Raymond Khoury - The Sanctuary

“Yes, he’s going to be waiting outside a big mosque. Tell me when you take the exit ramp and I’ll guide you there.”

“What’s going on with Ramez?”

“He told Farouk to sit tight and wait, they should be there shortly.” She paused for a second. “They just hung up.”

Ramez watched his captor click off the phone and order his men to move. There were two of them, one older and one younger than their boss. Both displayed the same hard, emotionless expression, their eyes utterly barren of even the slightest hint of humanity. They left the room swiftly, leaving Ramez alone with his captor.

“That was good, wasn’t it? I did exactly as you asked, didn’t I?” Ramez asked, his breath coming short and fast now.

“Azeem,” the man replied tersely — perfect.

Ramez felt tears welling up in his eyes as he watched his captor nod, then casually flick the phone into his lap. Ramez looked down at it, then raised his eyes to his captor, smiling nervously, his heart racing, his nerves bursting, convincing himself that despite all logic, despite the most basic common sense, he would be freed.

That faint delusion was ruthlessly stamped out as his captor drew a handgun out of his belt, swung it straight at Ramez’s forehead, and fired.

As the Pathfinder raced past a lumbering taxi by the Sanayi’ garden square, Corben heard two quick shots rip through his earpiece, followed by a third one a couple of seconds later.

The controlling shot. To make sure.

His muscles tightened.

Bastards.

He knew it was inevitable. He’s already played it out in his mind, and he didn’t have any illusions about how these guys operated. They had no further use for the assistant professor, not after he’d handed them Farouk on a silver platter. Not that Corben believed the man had much choice. Once they’d grabbed him, he was dead either way. His only choice was about how much pain he was going to have to suffer before taking that call.

He heard a whimper in his earpiece. He knew it was Leila.

Olshansky’s voice cut in, “Jim, did you hear that?”

“I heard,” Corben replied flatly.

He knew it was hard on anyone to hear something like that, but there was no time to console Leila. He needed her — and Olshansky — focused.

“Leila. I’m gonna need those directions.”

It took a couple of seconds, but then he heard a sniffle and her voice came back, choked up and quivering. “Where are you now?”

“Just getting onto the Ring.” The elevated highway that linked East and West Beirut loomed ahead.

“You need to take the first exit ramp just after the tunnel.” Her voice was now clearer and, he noted, harder.

He was a couple of minutes away.

Omar glared dead ahead as the car raced down the newly carved avenue that cut through the city.

He needed this to work.

He wanted Farouk. Badly.

The last couple of days had been subpar. He prided himself on his cold efficiency, a stiletto in a world of blunt axes. Tasks such as the ones he’d been assigned since this affair had begun were his bread and butter. But he’d already lost two men — three, really, if you factored in the one with the obliterated shoulder, though they were all as easily replaced as the cars that had been damaged in the encounters — and the little shit-head was still out there.

The American had also become a major thorn in his side. He’d embarrassed him, and that was unforgivable. Omar would need to deal with him, at some point, regardless of the implications. He’d find a way. Timing was everything. He’d wait for the opportune moment, for one of the country’s recurring political meltdowns. Then the deed would go unnoticed, except by those whose opinion he valued, the truth buried under more pressing concerns.

He saw the turn leading to the antiques market and told the three men accompanying him to check their weapons.

He wasn’t heading back without his quarry.

Corben slammed on the brakes as he emerged from the tunnel on the Ring. A wall of cars blocked his way.

The four-lane, elevated highway was a main artery linking both sides of the city. Any obstacle on it — a scrape between two drivers, an ancient, conked-out truck, a car crippled by sniper fire — choked the traffic into one lane. Random, unexpected traffic jams were part of the driving experience in Beirut. People were usually creative in dealing with them. Invading the lanes of oncoming cars was one way of making road usage more flexible. The Ring, unfortunately, had a big and insurmountable central barrier. And the exit ramp Corben needed was still a hundred yards away.

Corben couldn’t see what was causing the jam. He looked back. A couple of cars were pulling up beside him, but nothing was directly behind him. He slammed the gear into reverse and hit the gas.

The SUV lurched backwards and dove into the tunnel. The tunnel was too short for anyone to bother turning their headlights on, and the shift from harsh sunlight to total blackness made it difficult to tell if any cars were coming at him. It took a beat for his eyes to adjust, and when they did, he spotted a car barreling straight at him.

He cursed under his breath as he lifted his foot off the gas and guided his car as close to the side wall as he could. The oncoming car swerved to its left, causing another car behind it to brake hard to avoid it, and rushed past him, its horn blaring down the tunnel. Corben hit the gas again and guided the car back, narrowly missing another passing car and finally emerging out of the tunnel.

He kept going until he reached an upramp that led to the intersection that straddled the tunnel, then slammed on his brakes, threw the gear into drive, and flew up the ramp.

“I had to back out of the tunnel,” he yelled into his phone. “I’m heading up to the main square over it.”

Leila’s voice came rushing back. “Okay, you’re going to need to take the first right and then left after that. Just head down that road and you’ll see the fire station on your right.”

Corben followed her instructions, but the going was slow. The narrow streets were heavy with traffic, the oddly parked cars and street vendors’ carts turning it into an obstacle course. Precious seconds turned into minutes as he navigated the SUV through the mess, shouting, hitting the horn, and waving cars to one side as he plowed through until he finally reached the fire station.

“I can see the station,” he exclaimed.

“Turn right and head up that road,” Leila shot back. “The cemetery wall’s on your left. Take a left right where it ends and you’ll see a mosque about fifty yards down that street, on your right. That’s where he’ll be.”

He practically leapfrogged over the cars ahead of him and finally spotted the mosque. It squatted between some old antiques bazaars. He slowed right down as he approached it, conjuring up Farouk’s photo from Evelyn in his mind’s eye as he scanned the street for any sign of Farouk or the hakeem’s hit team.

He spotted him.

The Iraqi dealer was standing there, waiting nervously, as directed.

The Iraqi was unmistakable, even in a setting where he didn’t exactly stand out. His posture — guarded, darting furtive glances up and down the street, trying to melt into the background — confirmed it for Corben.

Corben glanced at the oncoming cars and gave his mirror another check, wary of the hit team’s imminent arrival as he pulled up outside the mosque. He lowered his window as he stopped.

Farouk looked over. Corben saw that he must have noticed his interest in him, as apprehension immediately took hold of the dealer’s face before he threw a glance in the opposite direction, as if looking for salvation, and backed away a few steps.