“Let me be clear,” Harris said. “There is no evidence as of yet that Mr. Vaughn intended to betray his country or set into motion such a deadly chain of events. But the evidence is conclusive: he is the mole.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Mr. Vaughn is having an affair,” Harris explained. “He and Mrs. Vaughn have been planning to buy a new house, waterfront property on the Potomac River, the Virginia side, a place where they would retire when he steps down from the agency. But along the way, the woman who was their real estate agent began meeting with Mr. Vaughn separately. She would show him various properties while Mrs. Vaughn was out of town. It all seemed harmless enough, but we now know the real estate agent seduced him and they began sleeping together at these various properties while Mr. Vaughn’s security detail waited outside.”
I still couldn’t believe it. “How long has this been going on?”
“Several months,” Harris said. “But what the director didn’t know was that this wasn’t just an ‘innocent affair,’ if any affair can be called that. It was a honey trap.”
“A setup?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Harris. “The woman is an American citizen. Her father is American. But her mother is from Qatar. The woman herself was brought up Sunni. For years she raised money in the U.S. for Hamas. But recently she began working for ISIS.”
“You’re sure?”
“We are. For the last two years, she’s been receiving monthly wire transfers from the Gulf through a series of banks in Europe and the Caribbean. But that’s not important. What you need to know is she has been buying and selling homes to military officials at the Pentagon, members of the House and Senate, and all kinds of other officials in northern Virginia. She’s been using her access to these people’s homes to gain classified information and feed it back to her superiors. Six months ago she received an order to approach Claire Vaughn and offer to help her and her husband find a retirement home. She came well recommended by friends in the area, so Mrs. Vaughn agreed. But the woman quickly bypassed Mrs. Vaughn and focused her attention on Mr. Vaughn. And once they started sleeping together, she began learning little tidbits of valuable information.”
“Like details of the peace negotiations?”
“Exactly.”
“And details of the summit?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“And she was feeding everything she learned back to ISIS?”
“Yes.”
“But you just said something about this being a sting operation that went awry,” I noted. “What does that mean?”
“The bureau caught wind of Vaughn’s affair a few weeks ago,” Harris said. “It wasn’t really our place to interfere in a personal matter, but the more we learned about the woman, the more concerned we became. Still, her tradecraft was too good. We were sure she was getting information out of Vaughn, but we couldn’t get a judge to give us a warrant to bug his house or the houses where they would have their, you know, liaisons. What’s more, we were having trouble finding out how she was getting her information back to ISIS, and without that we felt we couldn’t execute an arrest warrant. In short, we hadn’t yet built a case that would hold up in court.”
“And then came the attack on the summit?”
“Right. At that point, Mr. Vaughn and his mistress were the prime suspects. But we still didn’t have conclusive proof. I briefed the king on this, privately—as you can imagine, this is all extremely sensitive. I didn’t even tell Prince Feisal. I couldn’t. Only the king. I told him our suspicions, and then I told him our plan. What if he arrested you? What if I interrogated you? And what if I persuaded you to call the director and plead with him to help you—at a time where his mistress might be able to overhear the conversation or get the details out of him? My team and I felt certain that if this woman learned where you were and where the king was, she would find a way to feed that information back to ISIS. Once she did, we’d have her red-handed. And that’s exactly what happened. Mrs. Vaughn is out of town. The woman was at the Vaughn home tonight. That’s the voice you heard talking to him. Just minutes after you got off the phone with the director, my team recorded her making a phone call to a source and telling that source these details. Our theory had worked. What we didn’t expect was that this would trigger a drone attack on the base.”
“You could have gotten me killed.”
“I’m sorry. We didn’t anticipate that.”
“But why did they hit the detention center?” I asked. “I mean, the main building I get. But the detention center? It doesn’t make sense.”
“There’s only one explanation,” Harris said. “They weren’t just trying to get the king. They were trying to get you, too. Apparently you’ve become a bigger target than we realized.”
“And they were tracking my phone,” I said, suddenly realizing how close I’d come—again—to losing my life.
Harris nodded. “Again, I’m sorry. But thank God you weren’t carrying the phone when the missile was fired.”
“Or that you weren’t.”
“Right,” he said, staring out the window of the Black Hawk at the vast stretches of desert below us.
“So who was the woman’s contact?” I asked, trying to get my mind off my own mortality.
“Her son,” Harris said.
“Did you suspect him?”
“No, actually.”
“Why not?”
“He served in the U.S. Army, worked for several years at the Defense Intelligence Agency, now works for the NSA at Fort Meade,” Harris explained. “I can’t say she used him every time. My team is working on that right now. But he’s the one she called today, and whomever he called, they obviously moved pretty fast to organize this strike.”
My mind was reeling. Then we started experiencing violent turbulence. Hail began pelting the chopper. Lightning flashed all around us. We began descending, but not nearly fast enough for me.
“Do you think Jack knew who the woman was?” I asked. “I mean, do you think he was actively working against the president, working to kill him, to kill the king?”
“No, I don’t,” Harris replied. “As I said, the investigation is ongoing. But when it’s all said and done, I think we’re going to find out he was guilty of adultery, not treason.”
