The Third Target (13 page)

“From where?” I asked, curious to see if her story matched what I had learned.

“A few weeks ago,” she began, “Jamal Ramzy’s top deputy
 
—a guy named Tariq Baqouba, a real thug, by the way
 
—”

“Yeah, we met him,” I broke in. “His brothers, too.”

Yael looked surprised but continued. “Anyway, Baqouba and his forces attacked a Syrian military base a few klicks south of Aleppo. At
the time, I honestly don’t think Baqouba knew it was a storage facility for chemical weapons. After all, it had been widely reported that the U.N. had removed all of Syria’s WMD out of the country. But of course that was a lie. The regime had given up a lot, but it was still hoarding plenty. At any rate, radio intercepts suggest the ISIS forces were running low on ammunition. They seemed to have hit this particular base because it had a large ammo storehouse. The firefight that ensued was brutal, one of the fiercest to date. Baqouba’s forces seemed taken aback by the strength of the resistance they faced, but rather than back off, they doubled down, probably because they realized they had obviously stumbled onto something valuable. Anyway, they killed off most of the Syrian regulars, and before reinforcements could arrive, Baqouba and his men entered the base and found the WMD stockpiles
 
—sarin nerve gas, to be precise
 
—and the bombs and artillery shells to deliver them.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Drones,” she said. “We’ve been monitoring each of the sites where the Assad regime kept chemical weapons. Again, most of the stockpiles, as you know, were removed under U.N. supervision. But we suspected all along that Assad’s people were holding back, not giving the U.N. all they had. So we kept an especially close eye on several of those sites, including the one near Aleppo. We’ve also been monitoring all radio, phone, and e-mail traffic in the area around these bases. And of course, we have people on the ground, paid informants, and other sources.”

So far, everything she said matched precisely what I had learned from the other sources, but it wasn’t enough. It was tantalizingly close, but I had to be certain.

“You’ve personally reviewed all the data?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Look,” she said, “I was a chemical weapons specialist when I
served in the IDF. When Ari recruited me, he put me in a special unit to track chemical WMD in the region. This is what I do.”

“And you’re certain Jamal’s men have these weapons now?”

“There’s no question about it,” Yael said. “They have them, and they’re going to use them. It’s a matter of when, not if. And when that happens, it’s going to be very, very ugly. Have you ever seen what sarin gas can do?”

I knew that sarin nerve gas had been developed by the Nazis.

What’s more, I knew Saddam Hussein had used the stuff against the Kurds in the late eighties, killing some five thousand men, women, and children.

I also remembered that a Japanese cult had used sarin gas in the Tokyo subway system back in the midnineties, killing at least a dozen people and wounding nearly a thousand more.

And Omar and I had covered the sarin attacks on rebel forces by the Syrian regime in the summer of 2013 that had killed more than a thousand people
 
—mostly women and children
 
—and nearly led to military strikes by the U.S., British, and French until all three governments backed out at the last moment. That said, we were both novices on the technicalities of sarin gas, as we readily conceded.

“You have to understand how serious this stuff is,” Yael said. “Sarin is among the most toxic and deadly nerve agents. But you can’t smell it. You can’t taste it. You can’t even see it, which makes it all the more dangerous.”

She explained that sarin was not a natural substance, but rather a man-made chemical compound, an organophosphate that was similar in many ways to insecticides but, she said, far more lethal.

“Sure, you can fire rockets and mortars and missiles with sarin-filled warheads at an enemy, and you can kill a lot of people,” she told us. “You could release it in an aerosol form in a room or in a subway or a mall or a school and kill hundreds or thousands. But it’s not just a gas. It can also be a liquid. You could dump barrels of sarin into the water supply
 
—or lace it into the food supply
 
—and you’d kill millions. That’s what I worry about. And it’s a hideous way to die.”

“What happens?” I asked.

“It starts off simple. You get a runny nose. Your eyes start watering and hurting and your vision blurs. But that could be anything. You might not realize how serious it is at first. But then your eyes start dilating. You begin sweating profusely. Soon you’re coughing uncontrollably, choking, drooling, possibly foaming at the mouth. You’re having trouble breathing. You feel dizzy and nauseated, and then you start vomiting
 
—a little at first, but then again and again until you have nothing left in your system. Then your stomach begins cramping. You have intense abdominal pains. You can’t think straight. You’re confused and disoriented. Then the convulsions start. If you’re lucky, you black out. But more likely you’re fully lucid
 
—and filled with terror
 
—as your bodily functions shut down and paralysis sets in, and then you can’t breathe, and then you’re dead.”

