The Sanctuary

by Raymond Khoury

  But it was a six-foot leap over a three-story chasm that led down to the narrow cobbled passage below.

  “Can you jump it?” he asked Mia, his voice frantic, his eyes darting back at the trapdoor, expecting it to fling open any second.

  “Are you nuts?” she shot back.

  “You can do it,” he insisted.

  “I’m not jumping this.”

  Loud thrashes against the trapdoor rattled them.

  Kirkwood’s eyes lasered into Mia’s. “You can do this,” he yelled fiercely. “You have to do it.”

  Another jarring burst against the trapdoor. It creaked open, its hinges juddering. It wouldn’t last much longer.

  Mia looked at the bazaar’s roof, then back at Kirkwood.

  “Jump over, and I’ll throw you the book. Don’t wait for me. Just go. Make your way to one of our embassies, insist on speaking with an ambassador, only with an ambassador, do you understand?”

  She seemed to be looking into him, her mind swamped by a flurry of questions and emotions.

  The trapdoor thudded again.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Who are you? Why should I trust you?”

  The questions were like spears through his heart. He felt a wild grief and a raging fury take possession of him at the same time. “Because I was with your mother in that chamber in Al-Hillah,” he told her.

  A look of utter mystification washed over her face.

  “Because I’m pretty sure I’m your father,” he added desperately, feeling as if his soul had been sucked out of his body there and then.

  Another loud thump and this time, the trapdoor gave.

  Kirkwood and Mia both turned in tandem as the pockmarked killer burst out of the opening and clambered onto the roof.

  “Go now!” Kirkwood ordered her.

  Mia looked down to the dark passage below, raised her glance to the man who had just told her he was her father, and nodded. She was too numb to speak, her mind submerged under a deluge of questions. She simply took a few steps back, charged forward, and flung herself into the air.

  The ordeal lasted less than a breath as her legs flailed in the air in big, rotating sweeps before she tumbled heavily onto the roof of the bazaar, rolling on its dust-swept surface. She righted herself and sprang back to her feet, her teeth rattling and her head spinning from the harsh landing, and rushed back to the parapet.

  Kirkwood stood there, his face breaking into a radiant smile of relief as he saw her straighten up unscathed.

  A shadow was rushing up behind him. The same pockmarked man she’d seen in Beirut each time the madness started. He had a gun in his hand.

  “Behind you,” she shouted.

  Kirkwood glanced back, turned to her, dropped his eyes and slid one last glance at the book he gripped in his hands, and in one fluid motion, he flung it to her.

  It twirled in the air, spinning around itself, a priceless ancient Frisbee, before landing in her arms just as the killer reached the parapet. She saw him raise his handgun at her, she saw death about to reach out from its nozzle and rip the life right out of her, only the man she knew as Bill Kirkwood lunged at him from the side and tackled him, pushing his arm away and sending the bullet careening into dead air.

  “Run,” Kirkwood yelled as he struggled against the armed killer.

  And despite every yearning, every emotion, and every instinct gluing her feet to the ground, she did.

  IN THE DARKNESS at the bottom of the stairs, Corben watched the nervous shooter guarding him as they both listened to the repeated blows echoing down from above. It sounded as if Mia and Kirkwood had locked themselves into a room. Omar would break through soon, of that Corben had no doubt.

  It would soon be over. If he was going to try something, he had to do it now.

  Only one man watching him.

  A nervous wreck, at that.

  Time to party.

  Kirkwood’s dead gunslinger was blocking the stairs. Further down the hall, one of Omar’s dead shooters was sprawled on the ground. Something of interest was lying by his arm.

  Corben’s eyes snared his guard’s nervous look, then glanced sideways, down at the body of Omar’s man, and turned to his guard in mock surprise.

  “The book. It’s there, look.” Corben pointed down at the bloodied floor. And he took a step towards the dead shooter, keeping an eye on his guard, testing his reaction.

  The shooter yelled at him, warning Corben off, but Corben stared him down and kept moving, his voice even louder. “It’s the book, asshole, you understand? Al kitab.”

