The First Hostage: A J. B. Collins Novel

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “I’ve heard some rumors,” I’d replied, treading carefully. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “Perhaps” was all Hassan had said before bidding me farewell.

  Had he known more than he was letting on? Was he already deeply involved in plotting against the Jordanians? Did he, like Abu Khalif and ISIS, consider the king and his court infidels, not fit to live or govern any longer?

  22

  I suddenly heard a sharp metallic scrape.

  Startled, I sat bolt upright in the bed. A sliver of light was leaking in through an open slot at the bottom of the cell door. Someone was sliding in a plate of food and a plastic cup. I jumped to my feet, hoping to talk to whoever was out there, to get my bearings and maybe some news from the outside. But just as quickly as whoever it was had come, he was gone.

  It was dark again. I could hear the tick-tick-tick of my pocket watch. But there was no point reaching for it. In such darkness, I’d never be able to read it. I was guessing it was around noon, but it was unsettling to say the least to have no idea when the lights were coming back on, when I was going to have contact with another human being, or when I was going to get out of this blasted cell.

  My heart started racing again. The claustrophobia was returning. I felt around and found the sink and splashed more cold water on my face and neck. It was no longer chilly in there. Someone had turned the heat on. It was now boiling, and I felt like I was going to suffocate. I pulled off my shirt. Then I rinsed my hands again and trickled some of the brisk water down my chest and back. That helped a bit, but not nearly enough.

  My stomach growled. I thought perhaps some calories would clear my head and calm my nerves. Freaking out wasn’t going to help me get through this, though I didn’t have a clue what would. Feeling around on the floor in the darkness, I found the plastic plate filled with something warm, and the cup, which was empty. Setting the cup in the sink, I repositioned myself in the bed, my bare back against the wall. Steadying the plate with my left hand, I used my right index finger to poke at the food and try to figure out what it was without burning myself. There was about a cupful of steamed rice, what felt like some overcooked vegetables, and a protein bar of some kind.

  Famished, I quickly scarfed it all down despite the bland taste. Then I rinsed off the plate in the sink, set it back on the floor by the door, gulped two cups of water, and lay on the bed again in the darkness.

  How much time had gone by? What if it was only an hour or two? How was I going to live like this, in alternating heat and cold, in utter darkness, with no one to talk to and no sense of what the future held? I knew I couldn’t let myself panic, but I wasn’t sure I had a choice. One of the things I valued most in life was my freedom to move, to travel, to roam—around a room or around the world. I’d never been held captive. I didn’t know if I could take it. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. I wanted to be out. I wanted to be free.

  I concentrated on breathing slowly and steadily. I’d never thought of myself as a fearful person. But this was a nightmare, and I didn’t know how to wake up. I’d known men who had been held as prisoners of war. I’d interviewed them, written stories about them. Most of them had cracked eventually, I knew, and I feared I might too.

  Back to the list, I decided. I had to stay focused, stay sharp.

  So who else was a suspect? Who else could be the mole?

  I closed my eyes—at least I thought I did, though in utter darkness it was hard to know the difference—and a new face came to mind. Prince Marwan Talal. I tensed. It wasn’t possible, was it?

  The oldest member of the Hashemite royal family, Marwan was an uncle to King Abdullah II. He was also arguably His Majesty’s most trusted advisor, having previously served as a counselor to the late King Hussein, Abdullah’s father. I’d first met Marwan through former CIA director Robert Khachigian on a brief trip to London. Khachigian had called the man “a most faithful, stalwart ally in the fight against the extremists in the epicenter.” Yet hadn’t Khachigian also told me that Marwan was a man who “lives in the shadows”? Hadn’t he explained that “few people outside His Majesty’s inner circle even know his name”? Then he’d added, “But he knows theirs. He knows where all the bodies are buried. And I mean that literally.”

