The Sanctuary

by Raymond Khoury

  “Farouk.” He noticed that Abu Barzan’s voice had come across somewhat louder than normal, and he could hear a radio in the background. He thought he might be in a car.

  “Farouk,” Abu Barzan boomed through, jovial as ever. “Where the hell are you?” He added a burst of jocular obscenities to describe his friend. “I tried calling you but your line’s dead.”

  “I’m with a buyer,” Farouk said bluntly. “He wants the pieces.”

  Corben glanced over at him. Somehow, Farouk managed to coax out a half-smile.

  Corben drove on.

  “You’re too late,” Abu Barzan informed him with a haughty chortle before throwing in another colorful insult. “I already sold them.”

  The news hit Farouk like a tempest. “What do you mean, you sold them?” he flared up.

  “I’m on my way to deliver them as we speak.”

  Farouk’s heart rose. “So you still have them?”

  “They’re right here with me.”

  “Well, I’m telling you I have a buyer.” Farouk saw Corben turn at his alarmed tone and felt a surge of concern about Corben’s reaction. He tried to regain some composure and gave Corben a reassuring not-a-problem shake of the head.

  “Well, sell him something else,” Abu Barzan was saying. “You’ve got a whole basement of priceless junk in that shop of yours, don’t you?”

  “Listen to me,” Farouk hissed into the phone, trying not to appear perturbed and failing. “Some people are after one of the books you’re selling. Bad people. They killed Hajj Ali, they’ve killed others. They’ve kidnapped a friend of mine, a woman, because of it, and I’ve just been shot, do you understand me?”

  “You’ve been shot?” More obscenities followed, though not at Farouk’s expense this time.

  “Yes.”

  “You okay?”

  Farouk coughed. “I’ll live.”

  “Who’s been kidnapped then?”

  “An American woman. An archaeologist, here in Beirut.”

  “You’re in Beirut?”

  “Yes,” Farouk replied, exasperated. “Look, these guys are serious. They’ll come after you.”

  Abu Barzan shrugged. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through, but it’s not my problem. I’m meeting my buyer tomorrow evening, I’ll hand them over and get paid, and then it’ll be his problem. But thanks for the heads-up. I’ll keep my third eye open.”

  Farouk scrunched his face and sighed heavily. He felt as if he were drowning from the inside. He wasn’t really surprised. Not only was Abu Barzan a grubby pig of a man, he was a sleazeball who’d sell his own children if he could find a buyer who wasn’t put off by their crappy genes after taking one look at him.

  Farouk told Abu Barzan, “Stay on the line,” then turned to Corben, his mouth twitching with pain and frustration. “He says he’s sold them. He’s on his way to deliver them right now.”

  Corben thought about it as he coaxed the car on, then said, “Does he still have the book?”

  Farouk nodded and asked Abu Barzan about the book, describing it specifically. Abu Barzan replied that he thought he had it. The deal was for the entire consignment.

  “Ask him how much he’s getting for the lot,” Corben told Farouk.

  Farouk immediately realized it was the right play, nodded, and asked.

  Abu Barzan laughed. “Your buyer’s got deep pockets?”

  “Yes,” Farouk, at his wit’s end, insisted patiently.

  The answer came back: “Three hundred thousand dollars. Cash.”

  He told Corben and made a surprised, impressed face like That’s a huge offer.

  Corben mulled it over, then said, “I’ll give him four.”

  Farouk’s eyes widened. He relayed the offer.

  Abu Barzan scoffed. “That was quick. This guy serious?”

  “Of course he is.”

  “He’d better be.” Abu Barzan’s tone was more serious now. When it came down to hard cash, he didn’t mess around. “So tell me. What’s so special about this book?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care,” Farouk blurted angrily. “I’m just trying to save the woman’s life.”

  “Spare me the soft sell, will you?” Abu Barzan took a deep, wheezy breath. “Alright. I’m interested. But I need to call my buyer. Least I can do is give him a chance to beat your guy’s offer.”

