The sun had set by the time we headed to a sloping street leading up to a large building on a hill. Electric light radiated from its windows. We rode alongside a high fence made of iron bars. We slowed down in front of a gate guarded by soldiers, on top of which was a brass plaque declaring it to be the Ministry of Defense for the Republic of Lebanon.
The soldiers raised the barrier to let our car through. It crossed the entranceway and turned toward the right. Then it stopped in front of a flight of ascending marble stairs.
My escort left the car, then gestured to me to follow him. We went up the marble stairs, followed by the other man who had been sitting beside the driver. We passed through a wide door to a large hallway crowded with soldiers and civilians. We went up another flight of stairs, and walked along a long corridor between two rows of closed doors. Finally, we slowed down and stopped in front of an office. My escort knocked on the door and went inside, while I remained outside with his colleague.
A few moments later, the man came out and gestured to me to come in. Then he closed the door behind me.
The office extended to the left of the entrance to where an enormous wooden desk stood. Behind it sat a short, elegantly dressed man. The man stood up and put out his hand for me to shake, saying: “Welcome, sir. A pleasure to meet you.”
He pointed to one of the two facing chairs that sat near his desk.
He went back to his seat. As I sat down, I looked closely at him. I read his name on a small wooden nameplate on his desk: “Colonel Muhsin al-Attar”.
He was also looking closely at me, and when he saw that I was reading his name, he said: “There — now we have gotten to know each other.”
I nodded.
“Wouldn’t you agree with me that you are quite fortunate?” he went on.
I arched my eyebrows, and didn’t say anything.
Shuffling several dossiers on his desk, he said, “Apparently you have many friends in Lebanon.”
He picked up a small notebook from one of the dossiers — I knew it had my passport in it — and flipped through its pages. When he realized that I was refraining from saying anything, he pointed out, “Your visa expires in three days’ time.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you intend to travel before then?” he asked.
I looked up at him in confusion. “Would it be possible for you to let me know where I am?” I asked.
He smiled. “You haven’t noticed yet?” he said. “You are here in the military intelligence bureau. The Deuxième Bureau, as they call it.”
“Why?”
He arched his eyebrows dismissively. “Why? Because we saved your life. We searched for your kidnappers and persuaded them to release you.”
I looked at the soft skin of his cheeks that hung loosely outside of his tight shirt collar.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I think we deserve more than a word of thanks.”
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“By having you stick to being candid and honest with me.”
“But I haven’t lied to you. I haven’t said anything to you.”
He smiled meaningfully.
“Exactly,” he said.
“Are you saying I’m a free man?”
“Of course.”
“Can I go?”
He tossed my passport to one side and picked up my notebook.
“Of course. But don’t you want to take your papers and your passport? And then there are a few small questions. You are free to answer them or to refuse. But if you want a proper way to express your appreciation for us…”
“What do you want to know?”
“First we’ll have some coffee. How do you take it?”
“Mazboota — medium-sweet.”
“Just like I do.”
He talked into a small intercom on his desk, requesting Egyptian-style coffee. He offered me a pack of Marlboros. I couldn’t stand the taste of them, but I took one, and let him light it for me. Then I took a deep pull on it that made me feel dizzy.
“Beirut is an important city as far as writers are concerned,” he said, “because it has a lot of publishers. Unfortunately, some writers and publishers don’t stay within the confines of their work, and they get themselves involved in matters that can cause them serious harm.”
A young man brought two cups of coffee. I took my cup, while he busied himself in changing the filter of his cigarette holder. Then he fixed his cigarette in it and lit it with slow deliberation as he cast a glance at a piece of paper in front of him. With no warning, he leaned over the desk and stared sharply at me.
“Where is Carlos?” he demanded.
Perplexed, I looked up at him.
“Carlos who?”
And suddenly I remembered, and smiled in spite of myself.
He jabbed a finger at me in a state of agitation.
“There — so you know!”
“You mean the international terrorist,” I said.
He grew even more agitated.
“That’s him exactly.”
“But what do I have to do with him?” I asked.
He pounded the dossiers with his fist.
“Sir,” he said in exasperation. “You should be talking candidly with me the way I am with you. We have information that you know him well.”
“Not true.”
“Our information has been corroborated.”
“Your information is wrong. I have nothing to do with terrorism or politics. I came to Beirut to publish a book, that’s all.”
He smiled wickedly.
“And what about the film?”
“What about the film?” I riposted sharply. “They asked me to write a voiceover for it. And why wouldn’t I do that? That’s my job.”
“So what’s the story with Carlos?”
“There isn’t any story. What I’ve told you is everything.”
He began examining me closely. He seemed to be uncertain about which of two options to take. Then he came to a decision, and slumped into his seat. He took the cigarette out of the holder and put it out in the ashtray, telling me, “Sir. Listen to what I’m going to tell you. We aren’t able to rescue a person in your circumstances every day. If we succeed today, then perhaps we won’t be able to the next time. My advice to you is to stay away from troublesome matters. If you find yourself in a fix, maybe you can turn to us. We hold some strings, and we can pull on some others.”
He picked up a card from the brass tray and handed it to me, saying, “Here’s my name and number. There’s no need for you to come here or for us to meet. You only have to pick up the phone and talk to me. Afterwards, you will find that we can show our gratitude. On the right occasion. This book you were talking about. Have you found a publisher for it?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“Give me a copy of the manuscript, and maybe we’ll find you one,” he offered.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have any more copies.”
He stood up and reached for my passport, my notebook and the rest of the papers that had been in my pockets. I stood up too, and took them from him.
“I had around two hundred lira with me,” I said.
“That’s all we got from your kidnappers,” he explained as he pressed a buzzer on his desk. “If you need cash, perhaps I could loan you some.”
He put his hand in his pocket, but I stopped him, saying, “There’s no need. I don’t need anything. I will manage.”
I insisted on refusing, and he took his hand out of his pocket. The escort from the car entered the room, and the colonel addressed him, saying, “Accompany this gentleman to the gate and call him a taxi.”
I shook hands with him to say goodbye, and left the office. I walked ahead of my escort to the floor below, the marble staircase, and then the outer gate.