THE NEXT MORNING

DOHA, QATAR—AUGUST 23, 2021—06:15 / 6:15 A.M. AST

Voices. They sounded echoey and distant. And they weren’t speaking right. The words were garbled. Confused.

Nir sucked in a deep breath, then another. The voices were growing louder, clearer. He realized the words weren’t jumbled. They were just in another language. Arabic. He chanced opening his eyes, cautious about the possible brightness. But there was no great glare. As he looked around, it appeared the only light source was from a line of windows two thirds of the way up on three of four walls.

He spotted two men dressed in black wearing balaclavas over their faces. Noticing that Nir was conscious, one of them walked out a door, closing it behind him. The second raised a rifle in Nir’s direction.

“I will shoot,” he said in broken Hebrew.

“Your Hebrew sucks,” Nir responded in Arabic, surprised at how croaky his voice sounded.

Well, it’s obvious they know who I am. And so it begins…

He’d been stripped to his boxers and was sitting on a folding metal chair. His hands were bound behind him, and when he tugged on them, he heard chain links rattling. He assumed his numerous aches and scuffs were from being transported in the trunk he’d seen back in the hotel room. He had no idea how long ago that had been.

Absolutely nothing can happen in these next hours to make them anything less than terrible. Prepare yourself. Endure. Survive. Get under their skin. Then pay them back.

The door opened. Four well-armed, black-clad, masked men walked in and took up positions, two on each side of the door. They were followed by two more men, one older than the other. Each was wearing a white Saudi thawb. On their heads they wore the traditional red-and-white-checkered ghutra, held in place by the black cord of the igal. Neither man was masked, and both wore full beards.

“He speaks Arabic,” the man with the poor Hebrew skills said.

“Good to know,” said the older of the men.

They stood in front of Nir and looked down at him. The younger one wore a look of disgust while the older looked amused.

“You want me to pose? Maybe talk sexy to you?” Nir asked.

“I don’t think you are in a position to be making jokes, Mr. Tavor,” said the older man with disdain.

“They say if you don’t have your humor, you don’t have anything.” Nir looked down at himself. “I’d say that’s pretty true for me right now.”

Now the man smiled. “Yes, that is certainly true for you. Unfortunately, I also don’t think you’ll maintain your humor for much longer.”

“Try me.”

“Oh, I will.” The man snapped his fingers, and one of the men in black brought a chair and unfolded it. Sliding it in front of Nir, the man sat down.