  And he took another step, raising his cuffed hands in a gesture of helplessness, then pointed downward. “Al kitab,” he repeated. “It’s what your mu’allim wants, numb nuts.”

  The shooter kept shouting and raised his gun, his eyes darting nervously up the stairs after Omar, unsure what to do. Corben was committed now, he was in a zone and wasn’t going to back out. He kept reaching down, yelling, “The book, okay? Al kitab, you understand?” And with that, positioning his back to the gunman, his fingers grabbed the fallen man’s silenced gun and he spun to face the wide-eyed Arab and pulled the trigger, hoping to a God he didn’t believe in that its magazine wasn’t empty and undergoing a small conversion in matters of faith as several rounds drilled into the man’s chest and punched him backwards before dropping him to the floor in a bloody mess.

  ON THE ROOF, Omar shoved Kirkwood off him with a vicious head butt and pushed himself to his feet. He held him at bay with his handgun as he scanned the roof of the adjacent bazaar.

  There was no trace of Mia or of the book.

  He grabbed Kirkwood by the neck and pulled him to his feet. He took one last look across the roof, then gave up and yelled at Kirkwood to move. He pushed him through the trapdoor and herded him down the stairs, prodding him in the back with his handgun.

  He was livid.

  He’d lost the book, when it was right there, within reach. But he had what the hakeem wanted even more: the buyer. Unscathed. Ready for questioning. But it wasn’t a success, not by any means. Apart from the book, he’d lost several men.

  He had to get out of there fast. The Turkish police would, no doubt, be rushing over, alerted by the gunfire.

  He followed Kirkwood down and saw Corben’s back as they reached the bottom of the stairs. He barked out angrily to the man he’d left guarding the American.

  Corben turned to face him slowly, unthreateningly, his expression a blank sheet.

  And in the darkness of that dusty hallway, Omar didn’t see the gun in Corben’s hand, not even when it spat a 9mm round that spun out of its nozzle and cleaved a path straight through his forehead.

  Chapter 61

  K irkwood watched Omar fall to the ground beside him and tumble down the last few steps, headfirst, until he lay still in a mangled, splattered heap by Corben’s feet.

  Corben looked up the stairs. “Where’s Mia?” he asked urgently.

  Kirkwood studied Corben’s eyes. He was still processing the eruption of the last few minutes. The killers were Arab and had to be the hakeem’s men—only Corben was with them. Which didn’t compute. “What are you doing here?”

  Corben seemed to be busy processing things himself. “They grabbed me last night.”

  “How did they know about this rendezvous?” Kirkwood pressed. “Through you? You’ve been keeping tabs on Abu Barzan?” His tone had an overtly accusing tone to it.

  Which didn’t faze Corben. “We don’t have time for this,” he countered bluntly. “Where’s the book?”

  “Mia’s got it. And trust me, she’s long gone by now.” Kirkwood watched Corben for a reaction. “Can’t blame her, really, what with all the bullshit she’s been hearing about how getting her mom back’s your top priority.”

  Corben glanced up the stairs after Mia, then confronted Kirkwood’s gaze. “Clearly, it’s yours too,” he shot back, his voice laced with cynicism. “I mean, that’s the only reason you’re here, right? Nothing to do
with tracking down the formula your ancestor was after.”

  The mention tripped Kirkwood’s mind. Corben couldn’t have known about that—not unless he’d been listening in. Which had to mean that he wasn’t here as a prisoner. He was already working with the hakeem—only something about his plans had evidently changed, given that he’d just killed the man who seemed to be the leader of the hakeem’s hit team.

  Corben glanced towards the front door, then bent down to Omar’s body, pulled a knife from one of his pockets, and cut his hands free. He rubbed the blood back into his wrists, then retrieved his cell phone from the fallen Arab and quickly checked its battery. It was fully charged. He took its battery out and put it away, then turned to Bryan’s body, picked up his submachine gun, which he slung over his shoulder, and rifled through his pockets. He found some extra magazines, which he took, as well as the Land Cruiser’s keys, which is what he was really after.

