My first thought was to get to the airport. I glanced at my watch. Seven thirty. After a nearly sleepless night I'd dozed off at about four o'clock.

The Honda was missing from the hotel garage. "At what time did Madame take it?" I asked the attendant. He shrugged. He'd come on at six o'clock and had seen no Honda then.

That meant that Jeanne had left between four and six o'clock. Dammit. In this day and age even an hour's head start was a lot of getaway.

Arriving by taxi at the airport I spotted the Honda parked outside. Without pausing I went straight to Control. There was a large ledger on the counter where pilots sign in and out. I spun it around toward me. Who had departed this morning? Under today's date three movements of aircraft were noted. And there it was, just as I'd feared. Type: Bell 206, Callsign: Juliette Tango, Provenance: Rhodes, Destination: Beirut.

"This Bell 206," I asked the controller, "how many were on board?"

"Two persons."

"Was one a woman?"

"Yes. That lady you arrived with yesterday." He was looking at me curiously.

"Ah, very good," I said. "Yes, Miss Benson. Very good."

I filed the flight plan for Beirut, then went out to get the Honda. Mueller was standing next to it. My shock at seeing him suddenly turned into joy. It was only through him that I'd be able to track down Jeanne and Louise quickly.

"Mueller," I said, "Jea... Miss Benson has decided not to come with us. We're flying on alone."

Mueller looked surprised. "She is staying here? In Cyprus?"

"That s right. She doesn't like lightplane travel. She's going on by airliner."

"I see," said Mueller thoughtfully.

"Ready to go? I'll just grab a cup of coffee in the snack bar and be with you in a minute."

The fuel truck arrived at the Helio the same time we did. I loaded the Honda aboard and a few minutes later we were airborne. As we climbed out I glanced at my passenger. Mueller looked pensive. I hadn't been able to deduce anything from his reaction to the fact that Jeanne was remaining behind, so I thought I'd try and draw him out.

"Find a good hotel last night?" I shouted over the engine's roar.

"I didn't sleep in a hotel."

"Where then?"

"In the passenger lounge at the airport."

"You did?" I tried to make my voice sound casual.

"You may be interested to know, Mr. Tschetter, that your wife left Larnaca early this morning with our friend Ali."

"My wife?" I repeated dimly.

"Your wife Jeanne, alias Carol Benson."

"Ah?"

We had reached 9500 feet and for the next few seconds I busied myself trimming out the plane while I thought things over. The cards hadn't exactly been laid on the table, but in spite of this we’d all had a look at each other’s hand. It seemed a good time to speak frankly.

"How come you didn't try to stop her?" I asked Mueller.

"She didn't go through the passenger lounge. I only saw her as she was boarding." He omitted to mention that his guns were safely locked up inside the Helio. "But if I had any doubts about her identity, they were then erased. Plus your little error in names this morning."

Okay. So what now? Did I return to Cyprus, ditch Mueller, and go on alone to Beirut? To stop him from tracking her down, however, I’d have to kill him or get him arrested. But if I were to turn him in for running guns I'd end up getting involved myself and might just as well kiss Jeanne goodbye. The best thing to do would be to stick with him, not let him out of sight. It wouldn't be easy, though, because Mueller no longer needed me. He knew what Jeanne looked like.

"November three eight niner, Larnaca."

The crackling voice in the earphones made me start. "Go ahead."

"Position?"

"Ten miles out."

"Beirut reports an aircraft missing in its FIR. They received a MAYDAY message but were unable to make radar contact. Are you ready to copy?"

"Affirmative. Go ahead."

"Beirut estimates the aircraft went down at longitude 34°50, latitude 340°10. Type of aircraft is a Bell Jet Ranger helicopter. Intentions ditching at sea. As you are flying the same route, kindly keep a lookout for the missing aircraft and its occupants. Report any sightings on this frequency or 121.5. In the meantime, remain on this frequency and report leaving my FIR."

"Roger. I'll keep a lookout." It was incredible with my heart thumping like a jackhammer that my voice could come out so calmly. "Will you let me know if and when the aircraft is located?"

"Of course, three eight niner. I'll keep you advised."

I turned toward Mueller. He was looking ahead impassively. Without earphones he hadn’t heard the message. In any case, no use asking him to help search. He'd be all too happy if Jeanne was lost at sea.

My intense concern over Jeanne's plight suddenly translated itself into pure loathing for this sack of Kartofeln sitting next to me. I wouldn't even give the bastard the satisfaction of hearing what had happened. I swore to myself that if I learned between here and Beirut that Jeanne was dead, I'd dump Mueller out of the Helio, consequences be damned.

