The First Hostage: A J. B. Collins Novel by Joel C. Rosenberg Page B

explained the unique circumstances under whichI was operating. I figured the king’s admonition against disclosing my location probably applied to phone calls as well as news stories, so I didn’t say exactly where I was. Allen didn’t exactly apologize for our dustup earlier in the day, but he was clearly glad I was alive and well and able to keep writing. With the pipeline cleared between us, he began posting my new material every hour or so. Thus far I’d written   —and Sharif had cleared   —three updates to my original ten-minute story on the ongoing hunt for the president, complete with additional details provided by the king and the prince themselves, including the fact that Egyptian and Israeli intelligence services were now working closely with the Americans and the Jordanians in the search. I’d also written a brief first-person account of being at the palace when the kamikaze attack took place. I’d wanted to write a story about helping to evacuate the king and his family, but the colonel had rejected this concept out of hand. Instead I wrote a detailed, blow-by-blow description of the battle at the SADAFCO warehouses north of the airport.
    Every muscle in my body ached. The pills the doctor had given me earlier in the day were dulling the intensity of my gunshot wound, but the pain was still there, still throbbing. My head was killing me as well. I was feeling dehydrated and chugged down two bottles of water before deciding finally to retire for the night and get some desperately needed sleep.
    Sharif requested pillows, an air mattress, and a few blankets for me, and they were all graciously delivered within the next ten minutes, along with basic toiletries, including a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some mouthwash. After Sharif said good-night, an armed MP led me to the restroom, where I washed up, then led me back to the cramped little office. As I lay down, the MP took up his position outside my door. I wasn’t going anywhere tonight. Nor was anyone coming in. For now, that was all I needed to know.
    I turned out the lights and lay down on the thin mattress. I pulledthe blankets over me, trying to ignore the smell of the dirty carpet and trying equally not to think about the discomfort of not being able to fully stretch out my legs.
    Instead, staring up at the ceiling, I thought about my mom back in Bar Harbor, Maine. I knew she was worried sick. But I also knew she was praying for me. I wished I could have called her, but there hadn’t been time, and I knew she was tracking the story on the Times website. She could see my dispatches. She knew I was alive and kicking. She knew I was doing my job, and I knew she was proud of me. Indeed, I was writing each of my stories with her as my audience   —not Vice President Holbrooke or the secretary of defense or King Abdullah or Abu Khalif or anyone else. I was trying to explain what I was seeing and hearing to my mom, in language clear and colorful enough to bring it all alive for her. Still, I wanted to talk to her, wanted to tell her personally that I was okay, wanted to hear her voice. Had she talked to Matt? I hoped he’d called her. I hoped he’d explained why he’d left Amman and reassured her that he and Annie and the kids were safe. Where exactly had they gone? I wondered. I had begged them to leave Jordan immediately. Abu Khalif had personally threatened them and our entire family. I was glad Matt had texted me to let me know they were now someplace safe. I could only hope that was really true.
    I was not, by any means, a religious man. That was Matt’s thing, not mine. My older brother was the pastor and theologian in the family. I was, you might say, the family’s black sheep. But I loved my brother. I truly wanted him and his wife and kids to be safe. I couldn’t bear the thought of ISIS getting to any of them. So it occurred to me it might be a good idea to pray for them right then, before I fell asleep.
    In the darkness, I closed my eyes