“So where does that leave me?” I asked Harris, who was suddenly looking for an airsickness bag and not seeing one anywhere.
“You’re in the clear,” he replied, looking green and holding his stomach.
“And the king knows all this?”
“Most of it, but I’ll need to fill him in on the latest.”
“So why does he want to see me? Why isn’t he sending me home?”
“Honestly, I have no idea,” Harris admitted. “But I guess we’re about to find out.”
32
AZRAQ, JORDAN
Jack Vaughn.
I still couldn’t believe it. I’d known the man and his family for ages. I’d never have suspected him in a million years. Betraying his wife? Betraying his family? And in the end betraying his country? I felt as sick as Harris now looked.
I pulled out my pocket watch—it was almost twelve thirty on Tuesday afternoon. Just seventeen and a half hours to go before ISIS executed the president.
A brutal winter storm had descended upon the country. Driving rains and hail the size of marbles blown by whipping winds from the northeast buffeted the chopper as we came in on final approach. Sizzling sticks of lightning could be seen on the horizon. Great booms of thunder rocked the craft even more.
I turned to Harris to ask where we were. But he was white as a sheet. “You okay?” I asked.
But it was too late. Harris started heaving his guts out all over the chopper’s floor. The stench was overpowering. I turned back to the window. We certainly weren’t in Amman anymore.
As the pilot and copilot fought to maintain control, one of the MPs explained that we were arriving at a top-secret facility known as the Mu
waffaq Salti Air Base in the Zarqa Governorate, in the desert east of Amman. I’d heard of this place. The base was built in 1976 near a landing strip once used by Lawrence of Arabia during World War I. The modern base was completed in 1980 and named after a Jordanian pilot who was killed in battle with the Israelis.
The first thing that struck me as we got closer—other than the fact that Harris was still puking his guts out—was how crowded the airfield was. Despite the brutal conditions and limited visibility, there were dozens of Jordanian F-16s taking off and landing, no doubt conducting sorties over the capital and some of the outlying towns and villages where ISIS had been making gains. But what really caught my eye was the number of American, Egyptian, and Saudi fighter jets, long-range bombers, attack helicopters, and special operations aircraft—dozens and dozens, perhaps well over a hundred, including a handful of American B-2 stealth bombers—being amassed at a base very few people had ever even heard of. Something was brewing, something big, and I wanted to know what.
The moment we touched down—hard but safe—near one of the hangars and exited the chopper, Colonel Sharif pulled up in an armored personnel carrier. He waved us over.
I turned to Harris. “You all right?”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, wiping his mouth and his brow.
I handed him a bottle of water. He took several sips.
“Just give me a moment with Sharif,” he said. “I need to let him know what’s happening with you.”
I nodded and waited while Harris briefed the colonel on the latest developments with me and the case against Vaughn. I could see Sharif’s eyes grow wide. The man was as stunned as I had been. But time was fleeting. The king was waiting.
“Welcome to Azraq, Mr. Collins,” Sharif shouted over the storms and the Black Hawk’s rotors. “Thanks be to Allah that you’re safe—and innocent.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” I replied. “You’re telling me.”
“I’m afraid we can’t linger,” Sharif said. “Something urgent has come up. We need to go.” The colonel asked me to get into the APC. By the time he got in beside me, we were both soaked to the bone and freezing cold.
I looked back and noticed an MP guiding Harris into another vehicle.
“Where’s he going?” I asked. “Isn’t he coming with us?”
“No,” Sharif replied. “He’s heading to the infirmary first and then to one of the administrative buildings. He’s got a case to manage, and a fast-moving one at that.”
Our driver took us around the hangar and across the air base to a nondescript strip of garages housing various tow trucks and other service vehicles. He pulled into an empty stall, parked, and turned off the engine. “We’re here,” he said, checking his watch, jumping out of the APC, and motioning for us to disembark as well. “There are dry clothes for both of you—fatigues, I’m afraid; that’s all they have here. Find whatever fits. There are clean socks and boots of various sizes too. But make it quick.”
We did as he suggested, and soon I found myself wearing a private’s uniform. I also found a towel and dried off my face and bald head. The colonel changed as well, and then the MP who had driven us here punched a code into a keypad on the only door inside the garage. When the electronic lock released, he led the two of us down a stairwell.
We descended several levels, then reached a security checkpoint manned not by MPs but by elite members of Jordan’s special forces. The colonel showed his photo ID and was cleared, but all of my personal possessions were taken from me, including my grandfather’s watch. Then we stepped through an X-ray machine and were patted down and carefully examined by a team of heavily armed soldiers before being allowed to proceed.
After being cleared, we headed down a long, poorly lit concrete tunnel and passed through two more checkpoints, each manned by a half-dozen soldiers, all of them toting machine guns, before we finally reached a small waiting area with four more soldiers guarding the vaultlike door to the inner sanctum. A captain checked our IDs again and told us to take a seat.
We did as we were told and for a few minutes said nothing to each other. There was a coffee table but no coffee, and there were no magazines or newspapers, nothing to do but awkwardly avoid eye contact.
