The Third Target: A J. B. Collins Novel

1

JERUSALEM

I had never met a king before.

Forty-eight hours earlier, I received a summons from the palace to meet with His Majesty at a certain time in a certain place for an exceedingly rare interview with a foreign journalist. But now I was late, and I was petrified.

Sweat dripped down my face and inside the back of my shirt. As the sun blazed in the eastern sky, the cool of the morning was a distant memory. My freshly starched white collar was rapidly wilting. My crisply knotted azure tie was starting to feel like a noose around my perspiring neck.

I glanced at my gold pocket watch, a graduation present from my father, and the knots in my stomach tightened further. I pulled an already-damp handkerchief from the pocket of my navy-blue pin-striped suit jacket, yet no matter how much I swiped at my brow, I knew it was a losing battle. It wasn’t simply the sultry morning air that weighed heavy upon me. It was the nausea-inducing knowledge—indeed, the rapidly increasing certainty—that I was going to be late for this appointment and blow the most important moment of my career.

I had been requesting this interview for the better part of a year and had been repeatedly rebuffed. Then, without warning, I received a telegram from the palace inviting me, A. B. Collins of the Associated Press, to come to Jerusalem and granting me an exclusive interview without limits or preconditions. I cabled my editors back in New York. They were ecstatic. I was ecstatic. For months I had been reading everything I could about this intriguing, if elusive, monarch. I watched every bit of newsreel footage I could scrounge up. I called or met with every expert I could find who knew him or had met him or could give me any tidbit of insight into who he really was, what he wanted, and where he was headed next.

Now the moment had come. I had been instructed to meet His Majesty King Abdullah bin al-Hussein, ruler of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, at the entrance to the Dome of the Rock precisely at noon. That was in less than ten minutes, and at this rate I was never going to make it.

"Faster, man—can’t you go any faster?" I yelled at my driver.

Leaning forward from the backseat, I pointed through the dust-smudged front window of the cramped little taxi that stank of stale cigarettes. It was an exercise in futility; the answer was pitifully obvious. No, he could not go any faster. It was a Friday. It was the holiest day of the week for the Moslems, and it was fast approaching high noon. Everyone and his cousin were heading to the Al-Aksa Mosque for prayer. It had been this way for twelve centuries, and it would always be thus. No one was going to make an exception—not for a foreigner, not for a Westerner, and certainly not for a reporter.

We were less than a hundred yards from the Damascus Gate, the nearest entrance into the Old City, but traffic was barely moving at all. I surveyed the scene before me and quickly considered my options. Ahead was a classic snapshot of the Orient I had come to know as a foreign correspondent for the Associated Press—a dizzying mélange of vibrant colors and pungent odors and exotic architecture and intriguing faces straight out of central casting. I had seen it in Cairo and Casablanca, in Baghdad and Beirut. Shopkeepers and street vendors who moments before had been brewing coffee and roasting peanuts and hawking everything from spices and kitchen supplies to bottles of Coca-Cola and religious trinkets for the pilgrims were now hurriedly shutting down for the day. Every taxi and truck and private car on the planet seemed to have converged on one traffic circle, their drivers honking their horns and yelling at one another, desperate to get home and then to the mosque. A siren wailed from the south—a police car perhaps, or maybe an ambulance—but it would never get through. A hapless constable sporting a dusty olive-green Royal Jordanian uniform was blowing on a whistle he held in one hand while pointing a wooden club with the other. He shouted commands, but no one paid him much mind.

Bearded, sun-drenched older men, their heads wrapped in white- and black-checkered kaffiyehs, pushed carts of fresh fruits and vegetables as quickly as they could through the filthy, unswept streets while others led goats and camels through tiny gaps in the traffic, back to whatever barns or stables they were usually kept in. Boys in their late teens and young twenties with no jobs and nothing better to do and without fathers or grandfathers in sight seemed in no hurry to get to prayer, taking their last drags on their cigarettes. They stared at giggling packs of young schoolgirls scurrying past with eyes down while older women in long robes and headscarves scowled disapprovingly as they rushed home with boxes of food or pots of water on their heads.

