79

BEIRUT, LEBANON

There were only two ways off this roof.

And Marcus was not going back down the stairs.

Which meant he was going to have to jump.

But first he had to get a sense of where he was and what his next objective should be. Moving toward the roof’s edge, he surveyed his surroundings. It was night, of course, but the moon was nearly full. What was more, all the lights of the city were on, and visibility was good. Better yet, the temperature was dropping, and there was a steady breeze coming off the water.

What struck Marcus immediately was the plethora of mosques and minarets all around him. That he was in a Muslim neighborhood was clear. What was not so clear was whether he was in Shia territory or Sunni. Three blocks to his right, however, he spotted two crosses atop two church steeples, side by side, adorning a massive church building with a red tile roof. That, he knew, had to be a Maronite Christian neighborhood, probably the one known as Mar Maroun. Getting there was his new objective.

The only problem—well, the first problem, anyway—was not that he was nearly stark naked. Nor that his entire body was bloodied and bruised. Or even that his face was so beat up that he was nearly unrecognizable. They were all challenges, to be sure. But he would have to deal with those later.

The immediate problem before him was that the next apartment building was a bit farther away than he had realized. When he reached the edge of the roof, he checked the distance and guessed it was about twenty feet. The world record for a running jump was maybe thirty feet, give or take. But that was the Olympics. Marcus had never run track and field. Even if he had, his feet had been repeatedly subjected to electric shocks. They were burned, bloody, and killing him. And he was shoeless. Yet what other choice did he have? There was no way he could spend the night on this rooftop. It was either jump or . . .

Marcus reconsidered his options for a moment and concluded he had been too hasty. Yes, heading back into the stairwell and working his way down through the building was a risk. But jumping was even more of one. True, there were still hours to go before most people went to sleep, and he could hardly afford to be spotted. But how could he possibly track down Kailea and Yigal if he tried to jump, missed the mark, and splattered all over the alleyway?

He heard sirens in the distance. Glancing over the front edge of the building, he spotted three police cars coming up the boulevard. They were at least a half mile away, but they were heading in his direction. Lights flashing. Sirens blaring. They might not be for him, of course, but he was not going to wait around to find out.

The decision made for him, he removed the socks lest he slip. With nowhere else to put them, he stuffed them into the waistband of his boxers. Then he backed up to the far end of the roof. There was no time to do a test. So he broke out in a sprint. It was all or nothing. Do or die.

Hitting full speed and trying to ignore the pain, Marcus reached the edge of the roof. He planted his right foot, pushed off as hard as he could, and swung his arms forward, reaching for the edge of the next building. With a burst of adrenaline, he sailed over the alley. But he had way overshot. He reached the other side, all right, but did not exactly stick the landing. Rather, he stumbled badly and skidded to a stop on his knees. More blood. More evidence. And he had lost the socks.

He found more clotheslines with no clothes, but he at least grabbed a clean, dry sheet from one of them. Tearing it into strips with his teeth, he proceeded to wrap several sections around his knees, not as tight as a tourniquet but snug enough to stop the bleeding. With the sirens growing louder, Marcus once again broke out into a sprint. He again reached the end of the building, planted his right foot, and pushed off. Again, he found himself flying over an alley, and by the grace of God he cleared it.

There was no alley on the other side of this building but an entire boulevard. Still finding nothing on any clotheslines that he could wear—nothing but women’s garments and linens—there was no reason to stop. He caught his breath, but only for a moment. Then he eased open the door into the stairwell and listened. More music. More laughter. More families. More dogs. But the sirens were even closer now, so there was no point waiting. Nor any point inching his way down the stairs. Instead, he ran down them, blowing past a few startled ladies congregating on the third-floor landing.

Only when he reached the ground floor did he come to a complete stop near a side door. He quietly, carefully turned the knob, opened the door an inch or so, and peered out. Just then, the three police cars raced past him. All other traffic stopped to let them pass, then continued as normal. Marcus watched and waited for a lull, and when he found one, he sprinted across the boulevard and into another alleyway. He had no idea whether he had been spotted or not. Nor did he have time to worry about it. His mission at this point was to keep moving. So that’s what he did, darting between buildings, behind trees, behind parked cars, and through whatever alleys he could find.

Ten minutes later, he found himself hiding in the shadows behind a church building on a corner. It had a sign in both Arabic and English that read St. Joseph’s Church. This was not the one he had spotted from the rooftop. It had one steeple, not two. Marcus decided to give it a try. Using the shadows cast in the moonlight for cover, he crept up the back stairs and tried the door. It was locked. He retraced his steps and moved around to a side door, but it, too, was locked. Breaking in did not seem like a wise move, especially not as he heard more sirens approaching. Hiding behind a dumpster, Marcus waited for the additional police cars to pass, then moved deeper into the Maronite neighborhood.

He wove through one alleyway after another, past several bistros, several more apartment buildings, a pharmacy, and numerous private flats, until he finally reached the St. Maroun Maronite Catholic Church. This was the one he had seen—an enormous structure with a red tile roof and two cross-topped steeples towering overhead. Marcus scanned the environment in all directions but saw no one on the streets. No couples strolling. No old men walking their dogs. No teenagers courting or plotting mischief. Every door he found was locked. But he spotted a basement window ajar. There were no lights on inside. No voices. No music. No evidence that anyone was nearby. So he crept toward it, yanked it all the way open, and slipped inside and shut and locked the window behind him.

Marcus found himself in what looked like a small Sunday school classroom filled with toys. Children’s drawings of Jesus and the apostles adorned the walls. He tiptoed forward, listening for any signs of life on the other side of the door. Hearing none, he slowly turned the knob, opened the door slightly, and peered out into a dark hallway. It was clear, so he began moving forward.

Everything was going well until he reached the end of the hallway and turned the corner. That was when Marcus found himself looking into the eyes of a very startled priest.