night they don’t, and I won’t stop. But the odds are against you, and they’re slipping fast. You need to make a choice
 
—heaven or hell, in or out. What are you going to do with Jesus? You’re running out of time to decide.”

It was a valid question. Especially now. I just didn’t want to answer it.

“I don’t know,” I said, looking away.

“Why didn’t you ask Christ to save you while you were in Iraq? Don’t you realize how close you came to death?”

“Of course I do, but what do you want me to say? That I had a
foxhole conversion? That I saw my life passing before my eyes and decided to accept Christ as fire insurance, just in case?”

“No, of course not. I’m not telling you to make some superficial leap into religion. Certainly not for my sake or Annie’s or Mom’s. What I’m saying is you need to make a serious decision, on your own, in your heart and in your head, based on the facts. Is Jesus the Messiah or isn’t he? Is he the only way to eternal life or not? The stakes couldn’t be higher. It’s not just life or death; it’s your eternity we’re talking about. And it’s time to choose, J. B. Before it’s too late.”

“Matt, for crying out loud, why are you pushing me on this?”

“I’m not pushing you.”

“Of course you are.”

“Okay, fine, I’m pushing you. But what else am I supposed to do? I love you. So do Annie and the kids. We care about you.”

“And you’re worried for me.”

“Of course we are. Aren’t you?”

I sighed and looked away. “Yeah, guess I am. But I’m not there, Matt. I’m sorry. I’m just not.”

It was quiet in the cluttered, narrow hallway. The only sound was the low hum of the fluorescent lights above us. The whole place was filled with kids’ bicycles and balls and dolls and empty soda bottles and various other kinds of family-related litter. It was a long way from the adorable little three-bedroom bungalow Matt and Annie used to live in near Boston before they had kids. A long way from my luxury penthouse apartment in Arlington, Virginia, too. We had very different lives, Matt and I. And now here we were in Amman of all places.

“Okay,” he said after a moment. “But I’m not going to stop.”

“Fine.”

“I’m going to keep praying for you.”

“I appreciate it.”

“And I’m going to keep asking you. Because at the end of the day,
when it’s all said and done, the simple truth is I want to be with you and Mom and the whole family in heaven, and I’d never be able to forgive myself if I didn’t do everything I could to get you there. What kind of brother would I be if I didn’t?”

I sighed. He hadn’t changed a bit. I shrugged and nodded. He put his arm around me and walked me to his front door.

“Come on,” he said. “I’m starved, and Annie’s making her famous lasagna.”

We stepped around all the clutter, and Matt unlocked the door. As we entered the apartment, I expected a warm and enthusiastic greeting from Annie and the kids.

But that’s not what happened.

Greeting us were two plainclothes agents from the Jordanian secret police.

With them were two soldiers in full combat gear, sporting automatic weapons. Annie and the kids stood behind them, looking frightened.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Matt demanded.

“Are you Matthew Collins?” the lead agent asked.

“Of course. What do you want?”

“I am Ali Sa’id, chief of security for the Royal Court,” said the lead agent, who then turned to me. “And are you James Collins?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Are you or are you not James Collins?” the agent repeated.

“Yes, I am.”

“Then I need you to come with me.”

“Where? What in the world is going on?”

“You’ll understand soon enough.”

I protested, but it didn’t make any difference. These men clearly had their orders and weren’t taking no for an answer.

Matt gave me a hug and whispered in my ear, “We’ll be on the first flight out tonight.”

I said nothing but rather turned and hugged Annie, Katie, and Josh as tightly as I could. I didn’t want to let go. I so wanted to spend time with them. I wanted to play with the kids and hear their laughter. I wanted this family to help me get my mind off the terrible things I had seen and heard. After so many years of avoiding my brother, now I wanted to spend real time with him, see his life up close, and ask him a thousand questions. But right now I just hoped they would get out of the country before Khalif’s men hunted them down and butchered them like cattle.

The agents led me downstairs and put me in the backseat of a black, bulletproof Mercedes. We peeled away from Matt’s neighborhood with an urgency that only heightened my anxiety.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, but the lead agent didn’t answer.

“Am I under arrest?”

Nothing.

“Am I being deported?”

Still nothing.

“Look, I’m an American citizen and an accredited member of the press,” I reminded them. “I have a right to know what’s happening.”

But my pleas fell on deaf ears.

