Without Warning Read online

  “Got it,” I said finally. “Your anniversary’s today. So are you flying home today?”

  “I can’t,” he said. “The airports are all shut down, remember? Trains, too. But . . .” Rather than finish the sentence, he dangled the keys to my new Audi in front of me.

  “You’re not serious,” I said.

  “I am,” he replied.

  “You want to drive all the way to Maine?”

  He nodded.

  “Today?”

  Another nod. “I plotted it all out on MapQuest. It’ll take us eleven hours and forty-five minutes door to door, without stops.”

  “Us?”

  “With fuel stops and bathroom breaks, I’m guessing we can be there in thirteen hours. If we get on the road by five, we can be there by six tonight. We’ll surprise them. It’ll be fun.”

  “And then what?” I asked, in no mood for a thirteen-hour road trip.

  Matt smiled. “I take Annie out for a nice romantic dinner, and you . . .”

  “What?”

  “You and Mom can babysit,” he said, like it was the greatest idea in the world.

  “You’ve really lost your mind.”

  “It’ll be great. You and Mom can catch up. She’ll love it. The kids’ll be so excited to see you. You can hang out for a few days, then drive back on Sunday.”

  This was a terrible idea. I hated it. All of it. I had a job. I had a story to pursue. I couldn’t afford to be diverted. Not now. I’d been off my beat far too long already.

  But I stopped myself. I really did owe Matt. What’s more, I owed Annie and Katie and Josh. I owed my mom, as well. I was on the front page today with two big stories. The least I could do now was take Matt up to see his bride and his kids and spend a few days together as a family, something we hadn’t done since . . . I couldn’t remember when.

  “Okay,” I said at last.

  Matt stared at me. “Really? You’re serious? You’re not just messing with me?”

  “Nope—I’m serious,” I said. “I’m in.”

  “Wow,” he said, visibly dumbfounded.

  “Just give me a few minutes to pack,” I said.

  “Already done,” Matt replied.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  He nodded to my garment bag on the floor.

  “You packed for me?” Now I was the one who was dumbfounded.

  “Last night, while you were working,” he said. “It’s all in the note.”

  “The one on the bathroom mirror?”

  Matt shrugged.

  “Guess you thought of everything,” I said.

  “Not quite,” he replied.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I never thought you’d really say yes.”

  22

  Matt gathered our bags and took them down to the car.

  I threw on jeans and a flannel shirt, brushed my teeth, read the note on the bathroom mirror, and shrugged. I was going on a road trip. The timing couldn’t have been worse. But I knew I had to do it.

  Matt offered to take the first shift driving, but I said no. With a good, strong cup of coffee and a double shot of adrenaline, I was wide-awake now. In my head I was already working on my next story, and I needed time to think, not talk. So Matt adjusted the passenger seat in the Audi until it was all the way back and drifted off to sleep. I’m sure he was thinking about celebrating his wedding anniversary with Annie. I had other things on my mind.

  My lead article for the Times that morning would, I knew, make a big splash, and for good reason. It told the public for the first time about the three howitzers and the three locations in D.C. where they’d been positioned to fire mortars at the Capitol. It also broke the news about the murdered night watchman at the construction company in Anacostia, the identity of the seven dead Arab men, and the solid, conclusive evidence that each of them was a member of the Islamic State.

  With Director Beck’s permission, Agent Harris and I had visited the crumbling Alexander Crummell School, the boarded-up Catholic school, and the construction company. Allen MacDonald had sent along a Times photographer to take crime scene pictures. Then Harris and I had visited the city morgue. I’d seen the bodies of the seven ISIS terrorists for myself. I’d interviewed the D.C. medical examiner about the cause of death. I’d been allowed to look at her notes. The science was clear. All seven had died of complications triggered by sarin gas poisoning, and initial tests strongly indicated that the chemical fingerprint of the gas found in the remaining mortar shells matched the gas used during the attack in Amman.

  It was good info, but I knew Allen would want more soon.

  I figured once Matt got a few hours of rest, he could drive and I could write. By midafternoon, I could probably have a new draft that I could send, a draft that could significantly advance the story. But I was going to need Agent Harris’s help.

  Dawn rose and the sky brightened. Before long we had passed the city of Wilmington and were crossing the Delaware Memorial Bridge. I checked my rearview mirror again. I’d been doing so constantly since we’d pulled out of my parking garage. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. I told myself the jitters in my hands and stomach were just frayed nerves from all that had happened to me in recent months.

  But I had to admit that for the first time in my life I was scared. Abu Khalif had promised to kill me. And I believed him. He had just demonstrated to the entire nation that his reach extended deep inside the United States. Who could say he couldn’t reach me?

  I checked the mirror again. Still nothing suspicious, so as I got off I-295 and onto the New Jersey Turnpike, I put on a mobile phone headset and dialed Harris’s number. It was early, but I was in no mood to wait.

  “Collins, is that you?” Harris asked.

