The First Hostage: A J. B. Collins Novel

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  To my surprise, he was quiet for a moment. It wasn’t clear whether I was convincing him or whether he was simply waiting for me to say more that he could use to further incriminate me. But then he leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows, beckoning me to make my case.

  So I did. For the next ten minutes, I outlined the case against Youssef Kuttab, Hassan Karbouli, and Prince Marwan Talal, saving the best for last.

  But Harris wasn’t buying it. “Talk about circumstantial. You’re essentially accusing three Muslims for being Muslims.”

  “You don’t think the mole is a Muslim?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily, no,” Harris replied.

  “Someone willing to risk his or her life to help the Islamic State—you don’t think religion is a major element of their motivation?”

  “Not every Muslim is a terrorist, Mr. Collins.”

  “I’m not saying they are,” I countered. “Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m saying that everyone risking life and limb to build the caliphate for Abu Khalif and the Islamic State is motivated above all else by his or her belief in Islam and desire to see Islam spread across the globe.”

  “So now you’re an expert in Islam?”

  I felt as if we were playing a high-level chess match, alternately attacking and countering, each of us trying to see five and six moves ahead, trying to set ourselves up for the best possible combinations. “I’m an expert in terrorism. I’ve been covering it for the better part of my career.”

  “You’ve talked to a lot of terrorists.”

  “Of course.”

  “Met with them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Traveled the world to find them and spend time with them?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “And that makes you an expert?”

  “I’d say so, yes.”

  “I can’t wait for the grand jury to hear this. ‘I’m an expert in terrorism.’”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I shot back. “You know exactly what I mean. You’re twisting my words to try to make me look guilty. But you’re ignoring perfectly credible suspects. You refuse to look at anyone else but me, refuse to do any digging, any investigating whatsoever. Is burying your head in the sand part of the job description of a special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

  Harris sat forward. “And you’ve done your homework, Mr. Collins? You’ve looked at all the facts? You’ve been digging, investigating, have you?”

  “Well, that’s been a little hard to do given that I’ve been locked away in solitary confinement for the last thirty hours.”

  “Fine,” said Harris. “Of your three suspects, which one do you think is most likely to have done it, assuming for a moment that you’re even in the ballpark?”

  “You’re really asking me?”

  “I am.”

  “And you’ll really take it seriously?”

  “That’s my job. You said so yourself.”

  The chess match had just gotten more interesting. “Well, then,” I said, trying to decide whether he was playing games with me or being serious. “Mind you, this is just conjecture at this stage.”

  “Of course.”

  “These are theories—possible theories—not accusations.”

  “Right.”

  “All three of these are friends of mine. I hope to God none of them are involved.”

  “Got it,” said Harris. “But if you had to choose one.”

  “I’m sure the list is longer than just these three.”

  “I understand—now pick one.”

  “The prince.”

  “Talal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Marwan Talal?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You think the eldest uncle of the king of Jordan is involved in a conspiracy to kill him and everyone in his family and bring ISIS to power in Jordan?”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “More possible than it is that I’m involved.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I mean it’s not possible.”

  “It’s not possible that Prince Marwan Talal is the mole?”

  “No.”

  “Then why was he missing from the summit? Why wasn’t he there when he was ostensibly so deeply involved in the crafting of the treaty? That doesn’t seem suspicious to you?”

  “No.”

  “Yet my behavior does?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know where the prince was,” said Harris. “I know why he wasn’t at the summit.”

  “How?”

  “Because I’ve been doing my homework. I’ve been digging. I’ve been investigating.”

  “So where was he?”

  “Baghdad.”

  “Baghdad?”

  “Yes.”

  “The prince was completely out of the country at the moment of Jordan’s maximum danger. A little convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Because you know why he was there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why was that?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well then. He went because the king asked him to go.”

  I had to think about that for a second. “Why would the king ask his uncle to go to Baghdad?”

  “To lay the groundwork for the king’s state visit.”

  “The visit scheduled for this weekend?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “You’re sure about that? I mean, absolutely certain?”

  “The king told me himself,” Harris said. “The prince confirmed it. I talked to the Iraqi prime minister, as well. They all tell the same story.”

  I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me.

  Check . . . and mate.

  28

  It was quiet for several minutes.

  I just sat there, not sure what to say. I’d not only made a foolish and serious error, impugning a member of the royal family without any proof whatsoever, but I’d done it in front of an FBI agent who was recording me.

  The game wasn’t really over. I knew that. But for the first time I really did feel scared. This wasn’t a game, after all. This was a criminal investigation. I was accused of espionage, murder, terrorism, and treason. And my life hung in the balance.

