68

Zayan ibn Habib had long craved to live a life of danger and significance.

Now that he was getting his chance, he was having second thoughts.

Only twenty-six years old, Zayan was the eldest son of a prominent Lebanese industrialist. Yet he had never desired his father’s wealth or public profile. A child prodigy, he had graduated from high school at the age of fifteen yet resisted his father’s demands that he attend the American University in Beirut to earn his undergraduate degree in business and an MBA. Throughout high school, Zayan and his closest friends had become increasingly religious—far more so than any in their immediate or extended families. Together they had begun to memorize the Qur’an. Together they had read and endlessly discussed the sacred writings of the leading Shia imams throughout history. And together, and in defiance of their fathers, they had enrolled at al-Hawza al-Ilmiyya, one of the most prestigious and influential Shia seminaries in the world.

Nothing had electrified Zayan more than traveling to Iraq, to the city of Najaf, where the seminary was located. Najaf, after all, was the third holiest city for Shia Muslims—the burial place of the first imam, Ali ibn Abi Talib, cousin of the Prophet Muhammad and husband of the Prophet’s daughter Fatimah. The place was so rich with Islamic history, art, and culture. It was in Najaf that Zayan had discovered the legends of the Twelfth Imam, also known as the Hidden Imam and the Promised One, and the prophecies of his soon-coming return to earth to reestablish the Caliphate and bring judgment to every infidel kingdom. It was in Najaf that he had become entranced by the teachings of Hossein Ansari, the Grand Ayatollah of Iran, and enthralled by all he had done to prepare the way for the Mahdi’s arrival. It was there, too, that Zayan had first heard of Sheikh Ja’far ibn al-Hussaini and decided that upon returning to Lebanon he would join Hezbollah.

Zayan had zero interest in an academic life. Neither teaching nor writing captured his imagination in the slightest. He was big. He was strong. He was just over six feet tall and two hundred pounds of lean muscle. Allah had made him this way for a reason, he told himself. Not to be hidden away in a classroom. But to be on the front lines. To wage jihad against the Little Satan—the Zionists just across the border—and against the Great Satan across the ocean.

This, however, was the first actual operation that Zayan had ever been part of. He felt disoriented and confused. Taking another man’s life—even that of an avowed enemy—was not what he had imagined. Seeing a man bleed out was nothing he had ever considered before. Watching his leader strip and beat and torture a woman and nearly drown a boy not much younger than him had rattled Zayan to his core. He could not sleep. He was famished but could not keep down food. Colonel al-Masri had been too consumed with himself and his own thoughts to notice that Zayan had only picked at his breakfast and had twice gone to the restroom to vomit what little was left in his system.

Now his face and arms were covered with sweat. It wasn’t just his nerves, however. The temperature had to be approaching forty degrees Celsius—nearly a hundred degrees Fahrenheit—and the Mercedes’s air-conditioning, while functional, left much to be desired. The clock on the dashboard read 9:27 a.m. It had been nearly two hours since they had left the café. More than three since they had left the compound. They still had not crossed the bridge. They were, however, next in line.

Finally a heavily armed soldier waved them forward. Zayan took a deep breath and inched the car ahead until he was ordered to stop.

“Papers,” the soldier demanded from behind rather stylish sunglasses.

Zayan handed over his ID, then al-Masri’s. Both were fake, of course. They indicated that the men were sons of the same father, Shia Muslims, and residents of a town called Mansouri, located along the coast about twenty-five kilometers south of their present location. A half-dozen soldiers, equally well armed, eyed them warily while the first one reviewed the documents.

Zayan wondered if the soldier could hear his heart pounding in his chest. He still struggled with the notion of lying to fellow members of Hezbollah, to fellow citizens of Lebanon, especially in the midst of a war and one they had started. He certainly wanted the reward the Sheikh was offering, the one Colonel al-Masri kept telling them about. He did not want others to get the money, especially those who had not taken the risks he had. Still, such subterfuge was even more nerve-racking to the young Radwan fighter than the border raid had been. Then, he had had a clearly defined mission, a clearly defined enemy, and clearly defined rules of engagement. What did he have now?

The IDs were expertly done. And he knew his cover story backward and forward. These were not what concerned Zayan. The man in the trunk was. What if he began moving? What if he started shouting or making enough noise to draw the attention of the soldiers? Then again, what if he died back there? He could easily suffocate. Or cook to death. Even if they got all the way to Beirut, what could they possibly say to the Sheikh that would exonerate them for delivering an American corpse instead of the live federal agent that al-Masri had no doubt promised?

Tempted to wipe away the drips of sweat streaking down his cheeks, Zayan nevertheless kept still. No sudden movements. Nothing that would draw any attention. It would all be over soon enough, he told himself. Except that the soldier scrutinizing their IDs now leaned in the window and ordered al-Masri to remove his cap.

Al-Masri did as he was told. The man studied his face.

It was all Zayan could do not to glance down at the fake cast on the Egyptian’s arm. In his peripheral vision, he could see the cast resting on al-Masri’s lap, tilted upward at just the right angle. One wrong move and al-Masri would fire the pistol. One bullet to the face would be all it took. Then it would be up to him, Zayan told himself, to jam the car into drive and hit the gas. Could he do that with blood and gore all over his face and spattering the windshield? They were about to find out.

“Your nose,” said the soldier, gesturing toward al-Masri. “What happened to it?”

The Egyptian laughed. “It’s stupid,” he said.

“Tell me anyway.”

“I was milking a cow, but I wasn’t paying attention, and she kicked me right in the face.”

“That was stupid.”

“That’s why my wife tells me to stick to growing fruit,” al-Masri quipped, then nodded to the crates in the backseat. “Safer.”

Zayan noticed that the soldier did not crack a smile. He just glared at al-Masri. The woman had probably done him a favor by breaking his nose. The Egyptian’s face was a contorted mess. Swollen. Black-and-blue. Still crusted with bits of dried blood. He barely looked like the photo on the ID, even though the photo really was of him. Zayan just silently prayed they were not asked to get out of the vehicle.

They weren’t.

Instead, the soldier asked him to pop the trunk. Zayan forced himself to nod and not freak out. He reached down and pulled the latch on the floor, unlocking the trunk. The lead soldier, flanked by two others, walked around to the back of the car, peering into the windows of the backseat as they did.

Zayan forced himself not to glance back in the rearview mirror. Though he was tempted, al-Masri’s left hand suddenly touched his right and patted him gently.

Stay calm, my boy. Stay calm.

The words were not spoken aloud. But Zayan got the message.

“All right, you’re clear,” the soldier finally said as he handed back their IDs and another soldier closed the trunk. “Drive on.”

“Thank you,” Zayan said, though his mouth was bone-dry. “God be with you.”