Sonallah Ibrahim - Beirut, Beirut

He gestured to me to come out, and I obeyed. I had hardly stepped outside the room when I sensed the presence of someone else. Before I could make out his face, a cloth blindfold was put over my eyes and tied around my head. Then a hand on my back pushed me and I walked forward, stumbling. One of them grabbed my arm and pulled me through a long passage. We went up a set of stairs and continued walking. Then we went down a long staircase. It seemed to me as though we were taking the same route as the first time. My idea was confirmed when I sensed that we had gone out into the street.

There was a car motor running nearby. A hand pushed me forward toward the source of the sound. Then it pushed down on my shoulder, and forced me to lean over. My leg bumped against a metal edge. The next moment, I was settling into a car seat between two guards.

The car set out at a normal speed. A little later it doubled its speed. Then I smelled the ocean. I heard one of the people sitting with me say, “Here.”

The car stopped; no one moved. The one sitting to my right lit a cigarette. The sound of the lighter being flicked was repeated a few times. Then the car filled with cigarette smoke. No one said a word.

The silence was total. We seemed to be in an out-of-the-way place. I thought I detected the sound of a car at a distance. I listened closely. Some time passed before I could make out the sound. Gradually, it began to grow louder, until it came to a stop near us. The one sitting on my left moved to open the door next to him and got out of the car. His footsteps receded, then disappeared. A little later, he came back and ordered me to get out.

He grabbed me by the arm as I stepped outside. He walked several steps with me, then stopped. Then he let go of me. I heard the sound of his feet moving away in the direction we had come from.

My heart pounded violently. I thought about putting my hand up and pulling off the blindfold, but I didn’t dare. Then I heard the car I had come in start its motor. I thought about running, or throwing myself on the ground. Then I heard the car take off in the distance.

Several heavy, unhurried feet approached me. A hand reached up to my blindfold and removed it. I blinked several times before I could make out the man who was standing in front of me. He was heavy-set and elegantly dressed, and wore sunglasses.

He touched my arm with his hand, pointed me to a black American car standing at a distance, and said: “This way, please.”

I walked beside him in a daze. We reached the car and he opened the back door, stepping aside so I could get in. Then he closed the door, walked around the car, and proceeded to get in on the other side.

There was a young man wearing similar glasses sitting beside the driver. As for the latter, I only saw one side of a bald head covered by a cloth cap.

“Where are we going?”

No one bothered to answer me. I understood what they wanted and kept silent.

The car passed through semi-deserted streets surrounded by demolished houses. Then the view changed, as we traveled through a high-class neighborhood that hadn’t suffered much destruction. Then after fifteen minutes, the scenery of ruins returned.

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.