The First Hostage: A J. B. Collins Novel (24 page)

44

“Yael?”
I said in shock as I came around the corner.

To my astonishment, she was sitting in the waiting room. Beside her was her boss, the elusive Ari Shalit. They seemed to be making notes in a briefing book, but for the life of me I couldn’t imagine why they were here.

“J. B.?”
she replied, looking up, removing her reading glasses, seeing me in fatigues, and clearly as surprised to see me as I was to see her.

Before I could respond, she stood and gave me a hug, careful not to press the wound on my left arm, the wound she’d been the first to dress. Her dark-brown hair was wet from the rain, and several drops ran down the back of my neck, but I didn’t care. She was warm to the touch and smelled great and looked incredible in a dark-gray suit with a two-button blazer, pleated slacks, an ivory silk camisole, and black flats.

“Wow
 
—what are you doing here, both of you?” I asked, feeling self-conscious for holding Yael a bit too long and turning quickly to shake Ari’s hand.

“You’ll find out in a moment,” Ari replied.

“Well, I’m–I’m glad to see you both,” I stammered. “Ari, Yael, I’d like you to meet Colonel Yusef Sharif. He’s the king’s spokesman
and handles all of his media affairs. He’s been taking care of me. Colonel, this is Dr. Ari Shalit, deputy director of the Mossad, and his colleague, Dr. Yael Katzir, also with the Mossad, a WMD specialist.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” the colonel said, shaking their hands.

“The pleasure is ours,” said Ari.

“Dr. Katzir, though we have not had the pleasure of meeting before, I do, of course, know who you are,” Sharif continued. “Her Majesty the queen has spoken very highly of you, as has His Majesty. The Jordanian people owe you a great debt for what you and Mr. Collins did to save His Majesty and his family.”

“You don’t owe us anything. We’re friends
 
—allies, even
 
—but you’re very kind to say so,” Yael replied.

“Actually, we’re very sorry to request to see you all with such little notice,” said Ari. “As you know, my boss
 
—the director
 
—could not come.”

“How is he?” Sharif asked.

“Not well.”

“Cancer?”

“Yes, pancreatic,” said Ari. “Stage IV, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. And I suspect you’ve heard the news about the prime minister.”

“We just heard some rumors on TV,” I said. “Please tell us it’s not true.”

“I fear it is,” Ari confirmed.

“I’m very sorry for that as well,” Sharif said.

“All Israel is in shock,” Ari said. “But of course Jordan has been suffering far worse in recent days. We are deeply sorry for all that has happened and for all that you and your people are going through right now.”

“We are suffering, but we still have our king,” Sharif replied. “Please accept my condolences for your terrible loss. Prime Minister
Lavi was truly a man of peace and a good friend of His Majesty and the kingdom. He will be deeply missed.”

“Thank you,” Ari said. “That’s very kind.”

Ari and the colonel chatted quietly for another few minutes. Yael and I said nothing. But as we listened, I couldn’t help but keep glancing at her. Her large, brown, beautiful eyes were tired and full of grief. And I realized that she was wearing makeup. She hadn’t worn any in Turkey, and she wasn’t wearing much now. It might not even have been apparent to anyone who didn’t know her. But I noticed and then realized why. She was covering injuries she’d received during our escape from the palace
 
—the two blows she’d taken to the face when fighting hand to hand with one of the jihadists and the gash she’d gotten on her forehead when our SUV smashed into a car outside the palace gates. I wanted to ask her about it, see how she was feeling, find out whether she’d sustained any other injuries.

But before I could, Ari took me aside. He asked me how I’d wound up here and what I was doing. I gave him a brief summary of what had happened until I realized that what he was really getting at was whether I was going to tell the world he and Yael were here. I assured him that Colonel Sharif was not allowing me to publish anything at the moment and that I would not do anything to burn him. He still didn’t look comfortable at the prospect of having a reporter around, but just then the door to the war room opened behind us.

Prince Feisal came out and greeted us somberly, then asked us to step inside.

As we did, the king stood, came around the conference table, and embraced Ari as a brother. They said nothing. Nor did they need to. They were roughly the same age. Both in their midfifties. Both sons of the Holy Land. Both had bravely served their countries in the special forces. Once they’d been enemies. Now they were friends. One was a monarch. One was a spy. They knew the fates of their countries were both on the line, and they knew the price of victory.

