The Sanctuary (11 page)

F
arouk 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.

T
om Webster put down his cell phone and looked out the floor-to-ceiling window of his office on the Quai des Bergues. It was a crisp early evening in
Geneva
. The sun was setting behind the craggy peaks of the
Alps
to the west, reflecting off the lake and bathing its still water with a fiery golden pink glow. The snow hadn’t arrived yet, but it wouldn’t be long now.

The call had left him with a feeling of deep unease.

He replayed the brief conversation in his mind, examining every nuance, going over every beat of what he’d heard. First
came
the pause once the call was answered. There was a definite hesitance there. Then the garbled words, in a language he was reasonably sure was Arabic. And then the man who’d finally spoken into the phone, claiming to be a colleague of hers. There was something distinctly formal about his tone. His insistence on knowing who was calling Evelyn was a definite signal that this was not the casual pickup of a friend’s phone.

She’s gotten herself sucked into this. Then, a more troubling thought:
Is she alright?

The message he’d received from the phone operator at the institute had taken him by surprise. It had been…how long?

Thirty years.

He wondered what had prompted Evelyn’s call, after all that time.

He had his suspicions.

The two events—the call from one of his scouts in
Iraq
, out of the blue, a little over a week ago, and Evelyn’s call to the Haldane switchboard—had to be connected. That much was obvious. But he hadn’t anticipated any problems going forward. He and his partners always operated pretty much off the radar. They had to be careful, of course—discretion was paramount to their work—but there was no reason to expect any complications.

He tried to rationalize the call and calm his worries, but he couldn’t escape them. This didn’t bode well. A long time ago he had learned to trust his instincts, and right now they were clamoring for attention. He needed to know what was really going on. Then he’d need to call the others. Let them know what was happening. And come to a unanimous agreement—as the three of them always did—as to how to handle the situation.

He checked his watch.
Beirut
was two hours ahead. The time difference meant that he wouldn’t be able to get any answers for a few hours. He’d need to stay up and make some calls just before daybreak.
Which he didn’t mind.

As with the others before him, this was what he had devoted his whole life to.

And if his instincts were right, it now involved Evelyn.

Again.

He exhaled deeply and turned to his desk. The codex was lying there. He’d taken it out of the safe earlier. It just sat there, innocently. He stared at it, then picked it up and shook his head faintly.

Innocent.

Hardly.

The book had entangled him, and others, in its tantalizing web for centuries. It was irresistible, and for good reason. It was worthy.

He shrugged, opened it to its first page, and thought back to how it had all begun.

S
ebastian felt the chill of dampness seep out from the walls and smother his bones with its deathly embrace as he followed the guard down the narrow, winding steps.

He kept his eyes low, away from the flames of the guard’s torch. In the swaying, golden light, he noticed that a groove had been worn into the center of the treads. It had thrown him at first, before he’d realized it had been carved into the stone by the repeated passage of shackles.

Many prisoners had languished here, in Tomar. And many more would.

He followed the guard down a long, narrow passageway. Rough, wooden doors with forbidding steel locks lined it on either side. The guard finally stopped outside one of them. He fumbled with a large ring of keys and unlocked it. It shuddered on its hinges as it swung outwards. The opening was like the mouth of a cave, a doorway to a tenebrous abyss. Sebastian looked at the guard. The sweating man nodded with unsettling disinterest. Sebastian steeled himself, pulled a torch down from its wall mount, lit it against the guard’s, and stepped inside.

Despite the hellish surroundings, the silhouetted figure, huddled against a dark corner, was instantly familiar. Sebastian froze at the sight as a feeling of infinite sadness descended on him.

“It’s alright,” the old man told him. “Come.”

Sebastian couldn’t move. His feet felt as if they were bolted to the cold stone floor.

“Please,” the old man whispered again, his voice coarse and dry. “Come. Sit with me.”

Sebastian took a hesitant step closer, then another, his eyes unwilling to accept the heart-wrenching sight facing him.

The battered, demolished man raised a chained, twisted arm and beckoned him over. Two of the fingers, Sebastian noticed, weren’t moving at all. The thumb was gone altogether.

Isaac Montalto was a good man. He’d been a close friend of Sebastian’s father’s. Both were learned men, teachers and tutors to the elite, and had spent years working together in the great city of
Lisbon
, studying and translating Arabic and Greek texts that were long forgotten. A small invader had put an end to that. The virus, an unremarkable flu by today’s standards, had ravaged the city mercilessly that winter, taking Sebastian’s family with it. The baby boy had survived—his father had acted swiftly and placed him in the care of his friend Isaac, at his home in nearby Tomar, when the first signs of the illness had appeared in the family. Isaac and his wife had cared for the baby as best they could those first few weeks, before Isaac’s wife had gotten sick herself. The old man had no choice but to put Sebastian into the care of the friars at the monastery of Tomar. Isaac’s wife also hadn’t made it through that winter, but Isaac and Sebastian had survived.