Suddenly the muezzin’s haunting call to prayer began to blare from the loudspeakers mounted high up on the minarets. My heart nearly stopped. I was out of time and out of options.

I was going to have to run for it. It was my only chance.

I shouted over the din for my driver to let me out, tossed a few dinars his way, grabbed my leather satchel, donned my black fedora, and raced down the stone steps toward the crush of people flooding through the gate, jostling past the faithful without shame, though I knew my prospects were grim.

I was supposed to meet His Majesty on the Temple Mount, what the Arabs called al-Haram ash-Sharif—the place of the Noble Sanctuary. After countless phone calls and telegrams from my office in Beirut to the press office in the palace in Amman, it had all been arranged. The most beleaguered and endangered monarch in the entire Moslem world would allow me to shadow him for the day and then sit down with him for his first interview with a Western journalist since a rash of assassinations had set the region on edge.

I couldn’t be late. The chief of the Royal Court would never forgive me. He had insisted I get there early. He had promised one of his servants would be waiting. But now they all might be gone by the time I arrived.

I pushed my way through the crowd, a nearly impossible feat, but after considerable difficulty, I finally cleared through the massive stone archway and was inside the Old City. Still ahead of me, however, was a throng of people pressing forward to the mosque.

But I had been here numerous times as a war correspondent in ’48 and ’49, and I had actually come to know these streets well. I decided to gamble.

Rather than head straight into the shuq and up one of the two main streets toward the mosque, already clogged with thousands of worshipers, I moved left, stepped into a pharmacy, and before the owner could even yell at me, I was through the shop and out the back door. Breaking into a full run, I raced through a labyrinthine series of narrow side streets and alleyways, aiming for St. Stephen’s Gate—also known as the Lions’ Gate—and desperately trying to make up for lost time.

As I neared my destination, however, I found that everything had come to a standstill. I could finally see the large green wooden doors that were the gateway to the epicenter of the epicenter, the entrance to the thirty-seven-acre plot upon which the third-holiest site in Islam was situated. I was so close now, but no one was moving forward. Not a soul. And soon I saw why.

A contingent of Jordanian soldiers blocked the way. People were yelling, demanding to be let in for prayer. But the grim-faced, heavily armed young men were having none of it. They had their orders, they shouted back. No one could enter until they received the all clear sign.

I was stuck, and like the crowd, I was furious. But I knew something they did not. The king was coming. He was heading to the Al-Aksa Mosque for the noon prayers, surrounded by bodyguards who feared for his life, and for good reason.

2

I set my jaw and pressed forward.

With my press credentials and telegram from the palace in hand, I was certain the soldiers would let me through. But first I had to get to them. The problem was that everyone was pushing forward. Everyone wanted to be at the head of the line. They were shouting at the soldiers to let them get to the mosque on time, and the more resistance they got from the guards, the more infuriated they became.

Get back! someone yelled at me.

Who do you think you are? another shouted.

Then a burly man with crooked teeth and hatred in his eyes screamed at me, Kafir!

I recoiled in shock. Kafir was an incendiary word. In colloquial Arabic, it technically meant unbeliever or unclean. But on the street it meant infidel. There were few things worse you could call a man in this part of the world—especially a foreigner—and upon hearing it, I instinctively took several steps back. To be branded a kafir was a worst-case scenario. In a crowd already on edge, the term could spark a full-fledged riot, one I would not likely survive. I doubted even the soldiers could guarantee my safety if this crowd turned on me.

There had to be another way. I glanced at my pocket watch again and cursed myself for not having thought my plan through more carefully.

