The First Hostage: A J. B. Collins Novel (15 page)

26

“Mr. Collins, we meet again; how nice.”

To be clear, I recognized the face. But I couldn’t remember his name from Adam. He was an American, in his midfifties, well built, like he’d once been a Marine, a tad over six feet, with a strong jaw and a buzz cut that seemed like a throwback to the days of black-and-white television. He wore a dark suit and a white shirt with a thick dark tie and black wingtip shoes. I knew we’d met in Istanbul, in the hospital, just after the car bombing that took the life of Omar Fayez. He worked for the FBI
 
—that, too, I remembered, but still I couldn’t place the name. It was unlike me, and I chalked it up to sedatives and stress.

“Not to worry, Mr. Collins,” he said as he watched me racing through my mental Rolodex and coming up blank. “You meet a lot of people.”

He handed me a business card and I suddenly had a déjà vu moment. We’d done this before. The card bore the bureau’s logo, a local office address in Istanbul, an e-mail address, a phone number, and the words
Arthur M. Harris, Special Agent in Charge
.

“Mr. Harris,” I said. “Thanks for stopping by.”

Harris didn’t smile, not that I’d expected him to. Nor was I really trying to be funny. He wasn’t coming to set me free. He was coming to bury me.

Harris sat down on the other side of the table, set his briefcase on the floor next to him, opened it, pulled out a digital voice recorder, and placed it on the table and hit Record.

“Have you been informed of the charges against you, Mr. Collins?” he began.

“Not in so many words, no,” I said cautiously.

“Well, I’m here to do that,” he replied. “But first, let’s review your rights. You don’t have to speak to me, of course. You can ask for a lawyer. But I’m hoping you’ll first shed some light on what exactly has just happened.”

I tried to decide if I should ask for a lawyer
 
—or rather when to ask for one. If I was really facing charges that could lead to the death penalty, I couldn’t take any risk in saying something that could be used against me. At the same time, I knew asking for a lawyer would shut down the discussion before it had begun, and I wasn’t ready to do that. At the moment, Agent Harris was my only contact with the outside world. To dismiss him because I didn’t have a lawyer meant being sent back to solitary confinement while the clock ticked down to the execution of the president. Harris, therefore, was my only hope of gleaning information about what was happening in the hunt for the president and Abu Khalif. He was also my only hope of learning a bit of what was going on with Allen, with my family, perhaps even Yael, as well as getting messages back to any or all of them.

“By the way, when I refer to charges, I should say ‘charges pending’ against you,” Harris clarified. “No formal charges have been filed. Not yet. Too much is happening at the moment. But the Jordanian authorities have made it clear to the bureau they are building a very strong case against you.”

“What case?” I asked. “I risked my life to save the king’s and his family’s. They’re going to charge me for that?”

“They say the royal family survived in spite of your efforts, Mr. Collins. And I have to say, the evidence they’ve shown me is rather compelling.”

“They think I’m conspiring with ISIS against the Hashemite Kingdom?”

“In a word, yes.”

“They think the fact that I’ve interviewed Abu Khalif and Jamal Ramzy means I’m in collusion with them.”

“They wonder how you got such ‘exclusive interviews.’ They wonder how you keep managing to live when everyone else around you dies. They wonder why you were allowed to leave Mosul and get back to Jordan just before the peace summit when no other foreigner has been to Abu Khalif’s secret headquarters and come out alive.”

I’d heard all this before from Prince Feisal, but the list was no less incredible now. “What do they say about the fact that I was the one who spotted the F-16 breaking off from his wingman, that I was the one who alerted the chief of security for the Royal Court that a kamikaze attack was under way?”

“Too little, too late, they say.”

“But it wasn’t too late, was it?” I protested. “That ‘little’ bit of warning saved the king’s life, not to mention President Taylor’s, Prime Minister Lavi’s, and President Mansour’s.”

“Look, Mr. Collins, I’m not here on behalf of the Jordanian government,” Harris replied, deftly changing lanes. “I’m not here investigating the attempted assassination of the king, per se. I’m here investigating the attempted assassination of the president of the United States, along with the murder of the secretary of state and eighty-two other American citizens.”

“You can’t possibly think I’m complicit in any of that.”

“Like I said, Mr. Collins, on a short list of suspects, you’re the only one with irrefutable contact with the enemy.”

I took a deep breath and fought to keep my composure. “Is the FBI charging me with a crime?”

“Not yet.”

“But you intend to?”

“That’s not my call.”

“Whose is it?”

“The attorney general’s
 
—he’s in the process of convening a special grand jury.”

“And I’m a target?”

“Clearly.”

“What are the charges the Jordanians are preparing to make? You never said.”

“Murder, attempted murder, aggravated murder, terrorism, and espionage.”

I felt sick.

“At the top of the list is treason
 
—‘making an attempt on the life of the king, the queen, or the regent.’”

“This is a joke. The only attempt I made was to save the life of the king and queen. A successful attempt, I might add.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Mr. Collins; this is no joke, and I am told they intend to prosecute all of these crimes to the fullest extent of the law.”

“Which is?”

“These are all capital crimes. They are punishable by death.”

