The Sanctuary

by Raymond Khoury

  He needed this to work.

  He wanted Farouk. Badly.

  The last couple of days had been subpar. He prided himself on his cold efficiency, a stiletto in a world of blunt axes. Tasks such as the ones he’d been assigned since this affair had begun were his bread and butter. But he’d already lost two men—three, really, if you factored in the one with the obliterated shoulder, though they were all as easily replaced as the cars that had been damaged in the encounters—and the little shit-head was still out there.

  The American had also become a major thorn in his side. He’d embarrassed him, and that was unforgivable. Omar would need to deal with him, at some point, regardless of the implications. He’d find a way. Timing was everything. He’d wait for the opportune moment, for one of the country’s recurring political meltdowns. Then the deed would go unnoticed, except by those whose opinion he valued, the truth buried under more pressing concerns.

  He saw the turn leading to the antiques market and told the three men accompanying him to check their weapons.

  He wasn’t heading back without his quarry.

  CORBEN SLAMMED on the brakes as he emerged from the tunnel on the Ring. A wall of cars blocked his way.

  The four-lane, elevated highway was a main artery linking both sides of the city. Any obstacle on it—a scrape between two drivers, an ancient, conked-out truck, a car crippled by sniper fire—choked the traffic into one lane. Random, unexpected traffic jams were part of the driving experience in Beirut. People were usually creative in dealing with them. Invading the lanes of oncoming cars was one way of making road usage more flexible. The Ring, unfortunately, had a big and insurmountable central barrier. And the exit ramp Corben needed was still a hundred yards away.

  Corben couldn’t see what was causing the jam. He looked back. A couple of cars were pulling up beside him, but nothing was directly behind him. He slammed the gear into reverse and hit the gas.

  The SUV lurched backwards and dove into the tunnel. The tunnel was too short for anyone to bother turning their headlights on, and the shift from harsh sunlight to total blackness made it difficult to tell if any cars were coming at him. It took a beat for his eyes to adjust, and when they did, he spotted a car barreling straight at him.

  He cursed under his breath as he lifted his foot off the gas and guided his car as close to the side wall as he could. The oncoming car swerved to its left, causing another car behind it to brake hard to avoid it, and rushed past him, its horn blaring down the tunnel. Corben hit the gas again and guided the car back, narrowly missing another passing car and finally emerging out of the tunnel.

  He kept going until he reached an upramp that led to the intersection that straddled the tunnel, then slammed on his brakes, threw the gear into drive, and flew up the ramp.

  “I had to back out of the tunnel,” he yelled into his phone. “I’m heading up to the main square over it.”

  Leila’s voice came rushing back. “Okay, you’re going to need to take the first right and then left after that. Just head down that road and you’ll see the fire station on your right.”

  Corben followed her instructions, but the going was slow. The narrow streets were heavy with traffic, the oddly parked cars and street vendors’ carts turning it into an obstacle course. Precious seconds turned into minutes as he navigated the SUV through the mess, shouting, hitting the horn, and waving cars to one side as he plowed through until he finally reached the fire station.

  “I can see the station,” he exclaimed.

  “Turn right and head up that road,” Leila shot back. “The cemetery wall’s on your left. Take a left right where it ends and you’ll see a mosque about fifty yards down that street, on your right. That’s where he’ll be.”

  He practically leapfrogged over the cars ahead of him and finally spotted the mosque. It squatted between some old antiques bazaars. He slowed right down as he approached it, conjuring up Farouk’s photo from Evelyn in his mind’s eye as he scanned the street for any sign of Farouk or the hakeem’s hit team.

  He spotted him.

  The Iraqi dealer was standing there, waiting nervously, as directed.

  Chapter 43

  T he Iraqi was unmistakable, even in a setting where he didn’t exactly stand out. His posture—guarded, darting furtive glances up and down the street, trying to melt into the background—confirmed it for Corben.

  Corben glanced at the oncoming cars and gave his mirror another check, wary of the hit team’s imminent arrival as he pulled up outside the mosque. He lowered his window as he stopped.