  Farouk informed Corben. Corben asked him to find out how long it would take.

  “He called me today,” Abu Barzan said. “I’ll call him now. What’s your number?”

  Corben told Farouk to say they’d call him back in five minutes. Farouk did, then hung up as the Pathfinder turned off the main coastal highway. The foothills that harbored the embassy loomed in the distance.

  Farouk curled into his seat and sucked in a deep breath, trying to push away the burning pain in his gut and taking solace in that he was still breathing and in the hope that—contrary to expectations—things might just end up better for him than they had for his friend Ali.

  Chapter 45

  K irkwood leaned against a bench in the courtyard behind the annex and waited. He was raked with frustration, unable to ask the questions he needed to ask, feeling precious minutes slipping by while he could only sit back and watch helplessly. He was checking the time yet again when his phone rang.

  He saw the incoming caller ID and frowned. He stood up, glancing around to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard, and flicked it open.

  “I just got a call from an interested buyer,” Abu Barzan’s voice thundered in his ear. “He’s offering me more than you are for the collection, my friend.”

  “I thought we had a deal,” Kirkwood noted irritably.

  “We did, and we do. But it’s a nice offer, and I’m a businessman, you know?”

  A real competing buyer, or just a shakedown? Kirkwood wondered. Either way, he had to play along. “How much is he offering?” he asked with affected patience.

  “Four hundred thousand.”

  Kirkwood mulled it over. Another buyer, out of the blue. Offering far more than the collection was worth. If it was the same group that held Evelyn, then getting hold of the pieces would make her expendable. To say nothing of the fact that he wasn’t about to let anyone have them either. Not that easily.

  “I’ll give you five, but on one condition. We’re not playing this game again. You want to be careful here. You know I’m good for it, you won’t have a problem with me. But there are some dangerous people out there.”

  “So I hear,” Abu Barzan agreed soberly. “I’ll tell you what. Make it six hundred and the whole collection’s yours. Including the book.”

  Kirkwood’s chest tightened. Abu Barzan wasn’t supposed to know about the book. Kirkwood didn’t want to take the bait, nor did he want to give him the impression that paying up was that easy. He let him stew for a moment, then said, “Okay. Six hundred. But that’s a huge price and you know it.”

  “Oh, believe me, I know it. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “This new buyer,” Kirkwood asked quickly. “Anything you can tell me about him?”

  Abu Barzan chuckled throatily. “Sorry, my friend. Just another crazy American, like you. Trying to get his hands on that book. Maybe I should hang on to that one, what do you think?”

  Kirkwood barely contained his displeasure. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” he replied tersely.

  Abu Barzan laughed again, mockingly. “Relax. From what I hear, it sounds like it’s cursed. I’ll be glad to get rid of it. Don’t forget the extra cash.”

  And with that, he hung up.

  Kirkwood stared at his phone for a moment before putting it away. He thought about the timing, and something didn’t feel right. This new bidder was specifically after the book. The only people he knew of who could have been in touch with Abu Barzan were Evelyn’s kidnappers and the Iraqi dealer Corben was trying to bring in. Had he failed? Had the kidnappers gotten hold of the man?

  He walked into the main villa and climbed up
to the ambassador’s office. The ambassador’s secretary informed him the ambassador would be in a meeting for another hour or so. Kirkwood thanked her. He went back out and crossed over to the annex and made his way to the press office.

  Mia was still there, where he’d left her earlier. She was reading something densely worded that she had accessed on the Internet and seemed to be deeply engrossed by it. He couldn’t see a heading, and the text was too small for him to make out what it was about.

  “Have you heard anything from Corben?” he asked.

  “No.” Her expression was lined with concern. She checked her watch.

  Kirkwood had already checked his. He knew it was past twelve o’clock. His eyes rose and met her gaze, his anxiety mirrored in her eyes.

  The noon call would already have been made.

  They’d know soon enough.

  THE PATHFINDER EMERGED from the congested coastal strip and began its climb towards Awkar.

