“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.
Chapter 59
“Wait 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.