64

They dragged Marcus into the courtyard as a taxicab arrived in a cloud of dust.

It was old and rusted and yellow—a Mercedes-Benz circa the early 1980s. Marcus was confused for a moment, yet when he saw the Egyptian’s assistant, Zayan, at the wheel, he realized they had not actually called for a cab. It had to be a ruse, some part of al-Masri’s plan for transporting his prisoners to Beirut. For some bizarre reason, the backseat was packed to the roof with crates full of fruit—watermelons, as best Marcus could tell from this distance—but he could not imagine why. There was certainly no room left in the backseat for him. Yet these thoughts, along with his vision, were growing more and more fuzzy by the minute.

Suddenly a truck roared up and screeched to a halt a few yards from the cab. It was a modified pickup and reminded Marcus, even in his haze, of an old army jeep from the Korean or Vietnam Wars—something they might have used in the M*A*S*H reruns he’d seen on TV—with ratty, frayed green canvas tarps covering the sides and top of the truck bed. Stacked all around were dozens more crates of fruit. Watermelons for sure. Something else green—apples, perhaps. And something yellowy-orange—kumquats or loquats or some such things.

Zayan got out of the taxi, came around to the back, and unlocked and opened the trunk. Now things made more sense, as Marcus found himself being picked up and shoved inside the trunk and pushed as far to the back as possible. Zayan and his men then began loading several boxes of fruit in front of him and around him, filling what little space was left. As they did, Marcus caught a glimpse of Kailea and . . . Yigal? It was brief and hazy, but both were being led into the courtyard. Both were being forced to lie down on their stomachs and given shots of something.

Marcus wondered if he was hallucinating. Was that really Yigal? Was he really alive? How was that possible? Hadn’t—?

And then Zayan slammed the trunk shut, and everything went dark.

Kailea couldn’t believe her eyes.

As she was dragged across the courtyard, she caught a glimpse of Marcus being shoved into the trunk of a cab. Though it was only for an instant, Kailea had no doubt it was him. That stupid mustache and beard were the giveaways. Marcus had begun growing them several months earlier, presumably to cover up the scars on his neck and face—scars he had sustained in Jerusalem and the East China Sea. Yet the beard looked ridiculous. She had mocked him mercilessly for it. So had Pete, Geoff Stone, and the others at DSS. Nevertheless, the more they had teased him, the more stubbornly he had refused to shave it off. And now . . .

She was forced to the ground. Then someone jabbed her in the neck with a hypodermic needle. She winced in pain as she watched al-Masri’s aide slam the trunk shut. She watched the man double-check it, making sure it was really closed and locked, just as al-Masri came out of one of the buildings on the far side of the courtyard. He shouted some orders and got into the front passenger seat of the taxi.

Kailea could barely process what she had seen. Was Marcus really still alive? How was that possible? Even from the confines of the freezer, she and Yigal had heard the gunshot. Marcus had never been brought back to them. She had, therefore, assumed—they both had—that the Egyptian had shot and killed Marcus, and for the rest of the night, Kailea had barely slept, grieving his death and beginning to lose all hope that either she or Yigal would ever get out of this thing alive. She had never been so relieved to be wrong.

Why, then, the gunshot? Kailea wondered as the world began to spin. Her vision was blurring. She attempted to speak to Yigal but could not. Still, she racked her increasingly fuzzy brain to figure out what was happening. If Marcus had not been killed, who had been? Who was missing? She tried to take a new count of al-Masri’s team. Yesterday she had counted fourteen. Now, however, too many people were moving in too many directions.

And then she blacked out.