The Sanctuary

by Raymond Khoury

  Mia studied Kirkwood and nodded. She agreed with him, but an uncomfortable thought was clawing at her heart. “And in order to get Mom back, we might be handing it all to a psycho?”

  KIRKWOOD WATCHED the confusion and uncertainty clouding Mia’s face.

  He’d been wondering about that too.

  He hated having to lie to her, and delaying the inevitable. He wanted to tell her the whole truth, then and there, but every time he tried, something pulled him back. He knew he’d have to. He knew he would. But he still found it staggeringly hard to face her and tell her what she didn’t know.

  He had a lot to make up for.

  Compounding his turmoil was the hakeem’s file. Kirkwood had flown to Beirut with a clear mission: to assist in getting Evelyn back, while trying to keep the secret safe. Reading the hakeem’s file had thrown those objectives into disarray. Countless victims had died horrible deaths, and many more were at risk.

  He had to be stopped.

  Kirkwood and his partners were all agreed on this. It had to supersede all other considerations.

  Including Evelyn. Including the secret itself.

  The hakeem couldn’t be allowed to carry on his murderous quest.

  Where that left him, Evelyn, and Mia was another matter altogether.

  Chapter 55

  T hrough the cloth shroud covering his head, Corben concentrated on the whir of the chopper’s turbine. The sound was throatier, lower-pitched, very different from the Hueys, Blackhawks, and Chinooks he was used to. The seat he’d been shoved into confirmed his suspicion. It was positioned sideways, along the outer wall of the cabin, and its fabric was rough and starchy, its padding thin, its metal frame biting into his thighs uncomfortably.

  The chopper was military.

  Russian-made. A Mil, no doubt.

  He’d know soon enough, as he sensed the machine slowing down and banking heavily, both of which suggested an imminent landing. Sure enough, it lurched and began its descent.

  He wasn’t sure how long the flight had taken, but the feeling he’d gotten of it tallied with the journey he assumed they were making: two hours of flight time or so. Comfortably within the range and airspeed of the big choppers.

  They were soon on the ground. He was hustled out of the cabin and heard some shouted orders before the big turbines strained back to full power and the brunt of the rotor wash plowed into him. As the chopper lifted off, he used the likely moment of distraction among his captors to raise his nylon-cuffed hands and pull the sack off his head. Omar spotted it and barked out angrily at him, but it was too late. Corben glimpsed the Mi-25 as it banked and headed back south. He couldn’t make out any markings on its camouflaged flank, but it was a military helicopter, and only one country within a few hours’ driving range of Beirut had them.

  He gave Omar a small grin, an unspoken middle finger, then looked around. Omar had brought three other men with him. They were toting some impressive gear: Corben spotted two sniper rifles, several submachine guns, and a couple of packs of additional gear. All of which confirmed that whoever the hakeem’s sponsor was had some serious muscle. The man seemed to have access to significant support and firepower, as well as a seemingly inexhaustible supply of drones. They’d been able to chopper straight into Turkey at the drop of a hat, no doubt aided by the symbiotic, enemy-of-my-enemy relationship between Turkey and Syria, which were both engaged in an ongoing struggle to subdue the nationalistic aspirations of the stateless Kurds.

  Corben realized that any ideas he’d entertained about possibly collaborating with the hakeem were seriously misguided. Besides being a hard case himself, the man clearly had some heavyweight sponsors to answer to. Whoever they were, they were heavily invested in him. They’d have serious issues with inviting an American intelligence agent to their party.

  It didn’t necessarily displease Corben. He’d taken a serious dislike to the man and to the leather sole of his hand-sewn moccasin. He looked forward to possibly ramming it down the man’s throat if this mystery buyer proved useful.

  He noticed Omar pulling out the phone they’d taken from him and snapping its battery into place before pocketing it and checking a handheld GPS device. Corben scanned their surroundings. They’re been dropped off in a clearing on a small hill, at the edge of a vast plain of arid land. Small patches of greenery dotted the edge of a river, the Tigris, that cut through it, snaking south, where it would eventually cross all of Iraq. About a mile north of their position, looming down on the parched flatlands from its elevated mound, was the ancient city of Diyarbakir.

  Omar walked over and handed Corben his phone. “No messages for you,” he said in a heavily accented tongue. “So the position of Abu Barzan is still the same.”

  “Still the same,” Corben confirmed. “But we’d better keep it on from here on, in case they call with any changes.” If Olshansky didn’t come through for him soon, things might get tight. He just had to find an opening and take it.

  “I’ll keep it with me,” Omar said. “For now.”

  Corben smiled. It didn’t even try to find his eyes. “Intal rayyis, ya Omar.” You’re the boss.

  Movement caught his eye as two dusty SUVs drove up to meet them. Omar waved them over and yelled out an order to his men to load up.

  Within minutes, they were on their way.

  THE KING AIR WAS MET on the tarmac by one of Kirkwood’s security consultants. Typically ex-SAS or Special Forces operatives, their services were in high demand since the chaos had overwhelmed Iraq. Per Kirkwood’s request, he and Mia were able to disembark in a remote corner of the small airfield, away from prying eyes. They sat in the back of the car that was there waiting for them, a Toyota Land Cruiser with heavily smoked windows, while the hired gun, an Australian who gave his name as Bryan, took their passports in to be stamped at the small terminal. Moments later, they breezed out of the airport compound and were headed to their meeting with Abu Barzan.

  “You’ve made contact with him?” Kirkwood asked the Australian.

  “Yeah,” he confirmed. “He was a bit put out by the change of venue, but I told him it was just a safety precaution. One of my guys is there, with him.”

  Mia listened to the exchange with slight puzzlement. “What change of venue? He knows you’re coming?”

  “I had him moved this morning,” Kirkwood told her. “Just in case Corben and the others were onto him.”

  Something about it wasn’t sitting well with her. “Is he under guard or something? I mean, aren’t you worried he’ll just bail on you?”

  Kirkwood seemed to read her suspicions. “I’ll explain everything when we’re with him, I promise.”

  THE TWO DUSTY SUVS made their way across a narrow concrete bridge and climbed up towards Diyarbakir.

  The city had grown to become the Kurdish capital of eastern Turkey. The ancient town, squatting on its elevated mound, was surrounded by a massive Byzantine defensive wall. Only the Great Wall of China was bigger. Built of large blocks of black basalt, it housed five imposing gates that led into the old town and had sixteen keeps dotted around its circumference. Newer buildings crawled down its outer ridge and spilled out into the plain around it.

  From the back of the lead vehicle, Corben studied his captors. Omar was seated next to him, studying the GPS coordinates on his handheld screen, with one of his men riding shotgun next to the local driver. The back car had Omar’s two remaining henchmen, and another driver.

  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 f
or 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.”

  Chapter 56

  T he 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.

  Chapter 57

  M ia 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.

  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, inviti
ng 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.