55

Suddenly the freezer door burst open.

The chamber was flooded with light, making it impossible for Marcus to see what was happening. Someone began shouting commands, and Marcus soon found himself grabbed, blindfolded, unchained from the compressor, and shoved at gunpoint out of the freezer, then through the kitchen and the rest of the dormitory.

Though he had no idea where he was, it was clear that he was outside. The temperature had dropped a bit, and he could once again feel a breeze coming in off the Mediterranean and hear seagulls screeching overhead. He was chained to a metal pole—one of the flagpoles, he assumed—and smashed in the stomach with the butt of a rifle. Doubling over in pain, he fought to catch his breath, but a moment later, someone grabbed his hair, yanked his head back up, and slammed it against the pole. Then he felt the barrel of a pistol jammed into his left temple.

“You lied to me—why?” someone growled in his ear.

With a scarf or bandanna or kaffiyeh or whatever it was tied around his head and covering his eyes, Marcus couldn’t see who it was. But he didn’t need to. It was al-Masri, and the man was livid.

Marcus said nothing, still trying to assess what in the world was going on.

“You told me you worked for the State Department, but that was a lie, wasn’t it?”

Marcus focused on breathing normally again.

“You don’t work for DSS, do you, Mr. Millner?” al-Masri continued, pushing the barrel of the pistol deeper into Marcus’s temple. “You work for the CIA.”

Marcus was grateful his eyes were covered. There was no chance the Egyptian could see how stunned he felt. The video. Several hours earlier, al-Masri had forced Marcus at gunpoint to say his name, title, and badge number while being recorded on a smartphone. Marcus had fully expected him to send it to someone and have the image analyzed. He’d just hoped it would take longer—much longer—to come back with an answer.

“Tell me I’m right,” al-Masri insisted.

Marcus refused.

“Admit it,” al-Masri pressed. “Make a full confession and I will let you live. But if you continue to lie to me . . .”

Marcus heard the hammer being cocked. It wasn’t an automatic pistol being held to his head. It was a revolver. Yet rather than feel his adrenaline spike and his heart rate soar, Marcus felt his breathing coming back. His pulse was slowing. The pain in his stomach was not subsiding, but he was slowly regaining control.

Why? he wondered.

Yes, he was ready to die. Not that he wanted to—not yet, anyway. There was too much to do, starting with rescuing his colleagues and getting them to safety. He still had no plan except one—resist, deflect, stall, and evade al-Masri’s questions long enough to buy more time. How much time? He could not say. Whatever it took to give his country or the Israelis what they needed to come get them.

Yet that wasn’t what was creating a calming effect, Marcus realized. As al-Masri’s barrage of questions degenerated into another tirade, the answer came. The Egyptian was bluffing. If he knew Marcus was an officer with the Central Intelligence Agency, that information had to have come from Iran. Why, then, wasn’t al-Masri asking him specific questions about the oil tanker, the East China Sea, the warheads, and the fate of Alireza al-Zanjani, the deputy commander of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps?

Had there been enough time for someone to analyze that video and figure out who he was? Marcus had to say yes. But the more al-Masri demanded confirmation that he was with the CIA and not DSS, the more Marcus realized the man really did not know. Besides, al-Masri had just called him “Mr. Millner.” If the Egyptian had known the truth about him, Marcus realized, then he would have known Marcus’s real name.

Al-Masri was fishing, and Marcus wasn’t going to bite.

“Last chance,” al-Masri shouted. “Tell me what I want to know, or the boy is going to die.”

Marcus had expected an ultimatum and was even prepared for it. He had not, however, expected the last six words. He was willing to give his own life for this cause. He could not bear the thought of sacrificing Yigal’s. What a fool he had been not to have seen this coming. This was exactly how al-Masri had forced him to speak the first time—by threatening the life of the prime minister’s nephew. Why would he not do it again?

“Mr. Millner, I’m going to start recording again,” al-Masri explained. “Then I’m going to count to five. And if I don’t hear a confession by the time I get there, I’m going to blow Mr. Case’s head off and send that video to Al-Sawt to broadcast to the world. Are we clear?”

Marcus’s jaw tightened. His stomach clenched. His wrists strained against the chains that had been wrapped so tightly around them that they were digging into his flesh and drawing blood. Suddenly the barrel of the revolver was removed from his temple, and Marcus could hear al-Masri’s boots on the move.

“One,” said the Egyptian from several yards away.

Marcus’s thoughts reeled.

“Two.”

Everyone broke. Everyone. Wasn’t that what he had been taught? Wasn’t that what he had taught so many others?

“Three.”

Was this it? Marcus asked himself. Was this the point he had to give in? Or the line he had sworn not to cross?

“Four,” al-Masri continued.

Marcus said nothing.

“Five.”

There was a pause. Marcus did not use it. So al-Masri pulled the trigger and the explosion echoed throughout the camp.