  Marwan was not just a royal, however. He was a devout Muslim, a fervent Sunni, a true believer in every possible way. Indeed, on my last visit with him at his lovely, palatial home overlooking the seven hills of Amman, Marwan had actually tried to convert me. He was entering the sunset of his long and storied life, but he still had a fire in his spirit. He was still advancing his goals. Was it even remotely conceivable that his goals included the overthrow of the very monarchy he had helped build over much of the last century?

  On the face of it, the very notion seemed preposterous. Yet what if Marwan Talal had come to the conclusion—however painful and however reluctantly—that his nephew was no longer fit for the throne? What if King Abdullah’s unwillingness to embrace a purist, fundamentalist brand of Islam was undermining his uncle’s devotion to him? What if the queen’s refusal to wear a headscarf and her embrace of the most stylish Western fashions had become an odious offense to Marwan? What if the soul and spirit of this elderly prince, this deeply devoted Muslim, this descendant of the Prophet, had heard the call of the caliphate and could not turn away?

  As much as I didn’t want to believe it, or even consider it, I realized it wasn’t out of the question. It had to be considered. I had to consider it.

  Everything I knew about the man caused me to feel guilty for simply raising such a possibility, even in the privacy of my own heart, even here in the darkness of a Jordanian prison cell. Being a devoted Muslim wasn’t a crime. I didn’t share Marwan’s religious beliefs, no matter how hard he might try to convince me. Yet his fervency didn’t make him a member of ISIS, did it? Of course not. The very notion was ludicrous.

  Yet it was also true that just because not all devoted Muslims were terrorists, that didn’t mean none of them were.

  The king viewed Abu Khalif as a man who was perverting Islam. But didn’t Khalif see himself as a wholly committed Muslim? Of course he did. Didn’t every member of ISIS see himself as committed to the teachings of the Prophet, following his model, rebuilding his kingdom? Without a doubt. And didn’t they see the king and all his fellow Reformers as the ones who were perverting Islam, selling it out, undermining its very essence and potency? There was no question of this.

  The issue for me wasn’t who was right. I wasn’t an Islamic theologian. I certainly wasn’t the arbiter of what was the true path of Islam. I was merely a reporter. But I was also being accused of a crime I hadn’t committed. The question I had to ask was who had the motive to betray the king and usher in the chaos and terror that ISIS had brought.

  Viewed from this vantage point, Prince Marwan Talal had to be considered a prime suspect. Who knew more about the king’s movements, the details of the summit, the security arrangements, the points of vulnerability than he did? Who likely knew even the names and families of the fighter pilots flying “protection” overhead more than the elder statesman of the royal family? Who could possibly be better positioned not only to pull off a coup but to help provide theological legitimacy for Abu Khalif when the black flags of ISIS were raised over Amman than a direct descendant of the prophet Muhammad himself? King Abdullah would never do such a thing. But was it possible that his dying uncle—approaching eternity, preparing to see Allah face-to-face, with nothing left to lose and paradise to gain—would?

  I had to admit it was possible.

  And then another thought hit me. Where exactly was Marwan Talal? Hadn’t he helped the king craft the very treaty that was supposed to have been signed? Hadn’t I been told that many of the secret negotiating sessions had taken place at Marwan’s own home? Then why hadn’t he been at the summit? Why had he mysteriously disappeared, just before the attacks, as if he knew they’d been coming all along?

  23
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  Without warning, the cell door burst open.

  “Who’s there?” I asked, shielding my eyes as light flooded the cell.

  “Dr. Hammami,” came the reply.

  But he was not alone. There were two MPs at his side.

  “What time is it?” I asked, trying to get my bearings.

  “Just after nine.”

  “In the morning?”

  “No, at night.”

  “What day is it?”

  “It’s still Monday. Now sit up. I need to check your vitals.”

  I had a hard time processing that. “You’re saying fifteen hours have gone by already?”

  The doctor nodded and took my temperature.

  “How is that possible?”

  “I administered a sedative while you were sleeping,” he replied, then shone a penlight in my eyes to check my pupils.

