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and captured two banks. But at this point I wouldn’t say they control a single quadrant of the city.”
    “Do we?” asked the king.

6

    “It’s a very fluid situation just now, Your Majesty,” the general said.
    It was hardly a satisfactory answer. The capital was under siege. Control of the kingdom itself was in jeopardy.
    “What about casualties so far?” the king asked, abruptly changing topics.
    “The prime minister is in critical condition,” Prince Feisal replied. “Most of the cabinet is dead. The mayor of Amman and most of the tribal leaders we invited to the summit are dead too. So is the White House chief of staff, the national security advisor, and all of the congressional delegation that came with the president.”
    This was going from bad to worse so quickly I could barely breathe.
    “Where is Kamal?” the king asked, referring to Kamal Jeddah, director of the Mukhabarat, the Jordanian intelligence directorate.
    “Kamal is dead too, Your Majesty,” the prince replied.
    I couldn’t believe it.
    “So is Ali Sa’id.”
    That much I knew. Sa’id had died at my side. I’d been the one to feel for a pulse and find nothing, and hearing his name in this setting was almost more than I could bear.
    “How many casualties overall?” the king asked.
    The prince turned to General Jum’a.
    “Your Majesty, at this point we’re estimating over a thousand people dead within the palace compound   —not counting the terrorists, of course,” the general reported.
    The king was silent. I put my hand over my mouth. I didn’t know exactly how many had been in attendance at the summit, but the number of casualties struck me as upward of 90 percent.
    “How many survived?” the king asked.
    “Fewer than a hundred, Your Majesty,” the prince said.
    “How many fewer?”
    “It’s too soon to say.”
    “How many?”
    “Your Majesty, please   —we will get you updated figures as soon as we can. But   —”
    “How . . . many . . . survived?” the king said quietly.
    There was another long pause.
    “Some, of course, were able to escape,” the general said. “And some   —thanks be to Allah   —were evacuated to area hospitals. The minister of justice, for example, is in critical condition, but I’m afraid he isn’t expected to live through the week. I’ve been told that several members of the Palestinian delegation miraculously escaped, unharmed or nearly so. Youssef Kuttab, for one, and several others. But I really don’t think . . .”
    He stopped midsentence.
    The king waited, but his patience was growing thin. He wanted numbers, and he wanted them now.
    Finally the prince stepped in. “Fewer than a hundred, Your Majesty.”
    “I’m not going to ask again.”
    The prince took a deep breath. “We estimate no more than fifty survived.”
    The doctor gasped, as did the young aide standing in the corner.
    “This number includes my family?”
    “It includes everyone in the vehicle you escaped in, Your Majesty   —all seven of you. Prime Minister Lavi and President Mansour too.”
    “For now,” said General al-Mufti.
    “What do you mean?”
    “It doesn’t look good, Your Majesty.”
    “What exactly do we know about their status?”
    “President Mansour is at a hospital in Ramallah,” al-Mufti replied. “He was shot in the back. He’s just come out of surgery, but it’s touch and go.”
    “And Daniel?”
    The prince fielded that one. “The prime minister was rushed to Hadassah Medical Center near Jerusalem. He’s still in surgery. I just got off the phone with Ari Shalit. He said . . .”
    The prince stopped and looked at me.
    “It’s okay,” the king said. “Mr. Collins isn’t going to tell anyone. Right, Mr. Collins?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I have your word.”
    “You do, sir.”
    “Very well. Proceed.”
    Feisal hesitated for a moment, but then did as he was asked. “It’s pretty grim, Your Majesty. Ari said it’s not clear the prime minister is going