74

Marcus winced as he removed the jagged edge of the slat from his flesh.

Immediately he felt blood trickling down his arm, but knowing he had not hit an artery, he paid the wound no mind. Rather, he took the broken slat between his knees and with all his might drove his hands onto it so that the sharp edge bit into the center of the duct tape, in the narrow gap between his wrists. This, too, was a risk. Done wrong, he could jam the wood directly into one of his wrists and truly unleash a bloodbath. In this case, however, he did it just right, creating enough of a hole in the fabric of the tape that he could, with additional pressure, pull his wrists apart.

In another few seconds, he had completely removed the remains of the tape from both wrists. Before long, he had ripped the tape from his feet as well. At once, he began rubbing his wrists, then his ankles, to get the blood flowing through them again. As he did, he could feel the panic beginning to subside. That was, until he felt the Mercedes slowing to a stop.

They approached the last checkpoint.

They were now just outside the neighborhood of Zalqa.

It had taken them far longer than al-Masri had planned, but they were finally on the outskirts of Beirut. This was the jewel in the Lebanese crown—her capital and her largest city, with a population of more than two million souls.

On their drive along the coast from Jounieh, they had watched the fiery red ball of the sun slip beneath the waves on the horizon. It had, for a moment, taken their minds off their troubles, so beautiful was the handiwork of the Creator and Sustainer, but not for long.

Night had now fallen. The lights of the city were coming on, beckoning them forward. In a city of millions, they could disappear. For a while, anyway.

Al-Masri found himself more anxious than he had been on enemy territory, just two days earlier, but he dared not show it to the young man sitting to his left. “Relax, Zayan,” he insisted. “Everything is going to be fine.”

The Egyptian hoped it was true. Yet he braced for the worst, still gripping the pistol hidden in the fake cast on his arm.

There were only a dozen cars ahead of them. This surprised him, given the far longer lines at most of the other roadblocks they had come to. Then again, who in their right mind would be trying to enter Beirut today of all days if they did not have to?

“Are you hungry, Zayan?” al-Masri asked, seeing the younger man’s anxiety and trying to distract him.

Zayan shrugged.

Al-Masri interpreted that as modesty and slapped him on the back.

“Me, too,” the Egyptian replied. “Once we clear this, we will top off our gas, find a good place to eat, and celebrate Allah’s kindness upon us.”

Two soldiers approached the passenger side. Two more approached the driver’s side and motioned for Zayan to lower the window. The lead officer asked for their IDs and for the registration of the vehicle. It was the first time anyone at these checkpoints had asked for that. Fortunately, al-Masri had remembered to get that forged as well. He fished it out of the glove compartment and gave it to Zayan, who handed it over.

“Where are you coming from?” the officer asked.

As he had all day, al-Masri did the talking. He talked about their village, about the horrible bombing, about their need to bring their fruit to market and make at least some money to pay their workers and put bread on their table.

The car was merely idling now.

Marcus could hear every word al-Masri said. Not that he understood the Arabic. Just the tone. It was calm. Uncharacteristically soothing.

But why?

Marcus remembered that al-Masri had gotten into the front passenger seat. While it was possible that he had switched along the way and was now driving, it was more likely that the man’s aide was still driving. And the aide was nervous. In need of reassurance. They must not be entering a Hezbollah stronghold. If al-Masri really had gone rogue, then neither were they about to enter whatever safe house he had arranged. They were approaching someplace dangerous. Men they did not know. Men who clearly were armed.

Marcus could hear dogs barking. He could hear someone speaking on a walkie-talkie. Through the broken taillight, he could tell that the sun had gone down. That meant they had been traveling for more than twelve hours.

Where could they possibly have gone that would take so long? Highway 51 to Beirut would not take much more than an hour.

Unless checkpoints had been set up to find the Americans and those who were holding them. If al-Masri was trying to avoid all or most of those checkpoints, he would have to have taken a circuitous route—east for a good while, and then north, perhaps through the Bekaa Valley or perhaps . . .

Marcus stopped himself. He did not have the time to waste on imagining al-Masri’s route. The man was heading to Beirut. There was no other way to get his prisoners out of the country. The exact route he and his aide had taken didn’t matter. What was important was that the driver was nervous. That suggested they were coming into the capital and were now stopped at a major military roadblock.