  Farouk looked over. Corben saw that he must have noticed his interest in him, as apprehension immediately took hold of the dealer’s face before he threw a glance in the opposite direction, as if looking for salvation, and backed away a few steps.

  Corben slipped out of the car, trying to move as fast as he could without alarming Farouk. He raised his hands in a placating gesture.

  “Farouk. I’m a friend of Evelyn’s. You need to come with me.”

  Farouk’s eyes darted up the street and back at Corben as he continued to back away from him, the apprehension morphing into outright panic.

  “Farouk, listen to me. Ramez was kidnapped this morning by the same men who took Evelyn. It’s a trap. The cops aren’t coming for you, the kidnappers are. They’re on their way here right now.”

  “No,” Farouk muttered, before turning and bolting down the street.

  Corben frowned and tore off after him, cutting through the swarm of pedestrians blocking his way. Farouk wasn’t moving too quickly, and Corben reeled him in fast. Farouk glanced over his shoulder before suddenly darting into an antiques bazaar. Corben followed him in.

  The narrow alleyways of this miniature mall were lined with various shops only accessible from inside the bazaar. The passages were cluttered with furniture and trinkets, a few of them old, most of them forgeries manufactured locally to exacting standards. Corben glimpsed Farouk receding into the darkness to his left. He raced after him, dodging Turkish marquetry side tables and Louis XVI chairs, flying past stunned shopkeepers who yelled out after him. He reached an intersection and saw Farouk to his right, heading down a passage towards another entrance, one that gave onto a side street. Corben accelerated, drawing on every reserve of energy inside him, and closed the gap, reaching Farouk just before the exit. He leapt and grabbed him, pushing him to one side against the glass frontage of a carpet seller.

  “What are you doing?” he barked at him as he shook him by his collar. “We don’t have time for this bullshit. They’ll be here any second. I’m trying to save your life.”

  Farouk stared at him with petrified eyes. His lips trembled as he struggled for words. “But Ramez…”

  “Ramez is dead,” Corben rasped. “You want to be next?”

  Farouk’s eyes dropped numbly as he stood there and just about managed to shake his head.

  “Come on,” Corben ordered as he pointed him back towards the main entrance.

  Just as they turned into the passage that led up to the street, Corben spotted the pockmarked killer. He was on the sidewalk just outside the bazaar, scanning the street for any sign of his target.

  Corben shoved Farouk back behind a large armoire that hogged a big chunk of the pathway and pulled out his handgun. He motioned to Farouk to stay silent and peered out. The man was still there, scowling into the street, severe displeasure radiating from his cavernous eyes.

  He was also blocking Corben’s route back to his car.

  Corben glanced behind him, made sure the passage was clear, and pushed Farouk back into the bazaar. They skirted the edge of the furniture displays and turned into the side alley they had taken before.

  “Come on,” Corben urged him as he led him back the way they had come, towards the side entrance he had spotted earlier.

  Corben poked his head out and made sure the narrow side street was clear before emerging through the cluttered displays. Squinting as his eyes adjusted to the musty daylight
, he prowled down the broken sidewalk, making sure Farouk was close behind, holding his gun low and close to his leg to avoid causing alarm.

  He reached the street corner and sneaked a look towards the mosque. The Pathfinder was half a block down, tantalizingly close. Around fifteen yards beyond it was the head thug, still prowling outside the bazaar’s main entrance. Across the street, closer to him, Corben also spotted a double-parked Mercedes sedan. He saw the pockmarked man dart a glance at the car’s driver, who returned the signal with a shake of the head. There had to be at least one more man somewhere around, but he couldn’t see him.

  He waited a beat, picked his moment, and told Farouk, “Move,” as he led him out of their cover. He walked quickly, keeping Farouk close, trying to get as much cover from the passing pedestrians as he could, his grip tightened against his weapon, his eyes scanning left and right at the targets ahead.

