The Third Target by Joel C Rosenberg Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joel C Rosenberg
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the Middle East, national security issues, intelligence matters, and other issues pertaining to my beat. One story was by Alex Brunnell, the Times bureau chief in Jerusalem. I scanned it quickly. It was a ridiculously pedestrian piece that focused on why the peace talks between the Israelis and Palestinians had bogged down again and why the White House might soon abandon its effort to strike a comprehensive deal and shift its attention from the Middle East to the Pacific Rim. It was badly sourced and poorly written and contained nothing but conventional wisdom. Everyone knew the talks were going nowhere. Everyone knew President Taylor and his secretary of state had bitten off more than they could chew. This was hardly news. The Wall Street Journal had done the same story a month earlier. Everyone else had done it since then. But this was typical of Brunnell. He never seemed to break news, just chase it. Why the suits in Manhattan had given a third-rate hack a byline in the world’s most respected newspaper, I would never understand.
The next e-mail, however, sucked the wind out of me.
It was from our publisher, addressed to all of the paper’s staff around the world.
It is with a heavy heart that I write to inform you of the tragic death of Janet Fiorelli, New York Times Cairo bureau chief. Janet was working on a story detailing the lingering effects of the Arab Spring in Egypt when she was killed yesterday in a suicide bombing in Cairo. The U.S. State Department is investigating the attack. Janet was a top-rate journalist who was respected and beloved by colleagues and readers alike for her professionalism and kindness, and . . .
I stopped reading. I couldn’t believe it. I knew Janet. We were friends. We’d worked together on countless stories. I knew her husband, Tom, and her twins, Michael and Peter. I’d been to their homein Heliopolis a dozen times or more. I read the first sentence of the e-mail again and again. It couldn’t be true.
Suddenly we were at the gate. Everyone else got off the plane, but I just sat there, staring out the window.
“Sir, is everything okay?” asked an attractive young flight attendant, trying to be helpful.
No, it wasn’t, I wanted to say. But I just nodded and stood, trying to get my bearings.
“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” she asked.
She had a lovely smile and gentle eyes. I found myself looking at her for a moment too long, then caught myself.
“Sorry; no, I’m good,” I said.
I felt numb. I’d had dinner with Tom and Janet in Alexandria only a few weeks earlier. Now she was gone. It seemed impossible.
The flight attendant handed me my black leather jacket and backpack from the overhead bin. I thanked her and deplaned and made my way through the crowds to the baggage claim. I never checked any bags, not anymore, not since Lufthansa lost my luggage back in 2007 while I was on the way to interview the German chancellor. Nevertheless, my editor had told me to meet my colleagues at baggage carousel number three, so that’s where I went.
“J. B., my friend, welcome back to Beirut —you look terrible!”
A gargantuan man, swarthy and unshaven, laughed from his belly, his booming voice turning heads in the terminal —not exactly the low profile I was looking for. Then he gave me a bear hug that nearly crushed my spine. I’d told him a hundred times to go a tad lighter, but it was always the same thing.
“Good to see you, too, Omar,” I replied, so not in the mood for all his energy. “You ready for this?”
“Ready?” he shot back. “Have you completely lost your mind? You’re a fool, a complete lunatic. You’re going to get us all killed one day. You know that, don’t you?”
I just stared at him.
“What?” he asked. “What’s the matter?”
“You haven’t read your e-mails,” I said.
“No, what e-mails?”
“You haven’t heard about Janet Fiorelli.”
His expression changed immediately. “No, why? What has
The next e-mail, however, sucked the wind out of me.
It was from our publisher, addressed to all of the paper’s staff around the world.
It is with a heavy heart that I write to inform you of the tragic death of Janet Fiorelli, New York Times Cairo bureau chief. Janet was working on a story detailing the lingering effects of the Arab Spring in Egypt when she was killed yesterday in a suicide bombing in Cairo. The U.S. State Department is investigating the attack. Janet was a top-rate journalist who was respected and beloved by colleagues and readers alike for her professionalism and kindness, and . . .
I stopped reading. I couldn’t believe it. I knew Janet. We were friends. We’d worked together on countless stories. I knew her husband, Tom, and her twins, Michael and Peter. I’d been to their homein Heliopolis a dozen times or more. I read the first sentence of the e-mail again and again. It couldn’t be true.
Suddenly we were at the gate. Everyone else got off the plane, but I just sat there, staring out the window.
“Sir, is everything okay?” asked an attractive young flight attendant, trying to be helpful.
No, it wasn’t, I wanted to say. But I just nodded and stood, trying to get my bearings.
“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” she asked.
She had a lovely smile and gentle eyes. I found myself looking at her for a moment too long, then caught myself.
“Sorry; no, I’m good,” I said.
I felt numb. I’d had dinner with Tom and Janet in Alexandria only a few weeks earlier. Now she was gone. It seemed impossible.
The flight attendant handed me my black leather jacket and backpack from the overhead bin. I thanked her and deplaned and made my way through the crowds to the baggage claim. I never checked any bags, not anymore, not since Lufthansa lost my luggage back in 2007 while I was on the way to interview the German chancellor. Nevertheless, my editor had told me to meet my colleagues at baggage carousel number three, so that’s where I went.
“J. B., my friend, welcome back to Beirut —you look terrible!”
A gargantuan man, swarthy and unshaven, laughed from his belly, his booming voice turning heads in the terminal —not exactly the low profile I was looking for. Then he gave me a bear hug that nearly crushed my spine. I’d told him a hundred times to go a tad lighter, but it was always the same thing.
“Good to see you, too, Omar,” I replied, so not in the mood for all his energy. “You ready for this?”
“Ready?” he shot back. “Have you completely lost your mind? You’re a fool, a complete lunatic. You’re going to get us all killed one day. You know that, don’t you?”
I just stared at him.
“What?” he asked. “What’s the matter?”
“You haven’t read your e-mails,” I said.
“No, what e-mails?”
“You haven’t heard about Janet Fiorelli.”
His expression changed immediately. “No, why? What has