Looking back, I guess it was the only way I could have gotten any sleep that night. When I awoke I was in a different room, no desk, no chairs. I was lying on the floor in semi-darkness, the only light sunlight streaming in through chinks in the plank walls.

Trying to move, I found my feet were bound together and my hands tied behind me. Head throbbing, my mind dragged itself out of unconsciousness like a shipwrecked man crawling out of the sea. When it was halfway up the beach I realized I wasn't alone. Someone was kneeling next to me.

"Chet, are you awake?"

"Jeanne?"

"I just learned you were here." Her voice was low and urgent. "I don't know how you found this place, but I haven't time to talk now. You'll be safe here until I get back. I've brought a woman to look after you."

Her lips touched my forehead. "Jeanne..." But she was gone.

Goddamn it! Half out of my mind I wriggled and strained at the ropes. No use. They were tied fast. Then the sound of water drops falling into a basin and suddenly, from behind, a cool towel was laid on my brow. Struggling around into a seated position I saw an old woman crouched next to me. "Help me," I begged her. "Aidez-moi."

She made clucking sounds. "Calme-toi," she said.

Calm down? That was the last thing I could think of doing. "Listen," I said to her in French, "I've got to get out of here. You've got to help me. It's a matter of life and death."

"Madame has said you must stay here."

"Madame is full of shit. Lady, get a knife, quick. Cut these ropes."

Although she made no move to help me I could see she was troubled about refusing me. An Arab woman her age would find it hard to take the orders of a woman over those of a man. But it was more than that. She looked worried, too. What about? Surely she didn't know about the Baalbek summit so there was no point trying to exploit that problem in my favor. So I tried the only other card available.

"Madame Jeanne is in danger," I told her. "Big danger. They're going to kill her."

"Je n’en sais rien." She turned her face away.

"It's Ali," I insisted. "Ali is crazy. Ali. Fou. Tu comprends?" I wished I could tap my head to show her my meaning more graphically.

She sighed, nodded, shrugged. "He is fou," she admitted.

"Jeanne is my wife. Ali's going to kill her. Jeanne does not know this. I must warn her."

She flinched perceptibly at my words, but said nothing.

"Yes, he's going to kill everybody. Explosives. Boom. Do you understand?"

"Explosives," she repeated slowly as if this word had meaning for her.

"He's going to blow everybody up. Boom." I wasn't sure if I was making it up or not. He'd said as much the evening before, but he might have been speaking metaphorically. On the other hand there was Othe. It must have been Ali who blew that up. "Explosives, dynamite, TNT."

It was a wild attempt to alarm her, and when I saw my words were getting to her, I pressed harder. "Haven't you seen the explosives?"

She nodded very slightly. "Oui."

"Then you know! You know my wife Jeanne is in danger. Ali is crazy. He's going to blow everyone up."

She turned and looked hard into my face. I had the feeling she was trying to determine whether or not to trust me.

"Jeanne is my wife," I repeated softly. "You must help me save her."

I was sure I was touching some raw nerves. Things were going on around her of which she didn't approve. It was obvious she didn't like Ali but did like Jeanne. For a long moment she looked at me without a word.

"You are her husband?" she asked.

"Yes." My voice was desperate, pleading.

"This morning many boxes of explosives were moved in this camp. I saw them. My son saw them."

Jesus. Then my assumption was right. The bastard really was going to do it. "Listen, Ali is preparing to blow everything up. He's crazy. My wife is in danger."

"I have always feared trouble from this crazy man," said the old woman. "I have warned Jeanne, but she doesn't listen. She is always rushing, as if time is short. But time is long."

"Not now it isn’t," I told her. "If I don’t get out of here right now there won’t be any time left."

"I can get you out. Wait here."

Wait! The word nearly made me laugh aloud. If I hadn't been tied hand and foot I'd have been long gone already. But my relief was enormous. At least there was hope.

She was gone about five minutes, returning with a large bundle. Pulling a knife out of the pack she began to saw at the cords around my wrists. "What day is this?" I asked her.

"Sunday."

A moment later my hands were free. Taking the knife I started on my ankles. My watch said it was after one o’clock. The meeting at Baalbek was scheduled to take place in the next few hours. There might still be time to do something if I could just get out of here.

"Where has Jeanne gone?" I asked her.

