Since Yael and her team needed to be able to hear everything I said and everything that was being said to me, I was wearing a wire that was beaming an encrypted version of our conversation down to a communications van parked a block from the apartment. That signal, in turn, was being transmitted directly and in real time to the Mossad safe house in Cairo, which was sending it back to the bull pen at Ramat David. There it was being digitally recorded and would be carefully analyzed by Gingy, Trotsky, Fingers, and Dutch.
I took a sip of the piping hot tea. It was too sweet for my liking, but it was laced with the caffeine I desperately needed, so I quickly took two more sips. Then I set the glass cup down and leaned forward in my chair. “Mr. Hussam, I came because I need a favor.”
“Of course, Mr. Collins. Whatever can I do for you?”
“We had a mutual friend,” I said, referring to Robert Khachigian.
“We did.”
“And before our friend was murdered, you tipped him off to the fact that ISIS had chemical weapons in their possession.”
“Go on,” he said, not confirming my instincts but certainly not denying them.
“That’s why he was murdered,” I continued. “Because ISIS decided he was a real and immediate threat.”
Silence.
“You both instinctively understood what could happen if Abu Khalif were to gain control of weapons of mass murder.”
Hussam sat stone-faced.
“And now your worst fears have been realized,” I continued.
At this he nodded.
“This is not the end,” I said.
“No,” he replied. “I’m afraid not.”
“He will kill many more unless he is stopped.”
“That is why you’ve come?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Hussam,” I said. “I need you to help me find him.”
66
CAIRO, EGYPT
“Why me?” Hussam asked. “I’ve been out of the game a long time.”
I shook my head. “Not that long. And clearly you’re still wired in. That’s how you knew ISIS had seized that base near Aleppo with the sarin gas precursors. That’s how you saw the satellite and drone photos and heard the audio intercepts. That’s how you became convinced of the gravity of the situation—because you’d seen the evidence. You gave it to Robert. Robert gave it to me. I put it on the front page of the New York Times. Suddenly the whole world knew, while you stayed under the radar the whole time.”
Hussam did not respond immediately.
“Mr. Hussam, please understand—I don’t blame you for his death. Not in the slightest. You absolutely did the right thing. Robert knew the risks, and he was more than willing to take them. Because he trusted you implicitly and because he loved his country and had devoted his life to keeping her safe.”
Hussam rose and walked over to the sliding-glass door to the balcony.
“You just made one mistake,” I continued. I saw his head turn ever so slightly. He was listening—carefully. “You calculated that once the story was out there, the president of the United States would take action, that he would order military strikes on ISIS forces in Syria and Iraq, that America would destroy a mortal enemy of the Sunni Arabs once and for all. Except it didn’t happen. ISIS crossed the red line, but the American president refused to take action.”
“No,” Hussam said quietly, still staring out at the Nile. “You’re right. I honestly never seriously considered the possibility he wouldn’t act. I’m not sure I considered it at all.”
I stood and walked over to him. “The world has taken a very dark turn, Mr. Hussam,” I said softly. “The America you thought you knew—the friend of Egypt, the ally of peaceful Arabs, the superpower who confronts evil with courage and overwhelming might—I’m afraid that America is gone.”
“You’re saying it’s just us now?” he asked.
I nodded but said nothing.
We stood there in his living room, silently looking out over a city of some eight million souls, a once great and mighty regional power—the world’s only superpower for a long stretch in ancient times—now humbled and teeming and increasingly endangered. Then I said, “It was you, wasn’t it? You’re the one who e-mailed me and asked me to contact General El-Badawy.”
He didn’t respond.
“So call him,” I said.
Hussam thought for a moment. Then, to my surprise, he walked to his kitchen, picked up a phone, and started dialing. “General, it’s me. Yes. . . . I did. . . . I think so. When? . . . Fine—bye.” He turned to me and sighed. “Okay. You have a driver?”
“He’s waiting downstairs.”
“Then let’s go. It isn’t far.”
Encouraged, I asked to use the restroom while Hussam put on a sweater and a coat. He pointed me down the hallway. Locking the door behind me, I quickly sent a text to Yael and the team to confirm that we were heading to see General Amr El-Badawy, commander of Egypt’s special forces. I thought it was likely El-Badawy had given Hussam the critical intel on ISIS that Khachigian had passed to me. If Cairo’s intel on ISIS operations in Syria had been that good several months ago, they might very well be able to help us track down Abu Khalif now.
Then I asked Yael to forgive me for what I was about to do next.
Unbuttoning my shirt, I quickly ripped off the microphone that had been taped to my chest and the transmitter that had been secured to the small of my back. I tossed both into the toilet and flushed. I had no idea what that had just cost the Israeli government, nor did I care. I wasn’t going to be caught wearing a Mossad wire when I entered the Defense Ministry—period.
I washed my hands, took a deep breath, stepped out of the bathroom, and turned off the light.
“Ready?” Hussam said, waiting for me in the vestibule.
“I am,” I said, and we were off.
By the time we walked out the front door of the high-rise into the brisk night air, Mohammed was alone with the Mercedes, standing at attention and holding the rear door open. There was no sign of Yael or Abdel or the communications van, and for this I breathed a sigh of relief.
