Raymond Khoury - The Sanctuary

It also made sense for the hakeem. He would find patrons who could provide him with the same level of support that he’d enjoyed in Baghdad. Whatever he needed would be provided. His little guesthouse would run at full occupancy. And, when complications — or opportunities — such as those of the last few days arose, the expert, ruthless manpower was readily available.

Speaking of which, the lock clicked open. The hakeem stood at the cell’s door. The pockmarked killer, Omar, and two other armed men were with him.

“Time for you to sign in,” the hakeem announced. He gestured to Omar, who pulled out Corben’s cell phone and snapped the battery back into place. “You need to get the precise GPS coordinates of the Iraqi dealer,” he added, then raised a cautioning finger at him. “Remember, thirty seconds. No more.”

Corben got up, still in his boxers, and did as told. He got through to Olshansky. No one at the embassy seemed to have noticed anything amiss. Not that they had any reason to. As long as he signed in on time, no alarms would go off.

“Your target hasn’t moved since last night,” Olshansky informed him. “He’s still at the same location in Diyarbakir, but something else came up. Someone called him from Iraq.”

“Who?” Corben asked.

“I don’t know,” Olshansky replied. “The call was too brief to lock it in. The caller just told him to hang up, remove the battery from his phone, and call him back from another phone.”

Corben didn’t allow the unexpected complication to perturb his countenance. He kept his cool and, without a tremor in his voice, asked Olshansky for the Iraqi cell phone’s last GPS coordinates.

“You sure you want them?” Olshansky asked. “He’s got to know he’s being tracked by now, after that call. He’s probably long gone.”

“Just give me the coordinates,” Corben said simply.

Olshansky sounded a bit puzzled, but acquiesced. “One more thing,” he then added. “The Geneva cell phone I’ve been trying to lock onto — it’s not in Switzerland anymore. Its signal bounced off a jumble of satellites and servers before disappearing into a digital netherworld, but its trail definitely indicates a change of region. I’m liaising with a contact of mine at the NSA who’s prioritized the trace for us. My guy thinks he might be able to get a lock on his position before the end of the day.”

“Do it sooner than that. I need it,” Corben replied curtly as he vaulted the information.

He had his suspicions about where the caller might be headed.

The hakeem looked at him suspiciously and gestured for him to hang up, which he did after telling Olshansky to keep him posted if the Iraqi signal changed location. Omar was quick to take back the phone and pull out its battery. These guys were well versed in covering their digital tracks, Corben thought. They’d kept Ramez’s phone live not to miss Farouk’s call, but they wouldn’t make that mistake with Corben’s phone. He wouldn’t be able to work backwards to pinpoint the hakeem’s lair beyond the broader confines of the city.

He gave the hakeem the coordinates, which he knew were probably worthless, but he didn’t have much choice. He had to wing it from here. As he did, Omar punched them into a handheld device — the killer evidently spoke English, Corben noted — and it zoomed to a map of the Syrian-Turkish border, and to the town of Diyarbakir. Omar nodded with satisfaction.

A thin smile broke across the hakeem’s aquiline features. “Time to go,” he ordered, gesturing for Omar to bring Corben.

Omar gestured to one of his men, who handed him a folded batch of clothes and some boots. He threw them at Corben’s feet. Corben slipped them on over his boxers — baggy khaki pants, dark gray sweatshirt, and military boots. Omar pulled out some plastic cuffs and motioned for Corben to put his hands together. Corben grudgingly acquiesced. Omar snapped them into place, then pulled out a black cloth sack. He grabbed Corben’s shoulders and spun him around harshly, preparing to slip it over his head. “Yalla, imshi,” he grunted. Move it.

Corben had had enough of being pushed around for one day. “Back off, asshole,” he snapped back, pulling his arm free and shoving Omar back. “I’ll do it myself.”

Omar grabbed him, pushing him against the door, yelling, “Imshi, wlaa.” Corben resisted, but the hakeem interceded, ordering his man to stand down. Omar glared angrily at Corben, then shoved the hood into his hand and stepped back.

With an ear glued to the door, Evelyn listened intently to the noise outside her cell. She’d heard the door being unlocked and had feared another victim, like her, being brought in or, worse, being collected for another torture session with her demented host.

Instead, she heard a man speaking in English. An American. She couldn’t really make out what he was saying, but he seemed to be in solid health.

And now she heard a tussle and realized they were taking him away. The man had resisted.

Her mind flooded with panic. She wasn’t sure what to do. Part of her wanted to cry out, to make her presence known to the other prisoner. If he escaped, if he was freed, he’d let the world know she was still alive. But another part of her was terrified. Terrified of getting the man into trouble, terrified of being punished herself for the insubordination.

She couldn’t let the opportunity pass.

Screw the consequences.

“Help me,” she shouted at the top of her voice. “My name’s Evelyn Bishop. I’m an American citizen. I was kidnapped in Beirut. Please let the embassy know.” She banged her hands repeatedly against the solid, unyielding door. “Help me. I need to get out of here. Please. Tell someone, anyone.”

She stood still for a moment, her nerves frazzled by the effort, her weary body taut with fear and tortured by desperate hope, and listened for a reaction.

Nothing came back.

She slunk down to the floor, a nervous quake in the corner of her lips, and wrapped her shivering arms around her.

Corben froze at Evelyn’s screams. He turned and cast his eyes over the series of doors on either side of the long corridor, wondering which cell she was in. She sounded as if she was close by, but the muffled sounds could have come from any of the adjacent rooms.

Not that it really mattered anyway.

He wasn’t in a position to do anything about it.

He glanced at the hakeem. The man was unflustered. He seemed to be studying Corben’s reaction.

A thin smile broke across the hakeem’s thin lips. “It’s up to you,” he said sardonically. “Do you want to be a hero? Or do you want to live forever?”

Corben let the words sink in. He hated that this freak, this insanely evil monster, could mess with him like that, goad him, tempt him. He hated the hakeem for it; more than that, he hated himself for succumbing to it. A pact with the devil. It never worked out, did it? If he had the opportunity, there and then, to gain the upper hand on his captors, to blow their brains out and free Evelyn and the rest of them, would he have done it?

He wasn’t sure.

But if he had to choose, he had to admit he probably didn’t think he would.

Too much was at stake.

The prize was too big.

Corben scowled at the hakeem, and gave him his answer. He slipped the hood over his head. And in the darkness of the shroud, he hoped that the haunting sound of Evelyn’s scream wouldn’t remain branded into his consciousness for too long.

Forever was far too long for that.

The Beechcraft King Air skirted the lush Mediterranean coastline, its twin turboprops powering it north towards Turkey.