The Third Target (4 page)

As the king neared the doorway of the mosque, I saw a flicker of movement.

It happened fast, but it seemed odd
 
—out of place.

I looked to my right and saw a man bolt from behind the door and jump from the shadows. He pulled out a small pistol. He aimed it at the monarch’s head. The guards didn’t react at first. Neither did the king. They were all too stunned, as was I. Then I saw a flash from the barrel and heard the boom
 
—then another
 
—and a third.

Horrified, I watched the entire scene unfold before me as if in slow motion. The king jerked back again and again and finally collapsed to the ground. I turned and saw his grandson lunge forward without a second thought, attacking the shooter. The two men struggled for a moment before I heard another shot. And then the young prince crumpled to the ground, writhing in pain.

A flutter of birds raced for the sky. People screamed and ran for cover. But the shooting didn’t stop. For several seconds, the man kept firing, and then he began to run. He was coming straight for me. The king’s guards pivoted now and began to return fire. I dropped to the ground and covered my head and face. The Temple Mount had
erupted in gunfire at this point. Bullets were whizzing past my head and I was certain these moments were my last.

But a split second later, the assailant crashed to the ground not far from where I was. I didn’t know if he had been shot or had simply stumbled. Without thinking, I sprang up and jumped on him. Before I realized what I was doing, I was beating him about the face and head. Soon I could see that he had been shot in multiple places. He was bleeding profusely. But he was not dead
 
—not yet
 
—and I was determined he was not going to run. For the moment I had forgotten I was a journalist. I had forgotten, too, that I was now in the line of fire. I was enraged, and my fists kept raining blows down upon him.

Seconds later, soldiers surrounded us, guns locked and loaded and pointed at both of us.

“Stop
 
—don’t move any farther!”
they shouted.

Immediately I stopped beating the man. The soldiers yelled at me to put my hands above my head, where they could see them. Then they ordered me to slowly get off the man and step away. I did as I was told and saw two of the king’s personal guards running toward us. Before I realized what was happening, someone behind me smashed the back of my skull with what must have been the butt of a rifle. I collapsed to the ground, not far from the assailant. I could feel blood running down the back of my scalp. My eyes were tearing, and I was in intense pain. But I did not black out, and as I lay there, I watched a soldier scoop up the still-smoking pistol lying by the assassin’s side. They checked the man for more weapons but found none. Then they checked his pulse.

“He’s done for,” one of the guards said.

I could hardly believe it was true. Dead? Already? But who was he? What was his story? Who had sent him? I was seething. This man had tried to kill a king. He had tried to kill a prince. He had done so on sacred, holy ground. Why had he done it? I wanted answers.

A soldier grabbed my arms and tied them behind my back.
Another took my satchel and patted me down for weapons. As he did, one of the king’s guards was rifling through the assassin’s identification papers and personal effects.

“What’s his name?” his partner asked.

“Mustafa,” the guard replied. “Mustafa Shukri Ashshu.”

“He’s not a Jew?”

“No, his papers say he’s a Moslem, sir, a Palestinian.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“I am, sir.”

“Are they forgeries?”

“No, they look real.”

“Let me see them.”

The guard handed the papers over to his partner.

“They are real,” he said in disbelief. “He lives right here in the Old City. He’s a tailor.”

“How old was he, sir?”

“Just twenty-one.”

The older guard let fly a slew of obscenities.

“How in the world did he get by all of us?” he fumed.

That, of course, was a question the papers did not shed light on.

Suddenly the two bodyguards turned to me.

“Who are you?”
they shouted.
“Where did you come from?”

Their questions came fast and furious. I explained I was an American, there to meet the king. They pressed for details, and that’s when Captain Rajoub came running up, gun in one hand, the telegram from the palace in the other. The guards read the telegram, checked my papers, and conferred with one another. Rajoub confirmed I was telling the truth, and finally the men untied me, pulled me to my feet, gave me my bag and hat, and ordered me to leave.

“But I was expecting to interview His Majesty,” I protested.

“You must go. There is nothing for you here,” the older guard said. “His Majesty is dead.”

I just stared at him, unable to speak. The king was dead? They were confirming this? I don’t know why I thought it would be otherwise. I had seen the entire event unfold before me. His Majesty had been shot in the face and chest at point-blank range. But with all that had just happened, it had not yet occurred to me he might actually be dead. Call it denial. Call it the fog of war. Or perhaps I simply still wanted the interview I had been promised. I’d had an appointment. I had made it on time. He was the one who was late. I had been there. I was ready. I had my questions. And now I was being ordered to leave.