"She has not yet gone. Her car is still here. Ali is not in the camp. I do not know where he is."

If Jeanne was still in the camp there might be time to warn her that Mueller could be waiting for her down on the road. Whether or not she was aware of Ali's plans to blow up the Baalbek summit didn't matter as long as she wasn't along when he tried. What mattered now was that I seemed to be the only person who did know and who wanted to prevent that disaster from happening. If I could get out of here and reach the military settlement where Louise had said the meeting would take place, perhaps I could warn them in time.

The old woman had brought me some khaki clothes to wear, including a military cap. The pants were too small, but the shirt fit. I put it on and the cap. With the sunburn and stubble I'd accumulated I looked as much like a Palestinian commando as I ever would.

Now the only problem was getting out of there.

"You will walk out of the camp with me," said the crone. "I know the way."

"There must be a guard outside the door."

"Only one. Most of the camp has gone to the rally at Tal al Zaatar. The others are at lunch. You must immobilize only this one."

"How?" I was open for any suggestion.

"I will ask him to come inside," she said. "Then you hit him with this."

From her shawl she produced a length of the ubiquitous iron bar. I was beginning to feel the scrap metal business would be a flourishing one in Lebanon. Before I'd gotten my head together for the job at hand, she was knocking at the door, calling softly in Arabic to the guard outside.

A few seconds later a key turned in the lock. I stepped back as the door opened and the woman, gesturing excitedly, motioned him inside. He came in with his submachine gun at the ready. Raising the iron bar, I brought it down on his skull. His falling body hadn't even touched the floor before the old woman had deftly removed his weapon.

"Take it. Put the strap on your shoulder. Come."

We stepped through the door into the sunlight. I followed her as she walked across the camp, neither fast nor slow. As she'd said, there weren't many persons about. Nobody seemed to take any notice of us. It was a small encampment from what I could see, military in aspect, not a refugee camp. The only clothes I saw drying on the lines were khaki and blue denim.

"Her car is gone," my companion whispered.

Shit. If Jeanne drove out of here now it was damn likely Mueller would be onto her when she reached the main road, if by now he'd gotten another car. I prayed the Honda would still be where I'd left it. Had I suspected the welcome I'd be getting from Ali on my arrival here I'd have done a better job of concealing it.

As we entered the woods and made our way through the brush parallel to the dirt road, the old woman turned to me. "If anyone sees us now," she whispered, "pretend we are lovers." Cackling quietly, she lifted her black, full length shawl over her head. I had to admit it would be difficult to tell her age in a clinch, but I hoped Arab credulity wouldn't be put to the test.

Thank God, the Honda was right where I’d left it. I’d have hung onto the disguise for what it was worth, particularly the submachine gun, but the old lady had such a grip on that that I had to let her take it. Then my motorcycle helmet replaced the cap. As I was going to wear my windbreaker there was no need for the shirt either. Giving her back the clothes, I was thinking Mueller would have his old familiar target after all.

A few minutes later I was easing the bike onto the main road near the transformer. No sign of the German. A glance down the road showed me the rear end of the Merc protruding from the ditch, a guard squatting next to it. Perhaps because it was lunchtime the road was deserted. It was a warm, humid day with some clouds and a threat of thunderstorms in the air. As I swung onto the road and picked up speed, the wind felt fresh on my face.

A few miles along the road I passed the military airfield of Rayak. It was the nearest airfield to Baalbek, and if any of the participants in the summit were arriving by plane, this might be the place they'd land. From here they could reach Baalbek by road or helicopter.

Driving past I could see some French Mirages parked on the tarmac and a couple of Fouga trainers. For a moment I played with the thought of going there instead of continuing to Baalbek. I could ask to speak with the camp commander and give him my information. But what if even he wasn't in on the plan? Perhaps the heads of state weren't coming through here. Tel Aviv was a short hop by chopper and so was Damascus. The Arab chiefs might first be landing in Damascus instead of Rayak.

No, I decided, it wasn't worth the risk. I might end up being interrogated by some flunky and never even get to see the camp commander. Time was getting too short to mess around.

While thinking all this over I'd unconsciously slowed down. Now, from behind, came the sound of frantic honking. I turned to see a Renault 404 packed with Lebanese trying to get by. But the cacophony wasn't caused by just one horn. Behind the Renault was another car also wanting to pass. With traffic coming from the opposite direction, they wanted me to squeeze to the side of the road.

