The Sanctuary (43 page)

“I don’t understand,” Mia confessed.

Kirkwood
was still collecting his thoughts. “This book is a code book, a guide on ethics and relationships. It sets out the rules, the principles of living for a society of people whose lives have been radically altered.”

“By living longer?”

“Yes. It’s about adapting to the new longevity. And it talks about men and women, do you see?
Men and women.”
He shook his head.

“After all those years, he found it. He actually found it.”

Kirkwood
wasn’t making any sense. “What are you talking about?”

“Sebastian Guerreiro. He devoted his life to finding the right formulation, and it cost him everything—his wife, his son—but he made it, in the end. He made it. He must have found another book, or maybe a stash of books, another hidden chamber like the one your mom foundonly this one had the full formula in it. It’s real.” He beamed. “It exists.”

A swarm of questions clouded Mia’s thoughts. “How do you know that? I mean, this book could be theoretical. How do you know it isn’t just a philosophical treatise exploring how a society would work, how it would function if such a substance existed?”

“Because Sebastian already had part of the formula,”
Kirkwood
told her. “He found—well, he was entrusted with—a book, similar to this one. Same cover, same style…It described a series of experiments using a substance that seemed to arrest the aging process. The experiments had led to a formulation, a way to prepare an elixir, but the book wasn’t complete. The last part of it was missing. Sebastian didn’t know what was in the rest of the book. He didn’t know if they had been successful, it there even was a full formula, one that really worked, or if the book just described the failed experiments to try and get it to work properly. But he still thought it important enough to devote his whole life to finding that out.”

“But this book doesn’t have the formula in it?”

“No, but it confirms that it’s out there. The calligraphy in this book—it’s the same as in the one Sebastian had.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Yes,”
Kirkwood
confessed, slightly hesitant. “It’s the same cabal, the same group, I’m sure of it.”

Mia felt her head spinning. “How do you know all this? Who was this Sebastian?”

“He was a Portuguese inquisitor.”
Kirkwood
looked at her, a hue of deep pride suffusing his face. “He was also my ancestor.”

ON THE ROOF of a two-story house slightly down and across the street from Mohsen’s home, Corben listened to
Kirkwood
’s words through the headphones linked to the directional microphone Omar was aiming.

Omar glanced at him. The Arab was listening in too and seemed to understand what was being said as he nodded.

“Your ancestor?”
Mia was angrily asking. “What the hell’s going on? Who the hell are you?”

“Mia, please, just…please.”
Kirkwood
paused, then they heard him say urgently, “Where did you find this book?” clearly asking Abu Barzan.

“I don’t know, I’m…I’m not sure,” an Iraqi voice, obviously Abu Barzan’s, replied in a not entirely convincing stammer.

“Don’t do this, alright? Not after everything we’ve done to get here. You’ve been paid a small fortune already. Where did you get this?”
Kirkwood
insisted fiercely.

After a brief pause and what sounded like a deep tug on a cigarette, the Iraqi finally said, “I came across it in a Yazidi village.
A small place, in the mountains north of Al Amadiyya, near the border.
It’s called Nerva Zhori,” he admitted somewhat ruefully.

“Were there other books there with this symbol on it?”
Kirkwood
asked intently. “Did you see anything else there like this?”

“I don’t know. The village’s
mokhtar
”—the term referred to its equivalent of a mayor—“asked me to go through a storeroom of old rubbish they had there, to see if there was anything I could buy,” Abu Barzan said. “I took a few things, some old books,
a
few amulets. They didn’t care what I took, they just needed some cash. Since the war, people are desperate, they need to sell whatever they can to try and make some money.”

Kirkwood
paused, then said, presumably to Mia, “Once your mother’s out safely, we need to go there. We have to talk to this mokhtar and find out how this book ended up there.”

“Why?” Mia asked.

“Because Sebastian disappeared somewhere in the
Middle East
while looking for the formula,”
Kirkwood
explained, the passion in his voice cutting through the static hiss of the directional microphone. “And this is the first time we’ve found a clue as to what happened to him and where he ended up.”

Omar reached up and pressed his finger to his earpiece, and a breath later, he turned to Corben and nodded as if to say,
That’s
all we need.

Corben gave him a terse shake of the head, like
Not
yet
, but Omar wasn’t interested. He’d already reached for his handheld radio and, in a low murmur, issued the kill order.

“W
ait a second,” Mia insisted, “you still haven’t answered my question. What do you mean he’s your ancestor? Who are you? What are you really doing here?”

“It’s a long story.”
Kirkwood
looked around, clearly uncomfortable with having an audience. “Let’s get everything back to the plane. I’ll tell you the rest there.”

Two muffled thumps disturbed the stillness outside the house.
Barely noticeable, except for Bryan, who was positioned closest to the front window.

“No,” Mia flared up. “You’re telling me now. I’ve had enough of you and Corben drip-feeding me what you think is—”

“Quiet,”
Bryan
interrupted tersely. He’d edged over to the side of the front window. Mia and
Kirkwood
went brusquely silent and watched as
Bryan
, careful to use the wall for cover, peered out from behind the netted curtain.

