The Third Target (14 page)

And that’s when the Hyundai erupted in a massive explosion.

I woke up screaming, but this was not a nightmare.

Soaked in sweat, my whole body was shivering. I could see Omar inside the car, trying to start the engine. I could feel Yael at my side, her arm in mine. I could feel the heat and force of the massive explosion, the flames shooting into the sky, glass and shards of metal flying in all directions. I could smell burning gasoline, burning flesh. I could hear the ear-piercing boom. It wasn’t distant or hazy or detached. It was as if I were still standing on that street, walking out that doorway. It was real, and it was happening again and again and again.

I sat bolt upright in some bed in some dark room illuminated only by the red numbers of a digital alarm clock that read 2:14 a.m. I looked down and found myself dressed only in my underwear. Disoriented, my heart racing, I had no idea where I was or how I’d gotten there. I was breathing so hard I was in danger of hyperventilating.

Dizzy and nauseated, about to vomit, I lay back down in the bed. The pillow was damp with perspiration, so I turned it over and was relieved to find the other side cooler and dry. I kicked off the covers and tried to get comfortable.

Exhausted, I closed my eyes, desperate to regain a sense of
equilibrium. But as soon as I tried to fall back asleep, the explosion replayed all over again.

“Good morning, James. Are you awake?”

I heard the voice but could not place it. It was a woman’s voice, gentle and comforting, but it also seemed distant and far away. Was it Yael’s? Had she survived? Had she found me, come back to rescue me?

Foggy and confused, I tried to open my eyes but my head was pounding terribly. My limbs ached and my breathing was labored.

The woman I saw in the morning light was not Yael. It was a nurse, checking my vital signs and giving me a shot in my left arm.

“Hush,” she said. “Don’t move. Don’t try to get up. It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.”

I passed out again.

The next time I opened my eyes, the digital clock said it was 8:56 p.m.

I squinted through the darkness and then noticed the date in a corner of the display as well. I blinked hard and looked again. That couldn’t be right, I thought. But sure enough, the date read November 27.

A shot of adrenaline coursed through my system, and once again I sat straight up in bed in the pitch-black of night.
Four days?
It couldn’t be. Or was it five? How had so much time gone by so quickly? Where was Omar? I had a story to file. The deadline had long since passed. Allen had to be furious. I had work to do. Where was my laptop? Where were my notes?

My head still ached, but it no longer felt like it was clamped into a vise, being squeezed without mercy. That was progress, and I would take it.

“Good morning, Mr. Collins,” a voice off to my left said.

I turned my head and saw three men standing in my hospital room. One was Turkish, probably in his early thirties, medium height, medium build, jet-black hair, spectacles
 
—a physician of some kind, judging from his white lab coat and the stethoscope around his neck. The other two wore suits. They certainly weren’t Turkish. From their manner and their wing-tip shoes, they struck me as Americans, probably from the American embassy or consulate. The younger of these two appeared to be in his late twenties, and it was obvious he was packing heat. He stood near the door. He was security. But it was the older of the two
 
—in his midfifties, I guessed
 
—who was talking.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” he said.

I wasn’t sure that was true, but I said nothing.

“I’m Art Harris,” he continued. “I’m a special agent with the FBI.”

I nodded.

“Do you know what day it is?”

“The twenty-seventh.”

“Do you know the month?”

“November.”

“But you read that off the clock radio, correct?”

I nodded again.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Looks like a hospital,” I said. “Am I still in Istanbul?”

“You are indeed,” Harris said.

But now it was the doctor who spoke as he stepped forward and checked my pulse. “How do you feel, Mr. Collins?”

“I’m fine,” I lied. “How soon can I leave?”

“In a few days probably,” the doctor said.

“Do I have any broken bones?”

“No,” he said. “Fortunately you do not.”

“Did I require surgery?”

“Some stitches here and there, but no, surgery wasn’t necessary.”

“Did I require a blood transfusion?”

“No, nothing like that,” he said.

“Then I want to leave today,” I said.

“Not quite yet,” he replied. “We want to keep you a bit longer for observation. You’ve been through quite a trauma.”

“Perhaps I could have a few minutes alone with Mr. Collins,” the man named Harris said.

There was an awkward silence, and then the doctor stepped out of the room, followed by the other FBI agent, who was apparently not there in an investigative capacity. As the door swung open, I noticed two other agents just like him in the hallway.

“Am I under arrest?” I asked.

“Of course not.”

“Do you think I did this?”

“No.”

“Then why all the suits and guns?”

“Someone’s trying to kill you, Mr. Collins,” he replied. “My job is to figure out who, and these men have been assigned to protect you.”

He handed me a business card. It bore the FBI logo, a local office address, an e-mail address and phone number, and the words
Arthur M. Harris, Special Agent in Charge
.

“What do you remember about the other night?” Harris asked.