Still, without my passenger's help, I'd be able to survey less of the sea. A person sitting in the right-hand seat would see better in that direction than I could. Then an idea came to me. I'd tell Mueller an airplane had gone down, not a helicopter. I'd tell him Larnaca had requested we join the search. It would be ironic if Mueller himself were to save Jeanne’s life.

"Mr. Tschetter," the German said when I'd told him the news, "from the time we arrive in Beirut until the end of my life I will never, never again set foot in a small aircraft. Tell me when I am to start looking."

"Thanks, Mueller." Somehow I couldn't help feeling a twinge of sympathy for the man.

Handed over to Beirut Control I requested a lower flight level but they refused. I told them I wanted to help in the air/sea rescue operation. They replied "affirmative" and told me to squawk a transponder code for radar identification. Once identified, they told me I could descend to an altitude not below 1500 feet.

I had about three hours of fuel I could devote to the search before having to head for land. I knew the delay wouldn't sit well with Mueller, but there wasn't much he could do about it. You can't bump off your only pilot unless life has lost all its meaning for you.

At 1500 feet I had a good view of the water for about three miles on each side. To minimize the effects of drift, I began my first leg into the wind for ten miles, then made a crosswind leg of five miles, which was nearly double my estimated effective visibility, then flew the following leg on the reciprocal compass heading of the first.

I doubted many other aircraft were out searching. Even under the best of circumstances the sea is a big place and there are never enough aircraft available for the purpose. It didn't seem likely Beirut was going to mount a large rescue operation for a private aircraft when they lived in a constant state of war readiness. Most likely they had one or two aircraft at most in the effort, but I didn't catch sight of any.

An hour passed. Then two. Mueller, swearing occasional Teutonic oaths and gnashing his teeth, kept his eyes glued to the surface of the sea. Suddenly he stiffened and pressed his face against the window. I tipped my right wing downward to help him see. "What is it?" I shouted.

He relaxed back. "Nothing. I thought I saw ... No. Nothing."

I didn’t want to take his word for it. Turning hard I circled the spot. There was nothing floating on the water that I could see. Then I realized what he'd seen. The shadow of the Helio racing along on the surface. Checking the compass heading and the time, I continued with the search.

The earphones crackled. It was Beirut asking me to squawk ident. I pressed the translucent green button on the transponder and watched it flicker as it was interrogated by the radar.

"Three eight niner, climb to and maintain five thousand feet on heading one five zero."

"Roger," I replied. "Have they located the missing aircraft?"

"The search is terminated. Report level at five thousand."

"Roger. Three eight niner."

I was too pissed off by Beirut to think of informing Mueller that the search was terminated, but he noticed the sea swells growing smaller as we climbed. Turning to look at me questioningly he saw my face set in anger. "What is happening? Have they located the missing aircraft?"

"Yeah," I told him. "They found it. No survivors. It was the Jet Ranger, the helicopter my wife was in."

"Um Gottes willen," said Mueller, not so astonished that he didn't study my face carefully. I knew he’d seen that my wrath and frustration were genuine and that this would help him swallow the lie. If he believed Jeanne was dead it would simplify matters tremendously.

"I am very sorry for you," he told me. "Truly I am." His chest rose and fell as he sighed deeply. "Naja," he said with a philosophical wag of his head.

I reported level at five and was vectored in the rest of the way, number two for landing behind a Boeing 747. With all my worries, the sight of the enormous airliner descending in the opposite direction so close on our left impressed me and I pointed it out to Mueller, knowing he'd appreciate it, too. Jeanne, my darling, I prayed inside. I hope you're alive because this goddamn life has its wonders and its moments.

The first thing I did once on the ground was head for Control to ask about the missing helicopter.

"I don't know," the flight briefing officer on duty admitted. "The search was suddenly cancelled. Perhaps the helicopter was found. It's now a military matter, not a civil one. I have no information. None at all. I'm terribly sorry."

Whether I believed him or not, there was no point in trying to get any more information out of him. I’d told Mueller to wait with the Helio and now I headed back to get him. Unloading the Honda I hid my gun in the saddlebags, then requested that the bike be brought around to the front of the airport for me. Mueller would have to take his own chances bringing his guns through customs.

I couldn’t help noticing there were a lot of armed soldiers walking around on the airfield. They weren't neat looking like the French sharpshooters patrolling the terraces at Nice Airport, but loose-limbed young men with olive complexions and flashing white teeth. They carried their bulky automatic weapons with studied carelessness.

There was no difficulty getting through the formalities and a short while later Mueller and I found ourselves outside in front of the terminal.

"Well, Mueller," I said, "this looks like the end of the road for us."

"What are your plans?"

I lowered my eyes. "First I have to see about Jeanne, arrange to have her body shipped home. And I also have to find Louise. It’s what I've been paid to do."

"That will not be necessary," said Mueller. "I have spoken to Mrs. Rolland and she says you may consider your duties are at an end."

