The Sanctuary

Chapter 2

“Do you have him yet?”

He’d left Baghdad over four years ago, and yet, despite his natural talent for foreign languages and his best efforts, his Arabic vocabulary and accent were still influenced by his years in Iraq. Which is why the men who were assigned to work for him — led by Omar, the man who had just called — all came from the east of his new adopted homeland, close to its border with Iraq, where they’d been facilitating the smuggling of weapons and fighters in both directions. The two languages were broadly similar — think of California Valley — speak vs. East London cockney — but the variance between them was enough to spawn inaccuracies and generate misunderstandings.

Which wouldn’t do.

He prided himself on accuracy. He didn’t tolerate imprecision, nor did he have much patience for unreliability. And he could tell from the man’s discomfited tone, from the very moment he’d been interrupted and picked up the call, that his patience was about to be sorely tested.

There was a hesitant pause before the cold answer came back over his cell phone. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?” the hakeem rasped as he angrily flicked off his surgical gloves. “Why not? Where is he?”

Omar wasn’t easily cowed, but his tone was now tinged with some added deference. “He was being careful, mu’allimna.”

On either side of the border, the men assigned to him always called him that. Our teacher. A lowly servant’s self-effacing moniker of respect. Not that he’d taught them much. Only to make sure they did what they were asked and did it without asking any questions. It wasn’t so much teaching as it was training, with fear as the prime motivator.

“We didn’t really have the right opportunity,” Omar continued. “We followed him to the American University. He visited the Archaeology Department. We waited for him outside the building, but he must have used another exit. One of my men was watching the sea gate and saw him sneaking out and getting into a taxi.”

The hakeem frowned. “So he knows he’s being followed,” he said gruffly.

“Yes,” Omar confirmed reluctantly, before adding, “But it’s not a problem. We’ll have him for you by tomorrow night.”

“I hope so,” the hakeem countered acidly. “For your sake.” He was trying hard to keep his rage in check. Omar hadn’t failed him yet. The man knew what the stakes were, and he was ruthlessly good at his job. He’d been seconded to the hakeem with clear orders to look after him and make sure he got everything he needed. And Omar knew failure wasn’t tolerated in the service. The hakeem took some solace from that. “Where is he now?”

“We followed him to Zabqine, a small town in the south, close to the border. He went there to meet someone.”

This instantly piqued the hakeem’s interest. “Who?”

“A woman. An American. Her name’s Evelyn Bishop. She’s a professor of archaeology at the university. An older woman. She must be in her sixties. He showed her some documents. We couldn’t get close enough to see what they were, but they must have been pictures of the collection.”

Interesting, the hakeem mused. The Iraqi dealer’s hardly in town for a few hours and the first thing he does is head straight out to see a woman who happens to be an archaeologist? He archived the information for further consideration. “And…?”

Another hesitant pause, then Omar’s tone dropped lower. “We lost him. He spotted us and ran. We looked for him all over the town, but he disappeared. But we’re watching the woman. I’m outside her apartment right now. They were interrupted, there’s unfinished business between them.”

“Which means she’ll lead you to him.” The hakeem nodded quietly to himself. He raised his hand and rubbed his face with it, massaging his furrowed brow and his dry mouth. Failure would certainly not be tolerated here. He’d waited too long for this. “Stay on her,” he insisted coldly, “and when they meet up, bring them both to me. I want her too. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mu’allimna.” The reply was crisp. No hesitance there.

Which was just how the hakeem liked it.

He clicked off and replayed the conversation in his mind for a beat before stowing the phone in his pocket and getting back to the business at hand.

He washed his hands and slipped on a new pair of surgical gloves, then walked over to the bed where the young boy lay, strapped in, hovering at the edge of consciousness, his eyes narrow, ceramiclike white crescents peeking out from under heavy eyelids, tubes emerging from various spots on his body drawing out minute amounts of liquids and sucking the very life out of him.