I knew from Colonel Sharif that Jordan still had a death penalty, but I was pretty sure they hadn’t used it in years. Were they really threatening to execute me for crimes I hadn’t even committed? “But Jordan doesn’t execute criminals,” I said hopefully.

“Not true,” Harris replied. “There are currently 106 convicted criminals on death row here. And the Jordanian government executed several ISIS and al Qaeda conspirators earlier this year.”

If I was going to ask for a lawyer, this was surely the time. Instead, I leaned forward and lowered my voice.

“Agent Harris, I had absolutely nothing to do with these crimes. I’m a reporter, not a terrorist. I’ve been doing everything I can to understand the enemy and warn my country and the world about their intentions. It was my story with Jamal Ramzy that warned the president and his senior advisors that a major attack was coming. It was my reporting that made it clear that ISIS had captured chemical weapons. The president wasn’t convinced ISIS really possessed them. CIA Director Vaughn told me personally he wasn’t convinced ISIS had weapons of mass destruction. It was my reporting
 
—not his or his team’s intelligence gathering
 
—that provided conclusive evidence that ISIS had sarin gas. Every step of the way, I have warned American and Jordanian leaders
 
—in print and in person
 
—of grave and imminent dangers to them. Dangers that proved to be true. Dangers that have nearly gotten me killed numerous times. Dangers that got me shot, that led to the deaths of my closest friends. In short, Mr. Harris, I’m not guilty of these horrific crimes. Abu Khalif is guilty. ISIS is guilty. And anyone in a position of authority who didn’t listen to my repeated warnings and take appropriate action bears no small measure of responsibility as well.”

“Very moving, Mr. Collins, but save it for your summation.”

27

I was getting nowhere fast.

Harris wasn’t buying my defense, so I decided to go on offense. It was a risk, especially with a running audio recording, but it was a calculated one, and at that moment I felt I had no choice.

“Look, Agent Harris, like you, like my Jordanian friends, I’m convinced there’s a mole at a very high level, a mole that has been feeding information to ISIS,” I said, making an enormous concession I was sure no lawyer would advise. “Someone with access to the details of the peace summit must have supplied those details to Abu Khalif and his men in an attempt to kill all four principals and take over the kingdom of Jordan. I categorically deny I am that mole or that I am involved in a criminal conspiracy in any way, shape, or form. But I have been thinking long and hard about this and I want you to consider three possible suspects.”

“Shall we begin with Yael Katzir?” he asked, catching me off guard.

“What? Of course not,” I said. “She had nothing to do with this.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s ridiculous. Why would you even ask such a thing?”

“That’s not a compelling argument, Mr. Collins.”

“Yael? You’re serious?” I shot back. “She had every opportunity to kill every single principal in the king’s palace, but she fought back against the terrorists instead. She could have easily killed the royal family while we were escaping the palace and racing them to the airport, but she risked her life to save them instead. She
 
—”

I suddenly stopped midsentence. I was about to say, “She did everything she could to help me expose the fact that ISIS had captured chemical weapons, including giving me classified Israeli intelligence to help me with my story.” But I couldn’t burn her as a source. If I wasn’t going to tell Allen MacDonald and my editors in New York who my confidential sources were, I certainly couldn’t tell the FBI, much less on the record.

Then Harris stunned me by saying it for me.

“Because she was your source for the chemical weapons story, wasn’t she?” he pressed. “That’s what you were about to say, weren’t you?”

“No, it’s not,” I lied.

“Should I pull out the polygraph and see how you hold up?”

“You know full well I can’t talk about confidential sources. And even if she was one
 
—and I’m not saying she was
 
—I couldn’t tell you.”

“A grand jury could compel you.”

“I’m protected by the First Amendment, Agent Harris
 
—freedom of the press, in case you’d forgotten.”

“You think the First Amendment is going to protect you if the attorney general charges you with treason against the president of the United States?”

“The First Amendment, the Fifth, and others
 
—absolutely,” I replied. “But I just told you, my reporting was to warn the president and the American government, not to commit treason against them. Why don’t you believe me?”

“Perhaps because you’re a liar, Mr. Collins,” Harris said flatly. “I know you’re lying right now. I know Ms. Katzir was your source, or one of them. I know she was the woman in the café in Istanbul,
the one who fled after the bombing. I know Robert Khachigian was another source. And I know you fled the scene of a crime when he and a group of federal agents were murdered in Union Station. I know you still haven’t bothered to tell your side of the story to the bureau on why you fled, why you left the country, why you immediately went to go see Ms. Katzir. I know Ms. Katzir sent you a text message while you were meeting with King Abdullah, and I know what it said.”

Harris reached down, pulled a single sheet of paper out of his briefcase, and slid it across the table. I looked down and read the message, though I already knew every word.

“You see where this is heading, Mr. Collins?” Harris asked, echoing the question Prince Feisal had asked me. “You see how all this is going to look before a federal grand jury?”

The man had done his homework. He had the enormous resources of the American government behind him, and he seemed determined to crush me. It was time to launch a counterstrike.