Being a widower, Isaac hadn’t been able to keep the baby with him. The friars at the monastery would raise him, along with other orphans. But Isaac was never far away. He was a friend and a mentor, keeping a watchful eye as the baby grew into a boy and into the young man he was now. He’d waved him off with a heavy heart when the boy had been selected to pursue his duty to God at the cloisters of the Cathedral of Lisbon. But that was three long years ago. And now he was here, a victim of the Inquisition, a pale, battered reflection of the man he used to be.

“Isaac,” Sebastian said, his voice filled with sorrow and remorse. “My God…”

“Yes,” Isaac whispered with a pained chortle, his eyes narrowing with the pain in his chest. “Your God…” He swallowed heavily and nodded to himself. “He must be very proud. To see to what great lengths his servants are willing to go to ensure his word is followed.”

“I’m sure he never intended anything like this,” Sebastian offered.

Somehow, a hint of a smile found its way into the old man’s eyes. “Careful, my dear boy,” Isaac cautioned him. “Such words could land you in the next cell.”

The madness of the Inquisition had infected the
Iberian Peninsula
for over two hundred years. As with its more famous analogue in
Spain
, its main thrust in
Portugal
was to root out converts from other faiths—Muslims and Jews—who, despite claiming to have embraced the Catholic faith, were still secretly following their original beliefs.

It hadn’t always been that way. The Reconquista—the retaking of Spain and Portugal from the Moors that began in the eleventh century—had resulted in a tolerant, multiracial, and multireligious society. Christians, Jews, and Muslims had lived, worked, and thrived together. In cities like
Toledo
, they had collaborated on translating texts that had been stored for centuries in churches and mosques. Greek learning that had long been lost to the West was rediscovered, and the universities of
Paris
,
Bologna
, and
Oxford
were all based on their efforts. It was where the Renaissance and the scientific revolution had truly begun.

But this religious tolerance had displeased
Rome
. The questioning of man’s blind faith in God and in one set of strictures had to be stopped. The monarchs of
Spain
used this intolerance to make their move. The Inquisition was set up in 1478, with
Portugal
following suit just over fifty years later. As was the case in all conflicts that were based on religious differences, the true motivation behind it had a lot more to do with greed than with faith. The Reconquista and the Inquisition were no different. They were essentially land grabs.

The enforced baptisms had begun straightaway. The peninsula had to be cleansed—and pilfered. The Jews and Muslims who remained in
Spain
and
Portugal
were given a choice of conversion or expulsion. The converts became known as Neo-Christos—new Christians. Many of those who elected to stay were landowners and successful traders. They had a lot to lose.
And so they accepted the cross, some of them grudgingly embracing their new faith, others refusing to give up the religion of their birth or its rituals, following the strictures of their faith in the confines of their homes, and, in the case of some of the more determined Marranos, actually attending covert synagogues.

The prisons of the Inquisition soon overflowed to other public buildings. Those taken in for questioning were stretched on the rack and had their arms and legs wrenched off. The inquisitors also seemed to have a soft spot for the soles of their victims’ feet. Some were beaten with cudgels while others were cut open, the cuts smeared with butter, then held over open fires. Falsified court decisions and forged denunciations led to forced confessions. Those who confessed voluntarily were allowed to pay a fine and repent in an
auto da fé
, “act of faith” public ceremony of penance; those who confessed on the rack had their property confiscated and were sentenced to imprisonment, often for life, or burned at the stake.

The Neo-Christos sent envoys to
Rome
to beseech—and bribe—the pope and his cronies to reign in the inquisitors. The king spent even more in keeping
Rome
on his side. And while the money flowed to the
Vatican
, the Marranos continued to live in fear, having to decide whether to leave the country and lose everything, or risk facing the torture chambers.

Isaac had decided to stay. And the torture chamber that stalked him for years was to become his final home.

“I didn’t know, Isaac,” the young man told him. “I didn’t know they were after you.”

“It’s all right, Sebastian.”

“No,” he flared up, his voice faltering with emotion. “They say they found books in your possession. They say they have written evidence, admissions from some who know you and who confirm their accusations,” he lamented. “What can I do, Isaac? Please. Tell me something, anything that I can use to overturn this horrible injustice.”

