Fatal Convictions

65

the present beirut, lebanon

At 11 p.m., an old BMW pulled up to the curb in front of the Ramada, and the driver stepped out.

“Nara Mobassar?” he asked.

Nara responded in Arabic and told Alex that this was the one. They climbed into the backseat, and Nara had another exchange with the driver.

“Where are we going?” Alex asked.

“He wouldn’t say,” Nara responded. “Apparently Hamza is big on secrecy.”

“Are you sure about this?” Alex asked.

“For the third time, yes.”

Alex had lots of misgivings about the trip, but Nara, true to form, had an answer for everything. Alex didn’t like going without knowing the destination. But as Nara pointed out, they didn’t have much choice in the matter. What if it was a setup, Alex had asked. Nara said she trusted her sources. Plus, she had enlisted the help of several friends. She would send them text messages, updating them on her location. If they didn’t hear from her at least once every five minutes, they would call the police.

Alex could shoot a thousand holes in the plan. What if the police were slow to respond? What if somebody took her cell phone? What if Hezbollah thugs blew up their car or shot them without warning?

But he didn’t bother asking more questions. Nara was going, with or without him. If necessary, she would take someone else. And Alex wasn’t quite ready to admit that this woman from Lebanon had more guts-or a greater commitment to the case-than he did.

The one thing that still bothered him as they wound their way through the streets of Beirut was Nara’s insistence that they not tell Khalid. “If my father finds out, he’ll make us promise not to go,” Nara had explained.

That should have told Alex everything he needed to know.

Fifteen minutes into the trip, even Nara started looking a little nervous.

“Where are we?” Alex asked. He was afraid he already knew.

“The Hezbollah district.”

“And whose idea was this?”

Nara didn’t answer. She was too busy texting one of her friends.

The driver eventually veered off the main street, navigated a few side streets, and pulled into an abandoned parking lot.

“Here?” Nara asked.

The man nodded without turning around.

Alex looked at Nara and twisted his face. Are you sure about this?

“It’s an old train station,” Nara said. “The trains in Beirut haven’t been running for years.”

Without turning around, the driver said something in Arabic, and Nara replied. Alex heard tension in her voice. Nara and the driver argued for a few minutes before she turned to Alex.

“He says that Hamza will meet us down at the tracks. There are three abandoned railcars. I’ll tell you a legend about them on the way.”

Nara spoke to the driver in Arabic again. “I told him to leave the lights on and wait for us to get back,” she said to Alex. She typed out another text message. “You ready?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“Neither am I.”

Nara was the first to get out; Alex followed. They walked to the far corner of the parking lot and headed down a path toward the tracks. Abandoned buildings and overgrown weeds lined the walkway on both sides. In a few seconds they were beyond the lights from the BMW. Alex used the glow from his BlackBerry screen to shed some pale light on the path. Nara edged closer, and for some reason they found themselves whispering.

“They say that during the civil war, train cars like these were used to house prisoners and hold trials,” Nara said softly. “The legend is that the militia would hold the prisoners captive in one train car, give them a five-minute trial in the next, and execute them in the third. When that car was full, they’d haul it away to a mass grave.”

“I could have gone all night without hearing that story,” Alex said.

They were closing in on the train cars now, the noise of the city faint in the distance. Nara and Alex stepped over an old power line. Dead leaves crunched under their feet. There was an abandoned masonry building on their left, the shells of the three train carriages on their right. The place smelled like urine, and Alex imagined it was probably a hangout for the homeless.

“Hamza?” Nara called softly. “Hamza?”

Alex felt his heart race a little faster. The night was hot and muggy, but a cold bead of sweat ran down the back of his neck. They waited a few minutes in silence.

“I’m going to take a look inside those cars,” Alex said.

Using his BlackBerry again for light, Alex peeked inside all three cars. They were rusted and covered with debris, but there was no sign of anyone waiting for them. Nara stayed within arm’s length the entire time.

“I don’t like this,” Alex said. “Hamza could be leading us straight to the slaughter.”

“Three more minutes,” Nara said. “If Hezbollah wanted to kill us, we’d be dead by now.”

“That makes me feel better.”

There was a rustle in the bushes behind them. Alex turned and froze, staring at the spot where the noise originated.

Nara grabbed his arm and froze too. “Probably just rats,” she whispered.

“Rats,” Alex said, his voice skeptical.

“Stop being a wimp.”

Alex exhaled, but his heart was still trying to beat its way out of his chest. This kind of thing looked glamorous in the movies. In real life, you’d never hear the bullet that took you out.

Nara sent another text message.

“Are you ready to go?” Alex asked.

Nara nodded. “I don’t understand this.” It was the first time Alex had heard real concern in her voice. “Maybe something happened to him on the way here.”

Before Alex could respond, there was a flash behind them, and Alex pivoted. He stepped in front of Nara and was blinded by a spotlight. He shaded his eyes and saw something in his peripheral vision. But before he could grab Nara and run, he was broadsided by a man who hit him with the explosiveness of a linebacker, driving Alex into the ground. Alex tried to scramble free, but another man jumped on. They quickly had Alex facedown, his arms wrenched behind him as they slapped on some plastic ties as handcuffs.

He heard Nara scream, and he yelled her name just before they pulled a hood over his face.

Strong hands grabbed his arms and jerked him to his feet. He called Nara’s name again, and one of his captors punched him in the gut, doubling him over. They quickly straightened him up and pulled him along, speaking to each other in Arabic. Alex was struggling for breath but tried to concentrate. There were at least three or four voices, as far as he could tell.

They made him climb some steps into one of the railcars and pushed him into a seat. He heard a commotion next to him and the frightened breathing of Nara.

His captors stopped talking, and Alex felt the indent of a round barrel against his temple. He tried to look out the bottom of the hood, but everything was black. The only sound was his own heavy breathing.

He was certain he would die right there in that abandoned railcar in Beirut. Nobody in America would ever know the details. A lawyer and an imam’s daughter-never heard from again.

“Nara, are you okay?” he asked. He flinched, anticipating another punch.

“I’m fine,” she said, though her voice was breathless. “Watch what you say-they probably know English.”

There was no panic in her voice, and the sound of her composure steeled him. For the sake of Nara, he needed to be brave. He needed to show her that Muslims weren’t the only ones who knew how to die. He wanted to make a joke or some sarcastic comment that demonstrated his bravado. But words failed him as the gun jammed harder into his temple. His captors spit out more Arabic phrases, and Alex felt utterly helpless.

“It’s going to be all right,” he said to Nara, but his voice betrayed the truth.

He didn’t believe it himself.