  The SUV’s engine groaned as the wide, flat road narrowed into a series of winding bends that snaked up the foothills of Mount Lebanon. Unregulated and irregular buildings lined the road, thinning out as the climb progressed, the gaps between their stone façades widening to reveal more of the lush forests that loomed beyond.

  Corben called Olshansky and gave him the number of Abu Barzan’s cell phone. He told him he needed a lock on its position, which was most likely in northern Iraq. He also told him that the phone was probably being used at that very moment, and that Corben was also after whoever was on the other end of that call.

  He made sure Olshansky understood to pull out all the stops on this one.

  They were now ten minutes away from the embassy, and Corben didn’t have much time to evaluate his options. He needed to call Abu Barzan back, though he suspected he already knew the outcome. Regardless, he wasn’t ready for the interference that would inevitably descend on him the minute he entered the embassy compound.

  He spotted a side road he had used before, slowed down, and took it. It was a narrow lane of cratered asphalt. He followed its path, past some scattered houses and low buildings that soon gave way to the pine forest. The track leveled off before starting to head downhill in a series of tight bends. He was about a mile off the main road when he pulled over into a small clearing and killed the engine.

  It was a secluded spot, cool from the dense tree cover that was occasionally pierced by ethereal rays of sunlight. It was also deathly quiet, save for the mating song of countless cicadas that echoed around them.

  Farouk scanned the trees, then turned to Corben, confused. “Why are we stopping here?”

  “I don’t want to make the call from the embassy.”

  Farouk seemed bewildered. “Why not?”

  “I’d rather get this sorted out before we get there,” Corben said calmly. “Don’t worry about it. We’re two minutes away. We’ll be there before you know it.”

  He checked his watch. It was time. He picked up his phone, logged it back to the second-to-last dialed call, and hit the green button. A few seconds and it started to ring.

  He handed the phone to Farouk as he heard Abu Barzan pick up on the first ring.

  Farouk listened for a moment before turning to Corben, his face contorted with pain and dismay.

  “His buyer’s offered six hundred.”

  Corben expected as much.

  He knew it would be pointless to counterbid. The relics weren’t worth anywhere near as much, which meant the buyer was definitely after the same thing he was and was probably prepared to pay what it took to get them. Still, he thought of bidding up. Whether he’d ever have to come up with the cash was a different matter. But before he could even answer, he noticed that Farouk still seemed to be listening intently to Abu Barzan.

  The expression on the Iraqi’s face darkened even more. “He’s saying there’s no need for you to offer more money,” Farouk relayed, his breathing labored. “He’s saying his client’s known he was getting the pieces all along, which means that if anyone’s killing people for them, it’s obviously not his buyer. And he’s more than happy with the price. He thanks us for ramping the price up, but the deal’s done.”

  Corben frowned. It was slipping away. He needed an advantage, and the only card he could play was weak, one that could work as much as it could backfire, depending on Abu Barzan’s politics, which he had no time to assess, and his propensity to be intimidated.

  He decided to give it a shot. “Does he speak English?”

  Farouk nodded.

  “Give me the phone.”

  Farouk mumbled a brief introduction, convinced Abu Barzan to stay on the line, then handed the phone to Corben. It was sticky with blood.

  “I can’t outbid your client,” Corben told him, “but I’d like you to reconsider my offer.”

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” Abu Barzan chortled. “I know my buyer’s real, I know I’ll have my money tomorrow, and I’ll go back to Mosul a very rich man, but I don’t know anything about you. Besides, you have an expression in America, no? Something about money talking and bullshit walking?”

  “I just need you to think about a few things,” Corben told him calmly. “It’s not all about cash. I work for the U.S. government, and I can think of worse things than having us owe you a big favor. The way things are shaping up in Iraq, we’re not gonna be out of there for a while. And you might find that having a friend in the system could come in handy one of these days, you know what I’m saying?”

  Abu Barzan went silent for a beat. When he came back, the relaxed mocking in his tone was gone, replaced by an icy disdain. “You think telling me you work for the American government is going to make want to help you? You think you can do things for me in Iraq?”

