The Sanctuary (33 page)

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.

C
orben already had the engine running as he listened to Farouk’s fearful words. Leila’s voice boomed over them through Corben’s earpiece.

“He’s in a coffee shop in Basta. You have to take the Ring and get off before the elevated section.”

Corben darted a glance over his shoulder, saw a fifty-yard gap between him and an approaching car, and decided it would have to do. He spun the wheel and floored the pedal. The Pathfinder bolted out of its parking spot and, its tires screeching, pulled a U-turn and rocketed down in the opposite direction.

As he sped towards the old broadcasting house, Corben drew up the city map in his mind’s eye and cursed under his breath. He knew where Basta was, and if he was right, he and the goon squad were pretty much equidistant from where Farouk was holed up.

Every second counted.

“Leila, do you have the exact location in Basta pinned down?” Corben knew navigating through the narrow, clogged streets of the market area might be a problem.

“Yes, he’s going to be waiting outside a big mosque. Tell me when you take the exit ramp and I’ll guide you there.”

“What’s going on with Ramez?”

“He told Farouk to sit tight and wait, they should be there shortly.” She paused for a second. “They just hung up.”

RAMEZ WATCHED HIS CAPTOR
click
off the phone and order his men to move. There were two of them, one older and one younger than their boss. Both displayed the same hard, emotionless expression, their eyes utterly barren of even the slightest hint of humanity. They left the room swiftly, leaving Ramez alone with his captor.

“That was good, wasn’t it? I did exactly as you
asked
, didn’t I?” Ramez asked, his breath coming short and fast now.

“Azeem,”
the man replied tersely—perfect.

Ramez felt tears welling up in his eyes as he watched his captor nod, then casually flick the phone into his lap. Ramez looked down at it, then raised his eyes to his captor, smiling nervously, his heart racing, his nerves bursting, convincing himself that despite all logic, despite the most basic common sense, he would be freed.

That faint delusion was ruthlessly stamped out as his captor drew a handgun out of his belt, swung it straight at Ramez’s forehead, and fired.

AS THE PATHFINDER raced past a lumbering taxi by the Sanayi’ garden square, Corben heard two quick shots rip through his earpiece, followed by a third one a couple of seconds later.

The controlling shot.
To make sure.

His muscles tightened.

Bastards.

He knew it was inevitable. He’s already played it out in his mind, and he didn’t have any illusions about how these guys operated. They had no further use for the assistant professor, not after he’d handed them Farouk on a silver platter. Not that Corben believed the man had much choice. Once they’d grabbed him, he was dead either way. His only choice was about how much pain he was going to have to suffer before taking that call.

He heard a whimper in his earpiece. He knew it was Leila.

Olshansky’s voice cut in, “Jim, did you hear that?”

“I heard,” Corben replied flatly.

He knew it was hard on anyone to hear something like that, but there was no time to console Leila. He needed her—and Olshansky—focused.

“Leila. I’m gonna need those directions.”

It took a couple of seconds, but then he heard a sniffle and her voice came back, choked up and quivering. “Where are you now?”

“Just getting onto the Ring.”
The elevated highway that linked East and
West Beirut
loomed ahead.

“You need to take the first exit ramp just after the tunnel.” Her voice was now clearer and, he noted, harder.

He was a couple of minutes away.

OMAR GLARED dead ahead as the car raced down the newly carved avenue that cut through the city.

He needed this to work.

He wanted Farouk.
Badly.

The last couple of days had been subpar. He prided himself on his cold efficiency, a stiletto in a world of blunt axes. Tasks such as the ones he’d been assigned since this affair had begun were his bread and butter. But he’d already lost two men—three, really, if you factored in the one with the obliterated shoulder, though they were all as easily replaced as the cars that had been damaged in the encounters—and the little shit-head was still out there.

The American had also become a major thorn in his side. He’d embarrassed him, and that was unforgivable. Omar would need to deal with him, at some point, regardless of the implications. He’d find a way. Timing was everything. He’d wait for the opportune moment, for one of the country’s recurring political meltdowns. Then the deed would go unnoticed, except by those whose opinion he valued, the truth buried under more pressing concerns.

He saw the turn leading to the antiques market and told the three men accompanying him to check their weapons.

He wasn’t heading back without his quarry.

CORBEN SLAMMED on the brakes as he emerged from the tunnel on the Ring. A wall of cars blocked his way.

The four-lane, elevated highway was a main artery linking both sides of the city. Any obstacle on it—a scrape between two drivers, an ancient, conked-out truck, a car crippled by sniper fire—choked the traffic into one lane. Random, unexpected traffic jams were part of the driving experience in
Beirut
. People were usually creative in dealing with them. Invading the lanes of oncoming cars was one way of making road usage more flexible. The Ring, unfortunately, had a big and insurmountable central barrier. And the exit ramp Corben needed was still a hundred yards away.