“Did you say six thousand dead?”
“No, no, I said casualties—six thousand casualties,” the chief clarified. “I don’t have an exact breakdown right now between dead and wounded.”
“Can you give us your best guess, based on the information you’re seeing?”
The chief refused to speculate, so the reporter asked, “And do you know at this point who is behind this attack?”
Again the chief refused to comment.
“But you suspect it’s connected to the attacks in Washington, is that correct?” the reporter asked.
“That seems like a reasonable guess, but at the moment that’s all it is—a guess. Give us some time. I’ve got my best officers and detectives on this. We’re getting lots of help from federal and state authorities. We’re going to figure this out and bring the people who did this to justice. You can take that to the bank.”
“How many first responders have fallen to the gas?”
“I don’t have any figures on that, but quite a few.”
“And we’re talking about sarin gas, like the kind that was used to hit the Capitol building on Tuesday night?”
“That seems to be the case, but again it’s too soon to be definitive,” the chief explained.
“You think it’s ISIS?” the reporter pressed.
“I’m not going to speculate,” the chief replied. “Like I said, we have no suspects at the moment. We’re just trying to respond to the crisis. But the mayor and I are planning a press conference later in the day once we have more hard information.”
On the radio, we could suddenly hear more sirens rapidly approaching. “Look, I’ve got to go—sorry,” the chief said, and he was gone.
The reporter summarized what she’d heard for listeners just tuning in, then threw it back to the anchor in the main studio in Manhattan.
I reached over and turned the radio off.
“What are you doing?” Matt asked, incredulous. He’d never seen me turn off a breaking news story, probably because I never had.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just—I can’t listen anymore.”
I realized I was gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles were white. I saw Matt glance at my hands and then look away. He didn’t say anything, didn’t press. We were both traumatized. We’d both seen things no one ever should. Now more people were dying, all over America. It just never seemed to end.
The phone rang. The caller ID said it was Allen. I knew what he wanted. This wasn’t about going back to Jordan. This time he was calling to draft me into covering this fast-breaking story. He knew I was approaching Manhattan. He needed all hands on deck. But the last thing I wanted to do was head into the scene of another terrorist attack. My hands were shaking. My heart was racing. I just couldn’t do it. I let the call go to voice mail and kept driving.
Matt and I continued in silence for more than an hour. We didn’t talk to each other about the attacks or anything else. I think I was in shock. Too many thoughts were racing through my head, and I wasn’t ready to share them. But eventually I couldn’t help myself. I turned the radio on again.
The updates came fast and furious. In Chicago, several elementary and high schools had been hit. In Minneapolis, the Mall of America had been targeted. In Dallas and Philly, several luxury hotels were attacked. There were no hard numbers on casualties, but the numbers of dead and wounded were mounting rapidly.
For a long time, Matt and I said nothing. We just listened in complete shock. I kept thinking about the 1995 attack on the Tokyo subway. That had been sarin gas as well. Only twelve people had died, but more than 5,500 others were injured. That attack, though carefully planned, had not been nearly as effective as the terrorists had hoped.
Somehow I knew Abu Khalif had studied the planning and strategy of those attacks in Japan. Clearly, he’d found a way to make his attacks far more deadly. So what was coming next?
28
“I’m going to call Annie,” Matt said, giving up on the element of surprise.
We were nearly through Connecticut, heading for Massachusetts. Matt tried several times, but no one answered. Finally he left a message, then called the house, and after that Mom’s phone. Getting no one, he sent them a few texts, gave them an update on our progress, and noted that according to our GPS we should be in Bar Harbor by around seven and that he couldn’t wait to give her and the kids a big hug.
Just then, my phone rang. Again the caller ID said it was Allen. Again I let it go to voice mail. But a few moments later, Matt’s phone rang.
“It’s your boss,” he said. “Should I take it?”
The newest D.C. bureau chief was nothing if not persistent.
“No,” I said and kept my eyes on the road.
“You going to tell me why?” he asked.
“Allen wants me to cover the attacks in Manhattan and then catch a flight to Jordan.”
“To do what?”
“Interview the MP whose son was involved in the attacks in Washington.”
“And?”
“And that’s why he keeps calling. He says he’s got no one else to interview this guy, and he’s insisting I do it.”
“And you don’t want to?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not,” Matt said. “That is your job, isn’t it? And he is your boss, right?”
“Matt, you really want me to stop driving to Maine and cover sarin gas attacks in Manhattan? And then you really think I should go back to Jordan? You can’t be serious.”
“What if I am?”
“Are you?”
“J. B., when have you ever listened to my advice?”
“Well, I’m listening now.”
