The Third Target Read Online Free PDF

known as the Arabian Peninsula,the fertile Mesopotamian region that became known as Iraq, and the land on the eastern side of the Jordan River that became known as Transjordan. It was over this last swath of territory that Abdullah now ruled, and as the door to the mosque was opened for us, it finally dawned on me which question I had to ask him first.

5

    As the king neared the doorway of the mosque, I saw a flicker of movement.
    It happened fast, but it seemed odd   —out of place.
    I looked to my right and saw a man bolt from behind the door and jump from the shadows. He pulled out a small pistol. He aimed it at the monarch’s head. The guards didn’t react at first. Neither did the king. They were all too stunned, as was I. Then I saw a flash from the barrel and heard the boom   —then another   —and a third.
    Horrified, I watched the entire scene unfold before me as if in slow motion. The king jerked back again and again and finally collapsed to the ground. I turned and saw his grandson lunge forward without a second thought, attacking the shooter. The two men struggled for a moment before I heard another shot. And then the young prince crumpled to the ground, writhing in pain.
    A flutter of birds raced for the sky. People screamed and ran for cover. But the shooting didn’t stop. For several seconds, the man kept firing, and then he began to run. He was coming straight for me. The king’s guards pivoted now and began to return fire. I dropped to the ground and covered my head and face. The Temple Mount haderupted in gunfire at this point. Bullets were whizzing past my head and I was certain these moments were my last.
    But a split second later, the assailant crashed to the ground not far from where I was. I didn’t know if he had been shot or had simply stumbled. Without thinking, I sprang up and jumped on him. Before I realized what I was doing, I was beating him about the face and head. Soon I could see that he had been shot in multiple places. He was bleeding profusely. But he was not dead   —not yet   —and I was determined he was not going to run. For the moment I had forgotten I was a journalist. I had forgotten, too, that I was now in the line of fire. I was enraged, and my fists kept raining blows down upon him.
    Seconds later, soldiers surrounded us, guns locked and loaded and pointed at both of us.
    “Stop   —don’t move any farther!” they shouted.
    Immediately I stopped beating the man. The soldiers yelled at me to put my hands above my head, where they could see them. Then they ordered me to slowly get off the man and step away. I did as I was told and saw two of the king’s personal guards running toward us. Before I realized what was happening, someone behind me smashed the back of my skull with what must have been the butt of a rifle. I collapsed to the ground, not far from the assailant. I could feel blood running down the back of my scalp. My eyes were tearing, and I was in intense pain. But I did not black out, and as I lay there, I watched a soldier scoop up the still-smoking pistol lying by the assassin’s side. They checked the man for more weapons but found none. Then they checked his pulse.
    “He’s done for,” one of the guards said.
    I could hardly believe it was true. Dead? Already? But who was he? What was his story? Who had sent him? I was seething. This man had tried to kill a king. He had tried to kill a prince. He had done so on sacred, holy ground. Why had he done it? I wanted answers.
    A soldier grabbed my arms and tied them behind my back.Another took my satchel and patted me down for weapons. As he did, one of the king’s guards was rifling through the assassin’s identification papers and personal effects.
    “What’s his name?” his partner asked.
    “Mustafa,” the guard replied. “Mustafa Shukri Ashshu.”
    “He’s not a Jew?”
    “No, his papers say he’s a Moslem, sir, a Palestinian.”
    “You cannot be serious.”
    “I am, sir.”
    “Are