“Text your driver,” Hussam said, apparently noticing me looking in both directions and craning my neck to see out the back. “Tell him to stay put.”
“Where are we going?”
“I can’t say.”
“So what should I tell him?” I asked.
“Tell him you’ll stay in touch—you just have a quick detour. When we’re done, this driver will drop us both back at the café.”
I did as he suggested, increasingly sure where we were headed.
A moment later came the reply.
U safe?
That had to be Yael, not Mohammed.
Yes, I wrote back. All good.
Lost contact.
I know. I’m sorry.
Boss very upset.
Yes, I wrote. Gotta go.
I put away the phone and noticed Hussam eyeing me, but he didn’t say anything more.
Just then we pulled off the main street and passed through a heavily guarded security checkpoint. Soldiers in full combat gear atop armored personnel carriers gripped .50-caliber machine guns while other soldiers in ceremonial garb stood erect and saluted. Seconds later, without any words being spoken, the steel barriers ahead of us were lowering into the pavement and a massive steel gate was electronically opening.
“Welcome to Al-Ittihadiya Palace, Mr. Collins,” Hussam said.
I had never been to the presidential residence in Cairo, but I’d heard of it. In the early 1900s, this immense building was the largest and most luxurious hotel in all of Africa. At the peak of its private glory, kings and queens, presidents and prime ministers, movie stars and business tycoons from all over the world stayed here. Today it was the Egyptian White House.
We followed the general’s SUV around to the back of the monumental structure. I glimpsed the gorgeous dome, beautifully illuminated by a large flood lamp. As we pulled up to a rear entrance and were led into the foyer, the thought occurred to me that this had never actually been the palace of a Middle Eastern potentate. More likely, it was what some European architect had imagined such a palace should look like.
Inside, I was again carefully searched, and I again found myself grateful I had ditched the wire, no matter how angry Shalit was.
The interior of the palace was even grander and more exquisite than the exterior. An aide met the general, Hussam, and me at the security center and walked us down marble corridors, each wall covered with ancient artwork, swords, and various archaeological artifacts. Then we took a right into another labyrinth of corridors adorned with framed photographs of President Wahid Mahfouz being sworn into office, Mahfouz speaking to the masses, Mahfouz meeting with the king of Saudi Arabia, Mahfouz meeting with the emirs of Dubai and Abu Dhabi, Mahfouz meeting with the presidents of Russia, China, and India, and on and on it went. What I didn’t see—though maybe I just missed it—was Mahfouz with President Taylor.
We reached another security checkpoint. When we were cleared, we were ushered into an enormous office, at least two stories high and a hundred feet long. The walls were wood paneled and lined with grand bookshelves, and above us hung not one but two enormous crystal chandeliers. I had barely looked around when a half-dozen bodyguards entered the room. The general and Hussam immediately stiffened, and there—entering from a hidden door behind one of the bookshelves—was President Wahid Mahfouz.
“Mr. Collins, thank you for coming to Egypt,” he said, shaking my hand vigorously and with a warmth I had not expected from a man so routinely attacked in the media as a ruthless authoritarian. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve read most of your work, especially over the past year. I am a great admirer.”
“Thank you, Mr. President—that is very kind,” I said. “I just wish more of it was good news rather than bad.”
“So do we all, Mr. Collins,” he replied. “So do we all.”
69
I knew Mahfouz had an agenda.
It was obvious from the way Hussam and El-Badawy had been vetting me. They’d been determining whether I merited this meeting. Clearly Hussam thought I did. The general wasn’t so sure. So undoubtedly it had been the president’s call, and he’d decided yes. It was a risk, to be sure. We were about to discuss very sensitive matters, matters the Egyptians most certainly did not want splashed across the front page of the New York Times.
