39

Marcus increasingly felt the burns across his chest and feet.

He felt the welts and bruises on his back, legs, and forearms where they had beaten him. The narcotics that had knocked him out so they could move him had been a blessing. They had dulled the worst of the pain the torture had inflicted and put him to sleep for hours, possibly days. Unfortunately, they were now wearing off.

Just then, a door burst open and light flooded the room.

Marcus squinted and turned away from the door. As his eyes began to adjust, his suspicions were confirmed. He was, in fact, in a rusty old shipping container that had been turned into a makeshift prison cell. At the other end, Marcus could see another chair, empty, and another set of manacles bolted to the floor. Against the wall to his right was a large blue plastic pail that Marcus guessed was supposed to be a toilet. That had to be where the stench was coming from.

Several men entered the container and surrounded him. Their faces were shrouded by black- and white-checkered kaffiyehs. Each wore green army fatigues. Each carried a Kalashnikov in his hands, a .45 in his holster, and a two-way radio on his belt. Given the light flooding in through the doorway, the men were essentially silhouettes. Marcus could see neither their eyes nor any other particulars. But it was just as well. They were not the main event.

As if on cue, a door opened somewhere behind him. One set of boots approached, then stopped. Marcus heard a leather holster being unbuttoned. He began counting silently. Three, two, one . . .

There it was.

The warm metal barrel of a 9mm pistol pressed against his temple. Not warm, actually—hot. The pistol had been fired. Recently. Indeed, only moments before. Why had he not heard the shot? Perhaps the gun had been silenced.

“Not one of you was carrying papers,” said the voice behind him.

It was the voice of Colonel al-Masri, Marcus was certain.

“No driver’s licenses,” al-Masri continued. “No badges. No passports or credit cards. Nothing. But no matter. You cannot keep such secrets from me for much longer.”

Suddenly Marcus found himself being unbolted from the floor and dragged out of the sweltering shipping container, across a courtyard, and into a cave in the side of a grassy hill. There, he was forced to sit on a metal chair and this time manacled to chains bolted into the bedrock. The cave was damp and certainly cooler than the container. What was more, Marcus could feel warm but refreshing salt-scented sea breezes entering the mouth of the cave. The sounds of gulls and waves were clearer now. They were not at a port. They were at a camp of some kind, though from what little he had seen while being dragged through the courtyard, it seemed to have been abandoned long before. The walls he had seen were chipping and badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. The grounds were overrun with weeds. Windows were cracked or missing glass altogether. And a Pepsi machine they had passed was covered with dust and grime and looked like it had not been touched, much less stocked, since before he was born.

The cave was dark and shadowy. There were no electric lights or fires. The only light was natural and was coming in from the cave opening behind him, casting long shadows beyond him. Marcus guessed it was early evening, which suggested that he’d been unconscious for at least four or five hours.

Marcus heard movement behind him. More chains. More boots. The cocking of weapons. He was tempted to turn to see what was happening but thought better of it. Then the Egyptian came around from behind him, raised the 9mm to Marcus’s forehead, and ordered him to shut his eyes. Marcus did as he was told. This was not a moment for theatrics, he told himself. Something was changing, and he wanted to live long enough to see what it was.

A full minute later, al-Masri ordered Marcus to open his eyes. Again Marcus complied. And immediately wished he hadn’t. Sitting six feet in front of him, chained to metal chairs of their own, were the bloodied, bruised, beaten, burned bodies of Kailea Curtis and Yigal Mizrachi. They were both alive, though it looked to Marcus like they’d been through far worse than he.

Colonel al-Masri was now standing behind Kailea. She looked terrible. She, like Yigal, had been stripped to her undergarments. She had welts and bruises all over her body. Her nose looked broken. She was covered in blood. She was gagged but not blindfolded. Her eyes were swollen. One was turning black-and-blue. Nevertheless, the look Marcus saw in them was not fear but defiance, and from this he took encouragement. Kailea was still in the fight.

Yigal was a different story. His body was also covered with dried and oozing blood. His legs were a mess of welts and scars, as were his arms. Like Kailea, Yigal’s eyes were also black-and-blue and swollen and caked with dried blood. But unlike Kailea, his eyes were also filled with sheer terror.

Marcus tensed. This was his fault. It had been his job to protect these two, to keep them out of harm’s way, and he had failed.

“There’s only so much the human body can take,” al-Masri said. “Both of them cracked faster than you. In the end, they told me their names and yours. Now I need to see if they were telling me the truth.”

At this, al-Masri pressed his pistol to the back of Kailea’s head.