The Sanctuary

Chapter 11

Farouk gazed blankly into the chaotic patchwork of shelters and makeshift tents. He could feel the suffering and the despair in the stillness around him, even in the oppressive darkness that was only broken, here and there, by the faint glimmer of a gas lantern. It was eerily quiet, except for the muted sounds of scattered radios that wafted through the trees. Most of the refugees had finally succumbed to sleep.

The garden square of Sanayi’ was one of the rare patches of greenery in the concrete maze that was Beirut—green being a generous term, given how parched and unkempt its grounds were, even in normal circumstances. With the onset of the war in the south of the country, hundreds of refugees had made it their home. As had Farouk, since arriving in the city where he had no one to turn to. Not anymore, that is.

He took a final drag from a cigarette before stubbing it out on the ground beside him. He patted his pockets. The pack of smokes he found was empty. He crumpled it and tossed it away and shrugged to himself. He pulled the lapels of his jacket up against his neck and shrank back against the low wall that ran along the edge of the square.

This was what his life had come down to. Alone in another war-torn country. Homeless. Squatting on a patch of dried-out mud. His morning was looking even less promising than that of the wretched souls piled across the wasteland before him.

He wrapped his shaking hands around his head and tried to shut the world out, but the rush of the last twenty-four hours wouldn’t go away quietly. He rubbed his face, cursing himself for remembering Evelyn’s interest, for interfering with a sale that was all but agreed, for instigating this whole disaster… then stared out into the shadows, wondering what to do next.

Leave? Go back home, to Iraq? Go back… to what? A demolished country, ravaged by a brutal civil war. A land of mass kidnappings, death squads, and car bombs, a place of unmitigated chaos and suffering. He shook his head. There was nothing to go back to, and nowhere else for him to go. His country was gone. And he was here, now, a stranger in a strange land, his only contact and friend taken away.

Because of him.

He’d dragged her into this, and now they had her.

The thought was like a dagger to his heart. He shook his head again and again. How could he have let that happen? It was his fault, there was no escaping it. He saw them, he knew they were coming for him, and yet he still led them to her, got her taken in his place. He shivered as he remembered Hajj Ali’s tortured body. His old friend—Sitt Evelyn — in the hands of those monsters. The thought was too horrific to imagine.

He had to try to help her. Somehow. Let people know what he’d gotten her into. Help them find her, point them in the right direction. Warn them about what they were dealing with. But how? Whom could he talk to? He couldn’t go to the cops. He was in the country illegally. He was trying to sell stolen goods. Even with the best intentions, the cops wouldn’t take too kindly to an illegal Iraqi smuggler.

He thought of the young woman in the alley. If it weren’t for her, he’d have been taken along with Evelyn. He’d be…he imagined the power drill, its spinning tip digging into his skin. He pushed the thought away and focused on the woman again. At first, he thought it was pure luck. Just some stranger who wandered into the wrong street at the wrong time. But then he remembered the woman screaming out. He thought she might have said “Mom,” which puzzled him. Was she her daughter? Regardless, why was she there? Had Evelyn arranged to meet her there, or was it just a coincidence?

It was academic either way. He didn’t know who she was or where to reach her. He hadn’t stuck around after his escape. He didn’t even know what had happened to the girl. For all he knew, they’d taken her too.

A face crept out from the jumble in his mind. The man Evelyn was with, in Zabqine. Ramez — that was his name, wasn’t it? What had Evelyn said? They worked together. At the university.

He could find him. He’d been to the Archaeology Department. Post Hall, on campus. Ramez had seen him with Evelyn. He could tell him what he knew. She might even have told him what Farouk had told her. He’d be worried about her. He’d listen.

That was it. It was the best he could do. Thinking it through even further, the idea grew more appealing. He needed money. His cash had almost run out, and his plight was now much more desperate. It wasn’t about settling into a better life somewhere more sane than his homeland. It was about survival, plain and simple. He had to disappear, and that would take money. He had to find a buyer for Abu Barzan’s collection. He hadn’t spoken to Abu Barzan since leaving Iraq. The bastard could have found a buyer himself by now, and if he had, then Farouk would be left with nothing to sell. Evelyn’s colleague had to have contacts in that world. Wealthy Lebanese collectors. Maybe Farouk could interest him in helping to sell the pieces. Give him a cut. The divide between rich and poor was a veritable canyon in this town, and most people weren’t exactly flush these days. Money was tight. And even the virtuous and the principled had to eat and pay the rent.

A shroud of fatigue descended over him. He slid down to the ground and shriveled up into himself, hoping for sleep to overcome him. He would go to the university in the morning. Find Ramez. Talk to him. And maybe — just maybe — this could all end better for them than it had for his friend Ali.

He didn’t believe it for a second.