The Sanctuary

  She edged up to him. He turned to her, sucking in deep, laborious breaths. He had pained, half-shut eyes, and his jowly face glistened with sweat.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered, avoiding looking too closely at the fallen man by his feet.

  Abu Barzan just nodded stoically, his expression bristling with anger and defiance.

  “Let me see it,” she said, pointing to his wound.

  He didn’t react. She reached out hesitantly and ripped his pants open around the wound to uncover it. She could see an entry puncture as well as an exit one in the thick flesh of his thigh. Noting that the bleeding wasn’t intense, coupled with that he was standing and breathing, she thought that his femoral artery probably hadn’t been severed by the bullet or by bone fragments. This negated the risk of his bleeding to death, but the wound needed to be dressed quickly to lessen the blood loss and avoid infection.

  “I don’t think it’s shattered any bone,” she observed, “but it needs cleaning.”

  A high-pitched siren wailed faintly in the distance. Abu Barzan looked at her with anxious eyes. “I have to go,” he grumbled, and started to limp away.

  “Wait.” She followed, stepping over the fallen gunmen. “You need to go to a hospital.”

  He waved her off. “A hospital? Are you crazy? I’m half-Kurd,” he spat back. “How do you think I’m going to explain this?”

  Mia nodded somberly. “I’m not sure I know how I’m going to explain this myself.”

  Abu Barzan studied her for a beat, then said, “Come.”

  She put an arm under his shoulder and helped him keep the weight off his injured leg as they slipped away into the dark back alleys of the old town.

  CORBEN KEPT A CLOSE EYE on his rearview mirror as he guided the Land Cruiser out of the city and headed south, towards Mardin.

  He had a big decision to make, but the more he thought about it, the more he believed he could pull it off. He had Kirkwood, who could unlock the mystery if properly motivated, and Corben was, if anything, an expert on inspiring. He had a window of opportunity during which he could misbehave: He’d been abducted in his sleep, the front door of his apartment would testify to that. He would say he was a prisoner of the hakeem. Everything he did was with a gun to his head. Enough said.

  The problem was Kirkwood.

  He couldn’t be allowed to walk away from this. Not with what he knew. Mia—that could be finessed. Kirkwood was more complicated.

  “You really with the UN?” Corben asked him. His handgun nestled in his lap.

  “Last time I checked,” Kirkwood answered flatly, staring ahead blankly.

  Corben nodded, impressed. “Six hundred grand. Not exactly chump change.” He waited for a reaction, but none came. “How many of you are there?”

  He detected a flicker of confusion in Kirkwood.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “How many of you are there looking for this thing? I mean, there’s you, and there’s Tom Webster, right?” Corben fished. “You’re able to fly in at the drop of the hat with a case full of cash. I’m thinking you guys have some decent resources to draw on.”

  Kirkwood ignored the comment. “Where are we going?”

  “We’re both after the same thing. I say let’s see it through all the way.” Corben paused, glancing over at Kirkwood. “Besides, I miss the mountains. Clean air up there. Good for the lungs,” he deadpanned.

  The Iraqi border was a couple of hours’ drive away. He debated whether to call in, inform his station chief that he’d been kidnapped, say he’d managed to get away and was now shadowing the Iraqi smuggler behind the kidnapping, and get them to call ahead and make sure he was allowed through the border crossings unhampered. He decided against it, preferring to keep his cohorts in the dark a little while longer. And although he didn’t have a passport or any ID on him, he had a far more effective travel document in the back: a case full of dollar bills. In that desperate land, he know a few of those greenbacks would open most doors. From there, it wasn’t far to Al Amadiyya. If everything went smoothly, they’d make the village Abu Barzan had spoken of by nightfall.

  “What are your plans for it, if it’s out there?” Kirkwood asked bluntly. “Can’t imagine our government’s anywhere near ready to deal with something like this. Preserving the status quo and all.” He turned to face Corben. “’Cause that’s the plan, isn’t it? Bury it—along with anyone who knows about it?”

