67

SOUTHERN LEBANON

Over a meal of hard-boiled eggs, chopped salad, and coffee, al-Masri watched.

For the benefit of anyone who might be eavesdropping on them, he spoke with Zayan about their crops, how much they could get for them at the open-air markets in Beirut, how good it would be to get away from the fighting, and their hopes that the Zionists didn’t begin bombing cities north of the river. In fact, however, al-Masri kept his eye on the checkpoint, even as bombs kept falling not too many kilometers behind them, rattling the windows and the silverware and Zayan’s already-frayed nerves.

A long and growing line of cars and trucks waited to be cleared. Some were families who had clearly packed as many of their possessions as they possibly could and now fled the fighting for safer ground. Others were trucks variously teeming with sheep and goats, chickens, or crates of eggs or fruits and vegetables or even tobacco. Agriculture was not a big percentage of the overall Lebanese economy. It was, however, upwards of 70 percent of the economy in the southern tier. There were no factories here, after all. No heavy industry. Few office buildings. No high-tech industries. No one wanted to invest in anything so close to a border so often ravaged by war. Agriculture, therefore, was almost all they had.

The longer they took to eat, the longer it would take to get over the bridge and on their way. Still, it could not be helped. He had to know what he was up against. By the time the bill came, he did know, and his stomach was in knots. The checkpoint was not being run by the Lebanese Armed Forces. It was being run by Hezbollah. He didn’t recognize any of the men. Not from this distance. But the uniforms were distinct enough.

“Come,” he told Zayan. “It’s time to go.”

Exiting the café, Zayan headed to the driver’s side, got in, and started the engine. Al-Masri opened the back passenger-side door, moved aside a crate of watermelons, and pulled out a backpack he had stuffed under it. This he brought with him to the front passenger seat.

Once inside the car, he closed and locked the door, then unzipped the backpack, making sure to keep it low enough that none of its contents could be seen by anyone inside the café. He withdrew a loaded 9mm automatic pistol, a premade plaster cast, and a cloth sling. The cast had been made wide enough—though just barely so—for al-Masri to slide it over the pistol, now in his right hand, and over his right forearm. Having secured the cast in place, he proceeded to use his left hand to wrap the sling around his neck and over his right shoulder. Satisfied, he used his left hand to take the Cuban-looking cap and put it back on his freshly shaved head. Then he turned to Zayan and spoke in a near whisper.

“You know what you must do if I have to shoot, correct?” he asked.

“Hit the accelerator and don’t look back,” his aide replied.

The Egyptian nodded. “Let’s hope it does not come to that.”

“Inshallah,” Zayan said.

“Inshallah.” Al-Masri nodded again, and Zayan pulled out of the parking lot. If they had to run, they would not likely make it far, the deputy commander of the Radwan Unit knew. Though a 1984 model, the Mercedes-Benz W123 was an excellent car, and al-Masri knew Zayan’s brother had kept it in pristine condition. But if something happened at the checkpoint, they would most likely be riddled with automatic rifle fire. Even if by some miracle they were able to break through the checkpoint and survive the first terrifying minutes, where could they go that Hezbollah or the LAF wouldn’t find them? This was not a busy stretch of highway. Nor was it heavily populated. The nearest city, Sidon, was on the coast. The road they were on was well inland. There were some small towns and villages ahead, but no place they could hide for long. What’s more, there were probably another six or eight checkpoints ahead, no matter which route they took.

No, al-Masri thought as they got in the line of cars and trucks, waiting their turn to be searched. The only place to hide was in Beirut. And the only way to get to Beirut was not to run. They were going to have to stay calm and take their time, though time was hardly on their side.