  “I’d like to speak to a lawyer,” I said finally.

  Harris turned off the digital recorder. “Not so fast, Mr. Collins,” he replied. “You have other options.”

  “No, really—I don’t want to say anything else without legal counsel present.”

  “Now hold on and listen to what I have to say.”

  “I’m done listening, Agent Harris. I’d like a lawyer. That’s it.”

  But Harris wasn’t done. He leaned close and spoke so quietly that the guards in the room had no chance of hearing him.

  “Listen carefully, Mr. Collins. You’re in a heap of trouble. I think we’ve established that. The only question now is whether you want to be tried in an American court or here in Jordan. And I’d like to recommend you choose option A rather than option B.”

  “I’m listening,” I whispered back.

  “You’d rather come home to face the music than stay here?”

  “Yes,” I replied, oblivious now to the president’s fate and completely consumed with my own. I was at that moment no longer a foreign correspondent for the New York Times. I was an accused traitor facing death by shooting or hanging in a foreign court system where I had no leverage whatsoever.

  “Then I’d suggest you make a call.”

  “To whom?”

  “Jack Vaughn.”

  “The director of the CIA?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not the attorney general?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “You know Jack, right?”

  “Of co
urse.”

  “You’ve been friends for ages, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You believe he can vouch for your integrity.”

  “I do.”

  “Then call him.”

  “How?”

  “I have your iPhone.”

  I stared at Harris. It felt like the chess match had resumed, but I was no longer seeing five moves ahead. Now I was struggling just to figure out my next move. “And say what?” I finally asked.

  “Make your case. Ask him to call the attorney general on your behalf. Tell him to have the AG call the king and make arrangements for me to bring you back to Washington in my custody.”

  “And why would the king agree?”

  “He’s the one who lost the president, Mr. Collins,” Harris explained. “Right now I think he’d do just about anything the American government asked of him.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

  “You’ll never know unless you try.”

  He had a point there. “So what’s in it for you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why do you care?”

  “I don’t, since you ask,” Harris said. “But you’re an American citizen. You’re being held for crimes as much against our country as any. And you’re being held in a nation that is undergoing a coup. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. If you’re guilty, then it should be our government that proves it before an American court of law, period.”

  I leaned back. I thought about what he was saying and assessed my options. There were only two. Make the call or go back to solitary with no telling what might happen to me next. That was no choice at all. But there was something odd about the whole conversation.

  “May I have my phone?” I asked, deciding not to overthink the moment.

  “You may.”

  Harris reached back into his briefcase, pulled out my iPhone, and slid it across the table. For a moment, I just stared at it. I wanted to call my mom. I wanted to call Yael. I needed to call Allen. But apparently I was getting only one phone call today, and I figured I’d better make it count.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “It’s twelve minutes after eleven,” Harris said.

  That meant it was only twelve minutes after four in the morning back in Washington. Twenty-nine hours into the ISIS ultimatum. Only nineteen hours left until the president’s execution.

  “Shouldn’t we wait a few hours until Jack’s up?” I asked.

  I didn’t really want to wait, of course. I wanted to get out of Amman as quickly as possible. But I also needed Jack Vaughn to be awake, alert, and in a good mood. Calling him in the middle of the night didn’t exactly strike me as the best strategy.

  “This is a one-time offer, Mr. Collins. It’s now or never.”

  I picked up the phone, searched through my contacts, and found the home number for the Vaughn residence in Great Falls, Virginia. I pressed the call button and held my breath.

  The phone rang repeatedly, but no one answered. I got voice mail but hung up without leaving a message.

  “Try again,” Harris said.

  “He’s not there.”

  “Just try again,” he repeated.

  I was in no mood to argue, so I hit Redial and waited. Finally, on the fifth ring, I heard a man’s voice on the other end of the line.

  “Jack Vaughn,” he said, sounding as groggy as he did annoyed.

  “Jack, hey, it’s J. B. Collins,” I began. “I’m so sorry to call you at home, especially at such an hour.”

  “Collins?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “No, sir.”

  “This is really J. B. Collins?”

  “Yes, sir. Again, I’m so sorry to call you so early.”

  Vaughn sighed irritably. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Amman, sir.”

  “But you’re alive.”

  “I am, and I need your help.”

  “Help? You’ve got to be kidding me. Do you even know how much trouble you’re in? I hear the bureau’s about to put a warrant out for your arrest.”

  He was waking up fast.

  “That’s why I’m calling, sir.”

  “Look, Collins, I shouldn’t even be talking with you.”

