Raymond Khoury - The Sanctuary

As she turned the corner, she saw a hulking figure stumbling out of the house. It was Abu Barzan. The big man was slowly inching his way out, all hunched over, one hand pressed against his thigh, his trousers drenched with blood. The alley was strewn with several dead bodies. He stopped at one of them and crouched down, running his hand over the dead man’s face. Mia realized he’d found his nephew’s body.

She edged up to him. He turned to her, sucking in deep, laborious breaths. He had pained, half-shut eyes, and his jowly face glistened with sweat.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, avoiding looking too closely at the fallen man by his feet.

Abu Barzan just nodded stoically, his expression bristling with anger and defiance.

“Let me see it,” she said, pointing to his wound.

He didn’t react. She reached out hesitantly and ripped his pants open around the wound to uncover it. She could see an entry puncture as well as an exit one in the thick flesh of his thigh. Noting that the bleeding wasn’t intense, coupled with that he was standing and breathing, she thought that his femoral artery probably hadn’t been severed by the bullet or by bone fragments. This negated the risk of his bleeding to death, but the wound needed to be dressed quickly to lessen the blood loss and avoid infection.

“I don’t think it’s shattered any bone,” she observed, “but it needs cleaning.”

A high-pitched siren wailed faintly in the distance. Abu Barzan looked at her with anxious eyes. “I have to go,” he grumbled, and started to limp away.

“Wait.” She followed, stepping over the fallen gunmen. “You need to go to a hospital.”

He waved her off. “A hospital? Are you crazy? I’m half-Kurd,” he spat back. “How do you think I’m going to explain this?”

Mia nodded somberly. “I’m not sure I know how I’m going to explain this myself.”

Abu Barzan studied her for a beat, then said, “Come.”

She put an arm under his shoulder and helped him keep the weight off his injured leg as they slipped away into the dark back alleys of the old town.

Corben kept a close eye on his rearview mirror as he guided the Land Cruiser out of the city and headed south, towards Mardin.

He had a big decision to make, but the more he thought about it, the more he believed he could pull it off. He had Kirkwood, who could unlock the mystery if properly motivated, and Corben was, if anything, an expert on inspiring. He had a window of opportunity during which he could misbehave: He’d been abducted in his sleep, the front door of his apartment would testify to that. He would say he was a prisoner of the hakeem. Everything he did was with a gun to his head. Enough said.

The problem was Kirkwood.

He couldn’t be allowed to walk away from this. Not with what he knew. Mia — that could be finessed. Kirkwood was more complicated.

“You really with the UN?” Corben asked him. His handgun nestled in his lap.

“Last time I checked,” Kirkwood answered flatly, staring ahead blankly.

Corben nodded, impressed. “Six hundred grand. Not exactly chump change.” He waited for a reaction, but none came. “How many of you are there?”

He detected a flicker of confusion in Kirkwood.

“What are you talking about?”

“How many of you are there looking for this thing? I mean, there’s you, and there’s Tom Webster, right?” Corben fished. “You’re able to fly in at the drop of the hat with a case full of cash. I’m thinking you guys have some decent resources to draw on.”

Kirkwood ignored the comment. “Where are we going?”

“We’re both after the same thing. I say let’s see it through all the way.” Corben paused, glancing over at Kirkwood. “Besides, I miss the mountains. Clean air up there. Good for the lungs,” he deadpanned.

The Iraqi border was a couple of hours’ drive away. He debated whether to call in, inform his station chief that he’d been kidnapped, say he’d managed to get away and was now shadowing the Iraqi smuggler behind the kidnapping, and get them to call ahead and make sure he was allowed through the border crossings unhampered. He decided against it, preferring to keep his cohorts in the dark a little while longer. And although he didn’t have a passport or any ID on him, he had a far more effective travel document in the back: a case full of dollar bills. In that desperate land, he know a few of those greenbacks would open most doors. From there, it wasn’t far to Al Amadiyya. If everything went smoothly, they’d make the village Abu Barzan had spoken of by nightfall.

“What are your plans for it, if it’s out there?” Kirkwood asked bluntly. “Can’t imagine our government’s anywhere near ready to deal with something like this. Preserving the status quo and all.” He turned to face Corben. “’Cause that’s the plan, isn’t it? Bury it — along with anyone who knows about it?”

Corben smirked and let out a small chortle. “Probably. But it’s not mine.”

Kirkwood raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Corben glanced at him, a wry smile crinkling the edge of his mouth. “Let’s say I have a more entrepreneurial approach to life.” He paused. “Question is, what are you guys planning for it?”

“A better world for everyone,” Kirkwood replied, seemingly thrown by Corben’s cavalier attitude. “And I mean everyone .”

Corben shrugged. “So I guess we’re on the same page.”

“Except for one pesky little detail. I’m not prepared to kill for it.”

“Maybe you just haven’t yet had to face that choice.”

Kirkwood let it simmer. “What if I have?”

The insinuation intrigued Corben, but he masked the feeling. “Then I’d say I care more about making the world a better place than you do,” he replied nonchalantly.

“And where does Evelyn Bishop fall in all this? Collateral damage?”

“Not necessarily.” Corben glanced over at him. A motivational tool had just presented itself. “Help me figure this out, and nothing will give me more pleasure than taking the hakeem down and getting her back.”

Corben cocked an eyebrow, waiting for Kirkwood’s reaction, and smiled inwardly. He had him thinking, which was good. It meant he’d be spending less time trying to wrangle his freedom.

Corben decided to nudge him a little further in that direction. “By the way, when were you and Webster planning on telling Mia that her dad was still alive?”

Kirkwood stiffened at Corben’s jocular tone. At least Corben didn’t know the whole truth, he reminded himself.

At least he didn’t know that he was Tom Webster.

He thought back to what Corben must have overheard back in Diyarbakir and replayed the conversation in his mind. Corben assumed the formula didn’t work, not for anyone. Which was why he hadn’t made the leap.

Let’s keep it that way, he thought.

The name he’d used with Evelyn drifted his thoughts back to her. Guilt consumed him. If he’d told her the truth back then, in Al-Hillah, maybe she would’ve been more careful. She would have known dangerous people would be after this. They always were. They came out of the woodwork the minute they got a sniff of it. It was the way of the world. Had been for hundreds of years.

Evelyn wouldn’t have been kidnapped.

And he would have known he had a daughter. A daughter who would have grown up with a father. He’d have made sure of that. He’d have found a way.

He remembered the look in Mia’s eyes when he’d told her the truth, and it gutted him again, just ripped his insides out and left nothing there but a gaping black hole.

At least, he thought with a trace of solace — at least she was safe now.