"I'll have to hear it from her," I told Mueller. "Until I receive orders to the contrary, I'm still working for her. And there's that bonus. I didn't come all the way here just to turn back empty-handed."

The German glared at me. "You are a hard man, Mr. Tschetter. Your lovely wife is dead and you think only of business. My advice to you is to forget about this whole affair and go back to France. It will be much healthier for you."

"Mueller, old boy, is that a threat?"

"You can consider it so. Until now it was only Ali trying to kill you. Now..." He didn’t need to finish the sentence. His meaning was clear enough.

We parted without shaking hands.

As Mueller walked along the line of taxis to the head of the row, I started up the Honda and was ready to pull out at the same time as his cab. The road between the airport and city was clean and well-kept, with modern, industrial buildings along the way.

Just before entering the city I saw a forest of strange-looking pines consisting mainly of tall trunks holding up flat, green parasol branches. At the foot of these natural pillars lived a people whose main occupation in life, besides washing and hanging up clothes, seemed to be bearing children and arms. I guessed it was an encampment of Palestinian refugees.

Entering the city, Mueller's taxi pulled up in front of a hotel on Hambra Street, a pleasant, crowded boulevard lined with shops and cafes. Probably the most famous part of Beirut, in a few weeks the world would see it on their television screens a mass of charred rubble. This street, this city, this country, would be destroyed in a civil war between the two religious factions making up this young, vital, but ethnically torn land.

The hotel Mueller had chosen was a far cry from the usual tourist ones. Given the state of my "wardrobe," I was the last to care. I waited until my former passenger had checked in and entered the elevator, then walked across the small lobby. Mueller's car stopped on the sixth floor. I asked for a room on the sixth and after a brief, curious glance, was given one. From the sounds I heard as I walked in, I realized my room shared a wall with Mueller. A thin wall. As my neighbor flushed the toilet the pipes throughout the entire floor were set banging for nearly a minute.

I don’t mind living simply, but the strings of lint covering the wine-colored, .05 mm pile carpet, and the fact that every fixture in the bathroom leaked, gave this place a particularly depressing air. However, I had the feeling I wouldn't be there long enough to let the surroundings get me down.

In the meantime I examined the layout. While the bathroom and three walls of the bedroom were windowless, one wall gave onto a small terrace which looked onto a narrow, central court. The patch of sky above was blue, the ground below covered with discarded litter as if the court was intended as a nearly inexhaustible garbage can.

Looking down I was surprised to see a face just below me, grinning up. The face belonged to a man who was painting the wall directly beneath me. He was a thin man with an evil grin and large white teeth. After greeting me in Arabic, he remained gazing upwards, his brush dripping paint, until I withdrew my head.

I wandered back into the room, prepared to stay there as long as Mueller remained in his. A few feet, away, on the other side of the wall, his telephone rang. I had little trouble hearing as the connection was bad and he had to shout. He was arranging to meet someone somewhere in a half hour.

Fine. Taking out my gun I checked it and put it back into my shoulder holster. I was just reaching for the doorknob when I heard a key softly turning in my lock. Stepping quietly to one side, I drew my gun. But no one entered. I put my ear to the door. Footsteps going down the hall. Unbolting the door I tried the knob, but although it turned it didn’t open. There was no keyhole on my side of the door. Apparently someone had locked it from the other side.

Picking up the phone I listened for the voice of the operator. There were lots of clicks and creaking noises – the same sounds you get on French phones – but no voice. I signaled impatiently with the receiver buttons. Nothing. After a minute the phone went completely dead.

Just then I heard Mueller's door open and close and the key turn in his lock. He was going out. There was no time to lose. Heading for the terrace I looked over the railing and right into the face of the Arab painter who was looking up as if he’d decided to pass the day waiting for another glimpse of me. I waved some of the Lebanese money I'd exchanged at the airport.

"Je veux déscendre," I told him, hoping he spoke French.

Whether he did or not, he understood what I was waving and took action so promptly that I wondered whether he had a brother who locked doors and cut phone wires for a living. In a second he’d pulled the scaffolding up to where I could step onto it, then lowered us at dizzying speed down to the trash level.

"Par ici." He grinned as I handed him the bills. Going through the door he indicated, I found myself in the hotel's goods delivery entrance where I'd chained my bike a while earlier. I unchained it and climbed aboard. Rounding the corner a moment later I was just in time to see Mueller driving off in the back seat of an elderly Mercedes Benz.

The traffic was pretty hectic but affected the Mercedes more than my bike. It took several minutes to work our way out of the center and through the "misery belt" of Palestinian settlements which circled the city. Signs along the way indicated we were on the road leading from Beirut to Damascus, Syria. Not knowing how far Mueller eventually planned to go, I was glad I'd taken the time to refuel the Honda at Larnaca with some 100 octane aviation gas.