Moving away from the thick of the crowd, I backed into a corner and leaned against a stone wall, watching the raw emotions spiking around me. I could see the young soldiers growing edgy. This had all the makings of a mob. It wouldn’t take much for the situation to devolve into violence. The armed military men—the oldest of them no more than nineteen or twenty, I would guess—braced themselves for a fight while I wiped perspiration from my brow. The scorching sun overhead was beating down on us all. The crush of people and the brutal heat began to conspire to make me feel claustrophobic. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I wasn’t just going to be late; I was actually going to miss this meeting altogether. My career was about to go into the tank. I was beside myself. I had to get out. I had to get some air, something to drink. But there was nothing I could do. Not yet. Not here. All I could do was wait and pray for the winds to shift and my luck to change.

Why hadn’t I simply flown to Amman? Why hadn’t I met the king’s entourage at the palace and traveled with them across the Allenby Bridge, to the meetings they were scheduled to have in Ramallah and Jericho and then on up to Jerusalem? That was their plan. Why hadn’t I asked to be part of it?

The reason was simple, though it did me no good now. I had flown from Beirut to Cyprus, and from Cyprus to Tel Aviv, for one simple reason: before I interviewed the king, I wanted to meet with the head of the Mossad.

I had known Reuven Shiloah, the director of Israel’s nascent intelligence service, for several years—since before the Mossad had even been created, in fact. I had learned to trust him, and over the years, Reuven had come to trust me, too. Not fully, of course. He was a spy, after all. But he had seen firsthand that I would carefully use his insights but never quote him directly. His perspective was unique and useful for my readers, though I didn’t use him as a source often. And I had been helpful to him on numerous occasions as well. He had leaked several important stories to me. I had handled them sensitively, and he had been as pleased as my editors. I was, in effect, a direct pipeline for him to the White House and to members of Congress and, by extension, to other leaders. He had his reasons for feeding me information, and I had mine for accepting it. So over breakfast that morning at a little café in Tel Aviv near the bus station, I asked the Mossad director about the Jordanian king and his situation. The chain-smoking Israeli spy chief had stared at me through his round, gold-rimmed glasses and in hushed tones in a back corner booth confided to me his serious and growing concerns.

This is a terrible mistake, Reuven said. He should not be coming.

Who, the king? I asked, astonished. Not come to Jerusalem? Why not?

Is it not obvious, Collins? he asked. His Majesty is a marked man.

You’re saying he’s not safe in Jerusalem, in his own city? I pressed.

He’s not safe anywhere, Reuven replied.

Do you know of a specific threat? It’s not that I thought he was wrong, but hearing him say it left me deeply unsettled.

No.

Then what?

I have my gut, my instincts, he said. The mood is dark, full of rumors and danger. What has happened elsewhere can happen here. As you know, the prime minister of Iran was assassinated just a few months ago.

I nodded. Ali Razmara, Persia’s fifty-eighth prime minister, was only forty-nine years old when he was killed. He was the third to have been murdered while in office in recent years.

I pulled a pad out of my bag and began to take notes.

There were several things notable about Razmara’s death, Reuven continued. He was slain in broad daylight. He was gunned down not by a foreigner but by a fellow Iranian. Indeed, the assailant was a fellow Moslem. And Razmara was walking into a mosque to pray. And Razmara’s death was not an isolated incident. Less than two weeks later, Zanganeh was assassinated as well.

He was referring now to Abdol-Hamid Zanganeh, Iran’s minister of education.

Zanganeh was also hit in broad daylight, in this case on the campus of Tehran University, the Mossad director explained. Very open. Very public. Lots of people. Hard to secure. The weapon was also a pistol. Small. Easily concealed. And who did it? A foreign spy agency? The Brits? The Americans? Us? No. In both cases, the assassins were Moslems, extremists, and locals.

Reuven went on to note that two years earlier someone had tried to assassinate the king of Iran, Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi. This too, he reminded me, had happened in broad daylight. In fact, it had happened on the campus of Tehran University, and it too had been the work of an Iranian—not a foreign agent—an Islamic extremist using a pistol. Five bullets had been fired. Four missed their mark. But the fifth did not. Miraculously, it only grazed the king’s face, slightly wounding him. But a millimeter’s difference would have killed him instantly.