I did my best to describe the final moments of watching Omar get into the Hyundai, his efforts to start the car, and the enormous explosion.

“Do you remember being thrown through the plate-glass window of the café?”

I didn’t.

“How about the local ambulance crew giving you first aid?”

I shook my head. “I don’t remember anything after the explosion until I woke up here.”

“What about the woman?” he asked.

“What woman?”

“The woman you and Mr. Fayez were having tea with,” Harris said. “The owner says you were leaving the café with her when the bomb went off. We have a description. We have a sketch artist working with several of the witnesses right now. But in all the commotion, she disappeared. I’m hoping you can help us identify her.”

My pulse quickened. I wasn’t sure what to say. Was Yael okay? Was she safe? Why had she fled the scene? Didn’t she know that would raise suspicions? I supposed she must not have been seriously harmed if she’d had the wherewithal to slip away. Apparently she hadn’t turned up in any hospitals or medical clinics in Istanbul, or Harris would have known about it by now. Surely he and his team were canvassing every location. Yael, after all, was either a material witness to a serious crime or a suspect.

Now that I’d had two seconds to think about it, it was clear why she’d fled. She was a senior intelligence agent for the Israeli government, operating in Turkey, which didn’t exactly have close working relations with the Israelis at the present time. She didn’t want to be interviewed by local Turkish authorities or by the FBI. She didn’t want there to be any traces back to the Mossad; that was for sure. So she’d bailed before emergency crews had arrived on the scene. Which meant she didn’t want me talking about her.

Still, Harris was a federal agent. I couldn’t lie to him. That would be a felony.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” I replied.

“Can’t or won’t?” Harris asked.

“Look, she’s a source
 
—and a confidential one at that,” I explained. “She made me promise I wouldn’t reveal her identity. I’m sorry.”

“Is she American?”

“I really can’t say.”

“Turkish?”

“Sorry.”

“Is she an Arab, Mr. Collins?” Harris pressed. “Someone connected to your trip to Syria?”

“How do you know about that?”

Harris looked confused. “The whole world knows you went to Syria, Mr. Collins,” he replied. “You wrote about it on the front page of the
New York Times
.”

“The story is already out?”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Of course it is. It ran several days ago.”

Of course it had. I’d been in the hospital four days, which meant the stories on ISIS and Ramzy had already been read by millions around the globe.

I apologized. I was still trying to clear my head and orient myself to all that had happened. But Harris kept pressing.

“What do the initials YK stand for?” he asked.

I was startled but said nothing.

“They were on the business card in your pocket,” he explained. “We’ve tried the phone number. It’s local, but it’s been disconnected. Imagine that.”

“You think my source is trying to kill me?” I asked.

“You tell me.”

“It’s not possible.”

“No?”

“No. She’s trying to help me on a very important story.”

“About Jamal Ramzy and Abu Khalif?”

“I can’t say.”

“About ISIS?”

“I told you, I’m not at liberty to tell you anything about her.”

“You understand why I’m asking.”

“Of course.”

“Someone just murdered your colleague,” Harris said. “And they were trying to take you out as well.”

“And you think she’s connected?”

“I don’t know what to think, but it’s my job to track down every lead,” Harris said. “Right now I have a car bombing in Istanbul in front of an all-night café frequented by foreign nationalists. I’ve got a Jordanian reporter for the
New York Times
dead. I’ve got an American correspondent for the same newspaper who should be dead but isn’t and a mysterious woman who has vanished off the face of the earth. No name. No address. No working phone number. Just the initials YK. See what I’m saying?”

“I do, but I can assure you she’s trying to help me, not kill me.”

“You’ve known her a long time?”

“No.”

“Months, years?”

“No, we just met here in Istanbul.”

“But you’re vouching for her?”

“I know her boss. He sent her to meet with me.”

“You trust him?”

“I do.”

Harris said nothing. He just looked at me, and I could see him trying to decide whether I was telling the truth.

“I’m not the kind of person to go around lying to the FBI,” I said in my defense.

“I don’t know what kind of person you are,” Harris replied.

“I tell the truth for a living,” I explained. “All I have in this world is my reputation for explaining events to my readers as accurately as I possibly can. That’s something I guard very jealously, Mr. Harris.”

He nodded, then pulled out a small notebook and a pen and began jotting something down.

“The reason I’m so concerned, Mr. Collins
 
—the reason I’m asking so many questions
 
—is we have evidence that suggests the bombing was the work of an al Qaeda cell.”

“Al Qaeda?”

“Yes.”

“Not ISIS.”

“No.”

“What evidence?” I asked.

“The design of the car bomb was distinctive
 
—very similar to those used by al Qaeda in Afghanistan,” Harris said. “The explosives used in the bomb have the exact same chemical composition of a bomb used three weeks ago to kill an American diplomat in Kabul
 
—a case that led to the capture of three al Qaeda operatives, all of whom have since confessed.”