  “You drugged me?”

  “I medicated you, Mr. Collins—for your own good. I’ve been monitoring you. You were in danger of hyperventilating. And you needed the rest. You’ve been through a great deal in the last few days. You needed to take it easy. You still do.”

  Take it easy? Was this guy insane? The president of the United States was being held by ISIS and threatened with his life. There were only thirty-three more hours to go before the deadline, and I was helpless either to make a difference or to cover the unfolding drama. How exactly was I to take it easy? “I want to make a phone call,” I said, fighting to stay focused.

  “Out of the question,” Hammami replied as he wrapped a cuff around my arm and began taking my blood pressure.

  “I’m an American citizen. I deserve at least a phone call.”

  “This is not America, Mr. Collins. Now settle down so I can get your readings.”

  With that I was on my feet. “Forget my blood pressure. I want a phone call. I have rights.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Collins,” the doctor said with a tone I’d neither heard nor expected from him.

  “Not without a phone call.”

  The lightbulb overhead suddenly flicked on. The MPs moved toward me. I immediately thought better of escalating a confrontation. I sat back down and tried a different tack. “Fine, fine; I’m sorry. Look, I’m just not used to . . . I need to speak to Prince Feisal.”

  “Be quiet and let me take your pulse, please.”

  “I just need a moment with the prince.”

  “Your pulse, Mr. Collins.”

  I stopped talking and tried to settle my frayed nerves as Dr. Hammami checked my wound and changed my bandages. “That’s healing nicely.”

  I was glad about that, but I could also see the doctor was about to leave.

  “Please, Dr. Hammami,” I said, looking the man in the eye. “You know I saved the king’s life, and the queen’s and the crown prince’s. You know I’m not a conspirator. I’m not a traitor. I’m a reporter. I traffic in information, and there’s a critical piece of information I need to tell Prince Feisal. Please. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “His or yours?” the doctor asked, putting two pills in my hand and not waiting for an answer. “Take this for the pain, and I’ll see you in twelve hours.”

  I protested, but he didn’t seem to care. He turned and left as quickly as he’d come. The door shut and locked behind him. A moment later, the slot at the bottom of the door opened and another plate of food was slid to me. Then the slot closed, the footsteps faded, and once again I was alone.

  I couldn’t believe it. I just stared at the plate of steamed rice and overcooked carrots and potatoes and tried to comprehend what was happening to me. Was there a way out? I couldn’t think of one. Wasn’t Allen suspicious that I was no longer in touch with him? Was he asking questions? Was he taking action? I very much doubted it. He had too much else happening. And he probably thought I’d check in when I could. Which, I had to admit, had been my modus operandi lately.

  Again I stared down at the food. In the dim overhead light it looked singularly unappetizing. But it could have been a fine steak. It wouldn’t have mattered. There was no way I could eat.

  Instead, I paced about the cell. I felt my blood pressure spiking again. My face and neck were once again hot. I was perspiring all over. Finally I looked at the painkillers in my hand and took them both, washed them down with a cup of water, splashed some water on my face, and then slumped back on the bed. It was clear the prince wasn’t coming. I wasn’t going to have a chance to warn him about the suspects on my list. I doubted he would even listen if I could. Maybe the doctor was right. Maybe sleeping through this nightmare was my best option. Maybe it was my only option.

  I lay back on the cot. As I stared up at the lightbulb and listened to the ticking of my pocket watch, I thought about my mom and Matt and Annie and my niece and nephew. Were they together now? Were they safe? I knew they were praying for me. They couldn’t know exactly what I was going through, but I had no doubt they were praying. It was about the only thing I knew for certain. Even little Katie was praying. Though she had only just turned four, I knew she was praying every night for her uncle James—to be safe, to be happy, and to give my life to Jesus. The last time we’d talked, Matt had said they’d all been praying for me, and there was no reason to think Katie was going to give up on me now, even if I was beginning to give up on myself.

