Raymond Khoury - The Sanctuary

She also noticed Kirkwood’s silver attaché case, on the dining table in the corner of the room. Bryan, the Australian hired gun, seemed to be guarding it. On the floor beside it were several wooden crates filled with items wrapped in soft cloth sacks.

Her gaze found Kirkwood. “Does he have the book?” she asked.

“Ah, this famous book,” Abu Barzan chuckled throatily, his girth rippling in tandem with his labored breathing. “Yes, of course I have it for you. Here,” he said, padding heavily over to the table, picking up a small pouch, and holding it up to them knowingly. “This is the one you want, yes?” He unwrapped the protective oilskin cover to reveal the codex and held it up proudly.

Even from across the room, Mia could make out the snake-eater. The entire room seemed to resonate with promise and expectation.

Abu Barzan set the codex squarely on the table. “Please.” He gestured, inviting them over. Kirkwood glanced over at Mia, then approached the table almost reverently. Mia joined him. He reached over to pick up the codex, but Abu Barzan calmly settled his sausagelike fingers over it and flashed Kirkwood a questioning smile. Kirkwood acknowledged it and gave Bryan a signaling nod. Mia watched with a flutter of unease as the man picked up the attaché case and handed it over to a gleeful Abu Barzan, who retreated deferentially.

She wanted to ask what was going on, but her attention was gripped by Kirkwood, who was picking up the codex. He held it up so she could examine it with him.

The cover was in remarkably good condition. The Ouroboros was meticulously tooled into the leather, its scales individually carved out. Kirkwood looked up at Mia, his face radiating nervous anticipation, then, carefully, opened it.

It read from right to left, as with all Arabic writing. Its inside front cover had a blank pastedown, which was common for the period. The first inside page had some Naskhi writing in its center.

As soon as his eyes drank in the words, his face contorted with disappointment.

“What?” Mia asked.

“This is a different book,” he said with a dismayed shake of his head. “It’s called the Kitab al Kayafa, ” he read aloud. “The book of principles.”

For a fleeting second, a look of puzzlement crossed her face at the discovery that he could read Arabic. She watched with rapt interest as he turned the pages and gave each one a quick scan.

Whatever he was looking for, it clearly wasn’t there.

She stood in silence as he went back to the first page, and her eyes were quickly lured back by the lines of cursive Latin script that had been added, much later it seemed, in its top corner.

“What does that inscription say? Is that French?” she asked as she struggled to make sense of the highly stylized writing.

“Yes,” he confirmed. He read them to himself, in silence. She scrutinized his face. It was locked in deep contemplation, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist for him. Whatever was written on that ancient sheet of paper seemed to reach deep into his very core.

She waited patiently, not wanting to intrude, then couldn’t subdue her excitement any more. “What does it say?”

“It’s a message,” he told her solemnly. “From a dying man to his long-lost wife.” He paused, clearly still processing the words that he’d just read.

After a brief moment, he spoke. “It says, ‘To my love Thérésia, how I yearn to see you, to tell you how much I miss you, to bask in your warm embrace once more, and to show you what I now know is real, for it is all true, my darling. Everything I hoped for is true. I have seen it with my own eyes, but even the discovery of a lifetime pales when I think of what it has cost me, that is, being with you and with our dear son, Miguel. Farewell,’ and it’s signed, ‘Sebastian.’”

A look of puzzlement played on his face. He cocked his head, as if toying with a notion, then turned the page and started reading. He noticed something, then flipped to the next page, immersed in its contents, and then to the next, and the one after that. His eyes lit up as they scoured the text, devouring the Arabic script, then a broad smile erupted across his face.

“What?” Mia asked, her eyes riveted on him. “What is it?”

“This is…it’s marvelous,” he said, beaming. “It’s real, Mia. It’s real.”

“You see, look, here for instance,” Kirkwood enthused, “it refers to how ‘the memories of the men and the women of the new society will be challenged as never before’ and sets out ways in which to overcome that. And here”—he turned to the previous page—“it talks about how the men and women of the new society should deal with their numerous descendants in their new world. Not just the men. The men and the women.”

“I don’t understand,” Mia confessed.

Kirkwood was still collecting his thoughts. “This book is a code book, a guide on ethics and relationships. It sets out the rules, the principles of living for a society of people whose lives have been radically altered.”

“By living longer?”

“Yes. It’s about adapting to the new longevity. And it talks about men and women, do you see? Men and women.” He shook his head.

“After all those years, he found it. He actually found it.”

Kirkwood wasn’t making any sense. “What are you talking about?”

“Sebastian Guerreiro. He devoted his life to finding the right formulation, and it cost him everything — his wife, his son — but he made it, in the end. He made it. He must have found another book, or maybe a stash of books, another hidden chamber like the one your mom foundonly this one had the full formula in it. It’s real.” He beamed. “It exists.”

A swarm of questions clouded Mia’s thoughts. “How do you know that? I mean, this book could be theoretical. How do you know it isn’t just a philosophical treatise exploring how a society would work, how it would function if such a substance existed?”

“Because Sebastian already had part of the formula,” Kirkwood told her. “He found — well, he was entrusted with — a book, similar to this one. Same cover, same style…It described a series of experiments using a substance that seemed to arrest the aging process. The experiments had led to a formulation, a way to prepare an elixir, but the book wasn’t complete. The last part of it was missing. Sebastian didn’t know what was in the rest of the book. He didn’t know if they had been successful, it there even was a full formula, one that really worked, or if the book just described the failed experiments to try and get it to work properly. But he still thought it important enough to devote his whole life to finding that out.”

“But this book doesn’t have the formula in it?”

“No, but it confirms that it’s out there. The calligraphy in this book — it’s the same as in the one Sebastian had.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Yes,” Kirkwood confessed, slightly hesitant. “It’s the same cabal, the same group, I’m sure of it.”

Mia felt her head spinning. “How do you know all this? Who was this Sebastian?”

“He was a Portuguese inquisitor.” Kirkwood looked at her, a hue of deep pride suffusing his face. “He was also my ancestor.”

On the roof of a two-story house slightly down and across the street from Mohsen’s home, Corben listened to Kirkwood’s words through the headphones linked to the directional microphone Omar was aiming.

Omar glanced at him. The Arab was listening in too and seemed to understand what was being said as he nodded.

“Your ancestor?” Mia was angrily asking. “What the hell’s going on? Who the hell are you?”