  “Sir, please, you know I’m innocent.”

  “I do? I don’t think so.”

  “Jack, come on—I did everything I could to warn you and the president about what ISIS was planning. I risked my life to save the president’s and the king’s. And now I need your help.”

  Just then I heard a woman’s voice.

  “Who’s that?” she asked.

  “Never mind,” Vaughn said. “Just go back to bed.”

  Oh, great, I thought, now I’ve woken up his wife.

  “Is that Collins?” she asked. “J. B. Collins?”

  “Yes, yes, now just . . . Listen, Collins, I need to go.”

  “No, wait, sir,” I pleaded. “I have one specific favor to ask you.”

  “Where is he?” I could hear his wife asking him.

  “Shhh, I told you, just get back in bed—I’ll be there in a minute,” Vaughn told her. “So what is it, Collins? Make it fast.”

  “Jack, I’m innocent of all of this. The evidence will completely exonerate me. But I want to be tried in an American court. Not here. Not in Amman.”

  “That’s out of my hands. Now unless you know where ISIS is holding the president, I can’t talk to you any longer.”

  “Jack, please—I’m asking you to call the AG,” I pressed, my tone becoming more urgent.

  “The attorney general?” he replied, clearly bewildered. “What for?”

  “I want you to ask him to call the king and request that I be extradited back to Washington with the FBI agent who’s come to interrogate me. I’ll come willingly. I just want my day in court—an American court.”

  “Where is he?” I overheard Vaughn’s wife say again. “Is he still in Amman?”

  Just then Harris slipped me a handwritten note.

  Just got an e-mail. The king wants to meet with you in fifteen minutes. Jack needs to call the AG immediately.

  “Jack, listen, the king wants to meet with me in fifteen minutes. Please, I’m begging you, have the AG call him. I’m pretty sure His Majesty will accommodate any request the U.S. government has for him right about now.”

  “The king wants to see you?”

  “Apparently he does.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea, Jack. But that’s why I need you to call the AG right now and have him take custody of me and this case.”

  “You know what you’re asking?”

  “I know, Jack, and I’m sorry. But I’m an American citizen. I shouldn’t be tried in a foreign court.”

  “So where are you right now?”

  I heard more whispering but forced myself to stay focused and answer his questions. “I’m on a military base outside of Amman,” I replied.

  “Which one?”

  “Marka.”

  “At the general headquarters?”

  “Yes. I’m in the detention center, level B, cell number three.”

  “That’s too much. I don’t need all that. I just want to make sure the AG understands which base you’re at. Who’s the agent from the bureau there with you now?”

  “Art Harris—do you want to talk to him?”

  “No, no, I’m just trying to establish the facts. Are you calling me on a landline?”

  “No, it’s my mobile.”

  “What’s the number?”

  I gave it to him.

  “And I can get back to you on this?”

  “Hold on a moment,” I said. “Let me check.”

  I turned to Harris and whispered the question to him.

  He nodded, so I told Jack, “Yes.”

  “Fine,” Vaughn said. “I need to go. I’ll see what I can do.”

  With that, the call was over.

 
; “And?” Harris asked when I set down the phone.

  “And what?”

  “Did he say yes? Is he going to get you transferred back to Washington?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Did he say yes?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “But he didn’t say no?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “So what did he say?” Harris pressed.

  “He said he would see what he could do.”

  “You think he’ll at least call the AG?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  “Okay, then,” Harris said.

  “So now we wait?” I asked.

  “No, now we go see the king,” Harris replied.

  I had already forgotten about his note. “Why do you think he wants to meet with me?” I was certain I was still in great danger and not sure I wanted to look the monarch in the eye just then.

  “Don’t know,” Harris said. “But we’d better not keep him waiting.”

  29

  Harris stood and informed the guards we were going out.

  Then he asked me for my phone back.

  “But I thought you just said Jack and the AG could call me.”

  “They can, but I’m going to forward your calls to my phone,” Harris explained.

  “Why can’t I keep the phone with me?” I asked.

  “Because as far as the king and Prince Feisal are concerned, you’re their prisoner. They ordered the phone removed from you, and I don’t want to do anything to challenge their authority.”

  I nodded and Harris proceeded to fiddle with my iPhone to transfer all incoming calls to his phone. I was disappointed. I wanted to scroll through my messages. I wanted to see if Yael had written to me, wanted to send notes to her and to my family letting them know what was happening. But Harris was right. I was in too precarious a position to take unnecessary risks. So I steeled myself for what was ahead as he put my phone in his briefcase, set the briefcase on the table, and pointed me toward the door.