84
Five blocks away, a half-dozen squad cars screeched to a halt.
Police officers moved quickly to set up a perimeter around the apartment building, cutting off traffic on the street in front of the building, as well as the street at the other end of the alley, on the building’s back side. A moment later, an unmarked car pulled up. General Mubarak stepped out and surveyed the scene. He was alone, but only until two trucks pulled in behind him and two dozen Hezbollah commandos in full battle gear began to deploy.
Mubarak directed a pair of snipers to take up positions on the roof of one of the buildings across the street, then ordered a dozen of his men to assist the police in reinforcing the perimeter. The rest he led into the alleyway, where they were met by the building manager, a spindly, balding gentleman who looked to be in his early fifties.
“It was my son who saw him, or thinks he did,” the man said after giving his name to Mubarak. “He’s a cook.”
“Where?”
“At a restaurant downtown.”
“No,” said Mubarak. “I mean, where is your son now?”
“Inside, with my wife.”
“I want to hear it from him.”
“Follow me,” the man said.
They passed through the side door, and Mubarak was already on alert. He could see the lock had been ripped off the door, and there were wood splinters in the alleyway. The man led them down a dim hallway, turned right, and invited the general into his flat.
Before entering, Mubarak turned to his men. “You, stay with me. You two, wake up the neighbors on this floor. Find out if anyone else saw or heard anything. The rest of you head up the stairs and let me know what you find.”
When they complied, Mubarak entered, his right hand resting on his holster, a commando guarding the door and watching his back. The building manager introduced his twenty-six-year-old son. Mubarak sized him up and asked to see his ID, then asked the boy why he had told his father to call the police.
“I was coming back from my shift and had just gotten off the bus when—”
“Where?” Mubarak asked.
“About a block up that way,” said the young man, pointing. “Near the little French bistro.”
“L’Artisan du Liban?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“Go on.”
“I got off the bus and was about to walk home when I suddenly saw some guy jump out the back of a car.”
“What kind of car?”
“A taxi.”
“Color?”
“Yellow.”
“Make?”
“What?”
“What was the make and model of the car?”
“It was a Mercedes, for sure, but I don’t know much about cars. I just—”
“Old or new?”
“Old.”
“How old?”
“Again, I don’t really know—I don’t really—”
“Guess.”
“Old. Maybe from the eighties—early nineties?”
“Go on.”
“Well, I mean, suddenly the trunk pops open and this guy jumped out,” the young man explained. “It startled me, so I just froze and stared at him. And it was weird because he was wrapped in something.”
“What?”
“I don’t—like a rug or something.”
“A rug?”
“I think so. And he had a tire—the spare tire—he jumped out of the taxi and landed on the tire, like he was trying to cushion his fall or something. And there was something else weird about him too.”
“What?”
“He was naked—well, not completely naked—but he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Or pants. Only boxer shorts.”
“I thought you said he was wrapped in a rug.”
“He was.”
“Then how could you see what he was wearing?”
“Because once he stopped rolling and came to a stop—bloodied and all scratched up and everything—and he wasn’t wearing shoes either—”
“No shoes.”
“None—but once he came to a stop, after jumping, he took off the rug, gathered it up with the tire, and went running into the alley.”
“The one we just walked through.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“I don’t—it was all so sudden, and all so weird, that I told my father.”
“And you think this man is in the building?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because when I came into the alley, I noticed bloody handprints on the dumpster.”
“Wasn’t it dark?”
“Yes.”
“Then why were you noticing the dumpster?”
“I had brought home food from the restaurant where I work. I ate it on the bus ride home. I was about to throw the bag in the dumpster when I noticed the handprints.”
“And then?”
“Then I noticed the door had been busted into.”
“Go on.”
The young man talked for several more minutes. Mubarak got the basic contours of his account, then doubled back to the beginning to press for more details. His radio crackled to life. His men had found bloody footprints leading to the roof. Several of them were up there now, and they urged the general to come right away.
Mubarak excused himself, left the manager’s apartment, and followed the footprints up to the roof. There, his men pointed him to new clues. They began with a bloodstained pair of socks. Next, they showed him more bloody footprints, some that led to a clothesline, others that led from the left side of the building directly across to the right. There was also a smudge of dried blood on the very edge of the roof.
Mubarak examined everything, then pointed his flashlight across the alley to the adjacent roof but could see nothing. Radioing back to headquarters, he requested a hundred more men. They were going to have to search both buildings, and possibly several more, room by room.
Next, he speed-dialed the chief of the Beirut police force. Though not a member of Hezbollah, the man’s two sons were, and the chief himself had always proven helpful to the cause. Indeed, it was the chief who had called Mubarak the moment he was informed that his officers were responding to such a bizarre call after the APB had gone out for al-Masri.
The chief answered on the second ring. “What have you got?”
“A blood trail,” said Mubarak. “And it’s fresh.”
“Al-Masri?”
“I doubt it.”
“Then who?”
“I’d say one of his prisoners escaped.”
“Escaped?”
“The eyewitness says he saw some guy bailing out of the trunk of a taxi.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, and he was wearing nothing but boxer shorts. He was wounded and covered in blood. Came up to the roof; then something spooked him—jumped to the next building. I’ve got reinforcements on the way.”
“Do you need more police?”
“No—my guys will do,” said Mubarak. “But we’re looking for a yellow taxicab.”
“That narrows it down.”
“A Mercedes. Old. Maybe something from the eighties or early nineties.”
“General, you’re talking about most of the fleet at work in this city.”
“This one’s special.”
“How so?”
“Both of the taillights have been smashed out.”
“Okay, that’s a start. I’ll get my men right on it.”