Without him seeing me, I got close enough to Mueller's car to ascertain that the two young men sitting in front were Muslim types wearing khaki shirts. I had the feeling that any resemblance to army personnel was purely intentional rather than official.

Even so, the getup wasn’t exactly a teenage fad. You didn't have to be in Beirut five minutes to know something was hanging in the air. You could cut it with a knife. Armed Fedayeen in paramilitary clothing were walking openly in the streets. The tension was high. It would take just one spark to set off an explosion which would blow this place sky high. Little did I realize how soon that spark was destined to come.

The air was warm, the temperature up in the seventies, the sky now overcast. It was starting to get dark. As we left the city the traffic became frenetic. Cars passed each other whenever their speed permitted, even on a curve or hill. It was the responsibility of the oncoming vehicles to melt out of the way.

We were some distance out of town in some hills when I noticed the Merc’s brake lights flash on. I slowed down and a moment later saw the car turn off the road. I let it get well ahead before making the turn myself. It was a dirt road and the driver of the car turned on his lights in order to see the bumps and ruts. I kept my lights off.

A few minutes later I could make out the shape of a large barn or building up ahead. Mueller's car stopped in front and I could hear the doors slam as the men got out. I'd already turned off my engine and now pushed the Honda behind a tree, taking a flashlight out of the saddle bag. It was very quiet, and as I made my way forward through the dry brush I hoped no one would hear my footsteps.

As I got nearer there was enough light to make out the shapes of two guards standing near the door where Mueller and the others had entered. Circling the building, I saw another door at the back. Only one man was guarding it. Despite the gathering darkness I could see the submachine gun slung from a strap over his shoulder.

I wanted very much to get into the building, but the risk of being seen was too great. Any noise would give the alarm. As for the guards, it was possible that while they were trained in shooting and in hand-to-hand combat, discipline wasn't one of their fortes. Maybe if I waited a while the guard in back would get lonely and go off to visit his friends around at the front, or wander off to take a leak.

From where I stood I could see both entrances. As far as I knew no one had moved in from behind to block my way back to the Honda. It was a good enough place to wait, so I sat down and leaned my back against a tree.

It wasn't long before the guard at the rear left his post for whatever reason and walked around the building toward the front. It was dark enough now for me to risk a run across the open ground. Even if someone saw me and opened fire, I'd probably be able to seek cover in the woods and get away under protection of darkness.

But no one saw me and a moment later, gun in hand, I was through the door and inside a dingy, foul-smelling hallway. At the far end of the hall, light from beneath a door gave a faint illumination. I could hear voices. Mueller was surely down there. I started forward, but had not taken three steps when the door at the end of the hall opened sending a shaft of light in my direction.

Fortunately for me, the person who'd opened the door didn't come through it immediately. Standing with his back to me, he was still talking to someone in the room. I had about two seconds to disappear. Turning, I saw a door and without hesitating opened it and went through.

Even before switching on my flashlight, the room I'd entered communicated its horror to my ears and nostrils. The scrambling of rats and the rustling of cockroaches, the smell of human excrement and sweat, of damp, moldy walls, of vermin and dead flesh. I had to force my unwilling hand to switch on the flashlight.

My eyes, my gun barrel, swept the room with the beam of light. I was prepared to see armed men, dead men, anybody and anything but what I saw. For what I saw was such a nightmare that nothing could have prepared me for that.

She was lying on a table a few feet away. I hadn't even known it was a woman, but when my flashlight beam went over her I could hear her groan and begin to plead, "No, no."

"Jeanne?" I whispered, shining the light toward the floor, so as not to alarm her, so as not to see what she'd become. "Jeanne darling?"

"No," repeated the broken voice. "Allez-vous-en."

Whoever it was, I had to reassure her, so great was her fear. "Je suis un ami," I said. "I’ve come to take you away from here." I stood over her looking down. Her face was a mass of bruises, one eye nearly swollen shut. She could open the other just enough to see me dimly. Even so badly disfigured, and with her hair cut off, I was sure it wasn’t my wife.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Jeanne's husband, Chet."

She began to sob. "Thank God. Thank God. Listen." But for a moment she couldn’t speak. I went and locked the door, then returned to her side.

"Are you Louise?"

"Yes."

Her hand clung to my sleeve. Her other hand, badly mutilated, lay by her side. She was naked and horribly bruised. Burns, probably made by cigarettes, covered her body. Whatever information someone had wanted to get from her, they'd not had an easy time making her talk.

Although Louise was shivering uncontrollably from fear and cold, I hesitated to cover her with my jacket for fear of causing her more pain by touching her wounds. Flashing my light about the room I saw a pile of clothes in one corner that looked as if they might belong to her. I was about to go and see when there were footsteps in the hall outside.

