The Third Target (34 page)

I had never seen Salim Mansour happy.

Not “so happy.” Not “this happy.” I’m saying I had never seen him happy.

Ever. Period. End of sentence. New paragraph.

An economist by training, with a doctorate from the University of Chicago, the Palestinian president was not someone I would naturally characterize as an optimist. Once, over a meal of hummus and lamb at a restaurant in Jericho overlooking the Jordan Valley, he had told me
 
—off the record, of course
 
—how despondent he had become by Yasser Arafat’s “congenital incapacity to say yes” to any proposal the Israelis offered.

“The U.N. offered Ben-Gurion a fraction of what he wanted in ’47, but he took it,” Mansour had said, referring to David Ben-Gurion, the founder of the Jewish State. “He didn’t demand the whole loaf, even though he wanted it. He took what he could get and he started building. And look where Israel is now. Their per capita GDP is over $32,000. Ours is not even a tenth of that. Their unemployment rate is under 7 percent a year. Ours is almost four times that number. They’re becoming a high-tech capital of the world. At times it feels like we’re stuck in the Stone Age. We have so much potential.
But we’ve let ourselves get trapped in a cycle of violence and envy and resentment, and where has it gotten us?”

Over dessert, he’d continued his diatribe. “Don’t get me wrong. The Israelis have done everything they could to slow us down and keep us back. I’m not absolving them of anything. Every charge Arafat makes against them is true. But when Barak offered him a serious, substantive deal at Camp David in 2000, Arafat rejected it out of hand. Why? How has that helped us? I’m not saying the deal was everything we wanted. Of course not. But think of it
 
—Palestine could have been an independent, sovereign state since 2000. We could have been building. We could have been growing. Instead, we remain in the mire while the Israelis continue to prosper.”

Less than a year later, in another off-the-record lunch, Mansour extended his complaints to include Mahmoud Abbas, aka Abu Mazen.

“Arafat was a revolutionary
 
—I get it,” he’d said over stuffed grape leaves and grilled chicken. “Arafat aimed for the sky. Abu Mazen’s job was to turn the dream into a reality. Ehud Olmert gave him that chance in ’08, but he wouldn’t say yes. He was too much a disciple of Arafat. Too weak. No creativity. Imagine if he’d said yes
 
—we could have been sitting in a bona fide State of Palestine since 2008. Yet here we are, stuck as ever.”

What made him even more despondent, he said, was the “endemic corruption” and “bureaucratic incompetence” that he felt had characterized the Palestinian Authority for so long.

“The world is not just going to hand us a state on a silver platter if we can’t tie our shoes and pay our bills on time,” he had insisted. “Maybe we can’t stop the Israelis from occupying us, oppressing us, imposing apartheid on us. Not yet. But we can make sure we are building a solid, functioning, serious economy and democracy. And the sooner we do it, the more credibility we will gain in the eyes of world leaders who can then ratchet up the pressure on the Israelis to acknowledge our God-given right of self-determination.”

But this meeting was different. Mansour was smiling.

Born in Jenin but raised in Dubai, Mansour had stayed away from the West Bank and Gaza for decades. In 2010, however, he reluctantly accepted then-President Abbas’s request that he serve as the Palestinian Authority’s finance minister. Facing enormous odds and bureaucratic infighting, Mansour had set about to make the very reforms for which he had been advocating so long. It wasn’t easy. Indeed, it was often painful. But it began to work. The Palestinian economy began to grow. The bureaucracy began to function
 
—not great, certainly not perfect, but better than before. The U.S. State Department took notice. So did the European Union. Jordan certainly did. And so did Mansour’s fellow Palestinians. As their fortunes began to improve bit by bit, Mansour’s stock began to rise as well. Then came Hamas’s repeated rocket wars against Israel and the resultant destruction of Gaza. That had been an enormous setback. Yet in the end, Hamas was humbled and internationally isolated. The rocket wars, as devastating as they’d been, had given the Palestinian Authority
 
—not Hamas
 
—a new lease on life. And when Abbas finally announced he was retiring and calling new elections, there was a groundswell of support for Salim Mansour, the balding, bespectacled economics professor who was offering a serious vision of growth and opportunity for a people long bereft of either.

“It’s happening,” he now told me over a plate of fruit he wasn’t touching and a cup of Turkish coffee that was getting cold. “After all this time, the dream is really becoming a reality.”

We were on the record. My digital recorder was on. And despite a deep sense of foreboding I couldn’t seem to shake, even I had to smile at Mansour’s self-evident joy.
“Honestly, Mr. President, I have never seen you happy.”

“You weren’t at my wedding,” he said.

“True.”

“Or the births of my four daughters.”

“Fair enough.”

“Or their weddings or the births of my nine grandchildren.”

“My apologies.”

“I can be happy, Mr. Collins. I am happy when I have hope, when I see love and fruit and growth and dreams coming true. That’s what makes me happy.”

“So you’re satisfied with this process?”

“Of course not,” he said. “It was a circus.”

“But you’re satisfied with the outcome.”

