The Sanctuary

Chapter 41

Corben 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.

Leila worked fast, speaking intermittently at each pause in the man’s voice: “He’s telling Ramez it’s almost time…. He’s asking him if he understands exactly what he needs to get Farouk to do…. Ramez’s saying he understands. Can’t really hear him properly, but he sounds terrified…. He’s reminding him that he promised to let him go if he does it…. He’s telling him he can keep his mouth shut, no one needs to know, that kind of thing.” There was a pause, then the voice came back. “The guy’s telling him not to worry, everything’s going to be alright. To be careful. Not make a mistake. His life’s in his own hands now. It’s up to him.” The man paused for a beat, then spoke again.

Leila said, “He’s now telling his men to get the car ready.”

For the fourth time in the last half hour, Farouk asked the man seated next to him for the time.

He was sitting in a small café in Basta, a run-down and crowded part of town, far from the marble-clad skyscrapers and the McDonald’s with valet parking. This warren of narrow streets was choked by haphazardly parked cars and rickety old pushcarts teetering with food, cheap clothing, and pirated DVDs. The area was also teeming with antiques dealers, their wares hogging the narrow sidewalks and forcing pedestrians onto the street. Farouk knew the place from years back, having sold some Mesopotamian artifacts to a couple of local dealers he hadn’t seen since and didn’t want to risk contacting.

It was also a good place to melt into, a good place to lie low.

His clothes felt uncomfortable and stank; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a bath. He hadn’t gone back to the Sanayi’ garden square after seeing Ramez. He’d felt paranoid about returning to the same place for a second night. Instead, he’d hung out in Basta, loitering in old cafés and antiques bazaars, subsisting on ka’ik and juice from street vendors. He’d spent the night huddled against a crypt in the nearby cemetery, fretting about his own little high noon. Which, according to the slightly irritated man with the honey-flavored arghilé water pipe next to him, it now was.

He thanked the man, got out of his chair, and shuffled past a few backgammon players and across to the counter, his heart in his throat. He asked the owner, a round man with a prodigious mustache, if he could use the phone — something he’d previously mentioned to him — again assuring him that it was a local call. The man gave him a wary look before handing him the cordless handset.

Farouk turned away, reached into a pocket, and pulled out the crumpled piece of paper on which Ramez had written down his number. He set it on the bar, sucked in a comforting drag off his cigarette, and dialed.

Ramez felt the world around him slow to a surreal crawl as his mind counted off each passing second.

He was still tied to the chair, with the musty sack still on his head. It felt unbearably stifling and only accentuated his throbbing headache. He couldn’t stand the torture of having to sit back, wait, and pray that Farouk would make that call as promised.

Adding to his discomfort, he now became aware of a stabbing pain in his groin and realized his bladder desperately needed draining, but now was not the time to bring it up.

He knew they’d have to take the sack off his head if and when — no, just when, no ifs. Couldn’t have ifs. Just focus on the when — the call came in. Surely, they couldn’t expect him to speak to Farouk with it on. And they might want to mouth him instructions during the call. He thought he’d keep his eyes shut, in case they were worried about his being able to identify them, or at least he’d just look down and avoid eye contact. He’d wanted to ask them about that, but decided against it, worried that he might alert them to something they weren’t necessarily bothered about. He tried not to think about what it meant if — as he would have expected — they were bothered about it.

The phone’s ring jolted him like a live current. Someone then yanked the sack off his head, doubling his shock.

His eyes weren’t properly focusing, still adjusting to the cold neon in the windowless basement. He thought he recognized the man who was looming over him, from when he’d been shoved inside the car. The man was studying Ramez’s phone, which now rang again. Ramez imagined his captor was making sure it wasn’t a number that was on the phone’s memory — Farouk’s number wouldn’t be recognized.

Ramez met the man’s gaze. He couldn’t look away. All notions of avoiding eye contact were gone. The man — dark-haired, clean-cut, but with fearsome, dead eyes — gave him a look of such silent ferocity that it almost choked Ramez. He raised a cautioning and threatening finger at Ramez, shot him a look that meant Careful, in no uncertain terms, and clicked on the phone before holding it to Ramez’s ear.

“Ustaz Ramez?”

Ramez breathed out. It was Farouk — he’d kept calling him ustaz—professor — during their chat. He nodded hopefully at his captor. The man returned a quietly encouraging nod, motioning for him to speak before leaning down, his head close to Ramez’s, and tilting the phone out so he could also hear Farouk.

“Yes, Farouk.” Ramez’s voice was a little too high-pitched, and he adjusted it down, trying not to sound flustered. “I’m glad you called. Is everything okay?” His mouth felt dry, the words fumbling out like cotton balls. He licked his lips.

“Did you speak to them?” Farouk asked with an evident crackle of desperation in his voice.

“Yes. I spoke to the detectives at the Hobeish station, the ones working the case. I told them what you asked me to say.”

“And?”

Ramez glanced sideways at his captor. The man nodded to him reassuringly. “They’re willing to do as you asked. They don’t care about the pieces and they’re not interested in sending you back to Iraq. They’re just desperate for your help in getting Evelyn back.”

“Are you sure? You spoke to someone of authority?”

“I spoke to the head of detectives,” Ramez assured him. “He gave me his personal guarantee. No charges and full protection until this is over. Then you’re free to do what you like. If it all works out, they’ll even help you get residence papers.”

Ramez heard a pause on the line and wondered if he’d overdone it. His heart skipped a beat and he raced ahead. “They’re desperate, Farouk. They want to find her, and you’re their only hope. They need you.”

“Thank you,” Farouk finally muttered down the line. “Thank you, Ustaz Ramez. How can I ever repay you? You’ve saved my life.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ramez simply replied as tidal waves of guilt and relief collided inside him. He bit back his turmoil.

“What do they want me to do?”

Ramez’s eyes darted sideways at his captor. The moment of truth.

His captor nodded. Time to bring that puppy in.

“You just stay where you are. Don’t go anywhere. They’re waiting for my call,” Ramez said, trying desperately to control the quiver in his voice. “They’ll come and get you. They’re just waiting for me to tell them where to go.” He paused, a lump of thorns stuck in his throat, before asking, “Where are you, Farouk?”

The four seconds of silence that followed were unquestionably the longest and most petrifying in the assistant professor’s eventful life.

And then Farouk spoke.