The Sanctuary (32 page)

She wasn’t sure what he was referring to, but whatever it was, he was way too delighted at having uncovered it for it to be good.

“This roving Casanova of yours,” he said, glowering with irritating condescension. “Tom Webster. I’m amazed you still feel so strongly about him, so protectively. Given how he left you.”

He leaned in, eyeing her with relish, as if savoring her apprehension at his little mind-game, and as he did, she spotted the medallion through the folds of his buttoned shirt. The brief glimpse was all she needed to recognize the Ouroboros symbol on it, and right then, she knew there was a lot he—and Tom—had been keeping from her about the long-lost occupants of the chamber in Al-Hillah.

“Pregnant,” the hakeem rasped. “I’m not mistaken, am I? Mia…she’s his daughter, isn’t she?”

A
man’s voice broke through Mia’s dour thoughts.

“You must be Mia Bishop.”

She turned. The man standing before her extended his hand. “Bill Kirkwood. I was looking for Jim?”

As she met his hand, she took in his features. He was a pleasant-looking guy, but there was something aloof in his manner, a reserved hesitance, that discomforted her. “I don’t know where he is,” she said. “He left me here about an hour ago.”

“Ah.” He seemed to hover for a moment before adding, “I’m sorry about what’s happened to your mom.”

Mia wasn’t sure how to answer that. She went with “It comes with the territory, I guess.”

“Not lately, it hasn’t. Not in
Lebanon
. It took us all by surprise. Still, I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

Mia nodded and let an awkward silence settle between them.

“So I hear you had another Wild West adventure,” he ventured.

Mia shrugged. “I seem to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“You could look at it that way. Then again, the fact that you were there that night and that you reported what happened to your mom could end up saving her life.”

Her face brightened. The thought brought her a hint of solace. “I hope so. You knew her?”

Kirkwood
nodded.
“A little.
UNESCO.
We’ve been funding some of her digs out here. She’s a great lady, we have nothing but the highest of respect for her, you know. And this whole thing is just so…awful. Tell me, Mia—may I call you Mia?”

“Sure.”

“How did she seem to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You were the last one to see her before she was kidnapped,”
Kirkwood
reminded her. “Did she seem nervous about anything? Worried, maybe?”

“Not particularly. She was a bit rattled by Farouk—you know, the Iraqi dealer—his showing up out of the blue took her by surprise. But otherwise…” Her voice drifted as she noticed that his eyes had wandered to the desk and settled on the writing pad. It was covered with notes she had scribbled during her calls and littered with doodles of the Ouroboros.

Kirkwood
cocked his head to one side, intrigued.
“The symbol on one of the books,” he half-noted, half-asked.
“From
Iraq
.”

Mia felt slightly rattled. “Yes,” she answered, somewhat surprised that he knew that.

“Do you know what it is?”

“It’s called an Ouroboros.” She wasn’t sure how much to say and settled for “I don’t know much about it.” She forced a smile, which she knew didn’t reach her eyes. She wondered if he noticed.

“You think that book is what the kidnappers are really after?” he asked.

She felt conflicted.

Kirkwood
must have seen it, as he preempted her unease. “It’s fine. I’m working with Jim on getting Evelyn back. He told me about your chat.
Said you took him to her apartment.”
He paused. “We’re all on the same side here,” he added with a hint of a smile as he leaned in and studied her notes.

She relaxed and nodded. “It’s the one thing that links Evelyn, the cabal’s chambers, the book, and the hakeem. It’s got to mean something.”

A puzzled look clouded his face.
“The hakeem?”

A knot formed in her throat. She knew she’d screwed up the second she’d said it. She fumbled for the right words to get her out of her spot, but they wouldn’t announce themselves. “He’s…you know, in
Baghdad
,” she mumbled. “Maybe you should ask Jim about that.”

Just then, mercifully, Corben showed up.

Another man was with him, younger than Corben, someone she hadn’t met before. He had short chestnut hair, a thick-set neck, and wore a navy blue suit with no tie. Corben seemed surprised to see
Kirkwood
here and gave him a small nod. As
Kirkwood
acknowledged him back, Mia caught a barely perceptible unease in Corben’s expression as he glanced down at the desk, where her doodles were in view.

Corben motioned to the man with him. “This is Greg,” he said to Mia. “He’ll take you to the hotel whenever you’re ready and he’ll stay with you. We’re going to put you up at the Albergo. It’s a small hotel in Ashrafieh”—the Christian side of town—“you’ll be fine there.”

“Okay.” Mia nodded to Corben.

“It’s where I’m staying,”
Kirkwood
added, before turning to Corben. “Anything on that phone tap?”

“Nothing yet,” Corben said matter-of-factly.

“So what are you going to do?”
Kirkwood
asked.

“I’m driving back into town to be within striking distance.” Corben shrugged. “Maybe we’ll get a break.” He turned to Mia. “I’ll give you a call later to make sure you’re all sorted out.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

Corben looked at her,
then
nodded to the other agent as if to say,
All yours.

As Corben turned to leave,
Kirkwood
said, “Good luck. And keep us posted.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I have news.”

For some reason, Mia didn’t think Corben was too keen on following through with that. More than that, he seemed a bit wary of
Kirkwood
.

Which meant that she probably ought to be as well.

KIRKWOOD
LIFTED the plastic lid and pulled out a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker in the lobby of the annex. He ventured a sip. Surprisingly, it wasn’t half-bad.

