Yael quickly ordered a glass of a French cabernet, then asked if I’d like to share a bottle. It was tempting beyond measure to say yes. The only reason I could think of to decline was because I wanted something stronger. Over her shoulder I could see shelves behind the bar filled with bottles of Johnnie Walker, Jim Beam, Absolut, and Stolichnaya. All my old friends were whispering my name.
“I’ll stick with the tea,” I said.
I glanced at Yael to gauge her level of disappointment. Instead, she canceled her cabernet and said she’d stick with the tea as well.
The waiter shrugged and walked away.
“A tea-totaler?” Yael asked with a wry grin.
“Recovering alcoholic,” I admitted. “If Ari told you anything, he surely told you that.”
“He did,” she said. “I just wanted to see if it was true.”
“Two years, three months, and five days.”
“One day at a time.” She smiled.
“One day at a time,” I sighed.
Just then, I saw Omar walk in, scan the room, and spot me. In another context, I might have cursed him under my breath and found a way to get rid of him. Instead, I stood, introduced him to Yael, and asked him to join us. The fact was I needed a chaperone—and not just to keep me from drinking. It had been a long while since I’d been around anyone as alluring as Yael, and I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I’d kissed someone the way she and I had just kissed. I’m not sure I’d realized before that moment how lonely I really was, and it scared me to see how willing I now felt to be swept off my feet by the first beautiful woman who showed me some attention.
“Omar is a good man,” I told Yael as we got settled again. “We go way back.”
“So I hear,” she said, turning to him. “Ari speaks very highly of you.”
“Please give him my regards,” Omar said.
“I will indeed,” she replied.
I tried to take a sip of tea but it needed to cool a bit. So I took a deep breath and got down to business.
“Look, Yael, in a few hours, the Times will run a front-page profile of Jamal Ramzy, based in part on the interview I did with him in Homs,” I began.
“So your plan worked?” she asked, clearly up to speed.
“It did.”
“You were crazy to go there.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Ari specifically told you not to go,” she said.
“Everyone told me not to go.”
“But you just couldn’t help yourself?”
“A bit of a contrarian, this one,” Omar quipped.
“Can only imagine him as a kid,” Yael said.
Omar shook his head. “You have no idea.”
I didn’t play along. “The short version is that Ramzy and Abu Khalif are about to launch a massive series of terrorist attacks,” I continued.
“When?” she asked.
“Very soon—that’s all he would say.”
“Where?”
“All signs point to attacks against my country and yours.”
“I’m guessing he didn’t draw you a map.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What’s his plan?”
“He said this was the beginning of a Third Intifada. He said anyone who helped the Zionists were traitors and would be punished by Allah.”
“That’s standard jihadist rhetoric,” she said. “Why take it seriously?”
“Two reasons,” I said. “First, because Ramzy wanted to go on the record and because he wanted to do so with the Times. He’s never talked to a Western reporter before, certainly not to an American. But he wants people to know. He wants Washington to know. Something big is coming—very big—and when it does, he wants to make sure ISIS gets credit, not Zawahiri and al Qaeda. Now, I realize not every terrorist group signals its intentions ahead of time. But some do. Bin Laden declared war on the U.S. ahead of the 9/11 attacks.”
“And the second reason?” Yael asked.
“I believe ISIS has chemical weapons. Ramzy denies it. But I’ve got two sources from two different intelligence agencies, from two different countries. They’re both solid. I’ll follow up with both in short order and go back over everything they told me, point by point, to make sure I didn’t miss anything. But my editor is feeling edgy. The Times has been burned on stuff like this before. He wants me to get a third source—different intel agency, different country. That’s why I wanted to meet with Ari. I need to know what you guys know, and I need to know fast. Imagine ISIS with chemical weapons. Imagine how many Israelis and Americans they could kill. And what if they gave this stuff to Hamas and Hezbollah? What if all the rockets you guys have been hit with in recent years were filled with sarin gas? The story that comes out tomorrow doesn’t mention chemical weapons. But I need to do a follow-up story immediately.”
