Once the village was out of sight the driver flicked on the headlights and picked up speed. We seemed to hit every rock and pothole in the road as we bounced along. Soon the driver geared down for a climb up a steep incline. The van, its engine sputtering and grinding, labored up the hill and soon came to a stop in front of the ruins of an old building. Its stones and mud bricks were tumbled all around. What was left of its walls was pock marked by gunfire and shrapnel.

"Quickly," said the old man. "Get inside and take cover. No noise; no lights."

The four militiamen took up defensive positions, their weapons at the ready. I crouched amid the rubble with Leslie and Leonard. The old man went from one position to the next, scanning the hillside below and checking fields of fire for each man.

"Ahmad," he said to the one who had driven the van. "get all the ammunition from the vehicle. We have been followed."

Ahmad slipped into the van and emerged in a moment with two automatic rifles and two bandoleers of ammunition. The old man studied the radium dial of his watch and took a flashlight from his belt.

"Just a few more minutes now," he said. "Stay alert."

In a moment I could hear the slap of a helicopter's blades in the distance. The old man moved rapidly to the door of the building as the chopper beat closer.

"Be careful, Zeiduh," Leslie whispered.

He turned to her and in the moonlight I could see that he was smiling. Then he stepped briskly outside, aimed his flashlight at the approaching craft and began turning it on and off to signal our position. In a matter of moments gunfire erupted all around us from below the crest of the hill. The old man spun around twice and fell into the dust as the four militiamen opened up with cover fire.

"Zeiduh!" Leslie screamed, dashing to the old man's side. I grabbed Leonard and moved out toward the lowering helicopter as it kicked up a huge cloud of dust.

"Keep your head down," I told Leonard, "and move as fast as you can. Your taxi's here." I half-dragged him under the rotating blades, trying to keep my body between him and the gunfire that was ripping the area. From their defensive positions the militiamen were pouring automatic fire down the hillside. The helicopter door flew open and the old man shouted, "Get aboard, move!" as he pushed Leslie away.

"Zeiduh, no!" she screamed, trying to raise him.

The pilot was dragging Leonard aboard as I raced back to get Leslie. I managed to push her through the door of the aircraft and slam it behind her.

"Go! Go!" I yelled as bullets smacked against the 'copter's Plexiglas bubble. As the craft lifted off, I crouched as low as I could and made my way to the old man. He was still alive when I slipped my arms under his shoulders and dragged him back to the cover of the building. I could hear the helicopter fading in the distance as bullets pummeled the ruins all around us. I made the old man as comfortable as possible, took up a position beside the militiamen and began returning fire in the direction of the muzzle blasts from below. For nearly an hour the firefight raged inconclusively. Then Ahmad shouted.

"Enough! They've stopped shooting."

In the silence that followed I peered into the night. The moon cast eerie shadows but no sound came from the hillside below. It was a perfect defensive position. The old man had the savvy to pick the high ground for his rendezvous. Now all we needed was time and plenty of ammunition.

"How many do you think there are?" I asked Ahmad.

"Too many," he said. "How is the old one?"

"Bad," I said. "Let's have a look."

"Don't worry about me," the old man said. "See if the van will run. You must try to escape."

"Be quiet," Ahmad said as he flicked on a small flashlight. "Look. He has been shot in the stomach. That is very bad."

"No," said the old man. "I was shot in the back, and it came out the front. It is a difficult wound, and I will die."

I'd seen wounds like this many times, and I knew that he was right. The bullet makes a tiny hole as it enters, then spreads as it meets the resistance of bone and cartilage, then rips its way out through soft tissue leaving a massive exit wound. If death is not instantaneous, it comes inevitably from loss of blood. It is impossible to stanch the flow from such a wound, but we could try. Ahmad crawled to the van and returned with the old man's burnoose. We wrapped it around Zeiduh's midsection and secured it with an empty ammunition belt.

"I wish we had some morphine," I said to him.

"There is a vial and syringe in the medical kit," he said weakly. "It's under the driver's seat, Ahmad. Get the bag quickly, please."

"Let me do it," I said when he returned. I loaded the syringe from a vial of clear liquid, rolled up the old man's sleeve and with the aid of Ahmad's tiny flashlight found the vein. As I injected him I noticed a series of numbers tattooed on his forearm. I recognized it from stories of the Holocaust. It was an identification number. The old man was a survivor of the Nazi death camps. The number was familiar, too - 47558, the same number we saw on the greeting card in Athens, the same number scrawled on our baggage tags, and later on our airline tickets. It was the code number for this operation, the signal approving our movements at each step of the journey. Initially it had meant nothing to me, so it must have been directed at Leslie. She must have known it all along what it meant.