The Third Target by Joel C Rosenberg Page A

of him. “It’s news,” I told him. “But I doubt it will go viral. Not like it would if you confirm ISIS has chemical weapons.”
    “Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Collins,” Ramzy replied. “And we were getting along so well.”
    I was baffled. My sources were solid. Unbeknownst to each other, both had let me listen to the tapes in question and had even given me transcripts for my story. Neither source knew I was going to Syriato try to confirm what I had been told. I hadn’t even made my plans until after I’d spoken to each of them and had suddenly received the e-mail from Faisal Baqouba about coming to meet Ramzy. This was a major exclusive. I had been sitting on it for more than ten days. It wasn’t going to hold much longer.
    “Isn’t this the story you invited me here to confirm, the chemical weapons?” I pressed.
    “No.”
    “Then why have me come all this way and go through all this trouble, just to tell me what you could have announced in a press release?” I asked again. “Why stop short of giving me the story that would be the shot heard around the world?”
    “Time’s up,” Ramzy said.
    That wasn’t possible. It couldn’t have been thirty minutes. Ramzy was playing with me. But I had to keep my cool as I continued writing out my notes and flexing my aching fingers.
    Suddenly he said, “Time to take some pictures.”
    My pen stopped writing. I looked at him in disbelief, then watched as he snapped his fingers. I turned my head, and in through a side door came Omar and Abdel, surrounded by more men with machine guns.
    I couldn’t believe it. They were alive. They were safe. They were here. Without thinking, I jumped up from my seat and tried to move toward them but realized   —almost too late   —that my feet were still chained to the floor. When I noticed several of the guards around us moving their fingers to the triggers of their weapons, I quickly sat down.
    My colleagues were brought closer, and I noticed they were in shackles too. They were kept a good ten yards from each other and had a guard on each side. Still, they were smiling and looked no worse for the wear.
    One of the guards handed Abdel his Nikon and gave him a fewinstructions. Then the klieg lights powered back on, creating stunning conditions for a one-of-a-kind portrait of a key terrorist figure the world knew very little about so far. When all the preparations were complete, Ramzy nodded, and Abdel began snapping away.
    Barely a minute later, Ramzy held up his hand and a guard grabbed the camera out of Abdel’s hands. The photo shoot was over.
    Ramzy walked over to me and handed me my backpack. I wasn’t sure I wanted it but knew there was no point in saying so.
    “One more thing, if I may?” I asked.
    “What is it, Mr. Collins?” Ramzy replied, beginning to sound annoyed.
    “I would like to meet Abu Khalif,” I said. “Would you introduce me?”
    Ramzy didn’t bat an eye. “That’s not possible.”
    “Why not?”
    “He doesn’t speak to reporters.”
    “Neither do you.”
    “I made an exception.”
    “Maybe he will too.”
    “He won’t.”
    “Is he still in prison in Iraq?”
    “This is none of your concern.”
    “Which prison?”
    “You are treading on thin ice here, Mr. Collins.”
    “But he still runs ISIS, doesn’t he?”
    “Of course.”
    “So he’s the one who gave the order to launch the Third Intifada, correct?”
    “Abu Khalif is our leader.”
    “So he makes the decisions?”
    “That’s what leaders do.”
    “Then why can’t I meet him? Why can’t I talk to him and get histake on where this region is heading, where ISIS is heading? Just like you, he’s got a story to tell, Mr. Ramzy. Let me tell it.”
    “You do not understand what you’re asking,” he replied, his eyes narrowing.
    “I think I do.”
    “Oh, but you don’t, or you would never have brought it up.”
    Risking everything, perhaps including my life, I stood and stepped as close to Jamal Ramzy as my