“And you need our help?”
“Exactly.”
It was clear I had her interest, but Yael was keeping her cards close.
“Tell me about Jamal Ramzy,” she said. “I’ll admit, our files on him are pretty thin. Then I’ll help you if I can.”
I hesitated, but only for a moment. By this time I was convinced Yael was who she said she was. Talking to her might be as close to talking with Ari Shalit as I was going to get for now. So I dove in.
“The first thing that struck me was how old Jamal is,” I began. “I mean, he was born in 1962. That makes him one of the longest-surviving jihadist leaders around. Bin Laden, of course, was born in ’57, but he’s dead. Zawahiri was born in ’51, and he’s still kicking, so that makes him the elder statesman within the al Qaeda world. But then Zawahiri isn’t in a front-line combat position. Jamal is.”
“Another thing that’s key is that Jamal and Abu Khalif are related,” Omar added. “Jamal is the older cousin by a good seven years. So they’re family, but not just any family. A source of mine in Amman told me the family traces its lineage back to Grand Mufti Mohammed Amin al-Husseini.”
Yael looked surprised. “The Grand Mufti of Jerusalem?” she asked.
“Exactly,” Omar said.
“The one who allied with Hitler and the Nazis during the war?”
“That’s the one,” Omar confirmed. “These guys aren’t simply run-of-the-mill jihadists. They’re cut from a certain bolt of cloth. Their hatred of Jews in particular runs exceptionally deep.”
“So Jamal decided to follow in the footsteps of Great-Grandpa and went off to fight in Afghanistan?”
“Right—from ’80 to ’83,” I explained. “Then Jamal recruited his younger cousin Abu Khalif to join the mujahideen as a teenager and come fight in Afghanistan from ’84 to ’86. When the Russians were on the road to defeat, Abu Khalif left the battlefield. He decided to go make some money in the Gulf to support his mother. But Jamal stayed with bin Laden. Jamal was in the room when al Qaeda was born in 1988. In time, he began working with Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, helping to plan terrorist operations. And when Abu Khalif’s mother passed away in 1994, Jamal persuaded his cousin to join al Qaeda and serve under KSM.”
“Are they headquarters people or field people at this point?” Yael asked.
“Both, and that’s what makes them unique—and so dangerous,” Omar replied. “They were close to UBL and KSM. They knew the inner workings of al Qaeda. They knew all the top people. But they were also exceptionally proficient both in developing and executing the organization’s trade craft. They helped bomb the two American embassies in Tanzania and Nairobi in ’98. They were directly involved in training the 9/11 hijackers. In fact, Abu Khalif volunteered to be one of the hijackers, and Jamal supported him, but KSM said no, Khalif was too valuable to him personally. Then, when KSM was captured in Pakistan in ’03 and several of his successors were killed in drone strikes, Jamal started working directly for al-Zawahiri as chief of operations.”
“How come we’ve heard so little about Jamal?” Yael asked.
“The Jordanians suggest he kept a very low profile pr
ecisely because so many of his predecessors were killed in such short order,” Omar said.
“And this is the turning point,” I noted. “In 2004, at Jamal’s recommendation, UBL and Zawahiri personally met with Abu Khalif. They sent him into Iraq. They told him to create a suicide bombing and kidnapping campaign. They told him to help build al Qaeda in Iraq. Khalif agreed. With Jamal’s help, Khalif became a top deputy to Zarqawi. Of course, Zarqawi didn’t last long. On June 7, 2006, Zarqawi was killed, and that’s when a brutal and bloody internal power struggle began. Abu Khalif wasn’t the first choice of bin Laden or Zawahiri to run AQI, but after several other leaders were killed or captured, he emerged as the top dog. He also had the full support of Jamal, who saw his cousin as the better strategist.”
“But Abu Khalif wasn’t content simply to rape and pillage Iraq,” Yael said.