When the king released Ari, he turned to Yael, took her hands in his, looked into her eyes, and both expressed his condolences and thanked her for all that she had done for him and the royal family. I found it hard to define the chemistry between them, but it was clear that Yael was deeply touched by the king’s kind and gracious spirit. She and Ari had come as professionals. They had been welcomed as friends.

His Majesty asked the two to sit next to him at the head of the table and quickly introduced them to the rest of the assembled group. When he got to me, he repeated his assurances that everything said and done on the entire base was off the record and that no reports of any kind from these meetings would be published in the
Times
or anywhere else without his permission. I still wasn’t sure that comforted everyone, but he was the king, and it was his room and his rules, so no one said a thing. At that point, he turned the floor over to Ari.

The colonel and I were sitting in the back of the room. Notebook in hand and ready to transcribe everything that was about to unfold, I was positioned directly behind the Egyptian general. Still, even from this less-than-ideal vantage point, I had a decent view of Ari
 
—and more importantly, Yael.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Ari began. “I apologize for the timing, but it could not be helped. And, gentlemen, I realize that this is a bit unorthodox, having Ms. Katzir and me here with you at such a critical moment. But the purpose of our visit is very simple. We know you believe President Taylor is in Dabiq. We understand the case. We’ve been studying the evidence. And we agree it’s compelling. But in the end my colleagues and I don’t believe he’s there. We believe it’s a trap. The president is not in Syria. He’s in Iraq.”

45

The room fell silent.

“We believe the president is being held in a small village known as Alqosh,” Ari continued as Yael set up a PowerPoint presentation.

The first slide they posted was a map of northern Iraq and a red dot marked
Alqosh
, along with two variant spellings:
Al-Qosh
and
Elkosh
.

“Alqosh is an ancient Assyrian town,” Ari went on. “Its history dates back before the time of the Babylonian Empire. As you can see on this map, it’s located on the plains in the Iraqi province of Nineveh. It’s about fifty kilometers north of Mosul, not far from Dohuk, right off Highway 2.”

“But Alqosh is a Christian town, not Muslim, isn’t it?” asked General El-Badawy.

“That’s true, General,” Ari replied. “Alqosh has been a Chaldean Christian community, a mixture of Orthodox and Catholic. It has been captured several times in recent years by ISIS, then liberated several times by the Iraqis, but finally retaken by ISIS forces about a year ago and has been held securely by ISIS since then. During these battles, most of the Christians fled. Those who didn’t get out in time were crucified or beheaded. The population has plunged from more
than three thousand to just a few hundred today, most of whom are ISIS leaders and their families.”

“So why do you think the president is in Alqosh, of all places?” the Egyptian general pressed.

“Several reasons,” Ari said. “First, let’s look at the phone calls made to and from Jamal Ramzy’s cell phone.”

Ari nodded, and Yael posted the next slide, an infographic detailing the call log.

1. Thursday, 25 November: Dabiq, Syria (9 seconds)

2. Sunday, 28 November: Dabiq, Syria (9 seconds)

3. Monday, 29 November: Homs, Syria (4:17 minutes)

4. Tuesday, 30 November: Dabiq, Syria (9 seconds)

5. Tuesday, 30 November: Homs, Syria (3:54 minutes)

6. Wednesday, 1 December: Homs, Syria (2 minutes)

7. Thursday, 2 December: Homs, Syria (4:36 minutes)

8. Friday, 3 December: Homs, Syria (6:13 minutes)

9. Friday, 3 December: Irbid, Jordan
→
Fairfax, Virginia (12:09 minutes)

1. Tuesday, 30 November: Homs, Syria (2:29 minutes)

2. Saturday, 4 December: Homs, Syria (53 seconds)

3. Sunday, 5 December: Dabiq, Syria (9 seconds)

“As you can see, the log shows that nine outbound calls were made from Ramzy’s cell phone, and three inbound calls were received,” Ari said. “Now, it’s true that three of the outbound calls were made to a number in Dabiq, including two of the first three calls made. But our analysis shows that each of these calls lasted only nine seconds. It’s possible, of course, that Ramzy
 
—or whoever was using the phone
 
—had a brief conversation with someone in Dabiq each time, passing along a small bit of information
 
—a name, a phone number, a date
and time, something along those lines. But how likely is it that his conversation lasted exactly nine seconds each time? Not very.”

