95

Not just yelling.

Someone was shouting at the top of his lungs.

As Geoff turned, he was stunned to see that it was Tomer. It was all in Arabic, but it became quickly obvious what he was saying. The commander of the checkpoint was about to remove the hood of Jenny’s abaya, and Tomer was trying to stop him. When the commander ignored him and actually touched Jenny’s arm, Tomer raced for him, shot a right jab to the man’s jaw, and knocked him out cold.

At this, every gun went up—not just those of the Hezbollah forces but those held by the Americans, Geoff and Tomer included. They all stood there for at least a minute, guns pointing at each other, everyone but Geoff and Noah screaming at the top of their lungs. Finally Tomer raised his left hand in surrender and slowly lowered the Kalashnikov that was in his right. The rest of the team followed his lead. Geoff was last. If he was going down, he wanted to take these guys with him. But when Tomer turned and spoke to him in calm, steady Arabic, Geoff decided the man knew what he was doing. He bent down and set his own AK-47 on the ground, then stood again and raised his hands over his head.

One by one, each man began to breathe. Tomer said something to the deputy commander. To Geoff, it did not sound like an apology but more of an explanation. Tomer was saying he was simply trying to protect the honor of his sister and that in his place the deputy would have done the same. It worked. The deputy ordered his men to stand down. Then he came over to Tomer, started laughing, and gave the Israeli a hug. If he only knew, thought Geoff.

While the unconscious soldier was given smelling salts and pulled off the road, Tomer motioned the team to get back in the vehicle. Jenny got in first. The rest followed. And a moment later, they were on their way.

Jenny was silent as they drove northward.

And she was not alone.

Though everyone in the Mazda was a combat or intelligence veteran, the incident on the bridge had shaken them. Tomer’s tactics had been a serious gamble, and for several minutes there, Jenny had doubted they were going to make it out alive. But she had to admit the gamble had paid off. It had worked because Tomer was not thinking like an Israeli, like a commando or a spy. He was truly playing the part of a radicalized Shia Muslim man and a battle-hardened Hezbollah commander. He had defended his “sister’s” honor, and he had probably saved their lives. Yet it was a sobering reminder of just how out of their element they were.

When the Mossad director, Asher Gilad, had told her that Tomer would be joining them on the mission, Jenny had not thought it wise and had said so. She had been overruled. As Gilad put it, Israel was not going to outsource the rescue of the prime minister’s nephew. They were happy to work closely with an American team, but they wanted their own man involved, and Tomer was the guy. He had, after all, spent nearly thirty years working for the Shin Bet. Before that, during his years in the IDF, he had been a sniper and later a member of a highly secretive unit known as Kidon, directly involved in the targeted killings of some of the most dangerous terrorists Israel had ever faced. He was a native-born Israeli from a Jewish family that had emigrated from Syria. He had, therefore, grown up not only speaking Arabic but several dialects native to Syria and neighboring Lebanon as well.

Sitting in the center backseat, Jenny remained quiet but leaned forward and patted the Israeli on the arm. Tomer glanced into the rearview mirror and nodded his appreciation for the gesture, then put his eyes back on the road.

The clock on the dashboard said it was 2:47 a.m.

At 3:04, they reached another checkpoint. Jenny could feel the anxiety rising as they did—her own as well as her team’s. There were no other vehicles ahead of them and only four soldiers, only one of whom seemed fully awake. By 3:14, they were moving again. No drama this time. But according to the intel they had been given, there were still three more checkpoints to go before they reached the outskirts of Beirut, and still another at the entrance to the airport grounds.

They continued driving in silence, the passengers cleaning their weapons and checking their equipment, until Noah piped up from the back row.

“Hey, hey, I’ve got something—wow, unbelievable,” he said, electricity in his voice.

“Let me guess, DNA results,” said Jenny.

“No, no,” he replied. “This is really something.”

“What?” she pressed.

“It’s Ryker,” he said. “He called the safe house. I just checked the messages. It’s him. Ryker escaped—he’s free.”