Raymond Khoury - The Sanctuary

Mia finished off her drink and sat back. She was drunk with the possibilities. “I think I’m starting to understand his level of commitment. If he thinks it’s even remotely possible…” Her face brightened with a realization. “He’s got to be desperate to get his hands on that book. Which might give us an advantage in getting Mom back.”

“Absolutely.” Kirkwood paused. “Have you discussed this with Jim at all?”

She shook her head. “Up until an hour ago, I wasn’t really sure there was anything to discuss. Why?”

“I was just wondering what his take on it was. We’ve only talked about the operational details of what was going on.”

“He thinks the guy’s working on a bioweapon. Maybe he should know about all this too. I’ll call him in the morning.”

Kirkwood winced with discomfort. “I’d leave it. It doesn’t really affect his plans.”

“Yeah, but if this is possible, if that’s what the hakeem is after…maybe it changes things.”

Kirkwood’s expression darkened. “Not in a good way, as far as getting Evelyn back is concerned.”

Mia felt a sudden ripple of worry at the sudden seriousness of his words. “What do you mean?”

Kirkwood looked away for a moment, weighing his words. The frown hadn’t left his face as he leaned in. “Think about it. Jim’s a government agent. If there’s something like this out there, if they know that’s what the hakeem is really working on…what do you think they would do? Hand it over to a lunatic? Or keep it under wraps?”

Corben’s remark took the hakeem by surprise and paused him, if only for a moment. “And your help and patronage is supposed to be even more attractive to me than your government’s, is that it?

Corben looked up at him, his voice calm and unwavering. “I was asked to find you. To track you down. But that was four years ago. A lot’s changed since then.” He adjusted his position slightly, trying to alleviate the discomfort of the harsh soil.

“The WMD mess crippled us,” he continued. “ Intelligence report became a dirty word, synonymous with White House fabrication. It turned us into pariahs. The antiwar movement and the press savaged us. People got fired or shuffled around, my boss included. Priorities changed. Everyone was busy backstabbing and pointing fingers and scurrying around trying to save their own asses, and a lot of stuff got lost in the mix. Your file was one of them. The Agency lost interest.”

“But you didn’t,” the hakeem observed drily.

“I wasn’t sure. The odds were that you were a waste of time, a wild-goose chase. You were running experiments, you had all the resources and human guinea pigs you needed, but I had no idea if you’d been successful in your work. And you’d pulled a mother of a disappearing act. I would’ve let go. Moved on. But there was this symbol, carved into the wall of one of your cells. The snake, the tail-eater. Data-mining hadn’t turned up anything on it that was relevant, but when I did some old-fashioned digging around through our archives in Langley, I found something. An old file, long forgotten. A report from an Agency man in the Vatican. A memo about an old case from the eighteenth century involving the tail-eater symbol, a false marquis, and a prince who believed the man hadn’t aged a day in over fifty years.” Corben noticed the hakeem’s jaw take on a sharper, more pronounced line. “And it made me wonder if you were just another quack — God knows, there are enough of them out there — or if you were really onto something. So I kept an open mind. You know those detectives who can never let go of an unsolved case that marked them? You were mine. If any of this was real, it was my golden ticket out of the sleaze pit of intel work, a big fuck you to the ungrateful and self-righteous bastards in D.C. who are more than happy to use us and then hang us out to dry, a way to ride off into the sunset sipping Cristal in the back of a Maybach.”

Which was, at least until that phone call to Abu Barzan, the truth. Now, though, Corben was no longer sure the hakeem was the most direct route to the fountain of youth, if there was such a thing at all. Not until he knew what the mystery buyer knew. But he didn’t want the hakeem to know that. Not yet, anyway. Not if he wanted to get back to Beirut in one piece.

“After Baghdad,” Corben concluded, “I got posted out here. Kept my eyes and ears open, in case something popped up. And here we are.” His tone hardened. “No one else knows about your involvement. No one’s aware of the link. They just think this is about smugglers fighting over the spoils of war. It’s what I’ve made them think. And I can keep it that way.”

The hakeem glanced away, nodding to himself almost imperceptibly, seemingly processing his captive’s words.

“What do you think you could you possibly offer me that I don’t already have?” he finally asked.

“Oh, I can think of a number of things. Access to our intel, to our resources. Research. I can also provide you with a safety net. I don’t know where you’ve been holed up since Baghdad imploded, but this part of the world’s not the most stable, and if it blows up around you again, you might want to relocate somewhere less…distracting. I can organize that. New papers, a new identity. And if you do have something the world wants, something people will be willing to pay big bucks for, then I can be your front man. I can be your beard and legitimize it. And you don’t need me to tell you there’s a lot of money to be made.”

The hakeem remained poker-faced, staring down at Corben as he brooded over his words. After a short moment, and in the same dismissive tone, he simply said, “I don’t think so,” and motioned to someone behind him.

A ripple of alarm coursed through Corben. He strained to see what was going on, but couldn’t. “What do you mean, you don’t think so?”

A man appeared from the direction of the car, carrying a small briefcase. He flicked it open and held it up, its lid facing Corben and masking its contents. The hakeem dipped into it. When his hands reappeared, they held a syringe and a small bottle. He gave the man behind Corben an indignant, indifferent nod. The pockmarked man reached down and grabbed Corben, pinning him in place while the hakeem plunged the needle into the small bottle and filled the syringe with its contents.

“I mean you’re going to tell me where the book is, my men will bring it to me, and then I’ll decide about whether or not to let you live.”

“There’s no need for this, I’m telling you—”

The pockmarked man hit Corben in the gut, punching the air out of him. He felt his arm being twisted into position, a tourniquet quickly applied below his shoulder, as the hakeem leaned in, squirting an air bubble out of the syringe.

“Where’s the book?”

Corben’s eyes locked onto the needle. “I told you I don’t have it.”

The hakeem injected Corben. Seconds later, the searing sensation rocketed through his veins, turning his blood into lava. Corben screamed out from the pain, the hakeem hovering over him, watching him with detached curiosity.

“Where’s the book?”

“I don’t have it,” Corben yelled back.

The hakeem pushed the plunger further in. “Where’s the book?” he rasped.

Corben’s skin felt as if it were frying from the inside. His eyes were blurry, drowning in tears. “In Turkey,” he blurted. “The book’s in Turkey.”

The hakeem pulled the needle out.

The burning receded, as if it were vaporizing itself out of Corben’s fingers and toes.

“Go on.”

Corben took a deep breath, his body still shivering from the drug’s effect. “Farouk, the Iraqi dealer who came to see Evelyn. He didn’t have it with him. He was just brokering it. And the dealer who has it is on his way to deliver his whole stash to another buyer.”