101

ROSARY SISTERS HOSPITAL, BEIRUT, LEBANON

The sun was beginning to peek up over Mount Lebanon and the Bekaa Valley.

Kareem bin Mubarak was hungry, exhausted, and snapping at his men.

They had already cleared twenty-six apartment buildings, thirteen restaurants, and a smattering of other shops and cafés up and down the boulevard. Their perimeter kept expanding. Now they were combing every square meter of a Catholic hospital, yet they still had not found either the man they were searching for or even any new clues that he had been anywhere in the area. It was as if the man had jumped off the first roof and disappeared into thin air. Nor had Mubarak’s forces, or the whole of the Beirut police force, found a yellow taxicab with missing taillights.

If that were not bad enough, the Sheikh was demanding hourly updates, regardless of whether there was anything to report. The general wanted to go public and had advised al-Hussaini as much. They should release to the media everything they had on al-Masri, his men, and his prisoners, he had argued. That would turn everyone in the capital into their eyes and ears. Yes, they would be flooded with tips, many of which would not pan out at all, but there was no way the traitor and his team could stay hidden for long. The Sheikh, however, had vehemently disagreed. To go public would be to admit that Hezbollah had never had the prisoners and would invite ridicule and humiliation, most of all from the Zionists. No, Mubarak was told, they would get no help from the media or the public. Too many people knew as it was.

It was, therefore, all the general could do not to explode when his mobile phone began ringing yet again.

“Excuse me, is this General Mubarak?” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“Who’s asking?” the general shot back.

“Uh, right, sorry to bother you, General,” the man stammered. “You don’t know me. And my name is of no importance. But I may have information that could be of use to you.”

“What kind of information?” Mubarak replied.

“I’m a guest at a church in the Mar Maroun district, not far from where you are now.”

“How do you know where I am?”

“Well, from my window, I can see up the boulevard, and I can see all the police cars and military vehicles and all the commotion.”

“And? Get to the point.”

“And I asked one of the officers near the church and . . .”

“Spit it out—I don’t have time for this.”

“Yes, yes. I’m so sorry—I understand you are looking for a man.”

“Yes.”

“A badly injured man, maybe one who had very little clothes on when—”

“How do you know this?”

“Like I said, I’m staying at the church. I’ve been here for several weeks. My wife kicked me out of the house, and the priest here was kind enough to take me in. But anyway, tonight I could not sleep. So I crept downstairs and went for a walk. Everyone in the neighborhood is talking about it and . . .”

“And what? Do you know something about this man?”

“Well, yes, I might. You see, a man came to the church tonight—a man none of us had ever seen before . . .”

Marcus sat up, instantly on high alert.

It was the boots.

He could hear them coming down the hall, and they were moving fast. He sprang out of bed and moved to lock the door to the hallway, but just then the side door burst open. Suddenly a flashbang detonated beside him. Marcus dropped to his hands and knees, blinded, unable to hear a thing. The next thing he knew, there was a boot on his back, shoving him to his stomach.

Instinctively Marcus turned over and drove his right fist into the back of someone’s kneecap. Whoever it was stumbled away, and Marcus scrambled to his feet. He still could not see, but there were more hands on him now. Lashing out wildly, he shot an elbow hard into someone’s ribs, then delivered a roundhouse punch to someone trying to grab him from behind.

Free again, at least for an instant, Marcus kept his eyes closed and struck out wherever he sensed movement. He connected with one man’s neck and another’s stomach. Picturing the room in his mind’s eye, he felt for the bunk bed, then used it as a foil. Diving onto the lower bed, he rolled right and came out on his feet on the other side. He stood erect and grabbed for the top level of the bunk and pushed it forward with every ounce of his strength. He could hear several people grunt—two, at least—then yanked the bed to his left, hoping to take out more.

It didn’t work. Someone now tried to tackle him from behind. Rather than go down immediately, however, Marcus glanced off the bedframe and against a wall, then was able to turn in time to lift his right leg and drive it deep into his attacker’s solar plexus.

More men kept coming at him. As he fought viciously to fend them off, his hearing began to come back. His vision began to clear. Not that it was helping much. It was too little and too late. All he could see were flashes of uniforms, boots, fists, and truncheons. Then someone threw a sucker punch to his face and sent him crashing to the floor. Before he knew it, the barrel of an AK-47 was driving into his back. A hood was thrown over his head. There were at least four men on him now. Despite all his thrashing about, they were pulling his arms behind him. They were putting his wrists in flexicuffs and zipping them down so tightly he was sure they would draw blood. He was still trying to kick the crap out of whoever was stupid enough to go for his legs, but within another few seconds someone had secured his ankles and zip-tied him up like a steer in a rodeo.

All he could do was shout at the top of his lungs, so he did, pleading with the priests to help him, to have mercy on him. But in the blur of the moment he was shouting in English. Even if the priests and the men in the room next door heard him—and they could hardly miss the commotion—he had blown his cover. He was not Lebanese. Nor was he French. He was an American, and now he was caught.