Not wanting to get squeezed into a ditch, but agreeable to letting them by, I accelerated until the opposing traffic had gone past, then moved as far to the right as possible. As the heavily loaded Renault started to pass, the car behind it, a Volkswagen, started to overtake it on the outside. Both drivers were honking as if their speed depended on their decibel count.

I turned to see who was in such a hurry in a VW. Good God. Mueller. What was he doing behind me? Was he late to the party? Thank God at least for that.

After passing me the two cars fought for position, with the VW pulling ahead. Either Mueller hadn't seen me, masked as I'd been by the other car, or he had more important business down the road. In any case, his lead wasn't going to last long. The Lebanese in the Renault had no intention of being outdistanced by a foreigner. Now that their car had managed to accelerate, they advanced on Mueller like a juggernaut.

I too had reasons for not wanting Mueller to get ahead. Jeanne was probably not far up the road, a fact he could have learned from the guy guarding the Merc. In which case he'd know my whereabouts, too. As the 404 started to overtake him, I started to pass the Renault on the outside. It was a pretty breathless moment given the oncoming traffic, but I pulled ahead of the Lebanese a whisker length ahead of an oncoming car.

The three vehicles were now zipping down the road at top speed, this time with the Honda in the lead and pulling away. I wasn't sure what Mueller’s big hurry was all about, but it didn’t take long to find out. Up ahead was another car. It was going at moderate speed and I signaled my intention of overtaking it. Drawing nearer, I saw through the rear window that the driver was alone, that it was a woman – Jeanne.

Signaling wildly to keep the Lebanese behind me from barging into me as I caught up to Jeanne’s slower car, I drew level with her window. At the same moment the car behind, too impatient to wait, began to pass, honking like mad. Jeanne turned her head in alarm at the noise, recognizing me with a start of surprise.

"Mueller," I shouted, "he's behind you." Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, to the road ahead. She pressed down on the accelerator.

With her new thrust of speed, the Renault on the outside was unable to get ahead. I felt like a sandwich filling, Jeanne on one side of me, the Lebanese on the other. Up ahead a car was coming in the opposite direction. The choice had to be made now – either I pulled ahead of Jeanne or dropped behind. If she didn't manage to stay ahead of the German he'd overtake her and shoot her through the window or run her car off the road. Ahead of her I could do nothing to prevent this. By staying behind I might be able to block him. It would mean the end of my bike and maybe a couple of lives, but Jeanne would get away.

The choice was ridiculously easy. As I dropped back, the Renault managed to pull ahead of Jeanne.

We went on like this for a few more miles, past a dingy, moldy barracks where old men and ragged children looked with unchanging expressions at the passing vehicles. Palestinians? Probably Bedouins. Mueller, still back a ways, was gaining slowly. At all costs I had to stay between his car and Jeanne's.

I didn’t know Jeanne's intentions but figured under the circumstances she'd head for the military camp. Up ahead on the right were some buildings on a hill that looked as if they might be part of it. Then I saw a sign saying BAALBEK.

Suddenly Jeanne clutched her head. She glanced back. I saw what had happened. She'd overshot the entrance to the camp. Now it was too late. If she stopped and tried to turn around, Mueller would catch up.

It was time to think for her. On my left I could see the towering ruins of the Baalbek temples. Accelerating, I shot past Jeanne and signaled for her to follow me. We had to get where there were other people, foreigners, tourists. A moment later I screeched to a dusty stop at the entrance to the ruins. With Jeanne right behind me, I ran toward the ticket window.

"Two," I told the man, pushing some money at him.

A crowd of guides surrounded us. "You," I said to one, pulling him after us.

The entrance to the Baalbek complex was a long, dark tunnel leading out onto a stone meadow of pillars, walls and steps. For a moment we paused, almost blinded by the sunlit stone. But where were the goddamn tourists? There weren't any. It was still lunchtime.

Taking Jeanne's hand, I started to run across the great court, up the steps of the long vanished Temple of Jupiter. Mueller and his high powered rifle couldn't be far behind. The guide followed after us, running and puffing with the exertion. I stopped to let him catch up. "Exit," I said to him. "Where's the exit? La sortie?"