Hussam gave Mohammed the address and we began cruising down nearly empty city streets. Ten minutes later, however, we did not pull up to the Defense Ministry. Rather, we stopped at a small café in a suburb called Heliopolis, just blocks from the presidential palace. The café was closed. The lights were off and there was no movement inside. It was, after all, 2:17 in the morning. Yet Hussam insisted that this was the place.
Mohammed stopped the car and let us both out. Then Hussam guided me down a dimly lit alley, past two Dumpsters overflowing with putrid garbage, to a back door, where he knocked twice.
I could only imagine what Yael and the team were thinking. They had no way to see where I was, what I was doing, or whom I was about to meet. Nor did they have any way to listen in to my conversation, as per the explicit plan. But when the door opened, I knew I’d done the right thing. Three large bodyguards greeted us and pulled us inside. I was immediately given a pat-down that was, in a word, thorough. The wire would have been found instantly, and the meeting would have been blown. But in the absence of the wire, I was cleared and led down a hallway, with Hussam, to a small private dining room where the fifty-six-year-old general was waiting.
El-Badawy greeted me warmly and told his men to step outside and interrupt us only to bring in some coffee. When they left and closed the door, he bade Hussam and me to sit down.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Collins,” he began.
“Forgive me for not coming sooner,” I replied.
“I am so sorry for your loss.”
“And I am for yours.”
He nodded and tapped his right hand to his chest. “It is not easy to lose those you love.”
“No, sir,” I said. “It is not. Still, I wish I could have come sooner.”
“Not at all,” he said. “Obviously when I heard of what had happened to your family, I knew I could not expect you to come.”
> “So you gave the story to Bill Sanders,” I said. “You told him about how closely Egypt is cooperating with Washington in the hunt for Abu Khalif.”
“Perhaps,” he said.
“You made the right call. Bill is an excellent journalist. The story made a big splash.”
“Maybe,” El-Badawy said, “but it’s not true.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me. The story is fundamentally untrue.”
“You’re not helping the Americans?” I asked, suddenly puzzled.
“We want to,” he said. “We’re trying to. But the fact is . . .”
He stopped midsentence as someone knocked on the door. Coffee was brought in. Thick, strong Turkish coffee. With a plate of baklava. And a bowl of crisp red apples, bananas, and fresh pears. This wasn’t going to be a quick meeting. We were going to be here for some time. When the agents were finished serving, they stepped back out of the room and again shut the door.
“Mr. Collins, are we off the record?” El-Badawy asked.
“I’m not here for a story.”
“Then what are you here for?”
“I want your help.”
“With what?”
“Finding the man who killed my family.”
“The man who killed my men.”
“The very same.”
“And when you find him?”
“That’s my business.”
“Not if I’m helping you.”
“Then let me be clear, General,” I said. “Abu Khalif is not going to Guantánamo. Not if I can help it. If you help me find him, he’s going to die.”
67
“So you’re not here on behalf of the Times?” the general asked.
“No,” I said.
“Then you’re working for Langley?”
“No, this is personal.”
“But you and Carl Hughes are old friends, and he now runs the agency, right? By all measures, he’s itching to take the gloves off and go after Khalif—whatever it takes, however long it takes, wherever the trail leads. And I’m supposed to believe he didn’t send you?”
“He didn’t.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“I hope not.”
“Then who are you working for?”
“I told you: this is personal.”
“Don’t insult me, Mr. Collins. You want my help? Then answer my questions. Somebody sent you. Somebody’s helping you. Who?”
I’d known the question was coming. It was obvious. Inevitable. Still, I wasn’t fully prepared to give a plausible if not entirely accurate answer. Frankly I didn’t know what to say. So I froze. I wasn’t trained for this. All I knew was I had to keep the Mossad out of it. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
It was all I could think of, and even to me it sounded lame.
“Suffice it to say,” I quickly added, “that if we find Khalif, I have people who can take him out.”
“People?” the general asked, his eyebrows raised.
“Yeah.”
“What kind of people?”
I didn’t reply.
“Editors from New York?” he pressed. “Reporters in tweed jackets?”
I kept silent.
“Hunters from Maine?”
I sipped the coffee and almost instantly felt the jolt of caffeine.
“The boys from Blackwater?” he probed. “Mossad? The Jordanians? You sure aren’t working for the Saudis.”
“General—” I began, but he cut me off.
“I know,” he said. “You’re not at liberty to say.”
“No.”
“Mr. Collins, do you remember what I said in the bunker, in Jordan, about Khalif’s endgame?”
I remembered all right. “You said Khalif wants Mecca. He wants Medina. He wants Cairo. He still wants Amman. And that’s just for starters.”
“And do you remember what your guy, General Ramirez, said to me?”
“He said something like, ‘I don’t have time to get sidetracked.’ The president of the United States was being held by ISIS. We only had sixteen or seventeen hours to find him and rescue him before he was executed on YouTube.”