Someone was trying the door. Turning off my flashlight I warned Louise not to make a sound.

I could hear the voices of two men. The one who spoke first had a Middle Eastern accent. "She has locked the door from the inside."

"Break it down." It was Mueller’s voice. I removed the safety from my gun.

"Must you question her more?" asked the Muslim. "Absolutely?" He didn’t sound happy.

"That’s what I'm here for."

"But she is already unconscious. Anyway, she has told everything."

"Break down the door."

There was a half-hearted bumping against the door, then more footsteps, a voice speaking Arabic. For a moment there followed an animated discussion in that language. Finally the first voice resumed in English. "My friend says she is already dead."

"Then how did she lock the door?"

"She did not. He has locked it himself from the outside when he saw she was dead. Only he has since lost the key."

"Then break it down. I will not leave here until I see the body," said Mueller sternly.

There were more footsteps. "Kurt, come. You can do that in the morning. We have enough information. I want to finish briefing you."

It was Terry Rolland's voice. The "housekeeper" from Othe had come a long way. Given Mueller's professional interest in Louise’s death, I didn't expect him to give in to her urging, but apparently Terry's words did the trick and I heard them walking away back down the hall.

Waiting in the darkness, I strained my ears to hear. A door closed at the far end of the hall, then footsteps came rapidly back our way. "Don't make a sound," I whispered to Louise.

There was a light knock on the door. "Madame, madame." It was the Muslim again. Again the door was tried. "Madame, I will not hurt you. Let me in."

At the sound of his voice Louise made a stifled scream and pulled on my sleeve so hard she nearly put me off-balance. "Louise, shh," I tried to calm her.

"Madame, don't be afraid. I will not hurt you. If you are able to escape tonight through the window there will be no guards to stop you. Madame?" When there was no reply the man paused a moment, then I could hear his footsteps disappear down the hall. We were alone.

I switched on the flash. "Did you hear that?" I asked Louise. She didn't reply. Her grip on my sleeve had relaxed. Was she unconscious? Then I saw her lips move. "Listen..." she said.

"Not now. I’ve got to get you out of here."

"I can't. I can't move. You must listen. Everything depends... "

Her strength seemed to go and she lapsed into silence. I bent over her. "Tell me," I said.

She sighed deeply, then began to speak. "You must warn Jeanne and the others. Tell them that I was tortured until I told them what they wanted to know." She paused again and I could tell she was fighting tears, trying not to break down completely. "Tell Jeanne, tell Ali, that they know."

"Know what?"

"About Baalbek. About the meeting. They know everything."

"What meeting?"

"The Middle East summit. Tomorrow afternoon at Baalbek. In the military settlement there."

"Are they planning to stop it from taking place?"

"No. They are planning not to stop it. They are going to let it happen according to plan. And then they are going to ... I don't know. Perhaps destroy them all, all the leaders, Egyptian, Israeli, Syrian, all, all. Or kidnap them. You must warn Jeanne."

"Where is she?"

"There is a camp between Beirut and Baalbek, in the hills. If she is not there, then Ali will be. They forced me to tell them where it is. But they cannot go in there. It would cause a great fight and the Christian city of Zahle is nearby. The fight would bring in the Falangists and set off a civil war. But anyway, they do not need to start trouble. On the contrary, they desire no trouble. They want the meeting to take place."

Whatever "they" had in mind was of secondary concern to me. My first interest was protecting the lives of Louise and my wife. Mueller wasn't into politics either, I didn’t think. I was the only obstacle between him and his paycheck, not the Falangists.

"Where's the camp?"

"Do you have a map?"

I felt in my pocket for the map I'd picked up in the lobby of the hotel. It was a touristic map with few details. Putting my arm around Louise I helped her to a sitting position, but she was unable to see the map through her injured eyes.

"The camp," she told me, "is north of Zahle, in the hills." I located Zahle on the map. It was on the Baalbek road, not very far from where we were now. "Just before you reach Zahle, at the milestone three kilometers from the city, you will see an electricity tower. There is a road there leading into the hills. After a mile on this road you will be stopped. Then you must tell them the password."

"What is it?"

"It depends what day it is tomorrow."

"Sunday, April 13."

"Oh, my God," she moaned. "Tomorrow is the day. You must hurry and warn them. Don't stop for anything."

"Tell me the password."

"The password is Heliopolis. Heliopolis. The ancient name for the city of Baalbek. It is also the code name for the rendezvous in Baalbek of all the Middle East leaders. Go. Go now and warn them."

"First I'm taking you to a hospital."

"But that is impossible. They are everywhere. With me you will never get out of here alive."

