The youth hesitated, then nodded apprehensively. He stuffed the bill in the back pocket of his pants, then gestured for them to follow him.
Corben gave Kirkwood a triumphant nod and followed their local guide.
A burning sensation blazed across Mia’s back and legs as the silent convoy snaked its way up the winding trail. They’d mounted the mules hours earlier, and despite trudging on without a respite, she didn’t feel they were getting any closer.
They’d come across rifle-bearing shepherds, guarding their flocks of sheep and goats from roaming packs of wolves and hyenas — the thought of which only added to her discomfort — and armed smugglers who led cigarette-laden donkeys up the mountain, acknowledging each other’s presence with grunts and vigilant, silent stares.
The mountains were riddled with trails, and it was impossible for the authorities on either side to cover all of them, so they had simply given up. The border was porous, but getting across required a level of commitment and fitness that Mia was only just beginning to understand.
The landscape around them was markedly different from the flat wastelands they’d left behind. Deep valleys filled with rushing water cleaved through the dramatic ranges that towered above them. Pistachio forests and clusters of tall poplars dotted the otherwise inhospitable terrain, all of it crisscrossed by a maze of hidden paths.
“How much further?” Mia asked.
Abu Barzan conveyed her question to one of his men, then replied, “One hour. Maybe more.”
Mia breathed out despondently, then steeled herself and straightened up. She soldiered on, driven by the anger at being deceived, the need to find out the truth about her father, and the desperate need to rescue her mother.
The boy led Corben and Kirkwood past a battered Toyota pickup and into a dusty front yard. The low house that nestled against the hill was no different from any of the others. Not exactly Gracie Mansion, Corben mused, as he followed the boy up to the front door.
The boy pushed it open and announced their presence. A gruff voice bellowed out from deeper in the house. The boy took off his shoes and placed them alongside other, tattered shoes. Corben followed suit, as did Kirkwood.
Corben cast a glance across the house as they made their way past a small kitchen and through a doorway into a low-ceiling corridor. His eyes dropped to the floor as he reached the door to another room, and as he stepped in, something that didn’t fit registered at the threshold of his consciousness. Faint traces of bootprints were on the tiled floor just inside the room. He tensed up subconsciously, but it was too late. A shaft of hard steel was prodding him in the back.
Before he could turn, he spotted the slim, familiar figure, sitting cross-legged in the faint light, his silvery hair slicked back, watching him with ice-cold, detached eyes. He was seated on the floor — there was no furniture in the room, nothing but cushions scattered around its perimeter — and had his small medical bag by his side. He still had the needle in his hand. Beside him was a heavily armed bruiser whose thick arms were clasped on the shoulders of a terrified-looking local. Corben guessed it had to be the mokhtar. The man was sweating profusely and rubbing his forearm.
The rest of the room quickly fell into focus. A TV flickered silently in a corner. A small fire crackled in the tin fireplace. Next to it, three heavily armed men held a woman and four children — a boy in his late teens, and three girls — at gunpoint.
“Glad you could join us,” the hakeem announced drily. “We’ve just been having the most illuminating chat.”
Chapter 64
Corben spun around quickly, his arms lashing out to grab the gun digging into his back, but he wasn’t quick enough. His opponent swung his arms up with lightning speed, hammering Corben with the butt of his Kalashnikov and catching him squarely in the jaw. Corben thudded to the ground, his skull seared with agony.
His eyes struggling to regain focus, he turned to see the hakeem push himself to his feet and take a couple of steps towards him. Curiously, the man didn’t seem interested in Corben. He bypassed him to home in on Kirkwood.
“So this is our mysterious buyer,” he intoned, his eyes moving over Kirkwood’s face with undisguised fascination. “And you are…?” He left the question hanging.
Kirkwood just stood there and watched him, without replying.
The hakeem gave a brief chortle, then, without taking his eyes off him, raised the needle he was holding and said to Corben, “Would you be so kind as to educate our guest as to my persuasive powers?”
Corben groaned as he lifted himself off the ground. “Tell him what he wants to know,” he complied grudgingly. “Believe me, it’ll save you some pain.”
The hakeem’s eyes remained locked on Kirkwood, his expression now tinged with smugness.
Kirkwood looked at the man the hakeem had been working on. The mokhtar, who was dressed in traditional, local garb, seemed to be drowning in pain and, Kirkwood somehow thought, in shame. “Kirkwood. Bill Kirkwood,” he flatly informed the man circling him.
“Any other names you’d care to add to that?” the hakeem teased. “No?” He paused, studying his prey. “Very well. We’ll leave that for now.” A puzzled look played across his face. “I don’t see the book anywhere. Where is it?”
“I don’t have it,” Kirkwood replied crisply.
The hakeem arched a skeptical eyebrow.
“He doesn’t have it,” Corben interjected. “He gave it to Evelyn Bishop’s daughter. She’s probably being escorted to our embassy by now.”
The hakeem brooded over the information, then shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. It didn’t contain the formula anyway, did it? I mean, you said so yourself. And there was no reason for you to lie.” He scrutinized Kirkwood, then added, “Not to Miss Bishop. You wouldn’t lie to her, now, would you?
Kirkwood felt his blood turn to ice. He realized the hakeem must have been listening in. His mind raced to remember exactly what he had said in that room.
“And yet, you still rushed here,” the hakeem continued. “To speak with this man.” He aimed an elegant finger at his seated victim. “What were you hoping to find out from him?”
Kirkwood stayed quiet.
“Perhaps you were hoping to find out what happened to your ancestor? And, with a bit of luck, find out what he discovered?” The hakeem moved to the window and stared out. “Fascinating man, your ancestor. A man of many talents. And many names,” he mocked. “Sebastian Guerreiro. The Marquis of Montferrat. The Comte de St. Germain. Sebastian Botelho. And those are just the ones we know about. But then, I suppose, he lived a very full life, didn’t he?”
Each of the names dropped into Kirkwood’s stomach like a pallet of bricks. There was no point in dissembling. The man was clearly well-informed. “How do you know all this?”
“Well, if you know anything about your ancestor,” the hakeem replied haughtily, “you’re bound to have across a mention of one of mine. Perhaps the name rings a bell. Raimondo di Sangro?”
The bricks had just turned to acid.
Kirkwood knew the name well.
The hakeem edged right up to Kirkwood, his eyes brimming with grim interest. “Brings a whole new meaning to the term full circle, don’t you think?”
His expression grew more serious. “I’ll save us all some time. As I said, our gracious host and I”—the hakeem nodded dismissively at the mokhtar —“were having a lovely little chat just now. And if anything, it confirmed to me that generational memories run deep in remote places like this.” He pointed to the walls of the room.
Kirkwood looked around the room and saw what he meant. Faded portraits of the mokhtar’s ancestors loomed down from behind weathered glass. They held a place of honor on the main wall of the room.