The Third Target Read Online Free PDF Page B

they forgeries?”
    “No, they look real.”
    “Let me see them.”
    The guard handed the papers over to his partner.
    “They are real,” he said in disbelief. “He lives right here in the Old City. He’s a tailor.”
    “How old was he, sir?”
    “Just twenty-one.”
    The older guard let fly a slew of obscenities.
    “How in the world did he get by all of us?” he fumed.
    That, of course, was a question the papers did not shed light on.
    Suddenly the two bodyguards turned to me.
    “Who are you?” they shouted. “Where did you come from?”
    Their questions came fast and furious. I explained I was an American, there to meet the king. They pressed for details, and that’s when Captain Rajoub came running up, gun in one hand, the telegram from the palace in the other. The guards read the telegram, checked my papers, and conferred with one another. Rajoub confirmed I was telling the truth, and finally the men untied me, pulled me to my feet, gave me my bag and hat, and ordered me to leave.
    “But I was expecting to interview His Majesty,” I protested.
    “You must go. There is nothing for you here,” the older guard said. “His Majesty is dead.”
    I just stared at him, unable to speak. The king was dead? They were confirming this? I don’t know why I thought it would be otherwise. I had seen the entire event unfold before me. His Majesty had been shot in the face and chest at point-blank range. But with all that had just happened, it had not yet occurred to me he might actually be dead. Call it denial. Call it the fog of war. Or perhaps I simply still wanted the interview I had been promised. I’d had an appointment. I had made it on time. He was the one who was late. I had been there. I was ready. I had my questions. And now I was being ordered to leave.
    A chill rippled through my body. Despite the intense noontime heat, I suddenly felt cold. I was lonely and intensely tired. I knew I was in danger of slipping into shock, and there was a part of me that wanted to succumb to it. I could hear the sirens. Within minutes, doctors and nurses would be arriving. They would take care of me. They would whisk me off to a hospital and pump my body full of drugs and I could sleep and try to forget all this had ever happened. But there was another part of me that forced my legs to straighten, forced myself to stand, and before I realized what was happening, I was walking straight toward the lifeless body of the king, my right hand instinctively pulling a notebook out of the leather satchel hanging from my shoulder.
    A crowd of guards and soldiers had surrounded His Majesty, guns drawn, as the young Prince Hussein, weeping over his grandfather, knelt at his side. But it was instantly clear the soldier had been right. The king was dead. His skin was white. His eyes were closed. His white cotton robes were smeared and stained with blood.
    I turned to a Moslem cleric of some sort standing nearby, his mouth agape, tears in his eyes, saying nothing.
    “Do you have a telephone?” I asked in Arabic, handing him my damp handkerchief. I was surprised by how calm my voice sounded.
    “No, no, not in the mosque,” he stuttered, accepting my gift and wiping his eyes. “But there is one in the office.”
    “I must use it to call the palace,” I said, choosing for the moment not to identify myself.
    “Yes, of course,” he said, obviously not thinking about my request clearly or questioning who I was.
    As if in a stupor, he led me to a squat outbuilding nearby that housed the administrative offices of the Waqf, the religious institution charged with protecting and maintaining the Islamic holy sites on the Temple Mount. Fumbling with his keys, the cleric opened the door. He led me to his office, showed me the telephone, and explained how to get an operator to place the call to Amman. Then he left me in peace and shut the door behind him.
    I picked up the receiver and felt my hand trembling. I took a deep breath and tried in vain