“You’re serious?”
Actually, I was. Perhaps it was my clumsy way of apologizing for being so distant for so many years or so rude earlier in the day. But Matt wasn’t buying it, and I could hardly blame him.
“Listen—I’m in a jam,” I said. “Allen’s right; this is my story. But given all I’ve been through, I don’t want anything to do with it.”
“I understand that,” Matt said. “It is Manhattan, after all—the Times certainly has more than enough reporters to throw at the story. But why not go to Jordan? That I don’t get.”
“Matt, tell me you’re kidding.”
“Why?”
“Because honestly, I can’t imagine anything worse than going back to Amman right now.”
“Don’t the king and his forces have everything back under control at this point?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“So it’s probably not so dangerous anymore.”
“Not like it was, no.”
“Couldn’t you see the king again while you’re there and, you know, after interviewing the MP, do a story on how His Majesty and the royal family are doing two months after the crisis, what he sees for the future, how he views the fight with ISIS at this point?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t you want to see him again?”
“Of course I do.”
“I thought you were impressed with him.”
“I am. I was before I met him, but even more so now.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean those all seem like pretty good reasons to go to Amman, even if you don’t cover the attacks in Manhattan,” Matt said.
I didn’t respond. I just kept driving. After another few miles, Matt tried again.
“Answer me this, J. B. Is your job on the line if you keep defying Allen’s orders?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Didn’t you tell me you and Omar and Abdel snuck into Syria when Allen ordered you not to?”
Reluctantly I nodded.
“And Abdel died on that trip, in Homs, and Omar died later in Istanbul?”
I said nothing, but it was all true.
“And you nearly got killed too.”
“Your point is?” I a
sked, feeling more and more defensive.
“I just don’t want you to lose your job; that’s all,” Matt said.
“Since when?” I shot back.
He looked surprised and a bit hurt. “Why would you say that?”
“Face it, Matt—you and Annie and Mom never approved of me being a war correspondent. You all think I’ve put my career ahead of everything else—my family, my marriage, my spiritual life, you name it. So maybe it’d be better if Allen canned me and it was over and done with, right?”
“J. B., you’re a great reporter, but you’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Matt said. “I’ve always read your stuff, and I’ve always been proud of what you do. And as long as you keep pursuing the truth, I’ll always be proud of you. If you decide to give this thing up, that’s your call. But don’t get fired for blowing off your boss. Don’t get canned for acting like a jerk.”
I grew quiet and kept driving without looking at him.
“What’s the matter?” Matt asked after a while.
I didn’t respond.
“You don’t like my advice?” he asked.
“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t,” I said.
“Okay, fine—I can take it—but why not?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I snapped.
“Of course you do,” Matt said. “You just asked me for my advice for the first time in . . . well, forever. You may not like it, but you asked for it, and I’m telling you—you should do what your boss wants and go to Jordan. After that, should you step down from your job and do something else with your life? Maybe. Maybe. But for heaven’s sake, don’t get fired. Do what Allen wants you to do. Then go see Yael and take some time to figure out what you really want, what she wants, what the future might hold. Then make a decision about your job. But not right now. Not like this. Not when all hell is breaking loose and all your instincts are telling you Abu Khalif is the one responsible. Right now you need to stay focused, or you’re really going to mess things up.”
We drove in silence for several miles. Then Matt tried again. “J. B., come on; I’ve known you for too long. This isn’t about some quick trip to Amman. Something else is wrong. Talk to me—what is it?”
29
Matt was right—something else was eating me.
I was just too embarrassed to admit it.
But who else was I going to talk about it with? This was my brother. I’d barely talked to him, or even seen him, since we were in college. I wasn’t used to confiding in him. But I had no one else, and we still had a good six hours to go before we got to Bar Harbor.
“It’s Yael,” I said at last.
“What do you mean?” Matt asked.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, took a deep breath, and checked my mirrors again. “She hasn’t written back.”
“At all?”
“Well, hardly at all.”
“I don’t understand. I thought you two were getting close.”
“So did I.”
“Wasn’t she the one who insisted you be allowed to go into Iraq with the Delta team even though one of the generals was against it?”
“Forget it,” I said. “Let’s talk about something else.” I reached for the radio and turned it back on.
But Matt turned it off. “J. B., you obviously want to talk about this. So go ahead. We’re off the record. I’m not going to tell anyone else—not even Annie or Mom. You have my word.”
We drove in silence for several miles. Then I finally began talking again.
“She sent me an e-mail during Hanukkah.”
“Okay.”
“She thanked me for reaching out to her so many times,” I said. “And she apologized for not writing back sooner.”