Eventually I leaned back and closed my eyes. My hands were shaking. My heart was still pounding. I still couldn’t believe how close I’d come to dying in that drone strike. And I still couldn’t shake the sick feeling from the reality that Jack Vaughn was responsible for all that had happened. What would have possessed him to have an affair in the first place? And how could he really not have known whom he was shacking up with? The man was the director of the CIA, for crying out loud. Then again, I couldn’t for one second believe he had known that his mistress was working for ISIS. A philanderer? Maybe. A traitor? I couldn’t get there.
I couldn’t bear to think about it anymore. It was all too ugly. So I turned my thoughts to Yael. What was she doing just then? Was the gash on her forehead healing? What about the blows she’d taken to the face? Had the doctors at Hadassah insisted that she stay for several days so they could treat her wounds and so she could get some rest? Then again, hopefully her injuries weren’t that bad. Maybe Ari had thanked her for her heroic service in saving the life of the prime minister and the king and given her the week off. I hoped so. She deserved it.
Thinking about Yael made me wonder how her people were responding to this geopolitical earthquake. The Israelis had to be terrified, I imagined. Jordan was a friend, a tacit ally. And now this? A solid, stable, quiet, calm Hashemite Kingdom was the essential cornerstone of the security architecture for this entire corridor, from Jaffa to Jerusalem to Jordan. Now what? Surely the Israeli Defense Forces had mobilized their military after the attacks on the summit. It was now very possible, even probable, that ISIS was going to launch chemical attacks against Israeli population centers at any moment.
Were the Israelis also planning offensive actions against ISIS? They had to be inclined to, and what fair-minded person could blame them? Abu Khalif had just tried to assassinate their prime minister. In the process he had succeeded in killing dozens of Israeli members of parliament and security personnel. But Israeli offensive operations inside Jordan, not to mention in Syria or Iraq, would play right into the hands of ISIS, I worried. Such operations could very well provide the immediate “justification” the ISIS leaders wanted to declare total jihad against the “Zionist enemy.”
The vault door opened. The colonel was asked by a young military aide to come inside. I was asked to wait. Ten minutes later, the vault door opened again. This time the colonel beckoned me to join him. I took a deep breath, stood up straight, and followed him inside. I had no idea what to expect. But there was no turning back now.
33
I entered the war room.
It was buzzing with activity. At the far end, at the head of the table, was King Abdullah himself. At his right hand was Prince Feisal. Both were talking on separate phones. To the king’s left were Lieutenant General Abdul Jum’a and Major General Ibrahim al-Mufti, huddled in conversation as they pored over a map with great concern.
None of them looked up. They neither noticed us nor seemed to care that we had entered. They certainly didn’t welcome us, but unlike back in Marka, they weren’t the only ones in the room. The colonel whispered that he had just briefed the king and Prince Feisal on the latest developments with me, Vaughn, and the criminal investigation Agent Harris was spearheading. Then he introduced me to General Amr El-Badawy, explaining that he was the commander of Egyptian special forces. After this, he quickly introduced me to Lieutenant General Marco Ramirez, though Ramirez I already knew. He was the commander of Delta Force and a legend in the SOF community back in the States. I’d interviewed him numerous times in Afghanistan and Iraq and once in Tampa, at CENTCOM. Finally, Sharif had me say a quick hello to a Saudi general as well as one from the United Arab Emirates. Then he had me take a seat with him, not at the main conference table but in the back, by the va
ult door, in a row of seats he said was reserved for aides to the military leaders, though there was only one in the room at the moment, and he was Jordanian.
“Most of these guys just arrived,” Sharif whispered, handing me a pad and pen.
“How long ago?” I asked, trying to get my bearings.
“A few minutes ago. I was told the prince is about to give a briefing. That’s why we were trying to get you here before it started.”
“I don’t understand,” I whispered back. “I get why General Ramirez is here. But why the guys from Egypt, Saudi, and the Gulf?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Sharif. “I suppose we’re about to find out.”
Prince Feisal asked for quiet. Those on landlines—no cell phones were permitted in this bunker—put them down. The generals who’d just arrived took their seats. The vault door closed and locked behind us. The meeting was under way.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Thank you for joining His Majesty and me on such short notice,” the prince began. “We will get into the assault planning in a moment. But first I want to bring you up to speed on several important new developments. I wanted you to be among the first to know that CIA director Jack Vaughn has been arrested at his home in Washington by the FBI. I am told by the attorney general that Vaughn will be charged with espionage and possibly with treason.”
There were audible gasps around the table.
“While I don’t have all the details, I can tell you that Mr. Vaughn was arrested with a mistress who was also at his home—indeed, apparently in his bed,” the prince continued. “Allegedly, he told her various classified details about the peace summit as well as about the location of His Majesty and other principals in recent days. What’s not clear at this hour is whether Mr. Vaughn knew this woman—of Qatari descent—was working for ISIS.”
The men around the table were as stunned as I’d been, and it took a moment for the prince to quiet the room and continue his briefing.