It was located in south Beirut, still in a prominently Shia area, but outside the hard-core Hezbollah state-within-a-state. Nasrallah posters adorned every other street corner, but that was it. No paranoid gunmen or street toughs with radios. Still, he was generating interest. He could feel the eyes on him from every direction, all wondering what this infidel wanted here. Wondering if maybe he was lost. He wasn’t. The photo studio was the location of the Hezbollah asset that had helped the Palestinian assassin with his documents. Probably the same one that had built Lucas’s own. He didn’t know. All he’d done was provide passport photos to Majid, and Hezbollah had done the rest. He’d driven by earlier in the day on a reconnaissance, noting the business hours. He wanted to ensure that nobody else was in the studio when he entered, so he’d waited until just before closing. For what he had to do, he couldn’t afford anyone else being present. Well, he could, but it would just make things messier.