Complicating matters further, the editors of the Times had not exactly been kind to Mahfouz and his administration. An editorial the previous summer had charged that “human rights abuses under Egyptian president Wahid Mahfouz have reached new highs” and that “thousands of Egyptians have been arrested and imprisoned without due process, without fair trials, and some have been tortured and killed.” Another recent editorial urged the White House to “increase pressure on the Mahfouz government,” possibly even suspending the $1.3 billion in aid the U.S. annually gave to Egypt.
I was not on my paper’s editorial board, of course. Nor did my views always reflect theirs. I wasn’t paid to opine. I was paid to report. In print, I had always kept my opinions to myself and striven to be as fair and neutral as humanly possible. But would Mahfouz know that? Wasn’t his view of me likely to be tainted by the opinions of my employer? Personally, I was concerned about allegations of human rights abuses in Egypt, of course. But I wanted this man to know I was grateful that he and the Egyptian military had, in fact, seized control of their country back from the Muslim Brotherhood. I was glad he’d worked so hard to restore order in the streets and to get the economy moving again, sluggish though it still was. I was glad he was building closer security ties with the Jordanians, the Israelis, the Saudis, and the emirates. And I was glad he was taking ISIS—and all of the Islamic extremists—as seriously as he was.
A few years earlier, Mahfouz had delivered an address at Al-Azhar University, the Harvard of Sunni Islam, located in the heart of Cairo. The speech was absolutely riveting, unlike anything I’d heard from any other Muslim leader. He’d stood before the intellectual and spiritual hierarchy of the Sunni world and demanded that they make serious, radical, sweeping reforms. He had called for a religious revolution.
“It is inconceivable to me that the world should see Islam as a religion of violent jihad, extremism, murder, mayhem, beheadings, and wanton cruelty,” he’d bellowed before the stunned gathering of clerics, scholars, and students. “This is not Islam! Yet the extremists are making the world believe this is who we are. On Judgment Day, you will have to answer for what you did and did not teach. You imams are responsible to teach peace. Show the world that our religion is made for peace, not for war. The burden is on you!”
I couldn’t say firsthand whether the human rights abuses the Times and many others were writing about were as bad as portrayed or whether they were being exaggerated by media. Was Mahfouz using harsh and heavy-handed tactics to restore calm in a country nearly undone by the Brotherhood? I didn’t know, but I wasn’t about to bring such matters up. They were important, to be sure. But they were not my immediate concern. Right now I had to stay focused.
But before I could say anything at all, the president cut me off.
“Mr. Collins, I’ve asked you to come because I want your help,” Mahfouz began.
I kept quiet and listened carefully.
“When I was elected by the people of this great country, I thought nothing could endanger Egypt and the Islamic world more than the Muslim Brotherhood and the extremist rhetoric they were preaching and exporting all over the region and the world. But since taking office, I have come to believe that what Abu Khalif is doing and saying is far, far worse.”
70
I nodded for the president to continue.
“This notion that mankind can somehow speed up the coming of the Muslim messiah—the Mahdi—and hasten the establishment of Allah’s kingdom on earth—this is foolish, dangerous talk,” Mahfouz said. “Yet this seed has taken root in many Muslim men, and not a few women, and it is bearing poisonous fruit. This apocalyptic thinking would be toxic enough on its o
wn, of course, but the way Khalif teaches it, the way he and his men practice it, is pure evil. Khalif has convinced himself that committing outright genocide is the surest and most effective way to speed up the coming of the caliphate. This notion should be dismissed by all Muslims as sheer lunacy. Yet it has metamorphosed into a lethal virus. The number of ISIS-related Egyptian deaths in the past few days alone is evidence of that. Khalif’s sick ideology is spreading—rapidly—across the region, across the planet, and we must stop it before it’s too late.”
“I agree,” I said.
