“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.
Chapter 42
Corben 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.