His
colleague, and Abu Barzan’s man, were
sprawled on the ground. The South African had blood pooling under his head. The Arab was leaking from the chest area. Neither was batting an eyelid.

“Get down,”
Bryan
ordered, pulling out his handgun and darting away from the glass. “We’ve got company.”

He peered over again carefully and scanned the rooftops opposite. He caught a glimpse of a sniper looking for a shot and ducked behind the wall just as a couple of more silenced, high-velocity rounds punched through the window and crunched into the tiled floor, showering the front of the room with shards of broken glass.

Bryan
swung back out and loosed a few rounds towards the rooftop while, behind him, everyone in the room scrambled for cover.
Kirkwood
clutched the book as he hustled Mia behind the dining table, his eyes scanning the room for options. Abu Barzan grabbed the attaché case with one hand and pawed a handgun with the other. His nephew and their host had also reached for their weapons, and all three were backing up towards a door at the back of the room.

“Is there another way out?”
Kirkwood
shouted to Abu Barzan.

The big Iraqi was half-crouched, scouring the windows nervously as he retreated deeper into the house. “Yes, at the back,” he said nervously. “Through here.”

By the window,
Bryan
fired a few more rounds, emptying his magazine before rushing back to join
Kirkwood
and Mia.

“How many could you see?”
Kirkwood
asked.

“I just saw the sniper.”
Bryan
nimbly slapped a full magazine into his handgun. “Who are these guys?”

“I don’t know,”
Kirkwood
said as several shots obliterated the lock on the front door before a military boot kicked it in.

“Take cover,”
Bryan
yelled as he upended the dining table and flung it on its side, diving behind it before leaning out, looking for a target.

A tirade of eerily silenced gunfire from outside raked the room before one of the attackers burst in, firing as he ducked away from the door.
Bryan
tracked him and squeezed off a few rounds, hitting him in the thigh. The man yelled in pain as he tumbled behind a sofa. As
Bryan
leaned out, looking to finish him off, another shooter slung his arm in and pumped two silenced shots, one of which caught the Australian in the shoulder.

He winced with pain as he darted back behind the table, checking his bloodied wound with his good hand.

“Get out the back way,” he muttered to
Kirkwood
and Mia through clenched teeth, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead.

Kirkwood
protested, “We can’t leave you like—”

“Just go, mate,”
Bryan
ordered. “Get the hell out of here before it’s too late.”

And with that, he swung out and fired at anything that moved by the door, cutting down the first man he had injured and pushing back the other shooter who was moving in.

Kirkwood
turned to Mia, yelling out, “Come on,” before bolting out from behind the table, the codex still under one arm. Mia followed, hot on his heels, as they rushed through the doorway towards the rear of the house.

They slipped past the stairs that led to the upper levels of the house before reaching the kitchen. They’d barely stepped into the cluttered room when they heard more gunfire and thuds, then Abu Barzan came rushing back through the kitchen door alone. He wasn’t fully in yet when his eyes met Mia’s just as something struck him from behind and sent him crashing to the floor and writhing in pain as a crimson patch blossomed in his left thigh.

Kirkwood
herded Mia back into the house, shouting, “Back, the other way,
quick
.”

She tore her eyes off the fallen Iraqi and hurried back towards the living room.

CORBEN STOOD next to
Omar,
muscles clenched, his hands still nylon-cuffed in front of him, and watched as the first gunman charged into the house.

He’d seen the two guards outside cut down by the sniper, who had just made his way back to them. Omar had already sent three men around to the back of the house, and Corben knew they’d cut off any retreat from there. Right now, he couldn’t do anything. He just stayed close to the wall, biding his time, looking for an opportunity, and watched helplessly as Omar’s men went about their business.

He knew their orders were not to harm the American buyer—he’d heard Omar repeat the orders several times—and felt a flush of anger as he thought of Mia being trapped in the shooting gallery.

Omar hadn’t said anything about her.

He heard gunshots coming from behind the house,
then
a barrage of rounds hammered the doorway around them. Omar scowled at the house, listened intently, and ordered the sniper in.

The gunman nodded, peered in, swung an arm in, and fired several rounds. A low growl of pain from inside told Corben the second of
Kirkwood
’s escorts had been hit. He looked at Omar. The hakeem’s man had heard it too. A psychotic gleam flitted across his murderous eyes as he ordered his men to finish him off.

IN THE LIVING ROOM,
Bryan
slammed in his last magazine and peered out at the front of the house one last time. Both shooters were taking cover. He couldn’t stay behind that overturned table much longer—they’d rush him sooner or later. His shoulder was hurting more now, the wound quickly getting colder,
the
blood loss starting to hit his head.

He had to make a move.

He leaned out, saw some movement, and squeezed off several careful rounds before scuttling, fast and low, towards the doorway the others had disappeared through. He spotted the shooter from outside glancing in and slammed a couple of shots his way as he reached the doorway.

