Authors: Raymond Khoury
The Sanctuary (22 page)
She frowned with concern. “Can you get his home address?” she asked, surprising herself with her tenacity before wondering if her question had an irksome teaching-your-grandma-to-suck-eggs ring to it.
Corben didn’t seem to mind and checked his watch again. “I don’t want to flag him to the local cops, not at this hour. And there’s no reason he’d be on our database for us to have that kind of information on tap ourselves. I’ll try calling him again in a few minutes.”
Mia studied him as he processed the information. His face was still almost hermetically unreadable, but she could definitely sense some concern there. She flashed back to standing with him outside her mom’s front door and raised her eyes to meet his. With a slight hardening in her voice, she ventured another question.
“Outside Mom’s apartment.
You said I already knew this was serious. And of course, it was, I know that, but the way you said it…” She paused for a moment. She knew she was right, and the conviction within her came through with blinding clarity. “You still haven’t told me everything. There’s more to this, isn’t there?”
He sat back and ran a hand through his hair, giving the back of his neck a small rub, then looked at her and seemed to reach a verdict. He leaned in, reached into his case, and pulled out his laptop. He flipped it open and powered it up, then placed his index finger on the small finger-print scanner before tapping some keys. The screen lit up. He navigated through it in silence, found the folder he needed, and turned to her.
“This is classified,” he informed her with a raised finger before pausing to take a breath, seemingly still debating whether he was making a mistake in sharing this with her.
He turned the screen to face her. It showed a photograph of what looked like a wall inside a narrow, cell-like room. Something circular, the size of an open umbrella judging by the scale of the light fixture
overhead,
was scratched into the wall. Mia recognized it instantly.
“I was stationed in
Iraq
in the first years of the war,” he explained. “One of our units got some
intel
about a doctor who was close to Saddam, but by the time they raided his compound, he was gone.”
A barrage of questions rose within Mia, but Corben wasn’t through.
“What they did find in his compound was pretty horrific. There was a huge lab in its basement. State-of-the-art operating chamber, the works. He was running experiments there, experiments that…” His voice drifted off for a moment as he chose his words, and a fleeting look of pain crossed his face, a pain Mia could hear in his voice. “He was experimenting on humans.
Young and old.
Male, female.
Kids…”
Mia felt her blood chill as horror and concern for her mother consumed her in equal measure.
“There were holding cells in the compound, but everyone in them had been executed shortly before they were raided. We also found dozens of bodies buried in a field not far from the house,” he went on, “dumped in mass graves, naked. Many of them had been operated on. Some were missing body parts. There were stashes of organs, gallons of blood, stored in fridges. Some of their wounds, where he’d cut them open, weren’t sutured. He didn’t bothering closing them up once he’d taken out what interested him. There were other…more disturbing discoveries in the lab that I’ll spare you. He just used them like guinea pigs and tossed out what he didn’t need. It seems Saddam supplied him with them, along with everything else he needed.” Corben paused, as if to purge the images from his mind and collect
himself
. “This”—he pointed at the image of the Ouroboros on the laptop’s screen—“was carved into the wall of one of the holding cells.”
Mia felt a sudden wetness on her mouth and realized she’d unconsciously caught her lower lip with her teeth and bitten into it hard enough to draw blood. She released her bite and dabbed her lip with her finger, then rubbed the droplet away. “What kind of experiments was he running?”
“We’re not sure. But given Saddam’s interest in finding efficient ways to commit mass murder…”
Mia’s eyes rocketed wide. “You think he was working on a biological weapon?”
Corben shrugged. “The secrecy surrounding his work, the dead bodies, Saddam’s championing him…put it this way. I don’t think he was looking for a cure for cancer.”
Mia stared at the shot of the cell again.
“But why the carving on the wall?”
“We don’t know. We managed to track down some people in
Baghdad
who came across him. I spoke to a dealer in antiquities, as well as a guy who used to be a curator at the
“Which, presumably, they did.”
“You bet,” Corben confirmed, “but they didn’t find anything. So he asked them to look some more, and to widen the search, even outside
Iraq
’s borders.
And to keep looking.
Which they did.
They said he was completely obsessed with it, and they were both terrified of him.”
“And they found nothing?”
Corben shook his head.
“And now he wants this book…” Mia connected the dots in her mind. “So this…this doctor. He’s still out there.”
He nodded.
A devastating sense of dread choked Mia’s heart. “And you think he has my mom?” The words almost dried in her throat as she uttered them, willing the answer to be negative.
Corben’s somber look told her it wasn’t, but she knew that already. “His trail went cold north of Tikrit a few weeks after the discovery of the lab, and we haven’t had any leads since. Given that Evelyn had a connection to the Ouroboros through the chamber she found, and given the ruthlessness of whoever seems to be after the relics,” he said gravely, “I think it’s more than likely that either he’s got her or she’s being held by someone who’s linked to him in some way.”
Mia felt the air vacate her lungs. Her mom’s situation seemed horrible enough when she thought they were just—just—dealing with a gang of smugglers. This…this was too horrific to imagine.
She stared out into nothingness, her mind short-circuited by Corben’s grim revelation. The room seemed to darken around her, and everything in it shifted slightly out of focus. She sensed Corben picking up his phone and heard dialing tones at the periphery of her consciousness, followed by the same unanswered ringing tone as before and his phone snapping shut. It took a moment for her to emerge from her daze and register that he must have been trying Ramez’s number again.
A question drifted out of the fog. She turned to Corben. “Given all the fuss about WMDs and what you know about this man, I’d have thought you’d have a massive team of people on the case, working it with you. Surely, getting him is a huge priority, isn’t it?”