“And ISIS is not the only threat,” he continued. “The Iranians—at least the Ayatollah and his inner circle—they, too, want to bring about the End of Days. Yes, they want to resurrect the glory of the Persian Empire. But what they really want is to hasten the establishment of the caliphate and the appearance of the Mahdi. They come at it all from a different angle, of course. Their theology and eschatology is not precisely the same as ISIS, though it might look the same to you, to the West. But that is not the point. The point is they are just as dangerous. They have a whole country, a whole nuclear industry, and a missile-building complex. And now—thanks to your country—they have international legitimacy and another $100 billion to make mischief with. I know you’ve come to talk about ISIS. I know your focus is Khalif. But you must understand how I look at the world. The ayatollahs threaten Egypt and our way of life. They’ve said as much. They’re not hiding it. One of the Supreme Leader’s top advisors just said the other day, ‘We have captured three Arab capitals. We’re working on a fourth. And we have another in our sights.’ What do you think those three capitals are, Mr. Collins?”
“Beirut, Damascus, and Baghdad.”
“Precisely. And do you know the fourth capital Tehran is trying so hard to capture?”
“Sana’a,” I said, referring to the largest city in Yemen, “but I’m guessing you fear Cairo is next.”
“Cairo and Amman—they want us both,” Mahfouz said. “But ultimately we are not their primary objective. Whom do you think they want most of all?”
“Jerusalem,” I said.
The Egyptian leader shook his head. “No. Remember, Israel is only the Little Satan to them. You—Washington, America—you are the Great Satan, and they’re coming after you. ISIS and Khalif have already struck. The ayatollahs want to be next.”
“So what are you doing to stop them?” I asked. “And how can we work together?”
“Egypt is facing the most serious internal and external threats in our modern history, but there are limits on how much we can do. We have our hands full with the jihadists in the Sinai. We are fighting them, and we are gaining ground. But the situation there is far worse than most people realize. Your president isn’t giving us enough arms and ammunition. I have asked repeatedly. He has repeatedly said no. What’s more, your own newspaper’s editorial writers are urging him to cut off American aid to us.”
So he did read the Times editorial page.
“But back to Khalif,” Mahfouz said. “We aren’t just killing ISIS jihadists on the battlefield. We’re capturing them. We’re inducing them to talk to us, to tell us what they know. Don’t ask me how. Just know that we are developing solid, actionable intelligence on Khalif and his forces in real time.”
Now we were getting down to it. I could feel my heart pounding. This was really happening. I was exhausted. I was grieving the deaths of my mother and nephew. I was battling clinical depression and craving a drink so badly it was physically painful. But I was also in Cairo. Inside the presidential palace. Shalit and Yael had told me exactly what to ask for if I got to this moment. “Find the couriers,” they had said. “Ask about the Baqouba brothers.”
Tariq Baqouba, recently killed by an American drone strike, had been the third highest ranking man in the ISIS hierarchy. His brothers, Faisal and Ahmed, were both trusted deputies. Yael suspected one of them—probably Faisal—was a courier, possibly the courier for the ISIS leader himself. If we could find Faisal and Ahmed, she had argued, we would find Khalif.
“Do you have anything on either or both of the Baqouba brothers?” I asked. I needed something concrete. Something I can use. A phone number. A location. And I was about to hit pay dirt.
“Of course,” Mahfouz said. “I’ll give you everything we have, on one condition.”
My stomach tightened. “And what’s that, Mr. President?”
“You need to tell me whom you’re working with, or I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can say.”
71
I could hardly blame him.
Who was I that he should give me state secrets when I wouldn’t even tell him whom I was working for or what exactly I was going to do with the information? This was highly classified intelligence that some Egyptian agent might very well have paid the ultimate price to secure. Still, I needed to know.
“Mr. President, I completely understand your position,” I began, trying to build trust while finding a way through this minefield. “But I’d be grateful if you would keep in mind a few things—”
Mahfouz cut me off. He wasn’t curt. I can’t say he was impolite. But he made it clear this wasn’t a negotiation. “We aren’t in the souk, Mr. Collins,” he said calmly. “Even if we were, you want to buy something, but you have no currency and no credit. You want to make a purchase you can’t pay for.”
