The Sanctuary

Chapter 49

A burning twinge of smelling salts assaulted Corben’s senses and shook him back to life.

He was immediately aware of a sharp pain that throbbed at the back of his head, and he felt oddly uncomfortable. He realized that his hands and feet were all tied to each other behind his back, his legs bent all the way backwards in a reverse-fetal position. He was also still in his boxers. His mouth and cheek were pressed against something hard and prickly that felt like sandpaper, and his throat felt parched. Instinctively, he tried to lick his lips, but found dry soil instead. He spat the grit off and coughed.

His eyes darted around, rushing to process his surroundings, and he saw that he was lying on the ground, on his side, out in some kind of field. Somewhere quiet. The headlights of a parked car were beating down on him; beyond them, he could see that it was still night, although the faint glimmer of a morning sun was hinting from behind a mountain range to his right.

A mountain range. To the east. He archived the thought, guessing that he must be somewhere in the Bekáa Valley. And if it was almost dawn, it meant he’d been out for at least a couple of hours. Which tallied with how long it would take to drive there from Beirut, especially at that time of night when the roads were deserted.

As his nerves endings flickered awake, more pains and bruises announced themselves across his body. He tried to shift to a position that was less awkward, but his effort was rewarded with a sharp kick from a booted foot to his ribs that sent a searing pain through his side.

He coiled forward, straining against the nylon cuffs on his limbs, still on his side, his face and side digging into the rough soil. He turned upwards and saw the pockmarked man leering down at him.

“Khalas,” he heard a voice snap. Enough.

He sensed movement from the corner of his eye. The man who owned the voice was approaching through the glare of the headlights. From his low vantage point, Corben could only make out the shoes — leather moccasins, expensive-looking — and the dark slacks. The face towered far out of reach.

The man stepped right up to him until his feet were inches from Corben’s face. Corben tried to roll slowly, awkwardly, slightly more onto his back, but his bent legs blocked the move. The man just stood there, staring down at him as if he were an insect. Corben couldn’t really make out his features, but he could see that the man was slim, clean-shaven, and had longish silvery hair.

The feeling of vulnerability and helplessness was disconcerting. As if to confirm it, the man raised his foot and brought it over Corben’s face, then casually pressed down, slowly, resting the sole of his shoe on his nose, not really putting his weight into it at first, then gradually leaning down harder, crushing his nose and cheeks, sending an excruciating pain shooting across his face as his head was mashed into the ground.

Corben tried to wriggle free, but the man’s foot had him pinned down. He let out a tortured, half-muffled yell for him to stop.

The man didn’t, prolonging Corben’s agony a few more seconds before finally pulling his foot away. He glowered down at him, studying him. “You have something I want,” he said, his voice laced with a mocking disdain.

Corben spluttered the sand and grit out of his mouth. “And you’ve got something — someone — we want.”

The man raised his foot again, hovering it just above Corben’s face, threatening. Corben didn’t flinch. The man just held his foot there for a beat, as if he were about to squash a bug, before pulling it back. “I don’t think you’re in any position to play hardball,” he told him calmly. “I want the book. Where is it?”

“I don’t have it.” Through his daze, Corben registered the man’s accent. Southern European, for sure. Italian, possibly. He stored the thought.

The man nodded to someone behind Corben. Before he could see who it was, another sharp kick plowed into his side.

Corben screamed out with pain. “I’m telling you I don’t have it, God damn it.”

The man seemed surprised. “Of course you do. You have the Iraqi.”

“I don’t have it yet, alright? I’ll have it tomorrow.” Corben’s voice bristled with rage. He tried to get a clearer look at the man’s face, but his vision was still warped from the pressure of the man’s shoe, and the car’s headlights were blinding the little eyesight he had. “He didn’t have it on him,” he added angrily.

The man studied him from above. “I don’t want any more games. Get me the book, or I’ll make your life a living hell. Which, as you can see, is well within my ability.”

Corben glared up at him with fierce resolve. “I’ll get you the book. I want you to have the book. But I want something else.”

A puzzled tone infected the man’s voice. “Oh?”

Corben could feel his pulse throbbing in his ears. “I know what you’re working on.”

The man’s lips pursed with doubt. “And what am I working on?”

“I saw your lab. In Saddamiya. The mass graves. The body parts. The blood bank.” Corben studied him. His vision was clearing up, and the man’s features were coming into focus. He concentrated his gaze on him, then added, “I was there, hakeem,” and spotted the flinch, the tell of recognition.

And in that instant, he knew he’d found his man.

Up until that point, he’d suspected it, he’d assumed the doctor from Baghdad was also behind Evelyn’s abduction, but he wasn’t sure. He’d never seen a picture of the hakeem nor heard his voice, let alone met him in person. And although this wasn’t how he’d hoped to have his encounter with the beast — far from it — there he was, standing before — or rather, over — him.

A confusing rush of horror and elation surged through Corben. “We had some forensic experts take a look,” he went on. “They checked out the dead bodies, the traces of the surgery, the equipment you left behind. The body parts in the jars. Their conclusions were…startling.”

He paused, gauging the man’s reaction. The hakeem just looked down impassively, his mouth and eyes narrowed to thin slits. Corben gave him a moment to let his words sink in, then asked, “Do you have it figured out?”

“You want my research, is that it?” The hakeem mocked dismissively. “You’re here to offer me the blessing and patronage of the American government in exchange for sharing my work with you?”

“No.” Corben’s eyes hardened. “Not the American government’s. Just mine.”