We were heading back into the heart of Amman, I could see, and dense traffic slowed the journey. Given the route, I initially suspected they were taking me to the Interior Ministry. Omar and I had been there numerous times over the years to talk to high-ranking officials, including the minister. Then again, perhaps we might be going to see General Kamal Jeddeh, the head of the General Intelligence Directorate, another occasional source. But soon it became clear that both of these guesses were off the mark.

When we passed through the center of the city and began zigzagging through a series of side streets heading to the city’s northwest quadrant, my mind started racing. Was it possible? Were we
really heading to Al-Hummar? I’d never been there before, and a visit there now of all times seemed unlikely in the extreme. Yet after a somewhat-lengthy and circuitous drive through the city, we eventually did arrive in the heavily guarded section of the capital where the Royal Court was located. The agents radioed ahead, and before I knew it, enormous steel gates were opening to us and the Mercedes pulled up in front of a huge building I’d seen countless times on television but never in person.

“Welcome to the palace, Mr. Collins,” Sa’id remarked before jumping out of the car and opening the door for me. “His Majesty is expecting you.”

I stepped out of the car. Baffled yet intrigued by this turn of events, I found myself staring up at a mammoth structure made of beautifully carved limestone with a slightly pinkish hue. I’d always thought of this building material as “Jerusalem stone,” but apparently it was common to the entire region. I saw five huge exterior archways, each leading to an equally huge interior archway. Framing the center archway were two flagpoles, one on each side, upon which the distinctive black, red, white, and green flag of the Hashemite Kingdom snapped smartly in the brisk December winds.

At least a dozen soldiers stood guard in front of the palace. I saw several others patrolling the rooftop. Then a half-dozen large trucks
 
—resembling moving vans but unmarked
 
—pulled through the gates, drove past us, and parked to my left. Moments later, a group of workers, presumably employed by the Royal Court, came through a side door and began unloading a series of boxes from the trucks.

Several additional security guards approached and surrounded us as Ali Sa’id asked me to follow him. He led me through one of the archways and two large wooden doors and then we were inside the Al-Hummar Palace.

Under the circumstances, I expected to be thoroughly searched. Certainly I would be directed to pass through a metal detector and
have my briefcase and camera bag run through X-ray machines. But no. All the equipment was there, but we passed straight by it. I wasn’t even asked to show my driver’s license or passport or any other form of ID.

The agent took me down one hallway after another lined with framed portraits of the Hashemite monarchs. The lovely Queen Rania smiled out from one frame, and I saw another featuring Crown Prince Hussein, the king’s eldest son. There were also a number of photographs of significant dignitaries meeting with the late King Hussein as well as the current King Abdullah II, including American presidents and secretaries of state and various European and Asian heads of state and foreign ministers, as well as the Saudi king and other Arab presidents, monarchs, and emirs. There was even a recent picture of the king greeting the new pope. It was, in many ways, a monarchy museum, complete with oblong glass cases containing various ancient vases, a gleaming silver saber that looked several centuries old, and other archaeological and historical artifacts from the age of the Ottomans, Roman times, and even biblical times.

On a normal day I might have been interested in some of it or perhaps even all of it. But this was no ordinary day. I was about to meet the king of Jordan for the first time, and I could only imagine why. My stomach was in knots. I hadn’t eaten anything substantive in hours. I was suddenly parched, as well, and still battling shock from all that had happened in the last few days. But at that moment, I could only think about one thing: Was this meeting going to be on the record or off?

As I came around a corner, I found Prince Marwan waiting for me in his wheelchair. He was dressed in his traditional white-and-beige robes and wore his traditional red- and white-checkered kaffiyeh like a true Jordanian royal. He was not smiling. Indeed, he not only looked tired and ill but deeply troubled as well. However, he greeted me politely and asked me to follow him. As Sa’id and the rest of the
security detail took up their positions around us, two ceremonial guards wearing ornate bedouin military uniforms opened two large doors.

We entered a room I recognized from photos as the king’s official receiving room. This was where he typically held meetings with heads of state and dignitaries from all over the world. The walls were covered with rich, dark mahogany paneling. There were two beautiful ivory-and-beige couches straight ahead, one close to the door and the other facing it on the far side of the room.

In the center of the room was a low, modern, rather sleek-looking coffee table upon which were small vases of white flowers and various wooden bowls containing several small archaeological artifacts. There were two small end tables beside the couch at the back of the room. The one on the right side bore a lamp and a large ceramic ashtray, while the one on the left bore a framed eight-by-ten black-and-white photograph of the late King Hussein wearing a Western business suit and his signature kaffiyeh. Behind the couch near the back wall was an end table with what appeared to be several priceless vases and pieces of ancient pottery, as well as another framed photo of King Hussein.

