Raymond Khoury - The Sanctuary

The autopsies showed that the hakeem wasn’t just playing with pineal glands. Other glands such as the pituitary and thymus glands were also part of his repertoire, as were testicular glands in males and ovaries in women. In some victims, he had limited his experimentation to studying the effects of various hormones and enzymes on the test subjects’ bodies. His work was remarkably advanced, encompassing both prolongevity staples such as telomerase as well as more recent fixations such as the PARP-1 protein. The equipment at his disposal was state-of-the-art, and he was clearly a skilled surgeon and molecular biologist.

Invariably, his test subjects suffered horrible deaths. Some of the men, women, and children who were wheeled into his operating chamber were farmed for whatever parts were of use to him and simply discarded. Others, the recipients, endured long periods of living with the effects of his demented procedures, and when their bodies finally gave out, he clearly had no qualms about opening them up to have a look at what went wrong before chucking their remains into mass graves.

Kirkwood felt nauseous. A bile of anger burned the back of his throat. He knew of scientists who had decamped to less conscientious countries where they could carry out their grotesque experiments without worrying about activists and ethics committees. But this was different. This went far beyond anything he’d ever considered humanly possible.

This was true evil.

The most shocking part of it was that Corben, according to the file, had been tasked with finding the hakeem.

Not to take him down.

To harness his talents.

It wasn’t a first. Governments were always happy to forgive past trespasses, no matter how horrific, and dance with the devil if it meant getting their hands on innovative and valuable research. The U.S. government was one of the early adopters of that model. They did it with Nazi rocket scientists. They did it with Russian experts in nuclear, chemical, and biological warfare. And, it seemed, they were happy to do it with this hakeem.

Corben’s assignment was to find the hakeem and bring him into the fold. Evelyn’s kidnapping gave him a way to connect with him. But it had to mean that in their eyes, she was expendable. A means to an end. Nothing more.

He flashed back to Abu Barzan’s unexpected phone call. The surprise bidder. At the same time as Farouk had mortally been wounded.

While he’d been in Corben’s custody.

Before he’d died.

How far were they prepared to go?

He had to adjust his plans.

Kirkwood wondered who else was in the loop. Were they all in on it? Hayflick, the station chief — probably. The ambassador — maybe not. Kirkwood hadn’t gotten that vibe from him, but then again, these people did lie for a living.

He’d need to call the others, inform them of his discoveries. He knew they’d agree. He had to short-circuit Corben’s assignment, even if it meant jeopardizing the project. Evelyn’s life depended on it, as did the lives of countless innocents who could find themselves on the monster’s operating table.

Images of the hakeem’s victims ambushed his every thought. He knew he wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon.

A flurry of muffled thumps jolted Corben awake.

He sprang up, his eyes barely registering the ghostly 2:54 A.M. reading on the alarm clock on his side table, his foggy brain still booting up and struggling to process some noise at the very edge of his hearing threshold: rapid footfalls, rushing stealthily across the cold, tiled floor of his apartment, coming straight at him.

He realized what was happening, his hand instinctively diving into the side table’s drawer for his handgun, but just as his fingers felt its grip, the door to his bedroom burst open and three men whose features he couldn’t make out in the darkness bolted in. The lead man kicked the drawer shut, slamming it hard against Corben’s wrist. Corben reeled with pain, turning back in time to glimpse the man’s raised arm arcing down at him like a lightning bolt from above.

He thought he spotted a gun in its grasp a split second before the strike connected with his skull and sent him crashing into a sudden and absolute blackout.

The roof terrace of the Albergo Hotel was soothingly mellow, a pleasant change from the chaotic bustle of the bar at Mia’s previous hotel.

She hadn’t been here before. Lost among jasmine and dwarf fig trees, a handful of people were scattered in the dark recesses of this suspended oasis that overlooked the city’s rooftops and the sea beyond. She found a quiet corner and was soon in the comforting embrace of a martini. E. B. White had dubbed the drink his “elixir of quietude,” and right now that was working just fine for her.

She was too lost in her own thoughts to notice that she was the only solo person here. A lot had happened in the previous forty-eight hours, and her mind had a lot to work through.

She was looking for a waiter to order a refill when Kirkwood appeared and joined her. They shared a round and dabbled in some awkward chitchat, briefly commenting on the hotel’s charms and the city’s contradictions. Mia could see that his mind was elsewhere. His eyes radiated a deep unease, and something was obviously haunting him.

He was the first to veer them back to the grim tide they were swimming against.

“I saw the broadcast. You did great. It’ll do the trick. This hakeem will definitely get the message. They’ll call.”

“But then what?” Mia asked. “We don’t have anything to offer them, and trying to pull off some kind of bluff…” She let the words drift.

“The guys at the embassy know their stuff,” Kirkwood assured her. “They’ll figure it out. They managed to get to Farouk before the hakeem’s men, right?”

She could see that he wasn’t thrilled by the prospect either, but she appreciated the effort. “Yeah, and look how well that turned out.”

Kirkwood found a half-smile. “I’ve got my contacts in Iraq working on it. I’m pretty confident they’ll come up with something.”

“What? What could they possibly find that could make a difference?”

He didn’t really have an answer he could give her. A waiter glided over and discreetly replenished their carrot sticks and pistachios, then Kirkwood said, in a surprising change of tack, “I never knew Evelyn had a daughter.”

“I wasn’t around,” Mia said. “I lived with my aunt. In Boston. Well, near Boston.”

“What about your father?”

“He died before I was born.”

A shadow crossed his face. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “They were together. In Iraq. In that chamber. One month later, he dies in a car crash.” She raised her glance to Kirkwood. All light had abandoned her voice. “This tail-eater. It’s one hell of a good-luck charm, isn’t it?”

Kirkwood stayed silent, and nodded somberly.

“I mean, what the hell is this nut job thinking?” she blurted out angrily. “Is he looking to revive some biblical plague, or does he really expect to find a magic potion that’ll let him live forever? I mean, how can you even begin to reason with someone like that?”

Kirkwood raised an eyebrow. “You think the hakeem’s after some kind of fountain of youth? Where’d that come from? I’ve seen his file. It doesn’t mention anything about that.”

Mia brushed it off and, almost self-mockingly, mentioned her conversation with Boustany about elixirs.

Kirkwood took a sip from his cocktail, as if weighing his next words. He put the glass down and looked at her. “Well, you’re the geneticist. You tell me. Is it really that insane?”

“Please,” Mia scoffed.