Puzzled, he pointed back toward where we’d entered. The entrance was also the only exit. The whole area of ruined temples was surrounded by a high enclosure. And we were inside it.

It seemed unlikely that Mueller hadn't seen or guessed where we'd gone. If I'd had any doubts about that, a glance toward the entrance removed them. The German was there, blinking like a groundhog in the sunlight at the end of the tunnel, clutching his rifle case.

Except for our guide, nobody else was in sight but a couple of tourists, too few to deter Mueller. By approaching them we'd only put their lives in danger, too. The guides were out of sight at the other end of the tunnel. Then I noticed another figure, Terry Rolland. With a nod at Mueller she took a position at the tunnel mouth. I didn't have to think hard to guess what she was carrying in her large handbag.

We started to run again, the guide still behind us. "Do you see those six pillars?" he shouted. "They are the only ones left standing from the Temple of Jupiter. Twenty meters high ... entablature ... nearly six meters high."

I looked back. Mueller was walking up the temple steps. He didn't seem to be in a hurry. Jeanne tugged at my arm. "This is the place," she was saying. "The Temple of Jupiter. I was supposed to meet Ali here at two thirty." She looked at her watch. "It's almost that now." She glanced around as if expecting her friend to pop up from behind a stone.

"Listen, Jeanne," I said. "About your friend Ali."

"What about him?"

"Only that he plans to blow up the Baalbek summit."

She stopped dead in her tracks. "How do you know about the summit?"

"Louise. They made her talk. How do you think I found you?"

"I don't know. Where's Louise?"

"I left her in a hospital in Beirut. Terry Rolland and her goons tortured her until she told about the meeting at Baalbek. They're planning some sort of coup, but Ali says he's going to beat them to it, blow up the whole thing."

"Nonsense. Why would he do that? After all our work."

"Maybe blowing up Othe gave him an appetite for that kind of thing. Anyway, I heard him say it with my own ears, just before one of his boys knocked me unconscious. Your former nanny helped me escape. By the way, the code name is Heliopolis."

She looked stunned. Obviously this news was highly disturbing to her. "Why would Ali tell you the truth?" she said at last. "He must have been trying to confuse you."

I was losing patience. "C'mon, Jeanne, try and believe me. Too much is at stake. What time is the meeting?"

She looked at her watch. "The participants begin arriving at three o'clock at intervals of ten minutes. Some of them must already be on their way."

"We've got to keep them from landing. We've got to get out of here and warn the military. Do you have a gun?"

"I left it in the car."

As if this realization had taken away her last strength, Jeanne sank down on the bottom of a flight of stone steps. I saw how tired she was, her eyes circled with shadows. Two creases I’d never seen before had etched themselves on either side of her mouth.

I turned to the guide. "Stay here with Madame," I told him. "Don't leave her for a moment. Tell her about the ruins."

The guide nodded. As I climbed the stairs, which led up onto one wall of the ruined temple, I heard him beginning to tell Jeanne the history of Baalbek from pre-Roman times onward.

I'd lost sight of Mueller and that was bad. I had to find him before he found Jeanne. I had the feeling he’d ducked around the right-hand side of the temple base and with any luck I’d be able to look down on him from the top of the wall. With the luck on his side he'd be able to pick me off with ease from any one of a number of available crannies.

And then I spotted him – about ten feet below me. He’d just fitted together his rifle and was hesitating over which way to go. I didn't wait for the decision. Jumping from the upper ledge, I landed on top of him, sending both of us sprawling. His rifle went clattering across the stones.

For a second we were both stunned, but as I grappled for him he tore himself away with surprising agility and started crawling toward his rifle. I threw myself after him, flattening him just before his groping fingers closed on it. As we struggled, I realized he wasn't the tub of lard I'd judged him to be. A lot of muscle was hidden under that flab.

If I let him get that rifle, Jeanne and I could kiss the world goodbye. So could at least one Middle Eastern monarch, a couple of presidents, and a smattering of prime ministers. Mueller, too, had plenty at stake.

I tried to hang onto the mass of fighting flab, but a blow to the side of my head momentarily stunned me. With a heave and a lurch Mueller crossed the space between us and the rifle. His fingers were closing on it as I grabbed a loose stone and, flinging myself forward, brought it down with all my force on his fat hand. He released the weapon with a yell and I grabbed it.

