The Sanctuary by Raymond Khoury Page B

Zabqine. Ramez—that was his name, wasn’t it? What had Evelyn said? They worked together. At the university.
    He could find him. He’d been to the Archaeology Department. Post Hall, on campus. Ramez had seen him with Evelyn. He could tell him what he knew. She might even have told him what Farouk had told her. He’d be worried about her. He’d listen.
    That was it. It was the best he could do. Thinking it through even further, the idea grew more appealing. He needed money. His cash had almost run out, and his plight was now much more desperate. It wasn’t about settling into a better life somewhere more sane than his homeland. It was about survival, plain and simple. He had to disappear, and that would take money. He had to find a buyer for Abu Barzan’s collection. He hadn’t spoken to Abu Barzan since leaving Iraq . The bastard could have found a buyer himself by now, and if he had, then Farouk would be left with nothing to sell. Evelyn’s colleague had to have contacts in that world. Wealthy Lebanese collectors. Maybe Farouk could interest him in helping to sell the pieces. Give him a cut. The divide between rich and poor was a veritable canyon in this town, and most people weren’t exactly flush these days. Money was tight. And even the virtuous and the principled had to eat and pay the rent.
    A shroud of fatigue descended over him. He slid down to the ground and shriveled up into himself, hoping for sleep to overcome him. He would go to the university in the morning. Find Ramez. Talk to him. And maybe—just maybe—this could all end better for them than it had for his friend Ali.
    He didn’t believe it for a second.
     
Chapter 12
     
    T om Webster put down his cell phone and looked out the floor-to-ceiling window of his office on the Quai des Bergues. It was a crisp early evening in Geneva . The sun was setting behind the craggy peaks of the Alps to the west, reflecting off the lake and bathing its still water with a fiery golden pink glow. The snow hadn’t arrived yet, but it wouldn’t be long now.
    The call had left him with a feeling of deep unease.
    He replayed the brief conversation in his mind, examining every nuance, going over every beat of what he’d heard. First came the pause once the call was answered. There was a definite hesitance there. Then the garbled words, in a language he was reasonably sure was Arabic. And then the man who’d finally spoken into the phone, claiming to be a colleague of hers. There was something distinctly formal about his tone. His insistence on knowing who was calling Evelyn was a definite signal that this was not the casual pickup of a friend’s phone.
    She’s gotten herself sucked into this. Then, a more troubling thought:
Is she alright?
    The message he’d received from the phone operator at the institute had taken him by surprise. It had been…how long?
    Thirty years.
    He wondered what had prompted Evelyn’s call, after all that time.
    He had his suspicions.
    The two events—the call from one of his scouts in Iraq , out of the blue, a little over a week ago, and Evelyn’s call to the Haldane switchboard—had to be connected. That much was obvious. But he hadn’t anticipated any problems going forward. He and his partners always operated pretty much off the radar. They had to be careful, of course—discretion was paramount to their work—but there was no reason to expect any complications.
    He tried to rationalize the call and calm his worries, but he couldn’t escape them. This didn’t bode well. A long time ago he had learned to trust his instincts, and right now they were clamoring for attention. He needed to know what was really going on. Then he’d need to call the others. Let them know what was happening. And come to a unanimous agreement—as the three of them always did—as to how to handle the situation.
    He checked his watch. Beirut was two hours ahead. The time difference meant that he wouldn’t be able to get any answers for a few