As I looked around, I saw Kamal Jeddeh, Jordan’s intelligence director, a fit, barrel-chested man in his midfifties, rise from one of the couches. We greeted one another, but only for a moment. The prince seemed to be in a bit of a hurry, and he immediately asked me to take a seat on another couch on the left side of the room. I did as he asked, then admired the photographs and other details of the room while we waited several minutes in silence. Jeddeh struck me as uncharacteristically anxious, toying with a pen and glancing repeatedly at his watch.

The prince was not his typically warm self. I wanted to ask why, but at the moment it did not seem appropriate, so I held my tongue. To be honest, I was actually grateful that no one was talking quite yet. The silence gave me a chance to get my bearings, settle my heart
rate somewhat, and start thinking about why His Majesty had summoned me and what I wanted to ask him if he gave me the chance.

Suddenly my phone vibrated. I quickly checked. Yael had responded to my text.

James
 
—thank G-d you’re safe! Thnx 4 the note. Have been worried sick. We need to talk. Dangerous new developments. Call me ASAP.
 
—Y

Just then a door opened in the back of the room. Several more security men entered. Then the king entered as well, followed by the crown prince. In that moment it occurred to me that I was about to experience something my grandfather never had; I was about to meet a king.

His Majesty wore a finely tailored dark-blue suit, a light-blue shirt, and a red power tie. He was handsome and clean-shaven, and the thought struck me that he could have easily passed for the CEO of a high-tech company or perhaps a university president rather than a sovereign and one of the West’s most important allies in the entire Arab world. He was somewhat shorter than me but obviously in excellent physical shape
 
—no doubt the result of discipline gained from his many years in the military
 
—and was clearly in command with a broad smile and warm manner. Although there was no question who was in charge when he entered the room, I didn’t detect any arrogance or pomposity as I had when meeting other world leaders.

“Mr. Collins, it is a delight to meet you,” he said with an accent that bespoke his years of secondary and university schooling in England, graciously extending his hand. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”

“It is an honor to meet you, Your Majesty,” I replied, not entirely sure of the proper protocol but taking his cue and accepting his firm handshake.

The king introduced me to Crown Prince Hussein as an official
photographer snapped several pictures and then stepped out of the room.

“Please have a seat,” the king said. “Make yourself comfortable. I have been reading your dispatches. What a harrowing couple of weeks you have had.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I replied, feeling butterflies in my stomach. “Harrowing, indeed.”

The king took a seat on the couch across from me. His son, in his early twenties, wore a black suit with a crisp white shirt and a purple tie and sat on the same couch as his father. Prince Marwan was wheeled into position off to my right, just beyond the coffee table, while Director Jeddeh, in a gray suit and a bland-yellow tie, sat directly to my right, at the other end of the couch. We were served coffee, but as thirsty as I was, I couldn’t think about drinking it right now.

The king ignored the coffee as well and motioned for his servants to step out of the room.

“Everything we say here today is off the record. Is that understood?” he began when we were finally alone.

“I would really like to get you on the record,” I replied. “No Arab leader has reacted to the Abu Khalif interview. You should be the first.”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “I will give you exclusive access to me for the day, including a formal sit-down interview. But right now I want to talk with you privately.”

I could hardly say no, so I nodded and said thank you.

“I want to start by updating you on the peace process,” the king said.

“Not Abu Khalif?” I asked in amazement. “Not ISIS?”

“First things first.”

“With all due respect, Your Majesty, I would think ISIS would be your top concern,” I responded.

“I am well aware of the risks,” he replied.

“Abu Khalif clearly wants to seize control of Iraq and Syria. But he and Jamal Ramzy told me they are now about to strike a third target. And based on everything I have seen and heard, I have come to believe that target may be Jordan.”

“We’ve been dealing with ISIS for a long time, Mr. Collins. We know who they are and what they want. We are ready for them. I am not worried. My focus right now is to help the Palestinians get their state, and I believe that after many tears and much heartache, that time has finally come.”

I had tremendous respect for this king, but I wasn’t sure this was wisdom. To be sure, His Majesty was highly experienced in surfing the turbulent waves in the region. And of course, he was not only a highly trained soldier, but he had once been commander of Jordan’s special forces. Nevertheless, at that moment I was concerned that he and his royal advisors were so focused on the peace process to their west that they might not be sufficiently attentive to the threat rising to their east.