“It was,” Corben said glumly. “It’s not anymore. We cried wolf about WMDs once too often, and the word itself has become poison. We deserve as much, I guess, but no one wants to hear about them anymore, and if anything, the priority’s to disengage from
Iraq
, not commit more resources.”
“But he’s a monster,” Mia protested, clambering angrily to her feet.
“You think he’s the only one running around out there?” he countered with calm frustration. “There are plenty of other mass murderers out there, from
Rwanda
,
Serbia
, you name it—they’re living quietly in leafy suburbs of
London
or
Brussels
under assumed names, no one’s bothering them. The only people after them are investigative reporters. That’s it. They’re the new Simon Wiesenthals, and there aren’t that many of them, just a handful who care enough to devote their time and risk their lives tracking these butchers down. They’re the only ones making a difference. Once in a while, they’ll out one of them in a story that might get a few columns not too far from the front
page,
and some prosecutor will maybe pay attention and look into it if it creates enough of a stink, but generally, these guys get away.”
Which was true.
Saddam and his decapitated brother-in-law were rare exceptions. The norm was that deposed dictators were often able to enjoy exile in blissful, unrepentant comfort while their underlings, the thugs who had overseen or actually participated in the killings, vanished into lives of placid anonymity.
“There isn’t a concerted, official effort to bring any of these people in,” Corben added. “Life moves on. Politicians step down, others take their place, and the crimes of the not-so-distant past are quickly forgotten. No one in the State Department wants to hear about this right now. The Iraqis themselves aren’t in a position to go after
him,
they’ve got bigger problems to deal with. And I can’t exactly see the Lebanese government getting involved given the mess their country’s in.”
Mia couldn’t believe it. “You’re working on this alone?”
“Pretty much.
I can draw on the same Agency resources if and when I need them, but until I have a definite, and I mean definite, lock on this guy, I can’t call in the troops.”
Mia stared at him, stupefied. The news was getting bleaker by the minute, and the images he’d seeded in her mind refused to fade. “He experimented on kids?”
Corben nodded.
A realization thudded heavily into the pit of her stomach. “We have to get her back. But we also have to stop him, don’t we?” She felt tears welling up, but she bit them back.
His eyes were on her, and something warmer flickered in them. He nodded thoughtfully, taking in her words. “Yes.”
“We need to find Farouk. If we can get to him before that”—she paused, unsure about how to refer to the hakeem, then chose—“monster does, and if he has this book, then maybe we can trade it for Mom.”
Corben’s expression brightened. “That’s what I’m hoping.”
He picked up his phone and hit the redial button.
R
amez stared worriedly at his phone as it vibrated with a low buzz that sent it skittering sideways across the coffee table in brief, tortuous spurts.
With each grating buzz, the phone’s LED screen lit up, casting a temporary, ghostly blue-green glow across the darkened living room of his small apartment. His eyes blinked to attention each time, transfixed by the bright display. The words PRIVATE CALLER — shorthand for a withheld number—stared alarmingly back, taunting him, before the display flicked back to blackness. His body went rigid every time the phone sprang to life, as if the device were hardwired straight into his skull.
Mercifully, after about eight spurts, it stopped buzzing. The room was plunged into darkness again, a bleak, lonely darkness that was occasionally interrupted by the reflections, from the headlights of passing cars in the street below, that scuttled across its mostly bare walls. It was the third time the anonymous caller had tried to reach him in the last hour, and the assistant professor wasn’t about to answer. Given that he hardly ever received such calls—withheld numbers were, oddly, a frowned-upon social faux pas in
Lebanon
—he knew what it had to be about. And it terrified him.
His day had started out like any other.
Out of bed at seven, a light breakfast, a shower and a shave, and a brisk, twenty-minute walk to the campus.
He’d read the morning papers before leaving home, and he’d spotted the story about the woman’s kidnapping downtown, but he had no idea it was Evelyn. Not until the cops had shown up at Post Hall.
He was their first port of call in the department, and the news had sucker punched the breath right out of him. With every word he uttered, he’d felt himself getting drawn deeper and deeper into a tar pit of trouble that he was keen to avoid, but knew he couldn’t. They were trying to find Evelyn, and he had to help. There was no way out.
They’d asked if he knew anything about her interest in Iraqi relics, and the man who had appeared in Zabqine immediately came to mind. They’d perked up at the mention of Farouk, and he’d given them his name—his first name, as he didn’t know the man’s full name—and description. From their guarded comments, he’d gathered that his description fitted one they had of a man who’d been seen with Evelyn when she was kidnapped.
The encounter with the detectives had already spooked him enough. Seeing Farouk emerge from behind some parked cars and approach him outside Post Hall a few hours later made him jump out of his skin. At first, he didn’t know what to make of it. Was Farouk working with the kidnappers? Was he here to grab Ramez too? The assistant professor had shrunk back defensively at his approach, but the Iraqi fixer’s supplicating and woeful manner had quickly convinced him that the man posed no threat.
Presently, sitting there in his darkened living room, he picked through that worrying conversation, every word of it still ringing with frightening clarity. They’d found a quiet spot to talk, at the back of the building. Farouk had opened by saying he needed to tell the police what he knew about the kidnapping, to help Evelyn, but he couldn’t go to them himself. He was in the country illegally, and, given what he’d seen in the papers, the stolen relics were already a point of contention. Ramez cut in by telling him the cops had already been to see him and informed Farouk that he himself had given them his description—admittedly, in the hope of helping find Evelyn.