  He was within reach of his car when a younger man with nervous eyes and a slit of a mouth emerged from a coffee shop to his right. The instant recognition was mutual. The man drew his gun and ducked back behind an old man who was stepping into the coffee shop. Corben’s hand hovered for a split second, looking for a clear shot he didn’t have. The frightened old man screamed and moved sideways against the wall. Corben’s shot was still partially blocked and he stayed his trigger finger. Instead, he did something else. He grabbed Farouk from behind and stuffed his handgun into the dealer’s neck.

  “You want this, huh? You want me to kill him?” he blurted at the killer.

  Corben pushed Farouk forward as he stuck behind him. From the corner of his eye, he saw the pockmarked man beyond the Pathfinder react to the commotion and draw his weapon. His advantage would only last a second or two more. He edged closer to the SUV and saw the killer from the coffee shop go clear of the passersby as he looked on in confusion. Corben turned his gun on him and pumped two rounds through his chest, the. 357s lifting him off his feet and slamming him backwards across tables and chairs.

  “In the car, now!” he yelled to Farouk, pushing him towards the passenger door. All around, people were scurrying and diving for cover. He spotted the head thug, rushing over from the bazaar’s entrance, and loosed a couple of rounds in his direction before pulling his door open and jumping in.

  Corben spurred the car to life and hit the gas. He pushed Farouk’s head down, yelling, “Stay down,” at him as the Pathfinder charged into the street, towards the parked Merc. His mind racing, he quickly decided he couldn’t just drive off. He was in a maze of narrow streets, and there was no telling how quickly the traffic would slow to a crawl, or even just stop. They’d soon catch up with them. He needed an extra advantage.

  As the Pathfinder careened by the Merc, he stood on the brakes, lurching the heavy car to a screaming halt. He pulled out the Glock and swung it around. The surprised driver dived sideways as Corben unleashed three quick rounds at the Merc’s front tire, obliterating it and causing the Merc to drop downwards. That would buy them some time. He floored the pedal again and screeched off, but as the car accelerated, he spotted a fourth killer emerging from a side street on Farouk’s side, who trained his handgun at the Pathfinder and fired. The shots crunched through the car’s right side just as, in the rearview mirror, the hit team’s leader was shouting at the shooter as he caught up with him. Corben knew he’d be berating him for endangering Farouk. The hakeem needed him alive, which was why Corben had used him to distract the first shooter.

  He glared ahead, trying to remember the fastest way out of the rat hole they were lost in. As he did, he heard a groan from Farouk.

  He turned and saw the dealer wincing with pain, a crimson patch blossoming alarmingly from his side.

  Chapter 44

  C orben forged ahead for about a mile, threading the Pathfinder through the early-afternoon traffic. On the seat next to him, Farouk writhed and groaned. The dealer kept checking his wound in disbelief, his blood-soaked hands pressing on it as Corben had told him to, all the time muttering to himself and lamenting his fate in Arabic.

  Corben had one eye glued to his rearview mirror, but there was no sign of the hakeem’s men. He knew Farouk was in pain, but he needed him to hang on a little bit longer until Corben was sure they were safe. He finally veered off the main road close to the wide concrete canal of the now dry Beirut River, rumbled down a dusty alleyway, and pulled over by some shuttered old garages.

  “Let me see it,” he told Farouk before reaching across and, carefully, checking his wound again. It was a clear in-and-out shot to his right flank, entering through his lower back and exiting just above his hip. Farouk wasn’t in huge pain, which probably meant his stomach and his liver hadn’t been hit, and given that he was still alive, it was a safe bet his aorta hadn’t been severed. But Corben knew there would be internal damage, and while Farouk’s bleeding wasn’t profuse, he was still losing blood.

  Choices needed to be made.

  Farouk’s breathing was coming in ragged, intense bursts. His eyes, wide with fear, looked to Corben for reassurance. “How is it?”

  “It looks like it missed the important parts. You’re going to be fine.” Corben glanced around the car, but couldn’t find anything to give Farouk to hold against it. “Keep your hands pressed down on it. It’ll help stem the bleeding.”

  Farouk put both hands on the wound and grimaced with pain. Sweat was trickling down his face, and his lips quivered as he spoke. “Do you know where the nearest hospital is?”