  The politics were clear. “Better to have us owe you than be pissed off at you, that’s for sure,” Corben countered flatly, knowing that wasn’t going to work either.

  “Now you’re threatening me?” Abu Barzan spat back, following it with a torrent of inspired abuse. He was on his second “Fuck you” when Corben hung up.

  Farouk was staring at him with round, baffled eyes. “What did he say?”

  Corben shook his head slightly. “He’s not interested.”

  Farouk sighed heavily. “Then you have nothing to trade for Sitt Evelyn.”

  Which was true. But he knew who had the book. And he now had his phone number.

  Abu Barzan had told Farouk that he was on his way to deliver the goods, and he’d added that he’d have his money “tomorrow evening.” That gave Corben a little over twenty-four hours to track him down. If Abu Barzan was traveling and needed to stay in contact with his buyer, he wouldn’t probably have time, nor would he risk, changing phones. Corben felt reasonably confident that Olshansky would nail down his position.

  Thinking about it now, Corben realized things hadn’t gone too badly. Sure, the discovery that another buyer was out there did complicate things. On the other hand, it also drew out someone Corben was just as interested in finding, someone who’d been hiding in the shadows successfully long before Corben had even gotten wind of anything. And that, in itself, was a welcome development.

  Which left Farouk.

  Sitting there, wheezing and groaning and bleeding all over Corben’s borrowed embassy car.

  Corben knew wounds like this. He knew that on TV, people who got shot were always told they were lucky it was “just” a flesh wound and would be bouncing around a few days later with nothing more to show for it than a big white bandage. The reality was very different. Most shots needed hospitalization and IVs. Infections set in easily and were commonplace. And a wound such as Farouk’s would require, at best, a month of serious hospitalization. It was also highly likely he’d feel its effect, in some way, for the rest of his life.

  And that was a problem.

  As he had told Farouk, a hospital wouldn’t be safe, not from the hakeem, given his contacts in the Lebanese police force. Besides, the last thing he wanted was for the hakeem to k
now Farouk had been shot. And even if the hakeem didn’t grab Farouk outright, he’d find out what Corben now knew, and any leverage Corben had over the hakeem would be lost.

  The Fuhud detectives would get involved. The head of station. The press too, probably. Every move, every choice Corben made, or wanted to make, would be poured over with a microscope. The ambassador and the Lebanese government would also get sucked in. If they found out about Abu Barzan’s pieces and managed to get hold of them, they might set up an exchange with the hakeem and trade them for Evelyn. The hakeem would have what he was after, he’d recede into the shadows, and Corben would be left with nothing but frustration and tons of paperwork. And if the hakeem couldn’t get to Farouk, or if no exchange went through, he’d also disappear.

  That ruled out the hospital.

  He couldn’t keep Farouk at the embassy either. They didn’t have the medical facilities there. It would be bad enough if Farouk died while in hospital, but if he died while he was at the embassy…The ambassador was a principled, honorable guy who wouldn’t keep Farouk’s presence a secret, not from the State Department, nor from the local authorities. Farouk’s death on U.S. soil would create a shitstorm that would ruin everything.

  He wouldn’t get what he was after.

  Thinking it through dispassionately, he couldn’t see that Farouk was of any further value to him. The man had only gotten drawn into this accidentally, and now that Corben knew what Farouk knew about Abu Barzan, the Iraqi had become obsolete.

  More than obsolete.

  He was a liability.

  Whichever way he turned, all Corben saw coming out of bringing him in was questions, obstacles, complications, and grief.

  Which didn’t really leave him much choice.

  He turned to Farouk. The wounded Iraqi looked like a mauled animal, curled up and drenched in blood. His face glistened with sweat and looked even more ashen in the pale, diffused light of the forest. His whole body was shivering, and his trembling hands, caked thick with blood, still pressed down meekly on his wound. He was staring at Corben with scared, half-dead eyes that were barely managing to stay open.