“Correct. So it’s understandable that Ramirez wasn’t interested in the long-term goals of Abu Khalif at that moment. But I am. Khalif is indeed coming after Mecca. He is coming after Medina. But he’s also coming after Cairo. He wants to do what the Brotherhood failed to do. He wants to make the world’s largest Sunni city—and largest Arab country—part of his caliphate. I can never allow that to happen. But your government doesn’t seem to get it. You’ve had 9/11. You’ve had the attacks in Amman. You’ve just had all these attacks inside the American homeland. And still your president thinks ISIS is less of an existential threat than climate change. How can he dare say such a thing?”
“That’s why I’m here, General. That’s why I need your help.”
“And that’s why I can’t give it. Not if you aren’t going to tell me who the information is for.”
I was desperate. This meeting was sliding off the tracks. “General, you need to trust me,” I said. “You gave me critically important information on ISIS, and I put it on the front page of the paper of record. You asked me—admittedly, indirectly—to do something that advanced your interests, and I did it.”
“Because it advanced yours, too.”
“And now I’m back. I didn’t come on my own. You invited me. And even if you hadn’t, Bob Khachigian sent me. Because he trusted me. And I’m telling you: you can too. Give me what I need, and I’ll make sure Abu Khalif pays for his crimes. I promise you that.”
“Look, Mr. Collins, with all due respect, I invited you here as a reporter. You’re not a spook, not an assassin. Don’t get me wrong. I see what Khalif has done to your family. I know you’re out for vengeance, and I don’t blame you.”
“Not vengeance,” I said. “Justice.”
“Call it what you want, but if you’re not here on behalf of the Central Intelligence Agency, then you can’t possibly assure me that if I help you track down Khalif, you’ll be able to bring him to justice. That’s impossible. You’d never get close to him—not you or the mercenaries you’ve hired.”
“I haven’t hired any mercenaries.”
“Then they’ve hired you—or the Mossad recruited you, or the GID did,” he speculated, referring to Jordan’s General Intelligence Directorate.
“Don’t be ridiculous, General,” I retorted. “You know I’m not Jewish. How could I have been recruited by the Mossad?”
It was a deceptive question, but it was true in a way. After all, I hadn’t been recruited by the Mossad. I’d volunteered.
“So you’re working for King Abdullah,” he concluded.
I shook my head. “I’ve met King Abdullah. I admire him enormously. I think he’s doing a remarkable job under horrific conditions. And I think if the cards had been dealt a little differently, he’d be leading the charge to get Khalif. But his hands are full just now rebuilding his country.”
“Which is why he’s outsourcing the job to you.”
“You’re fishing, General, and you’re wrong. I don’t begrudge you asking. You have to ask. But I can’t tell. But that doesn’t mean we can’t work together to find Khalif and bring him to justice. I’m not just asking for your help. I’m offering to help you. I know this man. I’ve met him. I’ve studied him. And I truly think we can help each other.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Collins.”
The general took a final sip of coffee, then stood. It was over. I’d blown it. My only hope now was to tell El-Badawy about my connections to Mossad. It was my only shot. It could backfire. But wasn’t it worth trying?
“Wait,” Hussam suddenly said in Arabic, standing as well. “Listen to me. Collins found Jamal Ramzy. He found Abu Khalif once. He found the president. Maybe he really can find Khalif again.”
“He’s just a reporter,” the general shot back.
“Maybe so, but his instincts are spot-on.
You know it. That’s why you invited him here.”
“Be serious. He didn’t use his own instincts—he had help.”
The general moved toward the door, but Hussam physically blocked his path. “And what do you think he’s asking for now?” he asked, directly in the general’s face. “Look, Amr, this guy is good, and we need him. What’s the worst thing that could happen? We work with him. We hunt for Khalif together. If he finds him, maybe you and your men get to go kill him. Imagine what that would do for the country, for Egypt’s standing in the world. Remember, Wahid personally tasked us with getting this done. We can’t just blow it off. We need to try. I’m not saying it’s going to work. But it’s clear the White House isn’t going to help us. The Kremlin isn’t going to help us. This is it. This is our last play.”
They were arguing in heated, rapid-fire Arabic. I wasn’t catching all of it, but what I did get was chilling. Both men believed that what had happened in Amman and in Washington was going to happen in Cairo—Abu Khalif and his forces were coming to kill Egyptians, in large numbers, unless someone stopped him.
What’s more, it was quickly becoming clear that the directive to find me and bring me into the mix had come straight from the top. Hussam wasn’t out of the game after all. And he wasn’t simply an old friend and confidant of the commander of the Egyptian special forces. Formally or informally, Hussam was working for Wahid Mahfouz, the president of Egypt.
And I was their last option.
68
The next thing I knew, I was being hustled out the back door of the café.
We spilled out into a deserted alley, under the hazy glow of a streetlamp. Two black SUVs awaited us, doors open, armed guards at the ready. It was raining again—a biting, sleety, gusty mist. I turned up the collar of my coat as Hussam and I hurried into the second vehicle. The general and his men piled into the first. A moment later, we were peeling down empty streets. The windows were tinted. I couldn’t see much. I certainly couldn’t see the black Mercedes or the communications van anywhere, and as much as that worried me, it had to be driving Yael crazy.