"Your guardian angel said if you escaped out the window he'd see to it that nobody would be around to stop you."

"Guardian angel." Louise’s voice sounded incredulous. "No, he is going to kill me himself. He doesn't want the others to learn that after they had finished torturing me, he returned and raped me." She began to sob. "Did you hear him?" she wept. "He thinks I will trust him anyway."

"Louise," I whispered, "don't. I'll get you out of here."

Investigating the window, I found that there were external shutters and they were locked. If Louise’s rapist wanted to kill her here, or let her attempt to escape and then kill her outside, he’d have to remember to open the shutters. I decided that if he hadn't done so by the time I’d gotten Louise into her clothes, I'd get us out the way I'd come in.

"Do you have a car?"

"A motorcycle."

"Then I cannot go. I don’t have the strength."

"I'll get you to a hospital," I assured her. "I won't leave you like this. First of all, you have to get dressed. I'll help you."

The idea of this small, everyday task didn't frighten her as much as the idea of escape. Once dressed I hoped she'd have more courage. I helped her into her blouse, supporting her in a sitting position while reaching around her with both arms to do the buttons down the front. I could feel her heart beating very fast. She wasn't going to die, not if I took her out of there before Mueller and Co. got to her.

It took me a moment to find her skirt which had fallen down behind some boxes. The skirt was long, reaching down to her feet. "I was at the Casino in Maameltain playing roulette," she told me. "They forced my car off the road as I drove back to the city."

"What part do you have in this affair?" I asked her, letting her rest a moment from the exertions of putting on the skirt.

"I have known Jeanne for many years. My husband is an important man in the French government. Officially he could not know about the Middle East summit. No governments outside the states involved were to know so as to avoid political pressures on the participants. However, certain information was necessary, and Jeanne was told to reach my husband secretly and unofficially through me. I was then asked by him to deliver certain verbal and written messages on his behalf, which I did."

"Your own husband asked you to come? He let you get involved in this danger?"

She hung her head. "He did not know I would return to Beirut. In fact I should not have come back after once being here. My assignment finished, I was to return directly to France. But I love to gamble and I had wanted for so long to visit the famous Casino of Beirut. So I sent him a cable saying I would stay on a few more days. And voila. In spite of all my efforts to remain anonymous and hidden, early this morning they found me."

Now that Louise was dressed I wanted to get out of there, but she begged me to let her rest some more. "I will tell you about Jeanne," she said.

I knew she was more terrified to escape than to stay in the room with me there and I hoped her courage would come back soon. All the same, I wanted to hear what she'd tell me about my wife.

"First of all, I suppose you know about her life before she met you."

"Not all that much. She’d lived in the Middle East."

"Jeanne was born in Egypt. In Cairo. Her French father, first a businessman, later held different high level diplomatic posts. Jeanne lived her first twenty-five years in different Middle Eastern countries. She knew everyone. That is how she has been able to arrange this summit."

"Jeanne? Jeanne arranged it?"

"Of course. Do you know who her brother is? Did she ever tell you?"

"No. I didn't even know she had a brother."

"A half brother. He is the real head of the PLO, not that chap you read about in the newspapers and see interviewed on television. No, Jeanne’s brother is the real power behind the Palestinians."

"What's his name?"

"He has many names and no name. You will never hear one spoken. You will never see his photograph in the press. Like Jeanne, he has never allowed his photograph to be taken."

"Then maybe that's who Mueller’s really after."

"Mueller?"

"A guy you don't ever want to meet. He happens to be down the hall."

"So it was because of her contacts, particularly because of her half brother who has always been very fond of her, that Jeanne's role came about. It has been clear for some time that all the Middle East powers have been anxious for peace. But the American Secretary of State had made such a muddle that another stalemate had been created. A new way was needed. Jeanne, whom everyone knew and trusted, and who has great influence on her half brother, was the medium through which they were all able to agree on a secret summit away from the super-powers, away from the international press and politics. The person responsible for delivering the Israelis to the summit was my husband. Do you recall those five gunboats which disappeared mysteriously from a Marseilles dock a few years ago and arrived shortly after in Tel Aviv?"

"Your husband?"

"My husband."

"But tell me. Why did Jeanne have to pretend to me that she was dead? Why did she stage that scene at the morgue?"

"Ah, ça," said Louise. "I don't think it was only a matter of security. It was a personal decision of Jeanne's. I never understood. You will have to ask her yourself."

As she finished speaking a sound at the window caught our attention. I switched off the flashlight and helped Louise move to a corner of the room where someone looking in wouldn't see her. Taking a tight grip on a metal bar I'd found in a trash heap in another corner, I took a position to one side of the window. As we waited breathlessly, the shutter outside opened with a squeak.

