86

It simply wasn’t possible.

Millner was gone, al-Masri concluded, and there was not a thing he could do about it. There was no point trying to come up with a plan. There was no way he could risk being stopped and caught as he tried to move back and forth across a city that was hunting him.

The Egyptian began pacing around the empty garage. Zayan was staring at him, waiting for orders, but al-Masri ignored him. This was a disaster. His heart rate was spiking. He was struggling to breathe. Everything he had planned, all that he had promised . . .

His hand slowly started to reach for his sidearm. This was Zayan’s fault. How could this fool have let this happen? First, he had left Tanzeel behind at the border, and now this? The first was bad enough. This was unpardonable.

Yet he stopped and forced himself to take several deep breaths. There would be time enough for vengeance. For now, he reminded himself, there was still much to do. For the next few hours, at least, he needed Zayan. Then he could be dispatched.

What was more, he told himself, he still had two hostages. They were still worth a great deal of money. More than enough to relocate and set up a new life. Perhaps in the Far East someplace. Or the rain forests of Brazil. It did not matter to him where. With that kind of money, he could be comfortable anywhere. So long as he remained invisible to the long arm of Hezbollah. He was going to have to tell them, of course. Kairos was not going to be happy. But there was nothing more to be done.

“Leave it,” al-Masri finally told Zayan. “We’re going to the safe house. But there is something I must do first.”

Abandoning the taxi, they jumped in the blue van and peeled out of the parking garage. As the Egyptian barked out directions, Zayan drove south six blocks until they reached a storefront housing the facilities of a private delivery service. Al-Masri told Zayan not to stop. Not yet. Rather, he wanted him to circle the block. Was anything out of place? Was anyone watching them? Following them? When he was confident the coast was clear, he ordered Zayan to pull up out front. The van was not stolen. Nor were the plates. He had purchased the vehicle several weeks earlier from a trusted friend, paid cash, and had no worries that it should attract any attention from the police.

While Zayan kept the engine running, al-Masri used his passkey to enter the building. He found the PO box that he had recently rented and used another key to open it. Sure enough, inside was a large envelope that had been sent by airmail from Istanbul. Al-Masri glanced around, confirmed that there were no security cameras monitoring him, and then ripped open the package. Inside was a Turkish passport in his name, airline tickets, credit cards, a bank card, and everything else he had demanded. He exhaled, thanked Allah, and pocketed it all. Then he stuffed the remains of the package back in the PO box, closed and locked it, and headed back to the van.

“Okay,” he said, “the safe house.”

Five minutes later, they had parked in front of a high-rise, luxury apartment building just blocks from the airport, taken an elevator to the twentieth floor, and entered the penthouse suite. The rest of their team was waiting. Everyone embraced. Though al-Masri insisted they keep their voices down—the last thing they could afford to do was draw the attention of their neighbors—there was nevertheless a palpable sense of relief in the air. They brought out food and cold drinks and briefed each other on the harrowing adventures they had been through since they were last together, and then al-Masri asked about the condition of their prisoners.

“They’re fine,” one of the men replied. “We washed their wounds and gave them the antibiotics, just as you instructed.”

“Here?”

“No, no, in the container at the cargo terminal.”

“How did you get them past security?”

“We dressed them in the abayas you gave us, pretended they were our sisters, and told the guards they were asleep.”

“And you weren’t asked any questions?”

“None—we flashed our IDs and they waved us right through.”

“And Jamal is with them?”

“He is.”

“Any signs of heightened security?”

“None.”

“Good,” said al-Masri. “Now get some rest. Then pack up and wipe the place down. We need to be back at the airport by six.”

“Excuse me, Colonel—permission to speak freely?” said another one of the men.

“What is it?” al-Masri asked.

“I don’t understand,” the man said. “Why are you asking us about the prisoners? Didn’t you see them when you went?”

“We haven’t been to the airport yet.”

“Why not? Where is your prisoner?”

Al-Masri tensed. Should he tell them the truth? It was humiliating. And they had no right to it. He was their commander. They were his subordinates, his servants. They did not need to know anything more than he told them. Yet what if he lied to them, and Zayan later told them the truth?

He shot a glance at his aide and saw the fear in his eyes.

Good, thought al-Masri. The idiot would not talk. He knew better.

“We turned him over to the Sheikh already,” he told them.

Zayan swallowed hard but said nothing.

“Then why are we not handing these two over to the Sheikh, as well?” one of his men now asked.

“If you must know, the Sheikh is keeping one and sending the others to Tehran.”

He scanned the men’s faces. He saw confusion, but no one dared ask another question. So he bade them a good sleep and told them to be ready to depart at six. He waited for them all to go to their bedrooms or retreat to their air mattresses. Then he turned out the lights, headed for the master bedroom, and closed and locked the door behind him.

Stepping out on to the balcony, he gazed out at the sea and the lights of the airport. There were not many flights taking off or landing at this hour. Indeed, the area’s usual hum was rather subdued. Al-Masri spotted the Turkish Airlines cargo terminal. Its distinctive red-and-white sign was clearly visible from this location and especially this height—one of the reasons he had rented this particular flat. He thought about the two prisoners. They were his tickets to freedom. But what was he going to tell Kairos?

For the moment, he decided, there was no reason to make contact. In just a few hours, they were going to know the truth.