“Well, that’s good, right?”
“I guess.”
“What else did she say?”
“She said she hoped I had a good Christmas.”
“Okay, that’s nice.”
“Two sentences, really, you think that’s nice?” I said. “I’d written her probably four or five pages’ worth by that point.”
“J. B., she was lucky to be alive. She’d already been in the hospital for a month. And she’d had three or four surgeries by then, maybe more. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“I know, but—”
“But what? Cut her a break. Was that the last time you heard from her?”
“No, she sent me a text message a few weeks ago.”
“All right, now we’re getting somewhere. What was that one about?”
“She’d just been offered a new job.”
“Doing what?”
“Working for Prime Minister Eitan as his deputy national security advisor.”
“And she wanted you to be the first to know?”
“No, she wasn’t sure if she should take it.”
“Really? She was asking you for advice?”
“I guess.”
“Why would she do that unless she valued your opinion?”
“I don’t know.”
“Certainly she has other people to ask, right?”
“I would hope so.”
“But she asked you.”
“Well, yeah.”
“And what did you say?”
“What could I say? I told her to take it.”
“That’s it?”
“I told her I was proud of her, she deserved it, what a cool job, that kind of thing.”
“Okay, so what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.”
“But there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Matt said calmly. “You tell me.”
“I am telling you.”
Matt shifted in his seat and tried another tack. “Did you really want her to take the job?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I asked. “She deserved to be promoted. She’s amazing at what she does.”
“I’m sure she is, but that’s not what I asked.”
I drove in silence for a while longer. “Look, I wasn’t against her taking the job,” I finally said. “I mean, who am I to be against her getting a big promotion?”
“Okay, I get it, but you would have preferred she not take the job, right?”
“I couldn’t tell her that.”
“Why not?”
“It wasn’t my place.”
“She was asking you.”
“Yeah, but this was a huge honor. It was a really big deal for her. I didn’t want to stand in her way. What kind of jerk do you think I am?”
“J. B.?” Matt said, clearly trying to choose his words carefully.
“Yeah.”
“Let me ask you something.”
“Okay,” I said, bracing myself.
“Did it ever occur to you—I mean, seriously, did you ever consider the possibility that Yael wanted you to tell her not to take the job?”
“No, of course not,” I said instantly. “That’s ridiculous.”
Matt was quiet.
“You don’t understand,” I protested. “She was perfect for this job. I mean, she’d have been crazy not to take it.”
“Then why did she ask you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Just being polite, I guess.”
I glanced over and saw Matt raising his eyebrows quizzically. He obviously wasn’t buying my analysis.
“What are you saying, exactly?” I asked, seeing where he was heading but needing to hear it spelled out all the same.
“You said Yael was hardly in touch at all after her surgery, right?”
“Right.”
“And when she did reply to your messages, it was just short responses?”
“Exactly.”
“And then suddenly—out of the blue—she asks you this huge question, a really personal question about her future.”
“So?”
“So you really still think she was just being polite?”
30
I grew quiet.
We were making decent time. The snow was coming down harder now, but the plows and salt trucks were out, and in the immediate aftermath of the attack in New York, traffic was light.
“You think she was testing me?” I asked finally.
“I don’t know about testing,” he said.
“But you think she wanted to see if I’d say no?”
“Maybe.”
“You think she wanted to see if I’d tell her she shouldn’t take the job?”
Matt didn’t say a word. But when I glanced at him, he shrugged. “It’s possible, isn’t it?” he asked quietly.
Was it? I wondered. Had she really wanted me to give her a reason to retire from the Mossad and . . . and what? What did she want? What did I want?
“After you told her to take the job, did you hear back from her?” Matt asked.
“No.”
“She never told you whether she took the job?”
I shook my head.
“Do you think she did?”
“I don’t know—I mean, I assume so,” I sputtered, suddenly realizing how ridiculous I must sound. I was an award-winning journalist for the world’s most influential newspaper. Wasn’t it my job to figure out the facts, not make assumptions or jump to conclusions?
“But you don’t know for sure?” Matt asked.
“No,” I said, embarrassed. “I guess I don’t.”
“So for all you know, she could have passed on the offer.”
“Why would she?”
“You’re saying the bottom line is you believe Yael Katzir is currently serving as the prime minister’s deputy national security advisor?”
I hesitated. I really didn’t know. When I didn’t respond, Matt shifted gears.
“J. B.?” he asked.
“What?”
“Do you love this woman?”
I was startled by his directness. But he was right. That was the question.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I’ve touched that stove before; you know that,” I said.
“And you’re not exactly eager to get burned again.”