Sayyed could never understand why people would so casually throw away such a valuable commodity. Killing a subject after he admitted to his lies was foolish. As an interrogator you had barely scratched the surface. An admission of guilt was just that and often nothing more. The truly valuable information lay buried in the subject’s brain and needed to be slowly and carefully coaxed to the surface. And to do that you needed time.

Sayyed wiped his hands on a blood-smeared towel and said to one of the guards, “Clean the wounds and bandage the fingers. I don’t want him getting an infection.”

He put on his black dress shirt and left the interrogation room. He continued past the guards and up one flight of stairs. There were a dozen men milling about the lobby. Most were in plain clothes, a few wore fatigues, but all were armed with rifles and sidearms. Sayyed continued up another flight of stairs to the second floor, where he found more armed men milling about the hallway.

He frowned at the sight of them. The presence of so many men was bound to draw attention. His colleagues were far too one-dimensional. They were still thinking of their struggle as a ground battle between vying factions. Car bombs, snipers, and assaults must always be taken into account, but the bigger threat at the moment was the jets flown by Jews and the Americans. These men had not walked here, which meant there were far too many cars parked in front of the building. Sayyed traveled with a light contingent of bodyguards for this very reason. Three or four were usually more than enough. The others were either too paranoid, too proud, or too stupid to see the folly of traveling in such large motorcades.

Eight guards were standing in the hallway outside the office at the back of the building. Sayyed approached one of the more recognizable faces and said, “I pray for the sake of our struggle that no more than six vehicles are parked in front of this building.”

The man looked in the direction of the street and without answering took off at a trot.

Sayyed was pleased that at least one of these morons knew how to take orders. He opened the door to the office and found four faces instead of the three he had expected. Mustapha Badredeen, the leader of Islamic Jihad, was at the head of the table. To his right was the leader of Islamic Jihad’s paramilitary wing, Imad Mughniyah, and then Colonel Amir Jalil of the Iranian Quds Force. He was Iran’s liaison between Islamic Jihad and Hezbollah. The last man, Abu Radih, was not welcome, at least not as far as Sayyed was concerned. He was the representative for Fatah, the extremely unreliable band of men who claimed to speak on behalf of the approximately five hundred thousand Palestinians living in Lebanon. In Sayyed’s conservative opinion, they were nothing more than a gang of organized mobsters who stumbled from one confrontation to the next leaving a trail of havoc in their wake. They were only good for two things: to use as a buffer against the Jews to the south or as cannon fodder against the Christian militias to the east.

“Well?” Colonel Jalil asked.

Sayyed ignored the Iranian and turned instead to Mustapha Badredeen. “CIA.”

“I knew it!” Radih said, excitedly.

Sayyed glanced at the imbecile who had created the problem and said, “You knew no such thing.”

“I did so,” Radih said defensively.

“How could you have possibly known? What evidence did you have in your possession that pointed to the fact that this man was CIA?”

“I have my sources.”

Sayyed laughed at him. It was an empty claim and everyone in the room knew it. “And the businessman you kidnapped last week, what has he told you?”

“He admitted that he is an American agent.”

Sayyed was dubious of the claim, but the fool had just painted himself into a corner. “In that case I will need you to turn him over to me.”

Radih realized his mistake. “Well … he has admitted to a lot of things. My men are not done interrogating him.”

Sayyed stared at him with a look that told everyone in the room that he didn’t believe a word of it.

“I will give you a report in a few days.” Radih said.

Sayyed dismissed him with a look of contempt and addressed the other men. “The man downstairs is an employee for the CIA who has spent the better part of the last four years in Damascus. My government will want to assess the damage he has caused. To do that thoroughly, I will need Radih to transfer his hostage to me. I’m afraid this point is not negotiable.”

“But he is my hostage,” Radih said, half yelling. “It was my operation.”

“An operation that was not approved.”

Radih ignored the point and said, “He is extremely valuable. He has told us his company will pay a large sum to get him back.”

“Not if he is an American agent.” Sayyed shook his head sadly and scratched his thick black beard. “As we know all too well, the Americans do not negotiate for hostages. Especially the CIA.” Pointing at the ceiling he added, “They are far more likely to track him down and drop a bomb on all of us.”

The other men shared nervous looks. “The other American, the one you grabbed in front of his hotel last week,” Badredeen said to the Fatah leader, “he has told you implicitly that he is an agent?”

“It is my suspicion,” Radih said, thankful for the breathing room.

“What was he doing in Beirut?”

“He works for one of their big telecommunications companies.”

Radih blathered on about his prisoner, but Sayyed was only half listening. The CIA man in the basement had verified the fact that the other man was a legitimate businessman, but Sayyed did not feel like coming to the aid of the twit from Fatah. He would only know for certain after spending months interrogating the men. Sayyed looked at Mughniyah and said, “Some men are very good liars. It takes a skilled hand to discern the truth from these Americans.”

Mughniyah nodded and spoke for the first time. “I don’t like the coincidence. We should turn him over to Sayyed. He will get to the bottom of it.”

Sayyed was quietly pleased. Mughniyah had a reputation for killing those who crossed him. Radih would not want to defy him.

“The entire things gives me great concern,” the Iranian chimed in.

Sayyed could barely stand the man. He was a self-proclaimed intellectual who was part of the rabble who had helped bring down the shah and bring about the Islamic Revolution of Iran.

“It cannot be a good sign that the Americans are back,” Jalil said, as he caressed his bottom lip with the forefinger of his right hand. “Nothing good can come from them poking around in our business.”

“I will find out what they are up to,” Sayyed said confidently.

The three men exchanged looks, ignoring Radih, who was growing more agitated by the second. Badredeen spoke for the group. Turning to Radih he said, “Please transfer your hostage to Sayyed as soon as is possible.”

“That means tonight,” Sayyed said, not wanting to give the man an inch.

“That is impossible,” Radih said, as if they were asking him to fly to the moon. “This man is too valuable. I am more than capable of finding out his true identity.” With a casual flip of his hand he said, “I will give all of you a report within a few days.”

“That will not work.” Sayyed held his ground. “I want him tonight.”

“I will not give him to you. He is my prisoner.”

Mughniyah leaned forward in his chair and glared at the representative from Fatah. The temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. “I don’t remember your seeking our permission to conduct this operation in the first place.”

“And when was the last time any of you came to me to ask permission to launch an operation?”

With an icy voice Mughniyah said, “I do not need your permission.”

“That hardly seems fair.”

“You are invited to these meetings as a courtesy … nothing else.”