37

THEY HAD MOVED ON FOOT in the dusk. Most people had already locked themselves into their shabby tenements in this part of West Beirut. A few could be seen sitting on windowsills silently watching the sparse traffic on the mean streets.

The night was thick with the smell of cooking oil and sesame. A cacophony of shouting children, the squawk of human anger, plaintive Arab music mixed with ear-splitting rock 'n' roll filled the air.

One gloomy street looked the same as any other. Maria held Joey's hand and Ahmed clutched her firmly under the arm. When people approached, Safari dragged them into an alley or into a doorway.

In the open streets she was more afraid than she had been in a closed room. Safari had about him an air of desperation that, she sensed, made him more dangerous, more savage. His grip hurt her arm but she said nothing, struggling to keep the pace. Only when they moved too fast did she resist.

"The boy. He can't keep up." He slowed down.

Earlier her mind had tried to contemplate avenues of escape. She was too tired to imagine them now. She felt like a bit of flotsam on a choppy river, at the mercy of the flow.

At one point he had stopped at the entrance of an apartment house. It was a broken-down tenement, but he was apparently familiar with it. He walked through the entrance. A pay phone hung from a cinder-block wall. He signaled her with the muzzle of his gun to squat on the floor against the opposite wall. She obeyed, welcoming the opportunity to rest, giving permission for Joey to urinate against the wall.

She barely listened as he whispered into the phone in Arabic. Although she did understand a few words, she could not put them in any logical context.

When he had finished he banged the receiver down and said in English, "They will know who they are dealing with now." He glared at her for a long moment, as if he expected some comment from her. She said nothing. It was safer, she decided, to be silent.

"You think all this is a pointless exercise?" he snapped.

Still she would not answer.

"He will negotiate with me directly."

"Who?" she asked timidly, as if it were a line in a play.

"The President of the United States."

She had been wrong to respond. He spoke between clenched teeth, his words hissing. "They will have to take notice. He will give me back my boy without conditions. Only then..." He reached out and roughly lifted Maria to her feet. She could smell his sour breath. Her eyes could barely focus. A frightened Joey buried his face in the folds of her galabia.

"I will make him do it," he said angrily. He was hurting her arm, but she would not acknowledge it.

Finally he dragged them outside the tenement and they walked a few more blocks. He ducked into another building, pushing her and the boy ahead of him. He led them through a darkened corridor to a door. Fishing a key out of his pocket, he opened it.

He flicked on the wall switch and the light revealed a reasonably comfortable basement studio apartment. There was a double bed, a television set, a desk on which was a telephone and framed photograph of a dark boy with sad eyes. To one side was a small Pullman kitchen containing a sink. Of all the places she had been kept, this one seemed lived in. She suspected it was his own.

He rummaged in a cupboard and found a bottle of scotch. Opening it, he took a deep drag, then looked at his watch. Maria and Joey slowly sank to the floor, their backs against a far wall. They were exhausted. The end of the line, she thought.

"Your son?" she whispered, tilting her chin toward the picture on the desk.

His response was to take another deep pull on the bottle. She looked up into his face. His eyes glared with intensity, his nostrils quivered.

"Soon," he said. Again he looked at his watch.

Turning, he switched on the television set. Light from the images on the screen flickered in the darkened room. She turned toward it, forcing her concentration.

The images seemed garbled, disconnected. Voices speaking different languages seemed to compete with each other for attention. Did these words and images concern her? she wondered. The voices spoke of death. The Saudi prince and the daughter of the Syrian President had been killed. Then a picture flashed on the screen of the same boy whose photograph rested on the desk. So it is, she thought. The voices droned on, speaking of anger and death.

Then came news of her father. He still held the President hostage in the White House. "Daddy, hurry," she whispered, tightening her hold on the boy.

Suddenly she saw smiling faces. Hostages released. Tears of joy and reunion.

"Filthy cowards," Safari cried. "Death to you all." He pointed the gun in the direction of the screen but did not pull the trigger.

She heard her own name being spoken and saw her picture again. The commentator spoke in Arabic. She could catch only bits and pieces. Then her image was gone, replaced by moving pictures of the President and his wife. They were laughing, holding hands. She heard the commentator mention Ahmed Safari. Then she saw his photograph.

Finally, she pieced it together. Safari was going to make the President negotiate for her life. By doing so, the President would admit his participation, his collusion. Moreover, he would be acknowledging their existence, their struggle. The commentator was highly biased. He reveled in the possibility.

Safari had given the President a deadline. If the President did not consent to this plan, he would kill her. Despite the sudden stab of fear, she thought only of her son. She crushed him to her. He started to whimper and she kissed away his tears.

She tried to force her optimism, but the fear continued. No President had ever agreed to negotiate with any terrorist. Was it possible that her father's bold act could actually change the unalterable policy of the United States?

And yet, if he failed to do so, she and her son would die.