A chill rippled through my body. Despite the intense noontime heat, I suddenly felt cold. I was lonely and intensely tired. I knew I was in danger of slipping into shock, and there was a part of me that wanted to succumb to it. I could hear the sirens. Within minutes, doctors and nurses would be arriving. They would take care of me. They would whisk me off to a hospital and pump my body full of drugs and I could sleep and try to forget all this had ever happened. But there was another part of me that forced my legs to straighten, forced myself to stand, and before I realized what was happening, I was walking straight toward the lifeless body of the king, my right hand instinctively pulling a notebook out of the leather satchel hanging from my shoulder.

A crowd of guards and soldiers had surrounded His Majesty, guns drawn, as the young Prince Hussein, weeping over his grandfather, knelt at his side. But it was instantly clear the soldier had been right. The king was dead. His skin was white. His eyes were closed. His white cotton robes were smeared and stained with blood.

I turned to a Moslem cleric of some sort standing nearby, his mouth agape, tears in his eyes, saying nothing.

“Do you have a telephone?” I asked in Arabic, handing him my damp handkerchief. I was surprised by how calm my voice sounded.

“No, no, not in the mosque,” he stuttered, accepting my gift and wiping his eyes. “But there is one in the office.”

“I must use it to call the palace,” I said, choosing for the moment not to identify myself.

“Yes, of course,” he said, obviously not thinking about my request clearly or questioning who I was.

As if in a stupor, he led me to a squat outbuilding nearby that housed the administrative offices of the Waqf, the religious institution charged with protecting and maintaining the Islamic holy sites on the Temple Mount. Fumbling with his keys, the cleric opened the door. He led me to his office, showed me the telephone, and explained how to get an operator to place the call to Amman. Then he left me in peace and shut the door behind him.

I picked up the receiver and felt my hand trembling. I took a deep breath and tried in vain to steady my nerves.

“May I help you?” a woman asked at the other end of the scratchy line.

“Operator, I need to make a call to the United States,” I said as calmly as I could. “Can you help me with that?”

“Yes, sir, I can,” she replied.

I gave her the number and waited for the call to be put through. Finally I was connected to a young woman at the assignment desk in New York. Unwilling to entrust this breaking news to whatever fresh-faced college grad had just answered the phone, I demanded to speak to the international editor, a longtime personal friend, and said it was an emergency.

The woman, however, replied that he was not in, and asked to take a message.
Not in?
I thought.
Why the blast not?
Then I glanced at my pocket watch, and it dawned on me that it was only 12:25 p.m. local time, which meant it was not yet 5:30 in the morning in New York.

“Who’s the editor on duty?” I asked.

“Mr. Briggs, sir,” the young lady replied.

“Roger Briggs?” I asked, the strain on me beginning to show itself in my speech.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I need him immediately. Tell him I’m calling from Jerusalem with an urgent exclusive, but it won’t hold long.”

The wait that followed seemed like an eternity, and the longer it took, the more terrified I became that UPI or the
New York Times
or the
Jerusalem Post
or some Arab paper would scoop me. Surely many had heard the gunshots, and now everyone in Jerusalem was hearing the sirens coming from all directions. I had no idea who was out there in that group of well-wishers. Maybe there had been another reporter. Maybe there had been more than one.

“This is Briggs. Who’s this, and what’s all the hubbub about? For heaven’s sakes, man, you know what time it is?”

“Roger, this is A. B. Collins in Jerusalem.”

“A. B., is that really you?”

We had known each other for years.

“Yes, yes, now take this down immediately.”

“What did you say?” Briggs asked. The line crackled with static. “Repeat. Say again.”

“I said this is A. B. Collins in Jerusalem. Take this down. ‘King Abdullah bin al-Hussein of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan . . . is dead.’”

INTERNATIONAL AIRSPACE, APPROACHING LEBANON

I had done a lot of crazy things in my life, but nothing as stupid as this.

As I stared out over the roiling waves and countless whitecaps of the Mediterranean below, I couldn’t help but think about my grandfather. A. B. Collins was once the Beirut bureau chief for the Associated Press. Long before I was born, he flew this exact route as an American foreign correspondent in the war-torn Middle East. His career was legendary. As a young boy I dreamed of following in his footsteps. As a teenager, I read all his journals. In college I spent hours in the library reading his old dispatches on microfiche. Now here I was, a foreign correspondent for the
New York Times
, wondering if, given all the risks my grandfather had taken, he’d ever done anything quite this foolhardy.