  Kirkwood saw him cast his eyes to the back of the house, as if wondering about something.

  “Come on,” he ordered Kirkwood as he stepped over Omar’s body and stole deeper into the house.

  “Where are we going?” Kirkwood asked.

  Corben didn’t answer.

  Kirkwood followed him into the kitchen. Corben gave the alleyway that ran behind the house a quick check, then stepped back inside. Abu Barzan was lying in the corner of the room, facedown, a dark pool of blood under him. By his feet was the attaché case.

  Corben picked it up. He turned. Kirkwood stood there, facing him. He looked at the agent quizzically, then held out his hand for the case.

  Corben shook his head slightly. “I think I’ll hang on to this. Make sure it gets back to the UN safely. Wouldn’t want them to miss it now, would we?” A thin, mocking smile broke through his stern expression.

  Kirkwood held his gaze for a moment, then nodded with silent frustration. The gloves were off, clearly. There was no point in dissembling. He looked down, and his eyes fell on one of the Iraqis’ weapons, a handgun, on the floor beside him. It was tantalizingly within reach.

  Corben had seen it too.

  Kirkwood’s muscles went rigid. He locked eyes with Corben. It was as if they could read the thoughts etched across each other’s face.

  “Not a good idea,” Corben cautioned.

  “There might be more of them out there,” Kirkwood bluffed. “You could use another shooter.”

  Corben shook his head dismissively. “They’re all accounted for.” He waved the gun towards the back of the house, motioning for Kirkwood to head out. “Let’s go,” he ordered.

  MIA’S FINGERS CLUTCHED the codex tightly as she huddled behind the parapet on the roof of the bazaar.

  She kept darting nervous glances back at the house she’d escaped from, but no one seemed to be coming through the trapdoor after her. Not that it made her feel any calmer. Her heart was still pounding feverishly as she tried to make sense of what had happened and, even more pressingly, of what Kirkwood—or whatever his real name was—had told her.

  Because I’m pretty sure I’m your father, he’d said.

  Which didn’t make sense.

  He couldn’t have been with Evelyn at Al-Hillah. That was thirty years ago, and he didn’t look as if he was even over forty.

  The only possible explanation was one she wasn’t yet ready to entertain.

  Besides, he’d also said that his ancestor was looking for the complete formula for the elixir. That it was incomplete. And if it was incomplete, then it didn’t work, and he couldn’t be using it.

  She shook the whole notion out of her mind. It simply wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. He was lying to her, he had to be. Which was the safe and comforting conclusion to cling to, except that she couldn’t do that. She’d looked into his eyes as he’d said those words, as he’d explained about his ancestor Sebastian, about the codex, about who he was. Everything about him screamed of sincerity. She’d had that same feeling when they’d spoken on the plane, and earlier, at the rooftop bar of the hotel. He wasn’t lying. For some reason she couldn’t quite fathom, she was sure of it.

  Which meant that everything she considered impossible had to be revisited, questioned, and—if her instincts were right—reclassified without the im prefix. And that included the impossibility of his being her father.

  She heard movement below and peered over the lip of the parapet. She froze as she spotted Kirkwood, heading down the narrow alley at the side of the house. Another man was following him. She craned over the edge to get a better look, and her heart turned over when she realized it was Corben.

  What’s he doing here?

  She wasn’t sure it mattered, and her spirits rose at the sight. He’d managed to save Kirkwood from the hakeem’s men, and they were both safe.

  She was about to spring up and make her presence known when she noticed something as they moved into the street, past the dead bodies of Abu Barzan’s man and Kirkwood’s other bodyguard. Corben was walking behind Kirkwood. He had a submachine gun slung over his shoulder and was carrying the attaché case. He also held something in his other hand. A handgun.

  The whole body language was wrong. There was tension between them, in the way Kirkwood was walking warily in front of Corben.

  It was almost as if he were a prisoner.

