The Second Messiah

Yasmin smiled and touched his arm. “I think you’re starting to bring out the maternal instinct in me. Besides, you needed someone to keep you company aside from Josuf.”

Jack felt that same familiar stab of electricity as she touched him. She wasn’t wearing shorts now but a black Arab hijab that covered her entire body, except the face veil was left open. The hijab had been Josuf’s idea so that she wouldn’t attract attention. “You could be right.”

Josuf came back and climbed into his seat. As he stashed away the old number plates he suddenly said hoarsely, “I think we have company.”

Jack peered beyond the windshield and felt his heart skip. A huge dust trail plumed behind two canvas-topped trucks painted in desert camouflage as they streaked across the sand. They were clearly police or military vehicles and Jack saw that each had a machine-gunner standing in the back. “Tell me we’re about to meet this military cousin of yours.”

Josuf’s face drained of color as he shook his head. “This looks like a Syrian border patrol.”

The vehicles turned toward them, the canvas tops rippling as they picked up speed. Jack said desperately, “Can’t you reverse and drive back over the border?”

“It’s too late for that.” Josuf sounded desperate.

“Try, for goodness’ sake,” Jack urged.

Josuf reversed the pickup, revved the engine, and turned in a half circle, just as a heavy-caliber machine gun erupted and the desert to the right of them kicked up sand. A second later another loud volley smacked into the road ahead of them, gouging out chunks of asphalt.

“Hey, they mean business!” Jack exclaimed.

The Syrian trucks roared closer. Two of the vehicles cut out in front of the pickup. Josuf slammed on the brakes in the middle of the road as half a dozen soldiers armed with Kalashnikov assault rifles jumped down, cocking their weapons. One of the soldiers screamed an order.

Josuf’s face was drenched in sweat. “They want us to step out and keep our hands in the air.”

“Is your cousin among them?”

“No, Mr. Cane.”

“Terrific.”

28

A fresh-faced lieutenant stepped down from one of the trucks. He brandished an automatic pistol and shouted in Arabic, “Step out of the vehicle and keep your hands high.”

Josuf climbed out and obeyed, followed by Jack and Yasmin.

The lieutenant stepped closer and studied them suspiciously. “Who are you? What are you doing on Syrian soil?” he demanded.

“A mistake, sir,” Josuf pleaded. “I realized the moment I saw your patrol. I’m lost, sir.”

The lieutenant was wary. “The road is well signposted. How are you lost?”

“I can’t read, sir,” Josuf replied.

The lieutenant pointed his pistol at Josuf’s face, then swiveled the weapon toward Jack and Yasmin. “Let me see your papers. Search all of them and their vehicle,” he ordered his men, then pointed his weapon at Yasmin. “You, hand over your papers.”

Sweat beaded Jack’s forehead. He saw Yasmin stricken with fear as two soldiers came forward and searched him and Josuf. Another kept his Kalashnikov trained on Yasmin as she fumbled to hand over her passport.

The lieutenant scrutinized their documents. His eyes sparked when he saw Jack’s American passport. “So, you are an American?” he said in English.

“That’s what the passport says.”

“You speak Arabic?”

“A little.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Your passports have Israeli stamps. What are you doing in this area?”

Jack said, “It’s like the driver said. We got lost.”

“But you speak Arabic. You could have read the signs.”

Jack shook his head. “I guess I don’t read the language all that well.”

In an instant the lieutenant slapped him across the jaw.

Jack felt the raw, stinging blow and clapped a hand to his cheek. “Hey, I told you the truth. I didn’t notice any signs that said we had entered Syria.”

The lieutenant aimed his pistol at Jack’s head. “Liar. We’ll soon see if you’re telling the truth or not, American.”

“Lieutenant Farsa.”

A major stepped out of the second truck. Jack had been so preoccupied that he hadn’t noticed him in the passenger seat. The man wore a crisply pressed uniform. His dark eyes and pencil-thin mustache gave him a dangerous look. A cigarette was balanced delicately between his thumb and forefinger and he studied his three captives. “I am Major Harsulla, of the Mukhabarat, the Syrian secret police. Who are our guests, lieutenant?”

The major’s voice was surprisingly gentle. The lieutenant handed him the three passports. “The old one’s a Bedu, his passport’s Jordanian. It seems the vehicle belongs to him. The woman’s Lebanese, the man’s an American.”

The major’s eyebrows rose with interest and he flicked away his unfinished cigarette. “American, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

The major grinned. “Well now, isn’t that interesting?” He studied the passports zealously before looking at Jack and Yasmin. Finally, his gaze shifted to Josuf. “You say you got lost, old man?”

“Yes, sir, we got lost, certainly. This is all a terrible mistake.”