There was still a way out, of course. I could still change my plans. But the truth was I didn’t want to. I may never have interviewed a king or witnessed the assassination of a monarch. But I was just as committed to my craft, and I was going in, come what may. That’s all there was to it. In six minutes, my Air France flight would touch
down in the Lebanese capital. In nineteen minutes, I’d link up with my colleagues. Together we’d drive ninety miles to the border of Syria. And if all went well, by nightfall we’d slip across the border unnoticed and eventually locate one of the world’s most feared jihadi commanders.

Jack Vaughn, director of the Central Intelligence Agency, had personally warned me not to do this. So had the head of the Mossad and the chief of Jordanian intelligence, not to mention my mother. My editor, Allen MacDonald, had expressly forbidden me to go. Their rationale was as simple as it was compelling: Jamal Ramzy was a killer.

Born in Jordan. Raised in the Gulf. Went to Afghanistan. Joined the mujahideen. Killed more Russians than any other Arab fighter. Met bin Laden. Became his chief bodyguard. Was in the room when bin Laden created al Qaeda in 1988. Sent to fight in Somalia. Became a top aide to Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, the mastermind of the 9/11 attacks. Personally trained the 9/11 hijackers. Helped plan the bombings of two American embassies in Africa. Helped behead a
Wall Street Journal
reporter in Pakistan. Became a top aide to Ayman al-Zawahiri, the head of al Qaeda after bin Laden was killed, but had a severe falling-out with him over the future of the organization. Teamed up with his barbaric younger cousin Abu Khalif, the head of “al Qaeda in Iraq and the Levant,” an ultra-violent breakaway faction of the mother ship. Sent to command a force of rebel fighters in Syria. Ordered to bring back Assad’s head on a platter. Literally.

This was the guy I was trying to locate. I knew it was crazy. But I was going anyway.

To my knowledge, Jamal Ramzy had never been photographed or interviewed by a Western reporter. But after nearly a year of my constant e-mails to someone I believed to be Ramzy’s lieutenant, he had finally said yes
 
—to the interview, anyway, if not the photograph. If I was communicating with the right person, and if he was
being truthful
 
—neither of which, at the moment, I was able to fully verify
 
—the big questions were these: Why would Ramzy talk to anyone? Why now? And why me?

The answers, I believed, were simple: He wanted to be on the front page, top of the fold. He wanted to be the new face of the Radicals for all the world to see. And he knew full well that there was no bigger venue than the
New York Times
, the world’s newspaper of record, for which I had been a foreign correspondent for nearly a decade.

As far as timing went, my operating theory was that it was not vanity that was persuading Ramzy to finally respond to my repeated overtures. After all, the Jordanian-born terrorist had lived in the shadows for decades. He had survived all this time by living off the grid, and I suspect he would have been content to remain there if possible rather than risk being obliterated without warning one day by a drone strike, like most of his comrades-in-arms. No, it was unlikely that vanity was driving Ramzy. Rather, I was fairly certain he had something to say at this moment, something he had never said before, and that he was planning on using me to say it.

For the past several weeks, I had been picking up rumors that Ramzy and his rebel forces had captured a cache of chemical weapons in Syria. The Assad regime had supposedly allowed international forces to destroy its remaining weapons of mass destruction, but it was widely believed that at least some stockpiles had been hidden. Now one well-placed American intelligence source told me his agency had picked up frantic radio traffic three weeks earlier between Syrian army forces loyal to Assad saying one of their WMD storage facilities not far from Aleppo had just been overrun. The Syrian forces were desperately calling for air strikes, but while the air support had come, it was too late. Quite separately, another source, this one in a foreign intelligence service, confided to me that a high-ranking Syrian general had just defected to either Turkey or Jordan (he wouldn’t say which) and claimed some al Qaeda breakaway faction
had seized several tons of chemical weapons south of Aleppo within the last few weeks.

Was it true? I had no idea. All I knew for certain was that nothing of the sort had yet been reported in the Arab press or anywhere in the West. No one at the White House, State, or the Pentagon would confirm or deny my discreet inquiries. Part of this, I suspected, was to prevent the widespread panic that was sure to break out if it became known that one of the world’s most dangerous terrorist organizations now had control of some of the world’s most dangerous weapons.