  Corben smirked and let out a small chortle. “Probably. But it’s not mine.”

  Kirkwood raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  Corben glanced at him, a wry smile crinkling the edge of his mouth. “Let’s say I have a more entrepreneurial approach to life.” He paused. “Question is, what are you guys planning for it?”

  “A better world for everyone,” Kirkwood replied, seemingly thrown by Corben’s cavalier attitude. “And I mean everyone.”

  Corben shrugged. “So I guess we’re on the same page.”

  “Except for one pesky little detail. I’m not prepared to kill for it.”

  “Maybe you just haven’t yet had to face that choice.”

  Kirkwood let it simmer. “What if I have?”

  The insinuation intrigued Corben, but he masked the feeling. “Then I’d say I care more about making the world a better place than you do,” he replied nonchalantly.

  “And where does Evelyn Bishop fall in all this? Collateral damage?”

  “Not necessarily.” Corben glanced over at him. A motivational tool had just presented itself. “Help me figure this out, and nothing will give me more pleasure than taking the hakeem down and getting her back.”

  Corben cocked an eyebrow, waiting for Kirkwood’s reaction, and smiled inwardly. He had him thinking, which was good. It meant he’d be spending less time trying to wrangle his freedom.

  Corben decided to nudge him a little further in that direction. “By the way, when were you and Webster planning on telling Mia that her dad was still alive?”

  KIRKWOOD STIFFENED at Corben’s jocular tone. At least Corben didn’t know the whole truth, he reminded himself.

  At least he didn’t know that he was Tom Webster.

  He thought back to what Corben must have overheard back in Diyarbakir and replayed the conversation in his mind. Corben assumed the formula didn’t work, not for anyone. Which was why he hadn’t made the leap.

  Let’s keep it that way, he thought.

  The name he’d used with Evelyn drifted his thoughts back to her. Guilt consumed him. If he’d told her the truth back then, in Al-Hillah, maybe she would’ve been more careful. She would have known dangerous people would be after this. They always were. They came out of the woodwork the minute they got a sniff of it. It was the way of the world. Had been for hundreds of years.

  Evelyn wouldn’t have been kidnapped.

  And he would have known he had a daughter. A daughter who would have grown up with a father. He’d have made sure of that. He’d have found a way.

  He remembered the look in Mia’s eyes when he’d told her the truth, and it gutted him again, just ripped his insides out and left nothing there but a gaping black hole.

  At least, he thought with a trace of solace—at least she was safe now.

  MIA SAT ON A RICKETY CHAIR in the smoke-filled room. She sipped from a glass of water as the wiry old man with bloodstained arms finished dressing Abu Barzan’s wound.

  The antiques dealer had guided her through the back streets of the ancient town to the house of another of his contacts. Despite their occasional fratricidal tussles, the Kurds all shared a hated common enemy and helped each other out when it came to keeping out of the clutches of the MIT, the Turkish intelligence service—the local variant of the mukhabarat.

  Three other men were in the room, all locals, all smoking. They were arguing vociferously among themselves and with Abu Barzan, in Kurdish. Mia couldn’t understand what they were saying, but they were clearly angry about what had happened. One of their own had been ki
lled, after all, as well as Abu Barzan’s nephew, and the debate was clearly on as to what the repercussions—and potential reprisals—could be.

  The doctor finished his work and left the room, taking the others with him and leaving Mia alone with Abu Barzan. A leaden silence hung between them as the wisps of smoke thinned out and vanished, then Abu Barzan turned to her.

  “You still have the book,” he observed. It sat squarely on the table, in front of her.

  She nodded, lost in her thoughts.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” She’d pondered that question while the doctor had been working on Abu Barzan’s wound and hadn’t reached a conclusion. “I can’t go to my embassy. I don’t know who to trust anymore.” She told him about what had happened in Beirut and about Evelyn’s kidnapping. He flushed angrily when she filled him in on what she knew about the hakeem. Saddam had already used nerve gas on the Kurds. They weren’t exactly his chosen people. It was quite possible—likely, even—that he’d gleefully culled the hakeem’s guinea pigs from their ranks.