“Hardly,” he said defiantly, the smile beginning to fade somewhat. “My people deserve so much more than this. But at the risk of sounding trite, I refused to let the perfect be the enemy of the good. The Palestinian people want a state. They deserve a state. They have fought for one. They have worked for one. They have suffered without one. My job is not to think of a thousand reasons why they cannot have one. My job is to deliver one, and today I have. This is a historic day, one we will not forget for a long time.”

“Are you worried about the ISIS threat?”

“No.”

“You’re not worried that Abu Khalif has threatened to assassinate you and anyone else who makes peace with the ‘criminal Zionists’?”

“I am not wasting my time with the mad ravings of a sociopath.”

“You know he is calling for a Third Intifada.”

“There is no appetite among the Palestinians for another uprising,” Mansour said. “Why would there be? We are about to get a state of our own, a true and legitimate state. And once we have it, I believe we will take away the central argument of the
takfiris
, that only through violence will the Palestinian people be liberated. We have been oppressed. And we do need to be liberated. But not through violence. Not through jihad. Today we begin our own liberation. We don’t need the help of a rapist and a murderer. We’re not seeking a killing ground for jihadists. We’re building a real state here, one based
on the rule of law and the principles of economic growth, democratic values, and respect for Islam and all religions.”

“Do you fear an attack by ISIS using chemical weapons?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe they don’t really have them.”

“They do,” I said. “I’ve seen them.”

“Then that’s what our security forces are for, and Jordan’s and Israel’s,” he replied, a hint of exasperation now rising in his voice. “We have professional security forces, and I have every confidence they will do their job. But this is not our focus today. This is a day of celebration, a day for great joy and optimism, not fear and doubt. Don’t spoil this for us with your tales of imminent doom. We have had enough pain to last a thousand lifetimes. We have had enough stormy days. Let us, just this once, have our moment in the sun.”

I called Yael again but got voice mail and didn’t leave a message.

Then I went to back to my room, wrote up the interview with Mansour, and filed it with Allen.

I pulled out my grandfather’s pocket watch and saw it was almost 12:30 p.m. The limo that was supposed to pick me up on the way to the airport to meet President Taylor was late. I was about to call Yael again when my mobile phone rang. But it wasn’t her. It was Kamal Jeddeh.

“There’s been a change of plans,” the Jordanian intelligence director said.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“No, just a change,” he said. “I have a car waiting for you downstairs. It will take you to the airport. The foreign minister will meet Air Force One and greet the president when he arrives, and the president has requested that you join him for the drive to the palace.”

“The king isn’t going?” I asked.

“No.”

“What about President Mansour and Prime Minister Lavi?”

“They are not going either.”

“Why not?”

“Their meeting with His Majesty is running long. That’s all I know. But time is short. We must get you to the airport. Please head downstairs immediately.”

Something was wrong. The protocol, the timing, every minute of this trip had been mapped out in excruciating detail. I rechecked the official schedule some envoy had slipped under my door earlier that morning. All three Middle Eastern leaders were supposed to greet the American president at Queen Alia International Airport. Why the sudden change
 
—especially one as significant as this? The arrival of the president in Amman under such circumstances would be worldwide news. It would likely be broadcast on live television throughout the region and around the globe. Shouldn’t the king be there to greet him? The only thing I could think of that would warrant such a serious deviation from the itinerary was that a last-minute snag had occurred in the peace plan. Was it possible Lavi or Mansour were having second thoughts or reopening some final-status issue that was supposedly already, well, final?

I grabbed my briefcase and camera bag and headed down the hallway. Waiting for the elevator, I quickly sent individual text messages to each of the principals, as well as separate texts to each of their top advisors. On the elevator, I called Prince Marwan but didn’t get him. I called Youssef Kuttab, the Palestinian president’s most trusted advisor, as well, but he wasn’t picking up either.

Ali Sa’id, on the other hand, was waiting for me in the lobby.

“Ali, my friend, how kind of you to fetch me,” I said.

“Of course. Please, come; we must hurry.”

We left the front entrance of the hotel and got into the back of Sa’id’s government-issue Mercedes. Up front were a driver and a bodyguard. But what really caught my attention was the black Chevy Suburban behind us, filled with a half-dozen additional well-armed men.

“Expecting company?” I asked as Sa’id donned his sunglasses and we started moving through traffic.

“You can never be too careful,” he replied.

“Ali, how many Syrians are in Jordan at the moment?” I asked.

“Around 1.3 million,” he replied.

That was more than double the number I’d heard. “I thought it was between five hundred thousand and six hundred thousand,” I said.

“That’s
registered
refugees,” he explained. “There are just over six hundred thousand refugees living in the camps we’ve set up with the U.N. But there are another seven hundred thousand who are not officially registered with the Jordanian government.”

“How do you know the number then?”

“They came before the civil war
 
—to work, to visit family, to take a vacation, to study, whatever. But they were already here when the civil war in Syria got so bad they couldn’t go back.”

“So they got stuck here?” I asked.

“You could say that.”

“So the total number is 1.3 million?”

“Give or take.”

“Do you know who those people really are?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You know what I mean,” I replied. “Have they been vetted? Are they all safe? Or are there jihadists among them?”

“The honest answer?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“You can’t print this.”