“Hardly,” I agreed. “Khalif wanted to expand the mission into Syria. He wanted to topple Assad. So he renamed his group ISIS, the Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham. Again, Jamal fully supported his cousin, but bin Laden and Zawahiri were furious. They wanted Khalif to stay focused on Iraq, not get spread too thin. Tensions built within al Qaeda. After U.S. Special Forces took out bin Laden on May 2, 2011, the infighting intensified. Khalif asked Jamal to come with him and command ISIS forces in Syria. Zawahiri went ballistic, but Jamal did it anyway. Zawahiri rebuked the cousins, told them to get out of Syria and change ISIS back to ‘al Qaeda in Iraq.’”
“That’s when the cousins broke away from Zawahiri once and for all?” Yael asked.
“Exactly,” I confirmed. “They think the old man has gone soft. They claim they are the true warriors for Allah. And ISIS is becoming hugely powerful. By early 2012, they had essentially driven U.S. forces out of Iraq. Now they’ve seized Fallujah. They’ve seized Mosul. And they’ve won major battles against Assad’s forces in Syria. They’ve recruited and introduced upwards of thirty thousand foreign fighters into the Syrian theater. They’re raising millions from key donors in Saudi Arabia and the Gulf. They’re involved in kidnapping, blackmail, extortion, drug smuggling, and drug sales. They see Zawahiri as old news and themselves as the vanguard of the Salafi movement, which they believe is the epitome of true Islam.”
“And now?” Yael asked.
“Now, according to Ramzy, they want to open up a new front against the U.S. and Israel, and they want the world to see them eclipsing the old al Qaeda.”
“And you think Jamal Ramzy wouldn’t have gone on the record with you unless he and his men actually had chemical weapons in their possession?”
“Why else?” I said. “He’s never spoken to the media before, never let his photo be taken before.”
“You asked him specifically whether ISIS had chemical weapons?”
“I did. I told him I had two sources, from two different intelligence agencies in two different countries. I explained the intel I had personally seen with my own eyes and heard with my own ears.”
“And he told you that you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Basically, yes,” I confirmed.
“He’s a liar,” Yael said coldly.
I looked at her, then at Omar, then back at Yael.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“ISIS has chemical weapons?”
“Are we off the record?” she asked.
“Do we have to be?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Then we’re off the record,” I conceded.
“Then, yes, ISIS has chemical weapons.”
“And you can prove it?”
“Of course.”
She looked around the room and lowered her voice. “Look, these are the ground rules, and they are sacrosanct,” she whispered. “Ari sent me because he wants you to tell the world what ISIS has and how dangerous they’ve become. They’re rapidly eclipsing al Qaeda as the most dangerous terror group on the planet, yet most of the world doesn’t really get it. So I can help. But only on the condition that you don’t mention the Mossad or any Israeli intelligence agency or operative—not in your article and not to anyone else with whom you discuss what I’m about to tell you. We’re clear?”
“Crystal.”
She looked at me for a while and then at Omar, who nodded his assent as well.
“We’re completely off the record here, and you give me your word?” she pressed. “Both of you?”
We both said yes.
Then she sipped her chai. I sipped mine.
“I don’t know who your other sources are, and I won’t ask—I don’t want to know,” Yael began. “But I can tell you for certain that ISIS has captured chemical weapons.”
“From where?” I asked, curious to see if her story matched what I had learned.
“A few weeks ago,” she began, “Jamal Ramzy’s top deputy—a guy named Tariq Baqouba, a real thug, by the way—”
“Yeah, we met him,” I broke in. “His brothers, too.”