I sat there for a few moments, trying to take in what she was saying.

“ISIS with sarin is a worst-case scenario,” she said, seeing me process the unthinkable. “An attack like this in my country
 
—or yours
 
—would be catastrophic. You need to write about this. You need to warn people, and fast.”

“I agree,” I said. “But like I told you, my editor insists I get another source. Will Ari show me what you have?”

“How soon can you come?” she asked.

“To Tel Aviv?”

“Yes,” she said. “You wouldn’t be allowed to take notes or pictures.
You couldn’t make copies, and you wouldn’t be able to quote anything you hear in your articles or to anyone else you speak with. But since you’ve already got two other sources, Ari is prepared to show you what we’ve got and confirm your story based on the intel we’ve developed.”

“Why?”

Yael leaned across the table. “The prime minister has decided Israel needs the world to know who ISIS really is and what they now have,” she whispered.

“Yes, but why now?”

“He’s concerned the White House isn’t taking the ISIS threat seriously enough.”

“But if the public knows, maybe they’ll light a fire under Congress, and Congress can light a fire under the president?”

“Something like that.”

“So why give the story to me?” I asked.

“Honestly?” she asked as she finished her tea. “Because you already have it, and as you say, time is of the essence. Of course Jamal Ramzy doesn’t want to say he’s got WMD because that will put every government in the world on heightened alert. But that’s exactly why two other governments
 
—and now ours
 
—are giving you the story. We need to make sure everyone knows who ISIS is. We need to make it that much harder for them to operate freely. We have no choice. The attacks could start any day. They’ve already had the stuff for nearly a month.”

“So who do you think is the main target, you or us?” I asked.

“I have no idea, but it’s probably us.”

“Because you’re closer?”

“That, and because of the timing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because the peace process is coming to a head.”

“What?”

“I mean if we actually strike a final deal with the Palestinians in the next few days, ISIS is going to go ballistic.”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right.

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “I thought the peace process was going nowhere.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Wait, I don’t understand
 
—your prime minister keeps saying the talks are going nowhere, and President Mansour says he’s going to walk out of the talks by the end of the month if no progress is made,” Omar said, referring to Salim Mansour, the president of the Palestinian Authority. “King Abdullah keeps warning the parties to get serious or a new regional war will break out. If that’s all true, it wouldn’t seem like Jamal Ramzy and his brethren have much to worry about.”

“Actually none of that is true
 
—it’s all spin,” she said, leaning back in her seat.

“What do you mean by that?” Omar asked.

“Spin,” she repeated. “Dissembling. Sleight of hand.”

“You’re saying the peace talks are moving forward?” he asked.

Yael looked disappointed. “Don’t tell me you two have really been buying all this nonsense in the press.”

“It comes from the highest officials,” I said. “Of course we have.”

“Well, stop,” she said. “The deal is done.”

“What deal?” Omar asked.

“The peace deal,” Yael said.

“A full treaty?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“How is that possible?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Yael said. “I’m just telling you what I know. My PM has made major concessions
 
—more than I’m comfortable with, frankly, but that’s another story. They don’t ask for my opinions on such matters. Anyway, I can’t say more about this.
I’m definitely not authorized to speak about any of these things. And you can’t write about this. Seriously. Nobody knows what I’m telling you right now. But it’s important you understand what’s motivating Abu Khalif. We don’t know where he is
 
—somewhere in Iraq, we think
 
—but we’re guessing he knows more about the true state of the peace talks than the
New York Times
. We’re also guessing he’s about to give orders to kill a whole lot of people to keep this peace treaty from being finalized. Look, James, I’m glad you got your interview with Ramzy. I’m sure it’ll be an important story. But don’t get distracted. Jamal Ramzy is a supporting character. Abu Khalif is the lead actor. He’s the big story. He’s the guy you need to talk to, ideally before all hell breaks loose.”

“I’m trying,” I said. “But I can’t find him. No one will tell me where he is. All I know is he’s in prison in Iraq. Can you guys help?”

“We don’t know any more than you,” she said. “If we knew where he was, believe me, he’d be a corpse.”

“I assume that’s off the record as well.” I smiled.

Yael smiled back. “Look, I wish I could give you more specifics, but I can’t. But you should hunt him down like you did Ramzy. Find him. Talk to him. See what he says. Then brace yourself for some serious blowback. Because I’m telling you, this is why Abu Khalif is getting ready to strike. He’s a barbarian. He’s livid at the prospect of the Palestinians cutting a deal with the ‘dirty Zionists.’ He’s enraged that President Mansour is about to legitimize the presence of a single Jew in ‘Palestine.’ He’s hell-bent on doing everything he can to disrupt the peace process, and if that means killing a whole lot of innocent people, then he figures, so be it.”