“I understand. I’m just curious.”

“Well . . .” He glanced nervously at the other agents in the car.

“You can tell me,” I said. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

There was a long pause, and then he finally said, “The truth is we have no idea who they all are.”

“You mean there could be extremists among them?”

“Yes.”

“A few?”

“At least.”

“Many?”

“Perhaps.”

“Could there be ISIS rebels among them?”

“Yes.”

“Sleeper cells?”

“Probably.”

“You just don’t know.”

“Not precise numbers, no,” Sa’id told me. “But even if it’s just one percent of the total number of Syrians who have entered the country, that could be more than thirteen thousand
jihadis
.”

I winced. “Ready to strike?”

“Perhaps,” he said again.

“When?”

“Who knows? Whenever Abu Khalif gives the order.”

“Have you captured any ISIS members so far?”

“Just between us?”

“Yes.”

“Not for publication?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes,” he said. “The answer is yes.”

“How many?”

“In the last eighteen months, we’ve captured twenty-four ISIS and al-Nusra cells. We’ve also captured more than four tons of weapons.”

“Four tons?”
I asked, incredulous.

“I’m afraid so.”

“What kinds?”

“Light arms and ammunition, mostly,” he told me. “But also mortars, rocket launchers, and IEDs. Look, Mr. Collins, we know Syrians loyal to ISIS and other radical groups have penetrated the country. But as bad as that is, that’s not even our biggest concern.”

“What is?”

“Jordanian nationals.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, think of Abu Khalif himself,” he explained as we sped southward along Highway 15 toward the airport. “He’s a Jordanian. Obviously he’s on a watch list because we know about him. And his predecessor, Zarqawi
 
—also a Jordanian national. Again, we knew about him. We kept a vigilant eye out for him. And in the end, we helped the Iraqis and the Americans find him and bring him to justice. But how many other Khalifs and Zarqawis are out there that we don’t know about? How many Jordanian nationals, with Jordanian passports and Jordanian driver’s licenses and Jordanian ID cards work directly for ISIS or one of the other extremist groups, and we don’t know who they are? That’s the X factor, Mr. Collins. And these traitors could be anywhere.”

“Sprinkled throughout the government bureaucracy?” I asked.

“Maybe.”

“The police force?”

“It’s possible.”

“What about the army?”

“Less likely, but I wouldn’t rule it out.”

“Why not?”

“Look
 
—all of us who have served in the military or the security services love the king,” he said. “We’re very loyal to him. He’s an extraordinary man and a great leader. In some ways, he’s even more impressive than his father, may God give his soul rest. Some were worried when King Hussein died in 1999. They were expecting Prince Hassan to take his place. But just a few days before his death, the king changed the laws of succession. He made his eldest son the crown prince. And when Hussein died, Abdullah took the throne. I know the royal family very well. My father and grandfather were personal bodyguards for them. We would give our lives for them. But when the changeover happened, many were nervous. They didn’t say
it out loud, mind you. But they weren’t sure the young new monarch was up for the challenge. He proved them wrong.”

“But . . .”

“Unemployment among the youth is hovering around 30 percent,” he said as we passed through the last of several military checkpoints and then turned at the airport. “And that’s just the official number. The real number may very well be even higher. And then there are army veterans.”

“What about them?”

“Their pensions are not that much, and it’s hard to find a good job, even when you come out as a high-ranking officer. You’re not that old
 
—maybe in your mid- to late forties or early fifties. You still have many years of productive service left in you, but the army doesn’t need you. So what are you supposed to do? How are you supposed to provide for your family? I’m not talking about food and clothing. But how do you help your son put together money to get married, to buy an apartment, to buy a decent car? For that matter, how do you help your daughter pay for college? This is not a wealthy kingdom, Mr. Collins. This is not Arabia. This is not the Gulf. The government does the best it can. But guess where most of the benefits go?”

“To the refugees from Syria and Iraq?”

“No, no
 
—that’s a new problem,” he said. “They go to the Palestinians
 
—that is, to Jordanian citizens of Palestinian origin.”

“Which is about how many people?”

“Some say up to 70 percent of the population,” Sa’id said. “Some say it’s only 50 percent. Does it really matter? The point is the Palestinians
 
—whom some call the ‘West Bankers’
 
—get a lot of the government’s time, attention, and resources.”

“And the East Bankers?”

“Well, we’re the ones who built the country,” he said. “We’re the ones who run the government and fight in the army and are loyal to Jordan first and foremost, not to Palestine.”

“But the West Bankers are getting most of the perks.”

“That’s how some people feel.”

“Enough to join ISIS, enough to actually overthrow the king?”

“I hope not, Mr. Collins,” he said as we pulled up to the main terminal and a sea of heavily armed soldiers and secret police. “But these are crazy times. If you’d asked me a few years ago whether the Egyptians would try to overthrow Mubarak, and Mubarak would let them, I’d have said you were crazy. If you’d asked me if the Syrians would rise up against Assad, and Assad would have such a hard time stopping them, I’d have said you were out of your mind. But the world is changing very, very fast. I have no idea what will happen next. And that’s what scares me.”