  It was strange to think a little girl on the other side of the planet was praying so faithfully for me. Was I praying for them? No—not beyond my awkward prayer last night. I wasn’t even praying for myself. But why not? What was really so hard? Why couldn’t I turn to God the way they did? I didn’t know. And that bothered me.

  I tried to remember the Bible verses Annie had asked me to read. I tried to remember the ones Matt had said Katie was memorizing at Sunday school. It was all a blank. And that bothered me too. I had a nearly photographic memory. Yet for the life of me I couldn’t remember the Scriptures that had meant so much to them, the ones they’d so wanted me to know and consider.

  What was so different between us? I wondered. Why had Matt and I grown so far apart? After Dad had left us when we were kids, we were raised in the same broken family by the same great mom in the same loser little town, in the same lame church. Yet Matt had become a man of true faith. I’d become a man of so many doubts. Why?

  This wasn’t helping, I decided. All this introspection was just making me feel worse. If God was really up there, if he was really listening to the prayers of my family, then great—I’d be out of here soon enough. But I had nothing to say to him right now—certainly nothing he didn’t already know.

  And that’s when Yael’s face came to mind.

  24

  When I woke up—groggy yet somehow content—the light was off.

  I couldn’t tell what time it was, but I didn’t care. It was the pills. It had to be.

  Somehow, despite my mental fog, I vaguely recalled I was being held on suspicion of treason against the king. But at that moment, nothing seemed to matter. I couldn’t feel my arm. I was in no pain at all. I couldn’t even remember being in pain.

  But I did have an intense desire for a drink. Vodka. Bourbon. Rum. A beer. It didn’t matter. Just something alcoholic.

  Before I realized, I’d drifted off.

  * * *

  The light was still off when I rolled over and pulled the blanket over my head.

  I knew I’d been sleeping again, but I had no idea how long. And still I didn’t care. But something had changed. There was someone in the cell with me. Even in the darkness I could see the face of Yael Katzir.

  I knew it was a hallucination, yet her presence gave me great comfort. “Hello, Yael,” I said to the darkness.

  “Mr. Collins, over here,” she whispered. “My, my, you’re getting soaked. Please, won’t you join me?”

  It was what she’d said to me the first time we met, back in Istanbul, in front of the Blue Mosque at midnight. She’d been standing there, in the rain, wearing a stylish trench coat and holding a polka-dot um
brella. I could see it as clearly as if I were there.

  I remembered thinking she was lovely even before knowing who she was. I also remembered being suspicious. I’d been expecting to meet Ari Shalit, the deputy director of the Mossad. Instead I’d met this striking brunette who somehow knew everything about me. She’d claimed Ari had sent her, and eventually I had believed her. But it had taken a while.

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Katzir,” I whispered into the darkness.

  “Likewise,” she whispered back. “Now let’s start walking arm in arm, like true lovers.”

  We had walked together through the streets of Istanbul, the ancient metropolis that once served as the eastern capital of the Roman Empire, holding hands so it seemed natural for us to be out together that late. When a pair of policemen had taken an interest in us, I had impulsively leaned in and kissed Yael. Anything to keep up appearances. The kiss had been all too brief as the policemen soon turned their attention elsewhere.

  Now, in my dark, lonely cell, I relived the kiss. In my semiconscious state, I could actually feel her lips on mine, sense her breathlessness as we pretended to be lovers.

  I blinked, and the mirage evaporated in the darkness.

  Where was Yael right now? I wondered. Was she thinking of me? Did she remember our first meeting as fondly as I did? Did it matter to her at all?

  I doubted it. It might have mattered yesterday, when she’d agreed to have a late dinner with me after the summit, after she put her prime minister on the plane back to Tel Aviv.

  Now everything had changed. Everything she’d tried to warn her bosses about—an imminent attack by ISIS, the use of chemical weapons—had been ignored. Yet her worst fears had all come to pass. She’d been right. The world had taken a very dark turn.