40

“Tell me her name—and tell me the truth,” al-Masri said.

Marcus said nothing.

“Don’t play games with me, American. I’m only going to give you one chance. If you don’t give me the same name she gave me, I’ll blow her brains out. Is that clear enough for you?”

Marcus watched as the man pulled back the hammer. Kailea closed her eyes. It was possible, of course, that the gun was not loaded. The Egyptian could be bluffing. But was Marcus really prepared to gamble with his partner’s life?

Al-Masri glared at Marcus. The two men were not just looking into each other’s eyes. They were staring into each other’s souls. It was a high-stakes game of poker, and Marcus was determined not to lose.

Suddenly al-Masri shifted several steps to his left. Now he was standing directly behind the Israeli, pressing the barrel of the gun against Yigal’s head, not Kailea’s. Al-Masri did not say why, but there could only be one reason. The Hezbollah operative had initially calculated that a gun to a woman’s head would cause Marcus to volunteer information immediately. Yet when Marcus had not flinched, when there was no look of panic or even concern in his eyes, al-Masri had recalculated, wondering if the prospect of seeing the boy’s head blow apart in front of his eyes would cause the reaction for which he was hoping.

Marcus tried not to show it, but he knew Al-Masri was right. Kailea was a federal agent. No one should have to endure the kind of treatment she had at the hands of this monster and his henchmen, but she was aware of the risks inherent in her profession. But Yigal was an intelligence officer barely out of training. He was just a kid. What he had been through was unconscionable, and if their captors discovered his true identity, he would be subject to horrors Marcus couldn’t even imagine.

In that instant, Marcus knew he had made a mistake. He felt a flash of fear behind his eyes. What’s more, he knew al-Masri had seen it.

Marcus had blinked—and been caught.

“Three questions, three answers, no lies, or they both die,” al-Masri said quietly.

Marcus steadied himself, knowing full well the man might kill them all no matter what he said.

“The woman,” al-Masri prompted. “What’s her name and her position?”

Marcus saw the Hezbollah operative press the barrel deeper into Yigal’s temple. The man was a stone-cold killer. There was no point in dragging this out any further. The three of them had bought themselves as much time as they could. Unless the IDF helicopters arrived overhead and special forces operators fast-roped into the courtyard and burst into the cave at that second, it was time to start talking.

“Kailea,” Marcus said.

“Kailea what?” barked al-Masri.

“Kailea Curtis.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a special agent with the Diplomatic Security Service.”

Al-Masri did not pull the trigger. Not yet anyway. Marcus silently prayed Kailea had given him the same answer. Almost before he could finish this thought, however, al-Masri stepped around Yigal, moved in front of Kailea, and pistol-whipped her until she was bloodied and unconscious. Then he stepped back behind Yigal and returned the gun to its original position.

“And this one?” al-Masri said.

Yigal Mizrachi’s nearly naked body—bloodied and bruised—was shaking. Sweat was pouring down his face. This was the moment of truth. Had Yigal remembered to use his alias? Or had he blurted out his real name and real nationality?

When Marcus took a half beat too long to reply, al-Masri smiled. “Two American DSS agents touring the border I can understand,” said the operative. “But babysitting a Zionist—why? What’s the point? I cannot understand why you would drag a mere child into such a grown-up world.”

At that moment, al-Masri stepped around Yigal and positioned himself between Marcus and the Israeli. The reason was obvious enough. Al-Masri didn’t want Yigal to be able to communicate anything to Marcus with his eyes or any other part of his body.

Now Marcus had to choose. Did al-Masri really know Yigal’s name? Nationality? If so, how long would it take him to discover the kid was the nephew of the Israeli prime minister? Perhaps al-Masri knew it already. Perhaps that was part of the test. Then again, maybe the man was bluffing, going on a hunch, hoping Marcus would confirm his suspicions.

It didn’t really matter, Marcus decided. He was in no position to do anything other than stick to the plan. Yigal had an alias. A carefully constructed cover story. If he’d forgotten it—or been rattled—and given himself away, that was one thing. But Marcus was never going to give him away.

“His name is Daniel—well, we just call him Dan,” Marcus finally replied.

“Dan what?”

“Case.”

“That doesn’t sound like a Zionist name.”

“Because it’s not.”

“He’s an American?”

“Of course—he works with Kailea and me.”

“That’s impossible,” said al-Masri. “He’s a Jew.”

“Actually, he’s a Catholic—not particularly devout, but who am I to judge?”

“You’re a liar.”

“Why would I lie when you’re ready to shoot my friends and me in the head?”

“Very simple,” al-Masri said. “You don’t want me to think this child is a Zionist.”

“I don’t really even know what a Zionist is. I do security, Colonel, not politics. But if you’re asking me if he’s an Israeli, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Dan was born and raised in the good ole U.S. of A.”

“Where?” sniffed al-Masri, growing visibly angry.

“New York. Brooklyn, I think, but it might have been Queens. I don’t remember.”

“And you’re saying he works for you, for the two of you, at DSS?”

“I’m not saying he does,” Marcus replied. “He does.”

“Doing what?”

“Logistics. Communications. Look, he’s been with us less than a year.”

At that, al-Masri whipped around and smashed his pistol across Yigal’s face, sending him flying out of his chair and crashing onto the cave floor. Blood poured down the Israeli’s face, but he did not make a sound. Nor did he move.

Al-Masri turned back and shoved his gun into Marcus’s face, pressing it into his forehead, right between his eyes.

“I want your name and I want it now,” he shouted, his face beet red. “No lies or they both die.”

“Tom,” Marcus said calmly.

“Tom what?”

“Tom Millner.”

“No, no,” screamed al-Masri. “Your full name—all of it.”

Marcus said nothing for a moment. Instead, he just glared into the eyes of the Egyptian. But seeing a man hell-bent on murder, Marcus finally spoke. “Thomas Harris Millner.”

No sooner had the words come out of his mouth than Marcus saw the butt of the pistol coming at him. It hit him square in the mouth, and again everything went black.