  CORBEN WALKED BEHIND Kirkwood as he directed him to the Land Cruiser, gripping the attaché case in one hand, the silenced handgun in the other.

  As they walked up to the SUV, his eyes calmly scanned the surrounding houses. He caught a glimpse of a young boy, peeking out at them from an open window before being pulled back by his fearful mother. He sensed movement in other windows. They had to be quick. The Turkish police were probably already on their way—they were always on alert throughout the region, due to the constant threat from Kurdish PPK separatist militants, whose home turf this was—and Corben had no interest in explaining himself to them, or to anyone for that matter, just yet.

  They reached the Land Cruiser. Its windows were down, and Corben could see that its doors weren’t locked. “Get in the car,” he ordered Kirkwood in a low rasp, “and don’t do anything stupid.”

  Kirkwood climbed into the passenger seat as Corben chucked the attaché case and the submachine gun into the back of the SUV. He looked up and scrutinized the roofs above them. He couldn’t see her anywhere, but he knew she had to be watching.

  “Mia,” he bellowed upwards. “Come on out. It’s safe. We’ve got to get out of here now.”

  MIA STAYED LOW as Corben’s voice echoed up from the street.

  The last thing she wanted was to be abandoned here, alone, in this godforsaken corner of the world, surrounded by dead bodies. The Midnight Express analogy was coming to life alarmingly in her mind’s eye. She wanted to believe that Corben was on their side, that he was here to save them, that he was trying to get her mom back. He’d obviously killed the hakeem’s men. Which had to be a good thing. So what if he knew about the hakeem’s experiments? So he’d lied to her about what this was all about. Big deal. She didn’t “need to know.” And it didn’t mean he wasn’t also trying to get Evelyn back.

  “Mia,” Corben yelled again. “We’ve got to go. Come on.”

  She shut her eyes and imagined Corben and Kirkwood driving off without her, and the thought suddenly horrified her. She couldn’t face being left behind.

  She subdued her warring emotions and, with the fear of making a huge mistake throttling her stomach, rose to her feet.

  SITTING IN THE LAND CRUISER, Kirkwood felt a surge of anxiety wash over him as he listened to Corben’s calls.

  He had to do something. He was sure Corben wouldn’t want Mia around once he got his hands on the book. She knew too much.

  He had to warn her.

  He reached out and flung the door open and bolted from the car.

  “Mia, don’t come out,” he yelled, scanning the roofs around him. “Stay away.”

  Corben dashed after him and tackled him a few yards from t
he Land Cruiser. He grabbed him by the collar and stuffed the gun in his face.

  Kirkwood scowled at him defiantly. “What are you gonna do, shoot me?”

  Corben held him there for a breath, seething with anger and frustration. “Get up,” he ordered, pulling him to his feet and shoving him towards the Land Cruiser. He stopped at the car, cast one last glance up at the roofs, then pushed Kirkwood into the car and climbed in behind him.

  MIA’S BREATH CAUGHT as she spotted Kirkwood dart out of the car and run down the street. Her whole body stiffened as Corben caught up with him, floored him, and manhandled him back to the car.

  She sank back to her cover and watched as Corben climbed into the car, and her heart sank as she heard its engine churn to life before it screeched off and disappeared around a corner.

  She pushed herself to her feet, the blood draining from her face, feeling dizzy. She looked down at the quiet street. The Land Cruiser was well and truly gone, leaving a plume of dust and the two dead bodies in its wake. Stunned and curious people were cautiously emerging from the adjacent houses and from the bazaar.

  She glanced at the old book in her hands and noticed that her nails had clawed deep into its leather cover. She felt like ripping the damn thing to pieces and screaming her lungs out in rage, but instead, she looked around, saw what looked like the overhang of a stairwell, and made her way towards it.

  Chapter 62

  M ia ducked out of a side entrance to the bazaar and into the cobbled alleyway from which Corben and Kirkwood had emerged. She could see increased activity in the main street outside the house as people realized the threat was gone, and she snuck the other way, heading back into the alley.

  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.