  I could hear the fatigue in his voice. But I could also hear phones ringing and people talking in the background. He wasn’t at home. He was already at work at the bureau. Maybe he’d never gone home.

  “I need your help,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “I need more info on some of the things we came across last night.”

  “Sorry—I can’t,” he replied. “You’ve gotten all you’re going to get out of us.”

  “Harris, come on; your boss gave me this story on a silver platter,” I said calmly. “He wants this stuff out there. I just need a little more.”

  “Can’t do it, Collins,” Harris said, speaking almost in a whisper. “You got your story, and it’s breaking big inside the administration. You had details the president and NSC didn’t even have yet. And they’re furious. The AG has already called the director and read him the riot act. There’s no more. That’s all you’re going to get.”

  “Wait,” I said. “At least tell me how the ISIS guys got the howitzers.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Just give me a clue, a lead—something—and I can do the rest.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Harris, you still there?” I asked.

  “Write this down, Collins.”

  “What?”

  “Three words—you ready?” he asked.

  “Ready,” I said, and Harris spoke the three words slowly, enunciating clearly.

  “Lowell, Coon, Marion.”

  Then I heard a click, and the line went dead.

  23

  I speed-dialed Allen immediately.

  He didn’t pick up the direct line in his office, so I tried his mobile phone. He picked up on the second ring but said he wasn’t in the newsroom yet. The snowstorm was still wreaking havoc on D.C. area traffic, and he was sitting in gridlock on the Beltway, still trying to get downtown. “Why, what’ve you got?” he asked.

  “Do you have a pad and pen handy?”

  “Of course.”

  “And are you stopped right now?”

  “Yes, unfortunately.”

  “Good. Take this down—three words,” I said. “Lowell. Coon. And Mar
ion.”

  “Got it,” he said. “What does it mean?”

  “I have no idea,” I conceded.

  “Then why are you telling me?” Allen asked.

  “I got them from a source—a good one—who says they’re clues to finding out how ISIS got their hands on howitzers. Can you get someone to run a search and see if anything pops?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll text Mary Jane and get her working on it right away. What else have you got? We’re already getting great feedback on your pieces from this morning.”

  For the next ten minutes, while Matt slept, I laid out for Allen the contours of my next story—the feverish federal manhunt for the remaining ISIS terrorists, the ones who hadn’t accidentally blown up their howitzer and killed themselves with sarin gas. It was all material I’d gotten from Beck but hadn’t fit in this morning’s article.

  I explained to Allen that according to the bureau, all three 18-wheelers that had been abandoned at the three crime scenes had been rented. Each was from a different rental company, but the rigs had all come from Alabama. The FBI was working with local and state investigators to determine exactly who had rented them and when.

  Then I shifted to the howitzers themselves. “Apparently the terrorists needed tractor trailers to transport the howitzers because each one weighs about six tons,” I said. “Beck told me all three were World War II–era, built in the early 1940s. All three saw action in Europe—two in France and one in Italy.”

  “How do they know?” Allen asked.

  “They’ve got serial numbers on them,” I said. “Somebody in the basement of the Pentagon was actually able to look up their records and figure out where they’d been used.”

  “So how does one go about acquiring a howitzer?” Allen asked.

  “I wouldn’t think there’s much of a black market,” I said.

  “How about an Army surplus store?”

  “For a seven-decade-old weapon that weighs six tons?”

  “Right—so then how would a terrorist get his hands on one, much less three?”

  We discussed all kinds of scenarios—private collections, auctions, Hollywood studios, museums. None of them struck us as particularly plausible, but Allen promised to get some people on it.

  Then he abruptly changed the subject. “Listen, J. B., I need you to go back to Amman.”

  “What?”

  “Someone needs to interview this Jordanian member of Parliament,” he explained. “Who is he? Why was his son found dead in Anacostia with a group of ISIS jihadists? Did the father know his son was involved in terrorism? Have the Jordanians arrested the father? Who else is he linked with? You know the drill. And you know the king. You need to get on this angle right away.”

  “Allen, I—”

  “I’ve got you on the next plane to Amman. It’s all booked. Lufthansa flight 9051 out of Dulles. It leaves at 5:20 tomorrow afternoon, assuming the Homeland Security secretary lifts the travel ban. You’ll route through Frankfurt and arrive in Amman by dinnertime Saturday. Mary Jane will e-mail you the details in a moment. And don’t worry; I talked to the brass in New York. They know what you’ve been through and they’re very grateful. They let me bump you up to first class. No need to say thank you. Just pack a bag and make sure you’re at Dulles tomorrow by three.”

  “Allen, I can’t do it,” I said.

  “This isn’t a request, J. B. This is a huge story, and no one on my staff has better sources in the Middle East—and certainly not in Amman—than you.”

  “I get it, Allen, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “I’m not in D.C.”

  As I said it, I glanced down at the dashboard, saw the fuel gauge, and realized I was running low. I started looking for a service station where I could top off the tank and get some coffee and maybe a breakfast sandwich.

  “What do you mean you’re not in D.C.?” Allen asked. “Where are you?”