"Madame?" whispered a voice. "Madame, are you there?" As I watched, a hand came through a broken pane and slowly turned the inside bolt. The window swung open, letting in the fresh night air. I couldn't help taking a deep breath. "Madame, where are you?"

I found a coin in my pocket and tossed it to the other side of the room. Hearing the noise, the young man leaped lightly down from the window sill. He paused a moment, straining to see in that direction. In the dim light from outside I saw the reflection of a knife blade in his hand. Raising the bar I lowered it with all my force on the back of his skull. Down he went. I leaned over him and saw his eyes were closed. He was out.

"Come, Louise," I said, starting for the window. But she wasn't with me. I stopped and looked back. She was kneeling over the unconscious man, the knife in her hand. "Louise, don't!" I whispered frantically, but it was too late. Holding the knife like a dagger, she brought it down sharply on the exposed throat. A geyser of dark blood shot into the air, followed by a horrible gurgling sound. Getting to her feet Louise wiped at the blood on her face.

"J'arrive," she said quietly.

I climbed out first, pulling the traumatized woman after me. "Wait here," I told her. "I'll just take a look around."

I started toward the corner of the building but hadn't gone more than three steps when the dark figure of a man rounded it in my direction. He saw me at the same time. As he hesitated in surprise, I threw myself forward. We went down in a tangle of punching arms and knees.

My main object was to keep him from making any noise and giving the alarm. Choking him was one method, but he broke my grip and started to struggle to his feet. I wasn't going to let him get away and managed to catch hold of one leg and drag him back down. Crawling up his struggling body, I pinned him down with my thighs and a series of blows, most of which he managed to fend off.

He was younger than I, wiry and supple as a reed. He had armed friends a few yards away. I didn't have time to spare. I pulled out my gun and held it to his head. "Lie still or I shoot." I felt his body freeze.

I got to my feet and dragged him up by the hair, my gun at his head. "Come with me," I said. Pushing him ahead of me, with Louise following, we headed into the woods. In a few minutes I had located the Honda. Keeping my pistol aimed at the Arab, I got the machine started.

"Get on." Louise hesitated, her long skirt not ideal for the job at hand. She started to seat herself sidesaddle, but I stopped her. "Bunch up your skirt and straddle the seat," I told her. In her weakened condition the chances were better she'd stay on that way.

She did as she was told. "Okay," I said to the Arab. "Start moving." With him running ahead of us we followed the dirt road back the way I'd come. Just before reaching the main road I stopped the Honda. The only way to keep the boy from giving the alarm was either to make him run ahead of us all the way to Beirut or tie him up here. The first idea being more tempting but less feasible than the second, I tore some strips of cloth from the hem of Louise's skirt and bound him hand and foot.

A few minutes later we were on the road heading back to the city. As we began to enter it I stopped and consulted the map. It showed a hospital near by, Hôpital Hotel-Dieu. I hoped it was as European as its name sounded. In any case, for better or worse, that's where Louise was going.

It was nearly midnight by the time I'd left the Frenchwoman at the modern, well-equipped hospital and turned the Honda back up the Beirut-Baalbek road. It took me less than an hour to reach Zahle. Three kilometers earlier I'd passed the electricity transformer mentioned by Louise and had seen the road leading from there into the hills. But I'd also seen a car parked just off the road and could guess it belonged to my old friend Kurt Mueller.

I hadn’t even slowed down, just gone right past without reducing speed. I'd get back to the turn-off again, but coming from the other direction. It wasn't one of the more impressive strategies ever devised, but there weren't many safeguards available to me besides a basic foxiness and the normal anonymity of the motorcycle rider under cover of darkness.

Unfortunately for me, the overcast had broken and the moon was shining through. Even from a distance the transformer was unmistakable in the moonlight. Approaching it I slowed down imperceptibly. Anyway, I hoped it was imperceptible in case anyone had their eyes on me.

All was just fine, except I'd underestimated one thing. Mueller’s sixth sense. As I slowed further, preparing to make a wide right-hand turn off the road, that car I'd seen earlier – shit – it was right behind me. As I tried to turn there was a blare of horn nearly under my right elbow. I glanced back and a glare of headlights half blinded me. Throwing my weight to the other side, I give the Honda gas and shot ahead, the Mercedes right after me, forcing me into the opposite lane.

Headlights were coming, the Merc and its blaring horn behind, on one side trees and on the other an irrigation ditch all along the road. Fly the plane, I was shouting to myself. Fly the plane.

It amounted to that. Twisting the accelerator I felt the bike leap ahead. As it left the road it took to the air. I recall thinking: The Merc is no chopper. It can't follow me. But Hondas don't fly either, and I prayed desperately that wherever we landed it would be on something flat and firm. In the split second it took to sail across the ditch and land on the other side, I was giving myself flier's advice: Whatever the fucking machine does wrong, correct for it.