He replayed his little chat with Mia. It was obvious that she, and therefore Corben, knew far more than they were saying. During his briefings, Corben hadn’t said anything about the kidnappers having a specific interest in any of the artifacts, let alone mentioned the book specifically, nor had he brought up Evelyn’s discovery of the underground chamber. And yet Mia clearly knew about both.

And Corben certainly hadn’t mentioned this hakeem.
Even though the man was clearly an intrinsic part of the equation.

Even more interestingly, Mia had said the hakeem was in
Baghdad
. He knew hakeem meant “doctor,” and the sound of that didn’t set well in his stomach.

He felt a deep-seated unease. There were agendas he didn’t know about. And the Iraqi dealer was still far from being in safe hands. He needed to know what was really going on, and the place to start was with Corben.
Which wouldn’t be easy.
Kirkwood
’s contacts within the UN were rock solid. His contacts within the intelligence community were less so. The UN, however, did—purposefully at times, unwittingly at others—
play
a significant role in the
Iraq
war, particularly during the whole WMD debacle.
Kirkwood
could use his contacts to mine that vein while looking for other ways to get into the Agency’s inner workings.

He also needed to get more information regarding Mia’s background, but that would have to come through other methods. He didn’t think it would be too difficult.

He took another sip from his cup, fished his phone out of a pocket, and dialed.

C
orben checked his watch. It was
quarter to twelve
.

Fifteen minutes to liftoff.

He’d been sitting in the Nissan Pathfinder for half an hour, waiting. He didn’t mind. He liked the peace. It gave him time to think things through calmly, methodically, and evaluate the various options that could open up. He had to have options. In his business, things rarely went exactly according to plan.

He stretched the stiffness from his bones, took a final sip from the double espresso he’d picked up, and chucked the paper cup into the back footwell. The caffeine rush was now coming onstream, and it felt good. Or maybe it was just the anticipation.

He glanced down at the seat next to him and pulled the Ruger MP9 from its case. It was an ugly little piece, but highly effective. He checked its magazine. It was filled to capacity.
Thirty-two rounds.
He pressed down on the uppermost cartridge, feeling the give in the springs, and rotated it
slightly,
making sure it was properly seated, before ramming the magazine back in. He made sure the firing selector was on FULL AUTO. In that setting, it could spit out its entire load in a little under three seconds. In the hands of a “spray-and-pray” crackhead, most if not all of those rounds would probably miss their mark. Corben, on the other hand, was experienced enough to make them count.

Three extra magazines were in the case, all fully loaded. He also wore a holstered Glock 31 on his belt. It had only seventeen rounds in it, but they were .357s that could punch through car panels as if they were paper.

He needed the firepower.

He’d thought things through and had decided that, despite the increased risks, he needed to do this alone. He was able to sell it to his station chief on the basis that Farouk was easily spookable and had to be approached with lightning speed as well as with utmost care. An army of foreign agents showing up would make him run.

He’d briefly—very briefly—considered bringing Mia along. Farouk—who’d be expecting a carload of Lebanese cops—didn’t know Corben. He had no reason to believe him or to trust him. But Mia and Farouk had locked eyes the night of Evelyn’s kidnapping. Her presence at the pickup point could definitely have given the Iraqi some comfort, but it wasn’t really an option, not given how dangerous it could be and what she’d already been through that morning. Her presence would have been inappropriate and would have severely cramped Corben’s style at a time he’d need to think fast and move faster.

Corben wasn’t about to involve the Fuhud either, not when he didn’t know whom he could trust there. He knew he’d probably be up against a carload of shooters. He just hoped he’d get to Farouk before they did and avoid turning whatever corner of
Beirut
the Iraqi was holed up in into another firing range.

Which was the key question, really.
Where
would Farouk
be calling from? According to the signal from Ramez’s phone, the kidnappers were in the Malaab area, in the southern end of the city. Corben had to position himself somewhere where he’d have a chance at beating them to Farouk. He’d studied a map of the city and crossed off some areas as being unlikely hangouts for an illegal immigrant with a strong Iraqi accent and probably little money.
East Beirut
was one such area.
The glitzy downtown too.
The southern part of the city was its own fiefdom and off-limits to outsiders.

Which left
West Beirut
.

Corben had chosen to wait outside the Concorde multiplex. It was on a main road that bisected
West Beirut
diagonally and was close to other wide arteries he could use to get across town if he needed to. If the call came in from anywhere near the university, which was where Farouk was last seen, Corben would be closer to him than the goon squad, and he’d stand a decent chance of getting to him before them. Assuming they didn’t have a forward guard on hold.

He’d raided the armory for the weapons, signing out a Kevlar vest as well, which, judging from the stiffness in his back, clearly wasn’t designed for comfort. He’d also decided to use one of the cars that didn’t have embassy plates. If there was going to be trouble, he didn’t want his vehicle to be that easily identifiable.

Leila’s voice crackled through his cell phone’s Bluetooth earpiece: “We’re getting something.”

Olshansky added, “Looks like they’ve finally pulled Ramez’s phone out from whatever hole they’ve been keeping it in.”

Corben heard some voices speaking in Arabic in the background, the kidnappers coming through the speakers in Olshansky’s batcave.

The words became clearer. He pictured the man saying them, possibly the leader of the kidnappers, the one he’d seen outside Evelyn’s apartment.