  “My brother and I are driving up to Maine to see our family.”

  “Without telling me?”

  “It was, you know, spur of the moment.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “Five this morning.”

  “So where are you now?”

  “Not far from Philly, heading north on the New Jersey Turnpike.”

  “And when were you planning to tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Sunday, I guess. Maybe Monday.”

  Allen sighed. “Okay, listen,” he said. “I’ll make a deal with you. You need to go see your family. I get that. Really, I do. Take a day or two with them. Then fly out of Boston on Saturday evening. I’ll have Mary Jane reissue the tickets. But you’re going to Amman, J. B. I need you there.”

  I took a deep breath.

  “What?” he asked, clearly sensing my resistance and somewhat uncharacteristically trying hard not to express his frustration.

  “What if I take a leave of absence?” I said.

  “You just had a leave of absence.”

  “Then how much vacation time do I have saved up?”

  “No, J. B. You need to do this, and you’re going to do it. I’m saying this for your sake, believe me. If you give up on reporting now, you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life. I know you. And I’m telling you, my friend—you need to get back on the horse.”

  “How much vacation do I have coming to me, Allen?” I pressed.

  “Forget it, J. B.”

  “It’s got to be at least twenty weeks,” I said. “I never take time off.”

  Another sigh. “Twenty-six.”

  “Then I’m taking a vacation, effective immediately.”

  “J. B., please, you need to stay on this story,” he insisted. “Hunt down these killers. Run them to ground. Force the administration’s hand. Make them bring Abu Khalif to justice. And then take the rest of the year off if you’d like. Write a book. Go to the Caribbean. Sleep on a beach. Marry that Israeli girl you’re so fond of. But not now, J. B.—not right now.”

  24

  “What was that all about?”

  My heated conversation had just woken Matt up. I glanced over at him as I finally found a service station and pulled off the main highway. “Nothing. You want some breakfast?”

  “Sure, that sounds good,” Matt replied as I pulled up to the gas tanks and asked the attendant to top us off with premium unleaded. I still couldn’t believe New Jersey prohibited self-service gas fill-ups, but given the brutal weather, I certainly wasn’t going to complain today.

  “So what exactly can’t you do, and why?” Matt asked.

  “Forget about it,” I said. “It’s nothing.”

  “J. B., give me a break. It’s obviously not nothing. You just talked about taking a leave of absence from the only job you’ve ever loved. Now what’s going on?”

  “I said forget it!” I snapped. “Now do you want some breakfast or not?”

  It came out far more harshly than I’d intended. But rather than apologize, I just glared at Matt.

  He’d seen this before, and far too often, I’m afraid. So he sighed, shook his head, and let it go. “Whatever,” he said, getting out of the Audi. “Text me what you want. I’ll be back in a few.”

  As I watched him head inside, I felt guilty and confused. I’d barely spoken to Matt for the better part of a decade. Now things were finally beginning to thaw between us. Why had I just lashed out at him? Why was I reverting to my old patterns? I wasn’t sure. I didn’t like it. But I didn’t know how to change it, either. I knew I should apologize to him. At the same time, I didn’t want to waste any time psychoanalyzing myself. I had work to do.

  I picked up my phone and checked my e-mails. There were five new ones.

  None were from Yael.

  The first was from an old friend, Youssef Kuttab, senior advisor to Palestinian Authority president Salim Mansour. He was checking to make s
ure I was safe after the terror attacks in D.C. But he was also updating me on Mansour’s recovery. In December, the Palestinian leader had been shot twice in the back by ISIS forces right in front of me during the attack on the royal palace in Amman.

  At the time, the official story put out to press said President Mansour had been lightly wounded, but I knew the truth was far more serious. One bullet had missed the man’s spine by less than a centimeter. The other had ripped through the left shoulder and caused a tremendous loss of blood. Only the fast actions of the impressive IDF medics on the chopper out of Jordan, multiple blood transfusions, and later three highly complicated operations in Ramallah at the hands of skilled Palestinian surgeons had saved Mansour’s life. Trying to downplay the seriousness of the president’s injuries, every few days the P.A. press team released a new photo of Mansour resting in a hospital bed, smiling, laughing, chatting with his wife and kids, talking by phone with one world leader or another, reading briefing papers, and so forth. But not one of the photos had actually been taken during the days following the attempted assassination, I knew. They’d all been taken nine months earlier when Mansour had undergone a rather simple hernia operation. Yet the P.A. media team now put them out there—to great effect, I might add—and no one was the wiser.

  During those dark days when Mansour’s life hung in the balance—and could have literally gone either way—I had kept in close contact with Youssef Kuttab, who himself had only narrowly escaped being severely wounded or killed in the Amman attacks. I gave him my solemn word that nothing he told me would be published. I just wanted to know how the man was doing, as I had such tremendous respect for Mansour. The Palestinian president was one of the most humble, strong, and wise leaders I’d ever met. He was a true man of peace, and I genuinely and deeply feared the prospect of his death.