The field hadn't been plowed yet or I'd have been up to my hubs in earth. As it was, I landed on rough but firm dirt and took off across the field. At any moment I expected a rifle bullet to plow into my head.

But when I got to the far limit of the field and still had all my faculties and the use of my limbs, I slowed down and looked back. Where the hell had they gone? Then I noticed cars stopping some distance away on the road. Cautiously I motored back, found a track bridging the irrigation canal, and regained the main road.

Approaching the small crowd of motorists on the roadside, I had to smile. The Merc had tried to fly after me and had landed in the ditch. It probably hadn’t even gotten airborne. So much for Sunday pilots. As I passed the wreck I could see the German standing beside it looking dazed. Beeping my horn I waved at him before accelerating and flashing past. A moment later I'd turned left up the road leading to the camp.

The road was rough but no problem for the bike. After going about a kilometer I stopped and hid the Honda behind some bushes, continuing on foot. A few minutes later I came up to a wooden barrier in the road.

Five or six muffled shapes suddenly materialized around me. Each shape was armed with a machine gun and all were speaking excitedly in Arabic. I raised my hands to assure them I meant no harm. One of the men stepped forward. "Passe-parole," he said.

"Heliopolis."

There was more excited talking, then the man nodded. "Okay," he said. "Suive-moi." I fell into step behind him with three guards, their weapons at the ready, bringing up the rear.

It was a late hour to come calling. The camp had turned in. Even Fedayeen sleep sometimes, I told myself. Ali must sleep. The only people who didn't seem to get much shut-eye these days were Mueller and Tschetter, poor bastards. Following the guard up the steps of a low wooden bungalow, I couldn't help yawning.

"You wait," said the guard, closing the door behind me. In the room was a bare desk and two chairs. I sat down in a chair. During the half hour I waited, I dozed off for a few seconds now and then.

The abrupt opening of the bungalow door and the switching on of an electric light snapped me back to wakefulness. Ali was standing in front of me. He didn't look happy seeing me there. "Who told you the password?" he demanded immediately.

I couldn't blame him for being surprised and angry having me turn up on his doorstep in the middle of the night. The quicker I put him at ease concerning my presence, the quicker I'd be able to see Jeanne if she was here.

"Louise told me the password."

He looked surprised, then suspicious. "Where have you seen her? She is not in Lebanon.

"She's in Beirut. She came back a few days ago and was caught by Mueller's friends. They tortured her until she told them about the meeting tomorrow – today – in Baalbek."

It was a lot of bad news to receive all at once from an outsider like me. For a long moment Ali didn't speak. He glared at me while sorting out the implications of what he'd just heard. "What meeting?" he said finally, deciding to give away nothing.

"The Middle East summit."

"What do you know?" he demanded.

"Louise overheard them. She thinks they plan to let the meeting take place, then kill all the leaders. Or maybe they plan to hold them hostage until their demands about a Middle East settlement are met."

"Why have you come here?"

"To warn you. To have you call off the summit meeting. To warn Jeanne about Mueller. Is she here?"

"That is no business of yours. She is no longer your wife. Her life is dedicated to the cause of the Palestinian people."

"Look, Ali," I said, feeling my temper rise. "I've gone through a hell of a lot to get this information to you. Louise was nearly tortured to death trying to keep your secrets from your enemies. But now they know about the meeting and you've been warned. If you don't believe me, then let me talk to my wife."

Instead of answering me, Ali turned to one of the guards and said a few words in Arabic. Approaching, the guard frisked me, finding my gun. He handed it shamefacedly to Ali who shouted at him, apparently for having failed to search me earlier.

"Is Jeanne here?" I repeated irritably. "Is she in the camp?"

"No."

"Tell me where to find her."

"You will not find her. You are not going anywhere."

"Then at least assure me that you'll do something to stop the disaster from happening at Baalbek."

"I will do nothing. The summit will take place as planned."

I stared at him in complete exasperation. "Then you don't believe me? You don't believe they're going to blow the thing sky high?"

"No, they will not."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I intend to do it myself."

I looked at him incredulously. Was that their plan? Or was it just Ali's private idea. "Does Jeanne know about this?" I asked him.

"That is none of your affair."

Engulfed by a blinding anger, I launched myself across the desk at him. My movement caught both Ali and the guards by surprise, and before anyone could get off a shot Ali and I were rolling around on the floor, too close together for anyone to risk firing. I'd forgotten everything, the place, the time, everything in my desire to get even with this bastard whose crazy plans had taken Jeanne from me.

"Where is she?" I heard myself shouting as I pounded him with my fists.

But if he answered, I didn't hear it. Something heavy came down on the side of my head, plunging me first into light, then into darkness.