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“Did I not say the hand of Allah is upon us?” al-Masri asked as they drove north.

“Forgive me, Colonel; my faith is not like yours,” the young man replied.

“You have much to learn, Zayan, but you have the makings of a great leader.”

When they reached a junction that would put them back on Highway 51, Zayan asked if he should take it. Al-Masri told him to turn right instead. That put them on the Nabatiyeh-Tyre Road, heading east. Convinced the most elaborate roadblocks and most sophisticated intelligence officials would be guarding the country’s most important thoroughfare, al-Masri preferred to stay away from the coast. They would take back roads and snake their way northward through the interior. It would cost them time he did not have, al-Masri knew, but it was far better than being caught. And they were now beyond the self-imposed limit of Israeli bombers.

Windows down and enjoying the gorgeous if stifling hot afternoon, al-Masri turned the radio on and found a station out of Beirut that recited the Qur’an twenty-four hours a day. They drove in silence, listening to each sura and meditating on its meaning.

They reached the next checkpoint just outside the city of Nabatiyeh. It was also backed up with dozens of cars and trucks—more than al-Masri had anticipated. He could see that Zayan was still anxious. The words of the Prophet, peace be upon him, did much to calm both their souls.

By 2 p.m., they had finally been cleared. They drove into the city and stopped to use the restroom and buy cold bottles of water. They did not stay long, however. They certainly did not have lunch. It wasn’t worth the risk, so they pressed onward, heading north through the mountains and along the western shores of Lake Qaraoun.

BEIRUT, LEBANON

Kareem bin Mubarak was on the phone when an aide handed him a message.

The general quickly wrapped up the call and logged on to the secure account. Sure enough, the email was there. Logging out, he left his office and headed directly to the conference room where the Sheikh was receiving a briefing on the latest movement of Israeli troops and mechanized forces, now just ten kilometers from the Litani River.

“Your Holiness?”

“What is it?” asked the Sheikh.

“It’s here.”

“What is?”

“The email.”

“From al-Masri?”

“Apparently.”

“And?”

“I haven’t opened it yet,” said Mubarak. “I thought you would want to be the first to see it.”

“Absolutely—put it on the main screen.”

In the room were six of Hezbollah’s highest-ranking generals. They began to gather up their maps and briefing books, but the Sheikh told them to stay. He told them he wanted them to see whether the highest-ranking traitor in the organization’s history really had the Americans in his possession, whether they were actually alive, and if so, what kind of condition they were in.

One of Mubarak’s colleagues offered him the use of his laptop, as it was already wired into the video screens in the conference room. Mubarak thanked him and logged into the account. He quickly double-clicked the email at the head of the queue and turned his eyes to the main screen, as did they all.

The video came up immediately. Shot on someone’s phone, it was of poor quality, but three prisoners were clearly visible. Two men. One woman. Each was alive and capable of speaking—they each gave their name, rank, and ID numbers—yet all had been beaten severely. Two of them looked as if they had broken noses. The woman was not capable of standing. None of the prisoners appeared to be in the same room. The three videos had been strung together into a single ninety-second clip, and the date and time stamps confirmed that the shots had been taken on Saturday, May 2, all within minutes of each other.

Mubarak snuck a peek at the Sheikh, whose conflicted, contorted expression suggested both rage and relief. Yet there was more. At the end of the video was a shot of a yellow Hezbollah flag being set on fire. No face was visible. Certainly not al-Masri’s. Just gloved hands. Nor was there a narrator or any distinct geographic markings. The shot was a close-up, and as the flag continued burning, the Sheikh shot to his feet, his face beet red, and demanded Mubarak stop the playback. Before he could do so, however, a final image of a skull and crossbones flashed repeatedly with a strobe-like effect, and then the screen went black. All the computers in the conference room shut down. Then all the lights were cut as well.

Emergency generators kicked in. But the damage had been done. The email had contained a Trojan horse. A lethal virus was sweeping through Hezbollah’s computer systems, cutting off their ability to manage the war or even communicate with their troops in the field.