Staggering to my feet, I pointed the rifle at his head. "Mueller," I shouted, "put your hands in the air, put them against that wall. Mueller ..."

Suddenly I realized why I was shouting. Because a terrible noise was everywhere, a terrible wind and chaos. Something was rising from the fields below, rising up over the ruins like a great bird of death.

I grabbed the rifle and started running back around the temple, looking for Jeanne, for the stairs where I'd left her. She’d said she had a rendezvous with Ali. Only instead of coming by road, he'd come with the Jet Ranger.

I found the steps, but Jeanne was no longer there. Racing up them, three at a time, I arrived on the top of the wall. At the other end of it, in the air, hovered the helicopter. Jeanne was running toward it along the wall. I pointed the rifle at the figure in the front seat and fired. Jeanne was almost to it when suddenly it bounded up perhaps twenty feet into the air. A window on the side opened and someone returned my fire. I saw Jeanne go down, but didn't know if she'd been hit or had ducked.

Diving for protection behind some stones I took aim. The helicopter was moving off fast. Good. I didn’t want to bring it down on the temples, but I had to bring it down.

Marksmanship isn't my game, but I know where to hit a chopper. Right in the rotor. Only with the caliber I was using I aimed for the small rotor in the rear. My second shot ripped it to pieces. Suddenly rudderless, the Bell started to gyrate. I shot again.

It was the fuselage I hit this time, but not just the fuselage. My bullet ripped through the side of the chopper and connected with the massive quantity of explosives Ali had stored aboard. The explosion was immediate and incredibly violent. Bursting with a mighty whoomp, a million bits of helicopter and human flesh rained down upon the fields, the road, the military camp.

Even at this distance the percussion nearly knocked me headlong on top of Jeanne. We clutched each other, looking back at the empty air where seconds earlier had been a helicopter.

"Jeanne, are you all right?"

"Yes. What time is it?"

"Five to three."

"Thank God," she said. "They've already taken off from Tel Aviv. They'll be en route from Amman and Damascus. They'll be warned to turn around. Oh, Chet. All that work, months of work, for nothing."

It didn't worry me. Something else did. "Why were you running for the helicopter?" I asked her. "Did you want to go with him? Or try to stop him?"

She looked at me in surprise. "I don't think I really know. We'd worked together for so long. I was going to see what he was up to and play it by ear."

I grabbed her and hugged her to me. No other answer could have rung so true. Both of us had forgotten about Mueller. Now suddenly he appeared in front of us. Next to him was Terry Rolland. Mueller was pointing a pistol at Jeanne's head.

"Come on, Mueller," I said. "You're not going to kill her now. The party's over."

"He was hired to do a job," said Terry. "He won’t be paid unless he does it."

Mueller removed the safety catch on the gun. I couldn't believe he was going to kill Jeanne now that everything was finished. Making no sudden move I rose to my feet, pushing Jeanne behind me. "Listen, Mueller, how about if I pay you not to kill her."

"How much?"

I told Jeanne to reach in my back pocket. She did, bringing out a dirty handkerchief. "No, the other pocket." This time her hand came forth with a wad of bills, the money Drucker had paid me to fly her to Beirut. "Eight hundred dollars," I told Mueller. "It's not Monopoly money. Take it and let her live."

He looked disdainfully at the bills. "Eight hundred dollars is nothing."

"It's better than life in prison or a firing squad. Look behind you."

The German turned to see a half dozen or so soldiers coming into the compound.

"I think you're right," he said, taking the money and slipping his gun behind a rock.

"Then it's a deal? You'll let her live?"

"It's a deal."

"You, too, Terry"

"I'm no killer, Chet. You know that."

"Then let's all get out of here," I said. "Where's our guide? We could use some guidance at this point in time."

We found the poor bastard crouching down behind some rocks. Dusting him off, we set his needle back to the beginning. Pre-Roman times. As the lecture started, Mueller, pleased as punch, took out his microfilm camera and started photographing the ruins.

"Amazing," he said, looking at the Temple of Bacchus. "I must come back here some day with my family."

It was a happy group of "tourists" that made their way out of the compound, past the noses of the Lebanese soldiers.