The assassin posed as a photographer—a member of the press—to get close to the king, the Mossad chief added.

But that’s Iran, not Jordan, I finally said, looking up from my notes. The situation here is completely different.

Is it? he asked. Certainly there are differences; I grant you that. Iran is ethnically Persian, and Jordan is ethnically Arab. Iran is largely a Shia Moslem nation, while Jordan is predominately Sunni. Iran has oil; Jordan does not. Iran is large and populous, and Jordan is not. But those differences are immaterial. What is important is the pattern.

What pattern?

Iran is a monarchy, Reuven explained. So is Jordan. The Pahlavi regime is moderate. So are the Hashemites. Iran is pro-British. So is Jordan. Indeed, it was a British colony. What’s more, Iran is pro-American. So is Jordan. And though they are quiet about it, Iran under the shah is one of two countries in the region that are on relatively friendly terms with Israel and the Jews. The other is Jordan.

At that, I had to push back. Now wait a minute—Jordan just fought a war with you. That was only three years ago.

Things are changing, he said, opening another pack of cigarettes.

How so?

There was a long, awkward silence.

Reuven?

The Mossad chief glanced around the café. The regulars were starting to fill the place up.

This is totally off the record, he said finally. Really, A. B., you cannot use this—agreed?

Agreed.

I have your word?

You do, I said.

I’m serious. You cannot print it under any circumstances. But I’m going to tell you because it’s important for you to have some context of who King Abdullah is and what he really wants.

I nodded.

When I can give you this story, I will, the Mossad chief added. But we’re not there. Not yet.

I understand, Reuven, I replied. Really, you have my word. You know me. I won’t burn you.

He lit his cigarette and scanned the room again. Then he lowered his voice and leaned toward me. The king is quietly reaching out.

To the Mossad?

Through us, not to us.

To whom, then?

David Ben-Gurion, he said.

I was stunned. The king of Jordan was reaching out to Israel’s aging prime minister?

Why? I asked, immediately intrigued.

Again the director scanned the room, making sure no one was listening in on our conversation. Again he lowered his voice, so much so that I could barely hear him and had to lean forward even farther to catch every word over the din of the café.

His Majesty is probing the possibility of secret peace talks, Reuven confided. It seems he wants to meet with the PM personally. It’s very premature, of course, and all very deniable. But the king seems to be intimating that he wants to make peace with Israel.

I could not hold back my astonishment. A treaty?

Reuven shifted in his seat. Not exactly, he said.

Too public? I asked.

He nodded.

A private ‘understanding,’ then? I asked.

Perhaps, Reuven said, exhaling a lungful of blue smoke. But even that brings with it great risks. The king knows he’s a marked man. Not by us. We don’t have a problem with him. He went to war with us in ’48. But we stopped him. We fought him to a standoff, and as far as we’re concerned, it’s over now. His real problem is the Egyptians and the Syrians and the Iraqis and the Saudis. They hate him. Hate doesn’t even begin to describe it. They don’t think he’s one of them. They don’t think he’s a team player. They don’t think the Hashemite Kingdom is going to be around for long anyway, so they’re all gunning for him. They all want him dead, and they’re all angling to seize his territory when he collapses.

So if he opens a back channel with you and comes to an understanding, then maybe it’s ‘all quiet on the western front’ and he can focus his intelligence and security forces elsewhere? I asked.

Something like that, Reuven said with a shrug. Anyway, I don’t believe the king wants war with Israel. He certainly doesn’t want to annihilate us like the others do. All the evidence says he’s not a fanatic. He’s a pragmatist. He’s someone we can work with. Like the shah.

But the fanatics want the shah dead, I noted.

Reuven nodded.

Which is why you’re worried someone might try to kill the king—because you think he and the shah are cut from the same cloth, I added.

It doesn’t matter what I think, Reuven demurred. What matters is what the fanatics think. Which brings us to Monday.