  Which was what Corben had been considering.

  “I don’t want to risk taking you to a hospital,” he told Farouk flatly. “These people have contacts everywhere. You won’t be safe there. I’m going to take you to the embassy. It’s only twenty minutes from here.”

  Farouk’s expression went from perplexed to somewhat relieved. The embassy was a safe choice. They’d probably have the best doctors brought in.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes, as if to shut out the world.

  Corben slid the car into gear and drove off. “I need to know some things from you. Who’s after you?”

  “I don’t know,” Farouk replied, wincing as the car hit a bump on the old, cracked asphalt.

  “Well, you must have some idea. How did these people find out about the relics? How did they find you?”

  Sinking lower into his seat, Farouk explained about Abu Barzan inviting him to broker his stash; about Hajj Ali Salloum finding a buyer; about Farouk’s saying the book with the tail-eater wasn’t part of the deal, Ali’s client wanting the whole collection, the killers showing up at Ali’s, and the power drill.

  “Why didn’t you want to include the book in the sale?” Corben asked.

  Farouk’s expression clouded with remorse and regret. “I knew Sitt Evelyn would want it, and that she’d help me in return.”

  Corben nodded. “You were with her in Iraq when she found the underground chamber.” It was more a statement than a question.

  Farouk first seemed a bit thrown that Corben knew as much, then he somewhat relaxed. “Yes. She spent a lot of time trying to understand what it meant. And when they killed Hajj Ali, I had to run, I knew that was what they were after, but I didn’t know why.”

  Corben processed it quickly. It pretty much fit into his general take on what had happened, but he now had the full picture. But it left a crucial question unanswered.

  “So where is it?”

  “What?” Farouk seemed confused.

  “The book. Where is it?”

  Farouk winced, then said, “It’s in Iraq,” as if he expected Corben had known that all along.

  Corben turned to him in surprise. “What?”

  “Everything’s still with Abu Barzan, where else?” The words were tumbling out fast and desperate. “He wasn’t going to just hand anything over to me before I had the money to pay for it. He didn’t even bring the pieces to Baghdad, it was too dangerous to travel with them. He kept them in Mosul.”

  “You told Ramez you had them,” C
orben shot back.

  “I told him I was selling them,” Farouk protested. “He must have assumed I had them here with me. They’re not mine.”

  Corben scowled at the road ahead, thinking. He’d factored that in as a possibility, but he’d thought it more likely that Farouk had brought the book to Lebanon with him and kept it somewhere safe while he found Evelyn.

  “This Abu Barzan. He’s in Iraq?”

  “I think so,” Farouk answered weakly. “Probably back in Mosul.”

  Corben fumed quietly, his mind racing. The option tree he’d considered before picking up Farouk had been chainsawed into obsolescence. “You have his phone number?”

  “Of course.”

  Corben pulled out his cell phone. “What is it?”

  Farouk looked at him fearfully. “What do you want to tell him?”

  “I’m not going to say anything. You’re going to talk to him. You’re going to tell him you have a buyer. That’s what he asked you for, isn’t it? Corben waved the information over with his hand. “What’s his number?”

  AS CORBEN DIALED, Farouk suddenly felt uncomfortable with the man who had—or at least, so he claimed—rescued him. The same man who had, moments earlier, shoved a handgun in his face and bluffed with his life.

  His head was spinning, his eyelids feeling heavier now, and the burning sensation in his midsection was getting more intense. He cursed his luck, he cursed fate and God himself and wished he could reset the clock, wished he’d never thought of Evelyn and her interest in the tail-eater, wished he’d left things well alone, passed on the goods to Ali’s buyers, flicked a kiss from his lips to his forehead in gratitude and taken the money.

  Even Baghdad was better than this.

  Corben listened for a moment, then handed him the phone. Farouk took it with a trembling hand. The distant, irregular whine rang in his ear.

  After a couple of rings, Abu Barzan answered in his gruff, heavy smoker’s voice. “Who’s this?”