Raymond Khoury - The Sanctuary

He was wondering if he’d get lucky before his bluff was called, when his cell phone suddenly warbled. Omar checked its screen, then handed it to Corben as he pulled out his handgun and pressed its nozzle against Corben’s neck.

“Be careful what you say.”

Corben ignored the comment and just took the phone. He glanced at its screen. It was Olshansky.

“Where the hell are you?” his techie asked. “I got a really weird ring-tone on your phone.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Corben countered. “What have you got for me?”

Olshansky sounded excited. “The NSA’s got a lock on your Swiss mystery caller. You’re not going to believe this.”

Corben eyed Omar coolly. “He’s in Turkey,” he told Olshansky, his voice flat.

“Not just in Turkey, my friend,” Olshansky enthused. “He’s in Diyarbakir.”

“Where in Diyarbakir?”

“Last lock I have placed him at the airport — no, hang on. He’s just crossed cells. He’s on his way into the city.” Olshansky’s tone changed to concern. “Hey, are you alright?”

“I’m great. Just let me know when he stops moving.” Corben brusquely hung up, spinning around to scan the roads out his window. “Is this the airport road?” he asked Omar.

Omar relayed the question to the driver in Arabic. The driver nodded.

Corben turned and checked the road behind them. It was empty. “Get your driver to pull over somewhere discreet. Our buyer’s on his way in.”

The sun-drenched landscape between the airport and the elevated city was barren and desolate. Mia and Kirkwood’s driver had to stop several times as villagers in tattered clothing meandered across the road with herds of sheep and goats, the languid processions escorted by squadrons of flies and trailing an acrid stench.

The Land Cruiser eventually reached the concrete bridge and headed up to the city. The buildings lining the approach were a haphazard, unruly mix of old and new, cheaply built, many further defaced by half-torn election posters and the garish signage of the shops that occupied the street level. The road was crowded with pickup trucks and overloaded sedans carrying everything from watermelons to refrigerators.

The driver threaded his way through the congested obstacle course. Neither he, nor his passengers, noticed the two dusty SUVs that were parked along their route, shielded by a large tanker truck that was unloading water.

As the Land Cruiser glided past Corben’s SUV, something about it snagged his attention. It was reasonably clean, it was in good condition, and though he couldn’t make out much behind its smoked windows, he’d caught a glimpse of the man in the front passenger seat as the car had been heading towards them, a fair-skinned man with sandy-colored hair wearing black shades.

That had to be the target. Hardly any cars had driven in from the direction of the airport, and this guy wasn’t local.

“There.” He pointed it out to Omar. “That’s our buyer. Follow him.”

Omar ordered the driver to do so. The two SUVs pulled out and slithered forward, keeping two or three cars between them and the Land Cruiser.

Corben’s muscles tightened with anticipation. He wasn’t sure it was the buyer’s vehicle, but he sensed he’d gotten it right. Regardless, he’d soon get a lock from Olshansky on the buyer’s final destination.

He glanced over at Omar. The hakeem’s man gave him a small nod before his lifeless eyes swiveled back to take in their quarry.

The Land Cruiser tunneled through a vast stone gate and entered the old city. The houses here were much older, lower, and were built of distinctive alternating bands of white stone and reddish black basalt. Mosques abounded, their minarets spearing the dense townscape. The uneven, cracked sidewalks were crowded with men, most of them in the traditional baggy black trousers, and women in white headscarves. Narrow, dark streets radiated away from the main road, sheltering children who played in the shade.

The two SUVs shadowed the Land Cruiser from a safe distance. They stopped around the corner of a big market as their target pulled up outside a house adjacent to it.

Two men waited outside. One was an Arab, the other a Westerner. Both looked as if they were packing. Omar asked the driver where they were. The driver explained that this was the Hassan Pasha Ham, an old caravanserai that now housed souvenir shops and carpet merchants.

Corben wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked on the Land Cruiser as its doors swung open.

The fair-haired man emerged first, scanning the surroundings with practiced eyes. The shades and the holster bulge under his khaki desert jacket told Corben the man was a hired gun. He exchanged a couple of words with the Westerner waiting outside the house as the Land Cruiser’s rear doors opened.

Corben spotted Mia step out first. And if that wasn’t enough, the sight of Kirkwood following her tripped the remaining circuits in his brain into overdrive.

He’d been expecting to see Webster. His mind rushed to process the development. Clearly, Webster and Kirkwood were working together. Which explained a lot about Kirkwood’s appearance in Beirut, and his interest.

He glanced at Omar, who’d also seen her, but didn’t know Kirkwood. Corben just nodded and kept his satisfaction cloaked.

Perfect.

Mia climbed out of the Land Cruiser and watched the Australian hand Kirkwood the silver attaché case. Kirkwood turned to her. “Give me a minute, will you? Let me make sure he’s not going to give us any trouble.”

Mia nodded. Kirkwood went into the house with the Australian, leaving her outside with the other hired gun, a South African named Hector, and Abu Barzan’s man. Both men acknowledged her with curt nods — the Arab checking her out a touch more obviously than the South African — before they remembered their day jobs and concentrated on the surrounding streets and buildings instead.

The town seemed to have settled into a typically Middle Eastern midday torpor. The street was quiet, and few people were going in and out of the bazaar. Down a narrow, cobbled side street, a few kids who hadn’t succumbed to the general lethargy played soccer barefoot under some crowded clotheslines. Mia watched as one of the boys bounced the ball repeatedly off his feet, knees, and thighs, to the cheers and taunts of his friends.

Kirkwood’s voice cut through Mia’s momentary distraction and invited her to join him inside the house. The front door led straight into a large living room that was simple and sparsely furnished and reeked of stale nicotine. Their Australian escort was in there, as were three Arab men, all of whom, she noticed, were smoking.

“This is Abu Barzan,” Kirkwood informed her, pointing out a heavyset, triple-chinned man with dyed jet-black hair, a thick matching mustache, and a prominent mole on his left cheek.

“Very nice to meet you.” Abu Barzan smiled, balancing his cigarette off his lower lip while taking her hand into his large, sweaty paws enthusiastically. “This is Kaak Mohsen,” he said, using the Kurdish term for “brother” and gesturing to an older, more reserved man who quietly gave her a welcoming half-bow, “my dear friend who kindly invited us to use his house, at very short notice,” he added pointedly, glancing at Kirkwood, who acknowledged the remark with a nod of gratitude. “And my nephew, Bashar,” the Iraqi concluded, indicating a younger, paunchy, and prematurely balding man.

Mohsen offered her the ubiquitous cup of heavily sugared tea. As she sipped from it, she cast her eyes behind the men and picked out the panoply of guns in the room. Two rifles were on a sideboard by a door that led to the back of the house, and Abu Barzan’s nephew was holding an AK-47 machine gun and packing a handgun under his belt.