Kirkwood watched her leave with a knot in his stomach. He was now committed. There would be no turning back.
He checked his watch and decided to initiate a precaution he’d been mulling. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number of the scout in Iraq who had first brought Abu Barzan’s find to their attention.
The man could be trusted. Years of collaboration, a couple of passed trust tests, and a healthy retainer had proven that.
He couldn’t risk calling Abu Barzan himself. He knew that if Corben had in fact been the counterbidder for the book, he and his minders knew about Abu Barzan and had his phone number. They could be monitoring it. And Kirkwood preferred not to announce his real interest to them just yet.
The scout picked up quickly. Kirkwood told him what to do. He had to do it quickly and be brief. He also had to make sure he didn’t spook Abu Barzan. He asked the scout to call him back from another number and let him know where the new meeting would take place.
He hung up, picked up the attaché case and the backpack, and headed for the door.
Chapter 53
Fifty miles further east, Corben was lying down on a narrow bed, looking around his stark white cell. The small room was windowless, and he had no idea what time of day it was, but he hadn’t really slept and he didn’t think more than a few hours had passed since they’d shoved him into the trunk of the car and driven him off.
He tried to imagine what the other prisoners of the hakeem’s compound were going through. He pictured Evelyn Bishop and wondered how close she was, and whether she’d ever make it back into the sun’s embrace again.
A picture was forming in his mind, and all the pieces seemed to fit. He was either in some town in north Lebanon or in Syria. He thought the latter more likely. The accent of the pockmarked thug and the rest of his cronies gave away their nationality pretty clearly. Corben didn’t speak much Arabic, but the little he did know allowed him to identify the different accents — Lebanese, Iraqi, Gulf Arab, Palestinian, Syrian. Now that he’d heard them speak, he was able to place the accent. Also, the car ride fit the profile. The second leg, at least, the one he’d been awake for. A winding road up a mountain and back down, a stop and some chatter — probably the border crossing — followed by more winding roads leading to a city that reverberated with a deafening cacophony of prayer calls, far more noticeably than Beirut.
It had to be Damascus.
The thought angered him. The city had actually been his first — and obvious — guess, back in 2003, when his assignment was officially live, when he’d tried to figure out where the hakeem had escaped to. A lot of Saddam’s cronies had made their way there to avoid getting shocked and awed. Despite the deep, long-felt animosity between the two countries, timely conveniences and dovetailing objectives meant that bitter enemies occasionally found reasons to help each other out.
In the case of the hakeem, however, Corben knew the arrangement had nothing to do with politics.
It also made sense for the hakeem. He would find patrons who could provide him with the same level of support that he’d enjoyed in Baghdad. Whatever he needed would be provided. His little guesthouse would run at full occupancy. And, when complications — or opportunities — such as those of the last few days arose, the expert, ruthless manpower was readily available.
Speaking of which, the lock clicked open. The hakeem stood at the cell’s door. The pockmarked killer, Omar, and two other armed men were with him.
“Time for you to sign in,” the hakeem announced. He gestured to Omar, who pulled out Corben’s cell phone and snapped the battery back into place. “You need to get the precise GPS coordinates of the Iraqi dealer,” he added, then raised a cautioning finger at him. “Remember, thirty seconds. No more.”
Corben got up, still in his boxers, and did as told. He got through to Olshansky. No one at the embassy seemed to have noticed anything amiss. Not that they had any reason to. As long as he signed in on time, no alarms would go off.
“Your target hasn’t moved since last night,” Olshansky informed him. “He’s still at the same location in Diyarbakir, but something else came up. Someone called him from Iraq.”
“Who?” Corben asked.
“I don’t know,” Olshansky replied. “The call was too brief to lock it in. The caller just told him to hang up, remove the battery from his phone, and call him back from another phone.”
Corben didn’t allow the unexpected complication to perturb his countenance. He kept his cool and, without a tremor in his voice, asked Olshansky for the Iraqi cell phone’s last GPS coordinates.
“You sure you want them?” Olshansky asked. “He’s got to know he’s being tracked by now, after that call. He’s probably long gone.”
“Just give me the coordinates,” Corben said simply.
Olshansky sounded a bit puzzled, but acquiesced. “One more thing,” he then added. “The Geneva cell phone I’ve been trying to lock onto — it’s not in Switzerland anymore. Its signal bounced off a jumble of satellites and servers before disappearing into a digital netherworld, but its trail definitely indicates a change of region. I’m liaising with a contact of mine at the NSA who’s prioritized the trace for us. My guy thinks he might be able to get a lock on his position before the end of the day.”
“Do it sooner than that. I need it,” Corben replied curtly as he vaulted the information.
He had his suspicions about where the caller might be headed.
The hakeem looked at him suspiciously and gestured for him to hang up, which he did after telling Olshansky to keep him posted if the Iraqi signal changed location. Omar was quick to take back the phone and pull out its battery. These guys were well versed in covering their digital tracks, Corben thought. They’d kept Ramez’s phone live not to miss Farouk’s call, but they wouldn’t make that mistake with Corben’s phone. He wouldn’t be able to work backwards to pinpoint the hakeem’s lair beyond the broader confines of the city.
He gave the hakeem the coordinates, which he knew were probably worthless, but he didn’t have much choice. He had to wing it from here. As he did, Omar punched them into a handheld device — the killer evidently spoke English, Corben noted — and it zoomed to a map of the Syrian-Turkish border, and to the town of Diyarbakir. Omar nodded with satisfaction.
A thin smile broke across the hakeem’s aquiline features. “Time to go,” he ordered, gesturing for Omar to bring Corben.
Omar gestured to one of his men, who handed him a folded batch of clothes and some boots. He threw them at Corben’s feet. Corben slipped them on over his boxers — baggy khaki pants, dark gray sweatshirt, and military boots. Omar pulled out some plastic cuffs and motioned for Corben to put his hands together. Corben grudgingly acquiesced. Omar snapped them into place, then pulled out a black cloth sack. He grabbed Corben’s shoulders and spun him around harshly, preparing to slip it over his head. “Yalla, imshi,” he grunted. Move it.
Corben had had enough of being pushed around for one day. “Back off, asshole,” he snapped back, pulling his arm free and shoving Omar back. “I’ll do it myself.”
Omar grabbed him, pushing him against the door, yelling, “Imshi, wlaa.” Corben resisted, but the hakeem interceded, ordering his man to stand down. Omar glared angrily at Corben, then shoved the hood into his hand and stepped back.
With an ear glued to the door, Evelyn listened intently to the noise outside her cell. She’d heard the door being unlocked and had feared another victim, like her, being brought in or, worse, being collected for another torture session with her demented host.