The Sanctuary

Chapter 14

The wailing dawn prayer call from a nearby mosque seeped in through every pore of the concrete-block wall of the interview room and yanked Mia out of her sleep.

She checked her watch groggily and frowned. She’d only just managed to overcome the discomfort of her bedding — two prickly blankets that she’d folded up and laid out on the tiled floor — and block out the noisy racket of the call-outs and bookings that rocked the station throughout the night.

Things brightened up marginally a couple of hours later, when a lone cop with a pleasant demeanor appeared at the interview room’s door bearing a fresh bottle of water and a piping hot man’oushi—a thin, pizza-like pastry topped with a rich mix of thyme, sesame seeds, and olive oil. In an act of supreme courage, she asked to use the toilet again, knowing full well that a second visit to the station’s facilities and their medieval vileness might require years of therapy — and quite possibly some antibiotics — to overcome. She was brought back to her makeshift cell and locked in for several galling hours, which she spent pacing around and trying to rein in her darkest thoughts, until, around lunchtime, the door creaked open and ushered in hope in the form of Jim Corben.

He introduced himself as one of the embassy’s economic counselors, and asked if she was alright. The ferret and Inspector Platitude were with him, but she could immediately tell that a completely different set of dynamics was at play here. Corben had presence, and the detectives were very much aware of it. His posture, his handshake, the firm tone of his voice, the confident eye contact — two different species of man, she thought when comparing him to Baumhoff, and that was before she got into the gaping physical chasm that separated the two embassy men. Baumhoff was totally outclassed on that front — porcine, balding, pasty-skinned fifty something versus trim, cropped-haired, slightly tanned, and midthirties. Her impressions were also unreservedly tainted by the fact that just after asking her if she was alright, Corben had uttered the magic words that cut right through her despair and almost brought tears to her eyes, six little words that she’d never forget.

“I’m here to get you out.”

It took a second or two for the bliss of it to sink in. Then he took charge and ushered her out the door. The detectives didn’t object or say a word, even though she hadn’t yet given a formal statement. Corben had obviously laid down a higher law, and they simply stood aside and watched her go. She followed Corben, in a daze, through the back of the police station, out a back entrance, and into the brightness of the sun-soaked outside world without so much as a form to fill out or a release to sign.

He led her briskly to his car, a charcoal gray Grand Cherokee with dark-tinted windows and diplomatic plates that was parked among the Fuhud’s patrol cars and SUVs, and helped her in before jumping behind the wheel. He negotiated his way out of the station’s lot and, with a quick nod to the guard manning the gate, slipped into the midday traffic.

Corben glanced in his rearview mirror. “There are a couple of reporters outside the station. I didn’t want you to get caught up in that.”

“They know about me?”

Corben nodded. “There were a lot of witnesses last night. But don’t worry. So far, we’ve managed to keep your mom’s name out of it, and you haven’t been mentioned anywhere either, which is how I’d like to keep things, at least as far as you are concerned. The guys at the station have their orders. They know what to say and what to keep to themselves.”

Mia felt as if she were coming out of hibernation. “Mentioned — you mean in the news?”

“Your mom’s kidnapping made the morning papers. Right now, they’re just talking about a nameless American woman, but they’ll get her name later on today, the embassy’s going to have to make a statement. We’re trying to play it down, but it’s picking up steam. The government isn’t too keen on publicizing it either. It’s bad press for the country, and things are a bit sensitive right now, as I’m sure you know. They’re going to spin it as a deal for stolen relics that went bad, smugglers fighting over the spoils, that kind of thing.”

“That’s bullshit,” Mia protested. “My mom wasn’t a smuggler.”

Corben shrugged sympathetically, but he didn’t seem convinced. “How well did you know her?”

Maybe it was because she was exhausted and hungry, or maybe it was because there was some remote validity to his insinuation, but Mia didn’t really know what to think anymore.

“She’s my mother,” she shot back regardless.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Mia frowned. “I’ve only been here for three weeks, alright? I was in Boston before that. So I can’t say we’ve been two peas in a pod, but she’s still my mother and I know what she’s like. I mean, come on. Have you met her? She’s messianic when it comes to archaeology.” She heaved a tired sigh, then added, “She’s a good person.”

A good person. She knew how vacuous that sounded, but, bottom line, she believed it.

“What about your dad? Where is he?”

A distant sadness clouded Mia’s face. “I never knew him. He died shortly after I was born. A car crash. On the road to Jordan.”

Corben glanced at her and nodded, seeming to process her words. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” She shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

She stared quietly out her window. People were out in the streets, getting on with the routines of their lives. A pang of envy tugged at her heart. She coveted their insouciance — before remembering that they probably weren’t as carefree as they seemed, given what they’d just been through, and the fragility of the country. She didn’t know what was going on behind their affable façades, and it made her think that maybe when it came right down to it, when it came down to the crisis points that define who people really are, maybe we didn’t really know as much about others as we thought we did. With a twinge of guilt, she found herself wondering if maybe Baumhoff and Corben could possibly be right. She didn’t really know her mother that well. She didn’t know what was really going on in her life. And that was where gut feelings and hard truths could easily diverge.

The car slowed and stopped, caught up in traffic in the narrow, single-lane road. She turned to Corben. “You can’t seriously think she could have been trading in looted relics?”

He met her gaze straight on. “The way I understand it, they were after her specifically, and unless she’s the first in a campaign targeting foreigners, which our intel suggests is highly, highly unlikely, it’s the only angle we have to work with right now.”

Mia’s spirits sank visibly as she digested his words. Corben studied her thoughtfully. “Look, it doesn’t matter why they took her. The fact of the matter is, someone’s got her, someone’s grabbed a woman, an American woman, off the street, and the reason behind it only matters if it’ll help us get her back. ’Cause that’s what we’re after, that’s the endgame. Getting her back. The rest we can deal with later.” A gentle reassurance had crept into his voice.

Mia managed to find a half-smile. Her eyes brightened with his resolve, and she nodded appreciatively.

“I know you’re tired,” he added, “I know you’re probably desperate to get back to your place and jump under a shower and wash the whole experience off, but I really need to talk to you about what happened last night. You were there. What you tell me could be crucial in helping us find her. Time is always against us in these situations. Do you think you can handle that right now?”

“Absolutely.” She nodded.