Yael looked surprised but continued. “Anyway, Baqouba and his forces attacked a Syrian military base a few klicks south of Aleppo. At the time, I honestly don’t think Baqouba knew it was a storage facility for chemical weapons. After all, it had been widely reported that the U.N. had removed all of Syria’s WMD out of the country. But of course that was a lie. The regime had given up a lot, but it was still hoarding plenty. At any rate, radio intercepts suggest the ISIS forces were running low on ammunition. They seemed to have hit this particular base because it had a large ammo storehouse. The firefight that ensued was brutal, one of the fiercest to date. Baqouba’s forces seemed taken aback by the strength of the resistance they faced, but rather than back off, they doubled down, probably because they realized they had obviously stumbled onto something valuable. Anyway, they killed off most of the Syrian regulars, and before reinforcements could arrive, Baqouba and his men entered the base and found the WMD stockpiles—sarin nerve gas, to be precise—and the bombs and artillery shells to deliver them.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Drones,” she said. “We’ve been monitoring each of the sites where the Assad regime kept chemical weapons. Again, most of the stockpiles, as you know, were removed under U.N. supervision. But we suspected all along that Assad’s people were holding back, not giving the U.N. all they had. So we kept an especially close eye on several of those sites, including the one near Aleppo. We’ve also been monitoring all radio, phone, and e-mail traffic in the area around these bases. And of course, we have people on the ground, paid informants, and other sources.”
So far, everything she said matched precisely what I had learned from the other sources, but it wasn’t enough. It was tantalizingly close, but I had to be certain.
“You’ve personally reviewed all the data?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Look,” she said, “I was a chemical weapons specialist when I served in the IDF. When Ari recruited me, he put me in a special unit to track chemical WMD in the region. This is what I do.”
“And you’re certain Jamal’s men have these weapons now?”
“There’s no question about it,” Yael said. “They have them, and they’re going to use them. It’s a matter of when, not if. And when that happens, it’s going to be very, very ugly. Have you ever seen what sarin gas can do?”
22
I knew that sarin nerve gas had been developed by the Nazis.
What’s more, I knew Saddam Hussein had used the stuff against the Kurds in the late eighties, killing some five thousand men, women, and children.
I also remembered that a Japanese cult had used sarin gas in the Tokyo subway system back in the mid nineties, killing at least a dozen people and wounding nearly a thousand more.
And Omar and I had covered the sarin attacks on rebel forces by the Syrian regime in the summer of 2013 that had killed more than a thousand people—mostly women and children—and nearly led to military strikes by the U.S., British, an
d French until all three governments backed out at the last moment. That said, we were both novices on the technicalities of sarin gas, as we readily conceded.
“You have to understand how serious this stuff is,” Yael said. “Sarin is among the most toxic and deadly nerve agents. But you can’t smell it. You can’t taste it. You can’t even see it, which makes it all the more dangerous.”
She explained that sarin was not a natural substance, but rather a man-made chemical compound, an organophosphate that was similar in many ways to insecticides but, she said, far more lethal.
“Sure, you can fire rockets and mortars and missiles with sarin-filled warheads at an enemy, and you can kill a lot of people,” she told us. “You could release it in an aerosol form in a room or in a subway or a mall or a school and kill hundreds or thousands. But it’s not just a gas. It can also be a liquid. You could dump barrels of sarin into the water supply—or lace it into the food supply—and you’d kill millions. That’s what I worry about. And it’s a hideous way to die.”
“What happens?” I asked.
“It starts off simple. You get a runny nose. Your eyes start watering and hurting and your vision blurs. But that could be anything. You might not realize how serious it is at first. But then your eyes start dilating. You begin sweating profusely. Soon you’re coughing uncontrollably, choking, drooling, possibly foaming at the mouth. You’re having trouble breathing. You feel dizzy and nauseated, and then you start vomiting—a little at first, but then again and again until you have nothing left in your system. Then your stomach begins cramping. You have intense abdominal pains. You can’t think straight. You’re confused and disoriented. Then the convulsions start. If you’re lucky, you black out. But more likely you’re fully lucid—and filled with terror—as your bodily functions shut down and paralysis sets in, and then you can’t breathe, and then you’re dead.”
I sat there for a few moments, trying to take in what she was saying.
The Third Target: A J. B. Collins Novel Page 12