Of course, I hadn’t raised any of this in my e-mails to my source in Syria. I’d simply repeated my long-standing requests for an interview. But I was increasingly certain this was why Ramzy wanted to talk now, when he had never talked publicly before. He wanted the world to know what he had. He wanted the American people and their president to know. What’s more, I had to believe he savored the irony of Ayman al-Zawahiri hearing through an American newspaper that one of his former advisors had hit the mother lode
 
—that an al Qaeda offshoot finally had possession of the very weapons al Qaeda itself had been desperately seeking for nearly two decades.

I hoped I was right. Not that Ramzy had the WMD, mind you, but that he had a story
 
—an important story
 
—he wanted to communicate through me. It was, I suspected, my only hope of survival. After all, this was a man who cut people’s throats for sport, Americans’ most of all. Only if he really did want to use me to communicate a big story would my colleagues and I be safe.

It was no wonder no one I knew wanted me to head into Syria to track this man down and speak with him face to face. Even the colleagues I was about to meet were deeply uncomfortable. I certainly understood why. And I didn’t blame them. What we were about to do wasn’t normal. But I
 
—and they
 
—were part of “the tribe,” part of an elite group, a small cadre of foreign correspondents whose lives were devoted to covering wars and rumors of war, revolutions, chaos,
and bloodshed of all kinds. It’s what I’d gone to school for, nearly twenty years earlier. It’s what I’d been doing for the
New York Daily News
and the Associated Press and the
Times
ever since. I loved it. I lived for it.

Some said it was an addiction. They said people like me were adrenaline junkies. Maybe I was. But that’s not the way I thought of it. To me, risk was part of my job, and it was a job my colleagues told me I wasn’t half-bad at. I had won an award for covering a Delta Force firefight in Kandahar, Afghanistan, with another
Times
reporter in 2001. And I had even won a Pulitzer for a series of articles I wrote in 2003 when I was embedded with the First Brigade of the U.S. Army’s Third Infantry Division as they stormed Baghdad. The awards were gratifying. But I didn’t do this to win awards. I did it because I loved it. I did it because I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

Most reporters couldn’t wait to get out of Afghanistan or Iraq after the initial invasions and the establishment of the new governments. But I repeatedly requested longer tours. I loved getting to know our boys who suited up for battle every day. I loved interviewing the Iraqis our troops were training and taking into battle. I also loved having beers and trading gossip with the spooks from Langley and MI6 and every other intelligence agency on the planet who had come to play in the Big Game. Most of all, though, I found it absolutely fascinating to slip away from the Green Zone and get out in the hinterland and risk life and limb trying to hook up with one insurgent commander or another to get his story.
All
the news that’s fit to print, right? I wasn’t there to regurgitate whatever the flacks at State or the Pentagon tried to spoon-feed me. I was there to find the real stories.

So whatever lay ahead, I was absolutely determined to head into Syria. I was going after the story. Not a single person I had confided in approved of what I was doing. But I wanted to think that one would have. I wanted to believe my grandfather would have been
proud of me. At least he would have understood what I was doing and why.

A. B. Collins covered the Second World War for United Press International. Then he worked for the Associated Press all over the globe. To be perfectly honest, he was my idol. Maybe it was because of all the stories he used to tell me when I was growing up. That man could really spin a good yarn. I was in awe of the way he had seemed to have met everyone and seen everything. Then again, maybe I simply loved him because of all the ice cream Pop-Pop used to buy my older brother and me whenever he and Grammie Collins came to visit. Or maybe it was because my father had left us when I was only twelve, and I never saw him again
 
—none of us did
 
—and Pop-Pop was the only man I really had in my life growing up. It was he who took me fishing on Eagle Lake and hiking in Acadia National Park. It was he who taught me how to use his collection of rifles and took me on hunting trips all over Maine and even up in Canada. Whatever the reason, I loved the man with every fiber of my being, and for as long as I could remember, I wanted to do what he did, to be what he was. Now here I was, about to touch down in Beirut, a city he had worked in and lived in and loved dearly.

Maybe the olive didn’t fall far from the tree.

Then again, my grandfather had lived a long and fruitful life and despite his many adventures had died in his bed, in his sleep, in his old age. At the moment, I had no presumption of meeting such a quiet and peaceful fate.