He dived into it and rushed towards the back of the house. He reached the stairs just as
Kirkwood
and Mia did, coming back from the kitchen. Not a good sign—he was planning to follow them out the back of the house.

He saw Mia glance upwards, then yell, “This way.”

Urgent orders in Arabic erupted in the front of the house, and the shooter he hadn’t wounded came after him.
Bryan
took cover on the stairs, counted down a few seconds to
himself
, and bolted out, blasting the man with a chest hit that dropped him like a piece of blubber.

That was when the first of the three bullets struck him in the back.

MIA HAD BARELY TAKEN the first few risers, Kirkwood charging up close behind her, when a small volley of bullets crunched into the walls of the narrow hallway below all around Bryan. She looked down to see the Australian take cover and return fire, only to be struck in the back seconds later by a shooter who had followed them in through the kitchen.

She felt a spasm of horror deep within her at the sight of the man’s body collapsing to the floor as the bullets plowed into him, but steeled herself and willed her legs to keep going. She bounded up the narrow steps feverishly,
Kirkwood
following, and quickly reached the first floor. The stairs continued to another level.

“Keep going,”
Kirkwood
yelled, but she was already on her way up, completely at the mercy of her overworked instincts.

Another flight of stairs and she’d reached a wooden, horizontal trapdoor with an old latch that, mercifully, wasn’t locked. She pushed against it, flung the door open and rocketed up, and found herself on the flat roof of the house.
Kirkwood
clambered up after her before slamming the trapdoor back shut, but there was no lock on it from the
outside,
and nothing heavy to block it with.

Kirkwood
scanned the roof, found a piece of rusted metal rebar, and jammed it through the latches on the door. It would hold, but not for long.

Mia spun around, her eyes scrutinizing the small, whitewashed space, hoping for a miracle. A big pigeon coop occupied the center, by the trapdoor. She strode around it, her nerves overwhelmed, her mind racing to process her options, which turned out to be nonexistent: The house was freestanding, surrounded by streets and passages on all sides.

There was nowhere for them to go.

C
orben watched as Omar, gun drawn,
surveyed
the front living room before yanking him in like a dog on a leash and rushing through the house with him.

He spotted the wounded shooter by the doorway and crossed over to him in a few quick strides. He was slunk down, huddled against the wall, and looked as if he wasn’t doing too well. The body of the second shooter to go in lay by his feet. Omar took cover beside the open door and yelled down the hallway, asking for updates. A voice yelled back that someone called Rudwaan was dead—one of the two shooters Omar had dispatched to the back of the house, either the third member of his hit team or one of the drivers who’d met them—but that the other hired gun had been killed and that the American and the girl had gone upstairs.

Omar glared angrily, then dragged Corben out by his neck and slipped deeper into the house. They met up with the surviving shooter who’d come in through the back. The body of
Kirkwood
’s other hired gun was all bent up at the foot of the stairs, messy with blood.

Omar looked up, thought for a nanosecond, and turned to Corben. He brought his handgun up and shoved its nozzle under Corben’s chin. His eyes burned into him, the fury seething out of every pockmark in his scarred face.

Corben didn’t flinch. He either died here, now, or he’d have a chance.

The hakeem’s man barked to his man to stay with Corben and watch him, then rushed up the stairs after
Kirkwood
and Mia.

KIRKWOOD AND MIA moved around the roof in a daze, trying to divine some kind of escape, flicking anxious glances from the low parapet surrounding them to the trapdoor and back.

They’d gone all the way around the edge of the house and were back where they started.

The shooters would soon be there.

They had to do something.

Kirkwood
headed for the side with the narrowest gap separating it from the next house and called out for Mia to follow him. They reached it and stood by its edge. It was a six-foot gap to the next flat roof, that of the bazaar, which was long and had many protrusions they could use for cover.

But it was a six-foot leap over a three-story chasm that led down to the narrow cobbled passage below.

“Can you jump it?” he asked Mia, his voice frantic, his eyes darting back at the trapdoor, expecting it to fling open any second.

“Are you nuts?” she shot back.

“You can do it,” he insisted.

“I’m not jumping this.”

Loud thrashes against the trapdoor rattled them.

Kirkwood
’s eyes lasered into Mia’s. “You can do this,” he yelled fiercely. “You have to do it.”

Another jarring burst against the trapdoor. It
creaked
open, its hinges juddering. It wouldn’t last much longer.

Mia looked at the bazaar’s roof, then back at
Kirkwood
.

“Jump over, and I’ll throw you the book. Don’t wait for me. Just go. Make your way to one of our embassies, insist on speaking with an ambassador, only with an ambassador, do you understand?”

She seemed to be looking into him, her mind swamped by a flurry of questions and emotions.

The trapdoor thudded again.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Who are you? Why should I trust you?”

The questions were like spears through his heart. He felt a wild grief and a raging fury take possession of him at the same time. “Because I was with your mother in that chamber in Al-Hillah,” he told her.