  She told him about Corben, but avoided mentioning what Kirkwood had told her on the roof, merely painting him as a UN official who was trying to help.

  She was still grinding that one over herself.

  A skeptical expression crossed his sagging face. “This UN man. The one who was buying this”—pointing a thick finger at the codex—“you trust him?”

  The comment surprised Mia, then she remembered seeing Kirkwood handing him the silver attaché case. It all fell into place. “He was your buyer all along, wasn’t he?”

  Abu Barzan nodded. “Six hundred thousand dollars. Gone.” He heaved a desolate sigh.

  Mia’s brow furrowed as her thoughts drifted back to Corben. At the back of her mind, something was clamoring for attention, and she couldn’t quite put a finger on it. She remembered seeing Corben carrying the attaché case, but something didn’t fit. He’d been alone. No backup, no SEAL team, no Turkish forces assisting him—and they were our allies, after all.

  He was operating on his own. A rogue agent.

  A tremor of concern rattled through her. Kirkwood. Corben had him. And if there was any chance of getting her mom back, it was with him.

  She tried to imagine what Corben’s next move would be. Evelyn didn’t matter to him, that much was obvious. He’d killed the hakeem’s men, which wasn’t exactly the best “let’s get together” signal if the intention had been to make contact with him.

  Corben was following his own, personal agenda.

  Which meant that he’d be going after it. And that meant he’d be headed for one specific place.

  “Do you want to get your money back?” she asked Abu Barzan, her voice alight with hope.

  Abu Barzan raised his eyes to her, a dour and confused expression on his face.

  “Can you get us across the border?” she added, breathless.

  Chapter 63

  T he sun had arced into a hazy, midafternoon sky as the Land Cruiser crossed into Iraq.

  Corben had pulled over at a makeshift fruit stand on the road out of Idil, close to the border, and picked up a couple of bottles of water and some bananas for him and his prisoner. He’d untied Kirkwood—having secured his right wrist to the handle in the passenger door to make sure he didn’t try to bail—and they’d both relieved themselves by the side of the road. He’d then driven past the long line of empty fuel trucks and buses waiting to cross into Iraq and pulled up at the Turkish border post. The loutish and overzealous soldier manning it was quickly subjugated by a more accommodating officer, who, his eyes flickering at the sight of several months’ salary being dangled before him, had generously kicked in a map of the region before allowing them to leave his country.

  Corben and Kirkwood had then driven across the barbed-wired no-man’s-land that separated the two frontiers. The bleak strip was even more desolate than the flatlands it separated. A couple of hundred yards later, they’d reached the Iraqi border post, where a guard in flimsy camouflage fatigues had also gleefully pocketed a small roll of bills and hastily waved them through.

  Corben stopped at a gas station just outside Zakho, once he was sure that his border bribe hadn’t backfired on him and that no one was following them. He filled the car and checked the map for Nerva Zhori. His eyes had trouble locating it, but after a twinge of concern, he finally spotted the small village, marked by the tiniest of letters, tucked away in the mountains, almost straddling the Turkish border.

  They’d have to drive south to Dahuk, then turn left and head northeast, past Al Amadiyya and into the highlands. He checked the car’s clock and looked up at the sun’s level and ran a quick mental calculation. Barring any major holdups, he thought they might just be able to make it before sundown.

  He folded up the map, slid a glance at Kirkwood, and hit the gas pedal.

  FROM THE LUMPY BACKSEAT of the old Peugeot, Mia watched the flat, rocky, mind-numbingly barren landscape unfurl outside her open window. Not a tree was in sight; instead, a row of anorexic electricity poles lined the narrow road, the wires linking them sagging lethargically. They reminded her of the telegraph lines of the Wild West, which was fitting, she thought, given the day—days, in fact—she’d had so far.