“He was entering a passcode,” General al-Mufti said.

“Yes, General, that’s what we believe,” Ari concurred. “We can’t prove it. And we don’t know what the code was. But obviously the caller had some reason to dial that number in Dabiq and complete the same procedure each time, a procedure that took exactly nine seconds. The only inbound call from Dabiq also lasted nine seconds. In this case, whatever procedure had been agreed upon in advance was being done in reverse.”

Ari looked around the room and then back at the king to make sure everyone was following him. We were, and the king encouraged him to proceed.

“Of course, this doesn’t prove the president is
not
in Dabiq,” Ari readily conceded. “The phone records show Ramzy calling this number
 
—and it’s the same number every time
 
—in Dabiq. Clearly there’s a strong connection to Dabiq. But for my team and me, at least, it doesn’t make sense that Ramzy was talking to Abu Khalif when he made those calls. Yet Ramzy was Khalif’s deputy. They should have spoken several times during this period. At the very least Ramzy should have spoken to someone close to Khalif, someone who could have reliably passed information back and forth between the two. But clearly that didn’t happen on any of the calls to or from Dabiq. That leads us to Homs, which I will get to in a moment. But before we do, let’s take a look at the last outbound call.”

Yael put up a new slide.

* Irbid
→
drugstore

* Western Union office

* Two money transfers

“This call is surely the oddest of them all,” Ari said. “At precisely five o’clock on the afternoon of Friday, December 3, a call was made from Jamal Ramzy’s phone to a number just outside of Washington, D.C. We’ve been able to determine that the cell tower the call originated from was located on the outskirts of the city of Irbid. So either Ramzy or someone on his team using this phone was operating inside the Hashemite Kingdom, whereas all the calls made or received before December 3 were transmitted from cell towers in various parts of Syria. Everyone still with me?”

We all were.

“Which means Ramzy or his team crossed the border from Syria into Jordan sometime between eleven o’clock on the night of Thursday, December 2, and 8:32 on the morning of Friday, December 3, when the second-to-last call is made from the phone,” Ari continued. “What makes the call stand out, of course, is that it’s the only call outside of the Middle East. It’s the only call to the United States. And curiously, it’s to a phone number for a drugstore in Fairfax, Virginia. Now, why is that significant?”

Ari had no takers, so he continued.

“The drugstore is located on Route 123, also known as Chain Bridge Road. Was it a mistake? Was it a wrong number?”

“No,” General Jum’a said. “It’s the longest call Ramzy made.”

“Exactly, General,” Ari said. “The call lasted more than twelve minutes. So we have to assume Ramzy, or the person using his phone, meant to call a drugstore in Fairfax. But why? He’s not calling in a prescription. He’s not checking if they have mouthwash or a certain brand of razor. Why is he calling this drugstore?”

“It’s about the money,” the Saudi general said, engaging the Israeli agent for the first time.

“Correct,” Ari said. “It turns out there is a Western Union office at this drugstore, and when we investigated further, we found that two money transfers were made from overseas to that Western Union
branch on that day. The first was for six hundred dollars. It was sent to a nineteen-year-old Indian student from Mumbai who is a sophomore at George Mason University. But the family seems to have no possible connection to terrorism, so we examined the second transfer. This one was for five thousand dollars. It was sent from Dubai to a thirty-four-year-old woman who works as a real estate agent in Vienna, Virginia.”

“Real estate?” I asked.

Ari nodded.

“Let me guess,” I said, stunned to see how this was unfolding. “This is the woman who was working for Jack and Claire Vaughn, the one having an affair with Jack.”

“The very same,” Ari said. “We passed this information along to the FBI as soon as we got it.”

“Okay, this is all fascinating,” Prince Feisal interjected, “but I hope I don’t need to remind you we are fast approaching the launch of military operations into Dabiq. So far you haven’t convinced us you have a better target.”