Sebastian Guerreiro had followed the path of his lord with an open heart. He hadn’t expected it to lead to this. He had been in the service of the Inquisition for just over a year. The grand inquisitor himself, Francisco Pedroso, a charismatic and forceful man, had selected him for duty. But with each passing day, with each witnessed horror, the questions in the young man’s mind had multiplied until he was finding it impossible to reconcile the teachings he had so embraced with the actions of his mentors.

“Shh,” the old man replied. “You know that nothing can be done. Besides, the accusations are true. My faith was handed down to me by my father, as it was to him. And even if they weren’t, thirty hectares of Tomar soil would make them so.” Isaac cleared his throat and looked up at Sebastian. His eyes, glistening with life, belied his shattered body. “That’s not why I asked for you to be brought here. Please. Sit with me.” He patted the straw-hewn ground beside him. “I need to tell you something.”

Sebastian nodded weakly and joined him.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to ask you this for many years, Sebastian. It’s something I was always planning to do, but”—he sighed heavily—“I don’t think I can wait any longer.”

Surprise and confusion flooded Sebastian’s face. “What is it, Isaac?”

“I need to entrust you with something. It could be a monstrous burden to bear. One that could get you killed or
see
you end up in gilded surroundings like these.” Isaac paused, seemingly studying the young man’s response, before adding, “Should I continue, or am I mistaken in my faith that you are still the Sebastian you always were?”

Sebastian caught his scrutinizing gaze,
then
dropped his eyes to the ground in shame. “I am as you remember me, but I am not certain that I am worthy of your trust,” he said ruefully. “I have seen things, Isaac. Things no man should allow to happen, and yet I have stood back and said nothing.” He glanced up at Isaac, wary of the older man’s castigating stare. He only saw warmth and concern radiating back from the prisoner. “I have shamed my father’s memory. I have shamed you.”

Isaac reached out, his mutilated hand trembling as it landed on the young man’s arm. “We live in evil times. Don’t blame yourself for the vile actions of those who have it in their power to do otherwise.”

Sebastian nodded, his heart still suffocating with regret. “No burden would be too great, Isaac. Not after what I have been party to.”

Isaac seemed to weigh one last time his decision to tell Sebastian. “Your father wanted you to know,” he finally said. “I promised him I would tell you when the time was right. And I fear that if I don’t tell you now, I may never get that chance. And then it would all be…lost.”

Sebastian’s eyes lit up.
“My father?”

The old man blinked a nod. “We found something, he and I, many years ago. Here, in Tomar.
In the crypts of the monastery.”
He fixed Sebastian with a fervent stare.
“A book, Sebastian.
A most wondrous book.
A book that once might have contained a great gift.”

Sebastian’s brow furrowed.
“‘Once’?”

“The monastery, as you know, holds a veritable trove of knowledge in its crypts, chests, and crates of old codices and scrolls dating back centuries, spoils of foreign misadventures and crusades, all of them waiting to be translated and catalogued. It’s an arduous and endless task. Your father and I were fortunate enough to be invited to work with the monks on translating them, but there are so many of them, and a lot of them are mundane records of disputes, personal correspondences of trivial importance…banalities.

“In a dusty crate, one book captured our interest the instant we saw it. It was lost among more worthy books and old scrolls. It was partially damaged by water at some point in its long history, and its last pages and its back were missing. Its cover, however, was relatively unscathed. On it was a symbol we had never seen before, that of a snake, coiled into a circle, feeding on its own tail.

“The book was written in an old Arabic, one that was rather difficult to translate. Its title, though, was clear.” He paused to clear his parched throat and darted a wary glance at the doorway, making sure they were not overheard. “It was named
Kitab al Wasifa
—the book of prescriptions.”

The old man leaned in conspiringly. “Your father and I decided to keep the book’s existence secret from the monks. We smuggled it out of the monastery one night. It took us months to translate it properly. The Naskhi script it was written in was ancient. And although it was Arabic, it was scattered with Persian words and expressions, which wasn’t unusual when dealing with scientific documents, but it made it harder to read. But we did read it. And the four of us—your parents, myself, and my dear departed Sarah—we made a pact.
To try its teachings ourselves.
To see if it worked.
And if so, to let the world know of our find.

“At first, it seemed to hold its promise. We had stumbled on something marvelous, Sebastian. Then, gradually, with time, we became aware of the flaw. A flaw which, if it wasn’t overcome, meant that no one could ever know about our discovery, as that would lead to a different kind of upheaval, one that would turn the world on its head in a way no sane man would want. And so, it had to remain our secret.” His face winced with sadness. “And then fate intervened, with pitiless cruelty.”