“You’re chasing the wrong car, Agent Harris. Your case is circumstantial at best, not to mention completely illogical. Worse, you’re not looking at other, far more compelling suspects
 
—men who had the motive, the means, and the opportunity to pull off these crimes. And the longer you try to railroad me, the longer the real conspirators are still out there, still plotting, still putting our country and our allies in grave danger. Now look, I’m not a Muslim. I’m certainly no ISIS supporter. I’ve got no religious motivation to be involved in these crimes. I’ve got no political motivation. I’m a lifelong registered Democrat, same as the president. I’ve got no financial or personal motive. Any reasonable jury of my peers is going to see that every
so-called fact you say damns me is completely countered by verifiable actions I took to warn these leaders in order to save their lives. If I was hell-bent on killing them, I had an MP-5 in my hands and plenty of ammunition. So did Yael Katzir. We could have finished them off at any time. But we didn’t. So you tell me how it’s going to look to a federal grand jury.”

To my surprise, he was quiet for a moment. It wasn’t clear whether I was convincing him or whether he was simply waiting for me to say more that he could use to further incriminate me. But then he leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows, beckoning me to make my case.

So I did. For the next ten minutes, I outlined the case against Youssef Kuttab, Hassan Karbouli, and Prince Marwan Talal, saving the best for last.

But Harris wasn’t buying it. “Talk about circumstantial. You’re essentially accusing three Muslims for being Muslims.”

“You don’t think the mole is a Muslim?” I asked.

“Not necessarily, no,” Harris replied.

“Someone willing to risk his or her life to help the Islamic State
 
—you don’t think religion is a major element of their motivation?”

“Not every Muslim is a terrorist, Mr. Collins.”

“I’m not saying they are,” I countered. “Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m saying that everyone risking life and limb to build the caliphate for Abu Khalif and the Islamic State is motivated above all else by his or her belief in Islam and desire to see Islam spread across the globe.”

“So now you’re an expert in Islam?”

I felt as if we were playing a high-level chess match, alternately attacking and countering, each of us trying to see five and six moves ahead, trying to set ourselves up for the best possible combinations. “I’m an expert in terrorism. I’ve been covering it for the better part of my career.”

“You’ve talked to a lot of terrorists.”

“Of course.”

“Met with them?”

“Yes.”

“Traveled the world to find them and spend time with them?”

“It’s my job.”

“And that makes you an expert?”

“I’d say so, yes.”

“I can’t wait for the grand jury to hear this.
‘I’m an expert in terrorism.’
”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I shot back. “You know exactly what I mean. You’re twisting my words to try to make me look guilty. But you’re ignoring perfectly credible suspects. You refuse to look at anyone else but me, refuse to do any digging, any investigating whatsoever. Is burying your head in the sand part of the job description of a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

Harris sat forward. “And you’ve done your homework, Mr. Collins? You’ve looked at all the facts? You’ve been digging, investigating, have you?”

“Well, that’s been a little hard to do given that I’ve been locked away in solitary confinement for the last thirty hours.”

“Fine,” said Harris. “Of your three suspects, which one do you think is most likely to have done it, assuming for a moment that you’re even in the ballpark?”

“You’re really asking me?”

“I am.”

“And you’ll really take it seriously?”

“That’s my job. You said so yourself.”

The chess match had just gotten more interesting. “Well, then,” I said, trying to decide whether he was playing games with me or being serious. “Mind you, this is just conjecture at this stage.”

“Of course.”

“These are theories
 
—possible theories
 
—not accusations.”

“Right.”

“All three of these are friends of mine. I hope to God none of them are involved.”

“Got it,” said Harris. “But if you had to choose one.”

“I’m sure the list is longer than just these three.”

“I understand
 
—now pick one.”

“The prince.”

“Talal?”

“Yes.”

“Marwan Talal?”

“Perhaps.”

“You think the eldest uncle of the king of Jordan is involved in a conspiracy to kill him and everyone in his family and bring ISIS to power in Jordan?”

“It’s possible,” I said. “More possible than it is that I’m involved.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean it’s not possible.”

“It’s not possible that Prince Marwan Talal is the mole?”

“No.”

“Then why was he missing from the summit? Why wasn’t he there when he was ostensibly so deeply involved in the crafting of the treaty? That doesn’t seem suspicious to you?”

“No.”

“Yet my behavior does?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I know where the prince was,” said Harris. “I know why he wasn’t at the summit.”

“How?”

“Because I’ve been doing my homework. I’ve been digging. I’ve been investigating.”

“So where was he?”

“Baghdad.”

“Baghdad?”

“Yes.”

“The prince was completely out of the country at the moment of Jordan’s maximum danger. A little convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Because you know why he was there?”

“Yes.”

“And why was that?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Very well then. He went because the king asked him to go.”

I had to think about that for a second. “Why would the king ask his uncle to go to Baghdad?”

“To lay the groundwork for the king’s state visit.”

“The visit scheduled for this weekend?”

“That’s the one.”

“You’re sure about that? I mean, absolutely certain?”

“The king told me himself,” Harris said. “The prince confirmed it. I talked to the Iraqi prime minister, as well. They all tell the same story.”

I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me.

Check . . . and mate.