  Abu Barzan was seated next to her, wheezing heavily between deep drags off a Marlboro. Two other men that she’d met at the doctor’s house, were in the front of the car. She’d lost count of how many cigarettes Abu Barzan and his buddies had lit up during the journey. A dark patch stained his trouser leg, blood having seeped through the bandage, but it wasn’t getting any bigger. The doctor in Diyarbakir seemed to have done a good job, but then, given the unrest in the region, he probably had some practice.

  Despite Abu Barzan’s wound, they’d decided to leave Diyarbakir and drive off immediately. Their route would be longer than the one Mia and Abu Barzan assumed Corben would be taking. They couldn’t risk crossing the official border at Zakho, not with Abu Barzan’s bullet wound. Mia didn’t have her passport either; she’d left her bag in the Land Cruiser. They also didn’t know if Corben had gotten the contacts he surely had within the Turkish intelligence service to tighten the border crossing behind him, just in case. Instead, they would drive fifty miles farther east, along the main road that skirted the border, until they reached the base of the Chiyā-ē Linik mountains. They’d be smuggled into Iraq from there.

  They crossed a couple of small, breeze-block border towns before the steppes gave way to undulating foothills. An imposing mountain range rose in the distance, and before long, the road got windy and ascended rapidly, the tired car listing and straining under the effort.

  The sun had disappeared behind the peaks towering over them by the time they turned off the main road to head south through a narrow valley. A small river coursed through it, and the Peugeot bounced down a gravelly path alongside it for a couple of miles before the road petered out in a small clearing where four dour-faced men were waiting for them.

  They’d brought mules—loaded with gear, and, Mia noticed with a tinge of gratitude, saddled—and were armed with Kalashnikov submachine guns and rifles.

  The driver cut the engine. Mia climbed out and watched as the men helped Abu Barzan out of the car. They exchanged hearty kisses to each others’ cheeks, coupled with big, backslapping bear hugs, and impassionedly bemoaned Abu Barzan’s gunshot. Once the intense ritual was over, Abu Barzan turned to Mia.

  “We go now,” he simply stated, inviting her to the fly-infested mule that waited lazily by his side.

  She glanced up at the daunting mountains bearing down on them and nodded.

  CORBEN VEERED OFF the main road ten miles past Al Amadiyya and onto a winding dirt trail that headed north. The four-wheeled drivetrain of the Land Cruiser was getting a real workout, groaning in protest as the SUV struggled up the mountain along what wasn’t much more than a mule path.

  “Abu Barzan said it was a ‘Yazidi’ village,” Corben recalled as he wrest
led with the wheel, trying to avoid the larger rocks in their way. “You know much about them?”

  “Only that they’re devil worshippers,” Kirkwood mentioned casually, with a wry smile.

  “Good to know.” Corben shrugged.

  It was a common misconception, but one that, right now, watching the annoyance across Corben’s face, gave Kirkwood a modicum of pleasure.

  More accurately, the Yazidis, also known as the Cult of Angels, were a small, peaceful sect who had resisted Islam for centuries. Their religion, which included Zoroastrian, Manichean, Jewish, Christian, and Islamic elements, was claimed to be the oldest on earth. They rejected the concepts of sin, the devil, and hell and believed in purification and redemption through metempsychosis—the transmigration of souls—and, yes, they did worship Satan, only as a fallen angel who had repented, been pardoned by God, and had been reinstated in heaven as the chief of all angels. Saddam had a particular loathing for the Yazidis. He’d nurtured the devil worshipper tag, using it to carve a fault line between them and the Kurds. After the first Gulf war, during his revenge attacks on the Kurds, Yazidi villages were brutally raided and sacked. Men were executed, their own families made to pay for the bullets used in the killings.

  The landscape grew progressively more lush, more closely resembling the densely forested mountains farther north. As the Land Cruiser labored up the steep trail, the temperature also dropped markedly. Sunset was less than an hour away by the time they spotted thin spires of smoke rising into the early-evening sky. Soon after, the bare village came into focus.

  Corben parked the SUV on a small shoulder just off the rocky trail. He pocketed a small wad of hundred-dollar bills, tucked his handgun behind him under his belt, and glanced over to Kirkwood.