At that, she looked at her watch and stood. “Well, gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure, but it’s late, and I’m afraid I’ve got to go,” she said. “I fly back to Tel Aviv around noon. If you’re smart, you’ll come with me.”

Omar and I stood as well.

“Thank you, Yael,” I said, taking her hand in mine. “It’s been a lovely evening.”

“Let’s do it again soon,” she said and then winked at me.

“I’d like that,” I replied.

We exchanged numbers. I said I’d call my editor and get back to her as quickly as possible. Then I offered to give her a ride back to the hotel. Given how hard it was now raining, she readily accepted.

“Where’s the car?” I asked Omar.

“Just up the street a bit,” he said.

“Fine, I’ll pay our tab and meet you there,” I said, trying to get our waiter’s attention to bring the bill.

“And I’ll get our coats,” Yael said.

As she went to find them and Omar headed out into the pouring rain, I gave the waiter my credit card and pulled out my iPhone. There were twenty-seven new e-mails, none of which were useful, so I sent three of my own.

First, I wrote to Youssef Kuttab, a senior advisor to Palestinian president Salim Mansour.

Y
 
—We need to talk. Hearing rumors a deal is almost done. Eager to know more. Can I come see you?
 
—JB

If I was going to Tel Aviv, I figured, I might as well start working on the next story too.

Next, I wrote to Hassan Karbouli, Iraq’s minister of the interior. We’d known each other for years, and typically he’d been quite helpful, so long as he wasn’t quoted. But he’d gone dark for the last few weeks, and I was getting desperate. If anyone could help me track down Abu Khalif, it was Karbouli.

Hassan
 
—This is my fifth e-mail. Where are you? Running out of time. Must ask you directly: where is AK being held? Just
interviewed Jamal Ramzy. Story to run in tomorrow’s paper. Now need to follow up with AK. Have gone through all the proper channels, but no one will help me. Know you’re swamped, but asking for your help. Thanks.
 
—JB

Finally, I sent a quick note to Prince Marwan Talal in Amman, an uncle of the Jordanian king and one of His Majesty’s most trusted advisors. Marwan was getting up in years, but because he had been around so long, he knew everyone in the region and had his finger on the pulse of all that was happening.

Your Royal Highness
 
—I need your help. Trying to track down AK. Planning a major attack. Solid sources say he has WMD. Can we talk soon?
 
—JB

A moment later, Yael came back with our coats. I finished paying the bill and helped her with her coat, then put mine on as well. We were about to leave when she realized she had forgotten her umbrella.

“I’ll be right back,” she said.

I offered to get it for her, but she insisted it was no problem.
So much for chivalry,
I thought. I waited for her by the front door.

Outside, I could see Omar climbing into the driver’s seat of the rental car up the street. But I wasn’t thinking about Omar. My thoughts were consumed with Yael Katzir. I could still smell her perfume. I could still feel her lips on my own. I pulled her business card out of my pocket and looked it over. It was a simple card, black and white, bearing only the initials
YK
and a European mobile number. No Mossad logo. No mention of the intelligence agency at all. No address or even post office box number. For a moment, I wondered if the phone number was even real. Then I started asking myself whether she was at all interested in me or if she had just been doing her job. If I asked her to dinner in Tel Aviv, might she accept? If I
asked her to join me for a movie, what would she say? Omar and Hadiya kept telling me it was time. I kept telling them I wasn’t ready. But maybe they were right. All I knew for certain was I liked this girl. I wanted to see more of her. The moment wasn’t convenient. But when would it ever be?

Yael sidled up beside me with her polka-dot umbrella. She slipped her arm through mine and smiled.

“Ready when you are,” she said.

“After you,” I replied.

As I opened the door for her, I could hear Omar trying to start the car. He turned the engine over several more times, but to no avail. Suddenly a wave of physical and emotional exhaustion washed over me. Frustration, too. I had neither the time nor the energy to hang out while Omar waited for a tow truck, if that’s really what was needed. I wanted to get back to the hotel, type up my notes, take a hot shower, and get to bed.

As we stepped out of the café, I glanced to my left to see if any cabs were coming. Unfortunately, it was now almost three in the morning. The streets were empty. There were no cabs to be found. So I looked back at Omar trying to get the thing started and began wondering how long it would take to call for a taxi.