Raymond Khoury - The Sanctuary

“Let’s talk about this some more before you do that,” he said as they stepped out of the elevator. His eyes swept the lobby and noticed the agent guarding Mia sitting by the hotel’s entrance, reading a newspaper.

The agent nodded to Mia, who acknowledged him back before turning to Kirkwood.

“I know you’re not sure about Jim’s motives,” she pressed on, “but he’s been pretty open with me about what they have, and—”

“Please, Mia,” Kirkwood interrupted, “you’ve got to trust me on this.” He checked his watch and winced.

He’d wanted to tell her everything the night before. He’d thought of calling her room earlier that morning, to fill her in on what was going on, but he’d held back.

He took her aside, into the small library bar, out of the agent’s eye line. No one else was in there. “We got a hit early this morning, out of Iraq,” he lied. “I’d put the word out through our contacts on the ground there. We’ve been heavily involved in trying to secure the country’s historic heritage, especially after the fiasco at the National Museum four years ago. We’ve offered rewards and amnesties in the past, and the strategy’s been very successful. It’s also helped us develop a significant network of contacts within the antiquities community. Anyway, we think we know who’s got the pieces Farouk was trying to sell. A dealer in Baghdad who knows — well, knew — him told one of our people there that Farouk had mentioned the items to him. He said Farouk was brokering them for another dealer, a man from Mosul.” He’d skirted around the difficult part, but he was back on track now. “Farouk didn’t have the pieces with him here in Beirut. That’s why he only had the Polaroids.”

“So the book’s still in Mosul?” Her eyes were alight with interest.

“No. It’s in Turkey.” He paused, taking stock of her reaction, before diving in. “I’m going there now to bring it back. Come with me. I’ll fill you in on the plane.”

Questions and confused feelings harried Mia’s mind.

She wasn’t sure about Kirkwood, but then again, she wasn’t sure about Corben either. The only person she could really trust to look out for Evelyn’s interests was herself. If the book that could free her mom was really out there, she had to do everything she could to make sure it got into their hands — her hands — safely. But a nagging uncertainty was still vying for her attention, warning her.

“I can’t just fly off with you like that,” she objected.

“Mia, listen to me,” Kirkwood insisted. “There are things you don’t know.”

That made her angry. “Like what?” she asked fiercely.

He heaved a conflicted sigh. “Look, I’m sorry, but…last night. I wasn’t being perfectly honest with you. After you mentioned this hakeem at the embassy, I managed to get hold of his file.” She could hear the deep concern in his voice. “What we talked about last night. It’s exactly what he’s working on. And Corben and his people know it.”

Her mouth dropped an inch. “The experiments…?” She already knew the answer.

Kirkwood nodded somberly. “That’s what they’re interested in.”

She didn’t know which way to turn, but one certainty was hacking its way through the thorns in her mind: She couldn’t trust Corben. Not anymore. The verdict on Kirkwood, on the other hand, was still open, but she didn’t have much choice. She had to risk it.

“What do I tell the agent out there?” she asked flatly, motioning towards the man guarding her.

“Don’t tell him anything.”

“He’s here to guard me. He’s not going to let me waltz out of here with you without checking with Jim.” The man’s name felt like poison on her tongue.

Kirkwood frowned and thought for a moment. “The restaurant next door’s part of the hotel, but it’s got its own entrance further down the street. They’ve got to have the same kitchen. I’ve got a car waiting for me outside. Go back to your room, get your passport and whatever you need to take with you, and take the stairs down to the restaurant and make your way out from there. I’ll be parked around the corner.”

She was about to leave when Kirkwood put his hand on her arm. “Please, Mia. Trust me on this. Don’t confront Jim about this. Not yet. Not until we know we have the book safely. I don’t want to give anyone any chance to screw us on using it to get Evelyn back.”

She made a quick study of the man. His eyes shone with sincerity. He was either telling her the truth, or he was a spectacularly effective liar.

Either way, she’d soon find out.

She nodded and headed back to the elevator.

Kirkwood watched her leave with a knot in his stomach. He was now committed. There would be no turning back.

He checked his watch and decided to initiate a precaution he’d been mulling. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number of the scout in Iraq who had first brought Abu Barzan’s find to their attention.

The man could be trusted. Years of collaboration, a couple of passed trust tests, and a healthy retainer had proven that.

He couldn’t risk calling Abu Barzan himself. He knew that if Corben had in fact been the counterbidder for the book, he and his minders knew about Abu Barzan and had his phone number. They could be monitoring it. And Kirkwood preferred not to announce his real interest to them just yet.

The scout picked up quickly. Kirkwood told him what to do. He had to do it quickly and be brief. He also had to make sure he didn’t spook Abu Barzan. He asked the scout to call him back from another number and let him know where the new meeting would take place.

He hung up, picked up the attaché case and the backpack, and headed for the door.

Fifty miles further east, Corben was lying down on a narrow bed, looking around his stark white cell. The small room was windowless, and he had no idea what time of day it was, but he hadn’t really slept and he didn’t think more than a few hours had passed since they’d shoved him into the trunk of the car and driven him off.

He tried to imagine what the other prisoners of the hakeem’s compound were going through. He pictured Evelyn Bishop and wondered how close she was, and whether she’d ever make it back into the sun’s embrace again.

A picture was forming in his mind, and all the pieces seemed to fit. He was either in some town in north Lebanon or in Syria. He thought the latter more likely. The accent of the pockmarked thug and the rest of his cronies gave away their nationality pretty clearly. Corben didn’t speak much Arabic, but the little he did know allowed him to identify the different accents — Lebanese, Iraqi, Gulf Arab, Palestinian, Syrian. Now that he’d heard them speak, he was able to place the accent. Also, the car ride fit the profile. The second leg, at least, the one he’d been awake for. A winding road up a mountain and back down, a stop and some chatter — probably the border crossing — followed by more winding roads leading to a city that reverberated with a deafening cacophony of prayer calls, far more noticeably than Beirut.

It had to be Damascus.

The thought angered him. The city had actually been his first — and obvious — guess, back in 2003, when his assignment was officially live, when he’d tried to figure out where the hakeem had escaped to. A lot of Saddam’s cronies had made their way there to avoid getting shocked and awed. Despite the deep, long-felt animosity between the two countries, timely conveniences and dovetailing objectives meant that bitter enemies occasionally found reasons to help each other out.

In the case of the hakeem, however, Corben knew the arrangement had nothing to do with politics.