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Zayan thought they were moving fast, but apparently not fast enough for the colonel.

“Yalla, yalla—let’s go, let’s go,” al-Masri shouted through the window of the cab.

Zayan cursed the team and demanded that they pick up the pace.

Having drugged both remaining prisoners, they gagged them, removed their manacles, and bound their hands and feet with duct tape. They lifted Kailea’s limp body, set her into a large wooden shipping crate, and covered her with hundreds of the sour green plums known as jenericks that were presently being harvested all over southern Lebanon. When she was completely covered and not visible at all, Zayan ordered that they close the crate and nail the top down tightly. This they did. With the help of six men, they lifted the crate and shoved it into the back of the truck. After they had done the same with Yigal, they filled the rest of the truck bed with the remaining crates of fruit, then closed and locked the back hatch and made sure all the tarps were tied down and secure.

Armed guards now unlocked and opened the steel gates at the back of the compound, and the two-vehicle convoy began to roll.

At al-Masri’s insistence, the truck took the lead. They traveled together at first, taking the coastal road—Highway 51—the north-south thoroughfare that was the most direct route to Beirut. On a normal day, the eighty-kilometer journey should only take an hour and a quarter, if that. This, however, was no normal day. With Israeli air strikes ongoing and buildings burning all around them, al-Masri knew there would be checkpoints—lots of them—some manned by the Lebanon regular army, others by Hezbollah fighters.

Zayan anticipated that the first would be at the crossing of the Litani River, and sure enough, the Egyptian ordered him to get off 51 as they approached the town of Mazraat Bsaileh. Zayan protested, noting that the truck was continuing onward without them, but al-Masri insisted.

“Silence,” he ordered. “Turn now and stay sharp.”

Confused, the young man nevertheless did as he was told. They were doubling back, headed south-southeast. They passed a restaurant and a mosque, then came to the town of Ain Abou Abdullah. There, al-Masri ordered Zayan to take a left. Now they were heading north again, on a road that ran parallel to 51.

“Get off up there, on the right,” al-Masri said.

Zayan did, turning into the nearly empty parking lot of a small coffee shop known as Café bo Abboud.

“Turn off the engine,” al-Masri instructed.

Even more perplexed since they had just gotten on the road, Zayan hesitated. Finally, however, he shut down the engine and watched in astonishment as al-Masri got out of the vehicle and began to stretch as though they had been on a long journey.

“Come,” said the deputy commander. “You must be hungry.”

Zayan stared at the man for a moment and was struck by several things. First, it was strange to see al-Masri not wearing a uniform. Zayan had known the man for almost three years and had never seen him in civilian clothes. Now he was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt that was clean though badly wrinkled. Second, Zayan had never seen the man wearing anything but a maroon beret on his head. This morning al-Masri was wearing a dirty green army cap that looked like something Castro or Che Guevara would have worn. When he removed it and tossed it back into the car, Zayan realized that his boss had shaved his head that morning. Gone was his thick black hair. The man was completely bald.

Zayan pulled the keys out of the ignition and looked back at the trunk but thought better of saying anything. He followed al-Masri inside. Three elderly men sat in a booth near the front, drinking coffee, reading newspapers, and talking in hushed tones, no doubt discussing the new war they found themselves in. A veiled older woman, probably in her sixties and most likely the wife of the owner, led them to a table by the back windows, overlooking the river. She gave them menus and promised to return in a moment.

On al-Masri’s insistence, Zayan switched places with him. By the time the waitress returned, Zayan was gazing back at the entrance to the restaurant, the old men, and the windows looking out to the car. The Egyptian had a clear view of the river, and with it both the bridge and the checkpoint.