“I realize that, sir, but—”
Mahfouz held up his hand. “Tell me something, Mr. Collins. How did you arrive in my country?”
The question jarred me as it seemed to come out of nowhere. “Why do you ask, Mr. President?”
“I find it curious that we have no record of a James Bradley Collins landing at Cairo International Airport, or any airport in Egypt, in the last two months.”
I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me. Suddenly I wished Yael and Shalit were listening to this and feeding me answers. I wasn’t trained for this. I was tempted to blurt out the truth right then and there, to tell Mahfouz that I’d gone to the Mossad, that Ari Shalit wanted to work with him—in the shadows if necessary—to bring down Khalif before it was too late. I was sure it would be well received. But the stakes were too high to violate the confidence of my only allies and patrons at the moment.
“You obviously slipped into my country with false papers,” Mahfouz said. “Which, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, is illegal. You have committed a crime. Perhaps I should just lock you up and then wait to see who—if anyone—would come to bail you out. You’re walking a dangerous line, Mr. Collins. So let me remind you. This is not a game.”
“I understand,” I said, my mouth bone-dry.
“Good.”
“If you’ll give me some time, Mr. President,” I said, desperately trying to recover, “I’ll confer with my colleagues and see if they will agree to let me share their identity with you.”
The president stood, and the rest of us followed suit.
“I will give you till noon,” Mahfouz said. “Walid is your contact. Let him know what your friends decide.”
Dawn was rising as Hussam and I headed back to the café in silence.
Morning rush hour started early in Cairo. It wasn’t in full swing yet by any means, but with the rain, which was coming down harder now, and the growing traffic, the drive took us longer than it might normally have. The silence was awkward, and I was glad when we turned onto Baghdad Street, for I knew we were now just a block from our destination.
I pulled out my phone and texted Yael and Mohammed that we would be there momentarily. A large delivery truck partially blocked our path. Annoyed, our driver laid on the horn, but two men were wheeling large crates of something into an open garage. They weren’t going to be getting out of our way anytime soon. We eased around the truck and finally reached the café.
As we pulled to a stop, the retired spy chief broke the ice, telling me he wouldn’t need a ride back home. The president wanted him to return to the palace. I assumed they were about to have a
debriefing. I could only imagine what they were going to say. As one of the bodyguards opened the door for me, I thanked Hussam for his time. “If it were up to me, I would have already told you whom I’m working with. It makes sense. But . . .”
“You have your orders,” he said graciously. “We all do. You must be a loyal soldier. There is nothing more important than loyalty, James. Nothing.”
“Life was simpler when it was just me and the Gray Lady.”
“Maybe so. Just do what you have to do—and let me know by noon.”
“No hard feelings?” I asked.
“Of course not,” he said. “None at all.”
The next moment, I spotted the Mercedes. It was parked a block down from the café. Mohammed stood in a doorway, smoking a cigarette and waiting for me. I started to get out. But Hussam grabbed my shoulder.
“What is it?” I asked, turning back to him. “What’s wrong?”
“You asked about the Baqouba brothers,” he whispered.
“What about them?”
“They’re the key,” he said. “Whatever you decide to do with us, that’s fine—but I want you to know you’re on the right trail. That’s all I can say for now. I hope that’s enough.”
I looked in his eyes. He seemed sincere, like a father giving a son a gift. I sensed I could trust him. “Thank you,” I said. “Stay safe.”
“Inshallah,” he replied. “You, too.”
I turned toward the Mercedes and motioned for Mohammed to start the car. He quickly dropped his cigarette, stamped it out with his shoe, jumped in the car, and started the engine. I looked up and down Baghdad Street but didn’t see the communications van. I had no idea where Yael was. I hoped she was close. I didn’t want to debrief her by phone, but the forty-five-minute drive back to the hotel was too long to wait. There were decisions to be made, and they wouldn’t be made by her. I doubted even Shalit had the authority to make this call. I guessed the prime minister himself would have to be informed.