Karima wasn’t the only person who didn’t approve. Hanif scurried over as al-Sabban counted the money. Chase’s knowledge of Arabic was modest, but he didn’t need a translator to know Hanif was demanding to know what the hell was going on.
Al-Sabban’s answer left the young imam open-mouthed in dismay. He jabbed a finger at the banknotes, then pointed to Mitchell. “No! Take back! Take money back!”
“Well, at least he’s not so angry at us anymore,” said Karima as Hanif continued his impassioned rant in Arabic.
Al-Sabban just smiled. “The young, they do not understand. But I have been over thirty years in this horrible place!” He swept his arms wide to take in the run-down surroundings. “Peasants, simpletons, ugh! Now I can finally get away from them, and retire in comfort!”
“But you’re doing it by selling a holy relic,” Karima objected.
“Holy relic?” al-Sabban scoffed. “It has been in a box for years, nobody cared about it until today. It is junk! Who will miss it?”
“He might,” said Chase as Hanif returned to the prayer hall in disgust.
“After he has been here for thirty years, he will feel the same way!” The imam continued talking, thanking Mitchell, but Chase suddenly stopped listening.
There was engine noise outside the walls of the mosque—not the light vehicle he’d heard before, but a truck.
And a second car—
He pulled out his gun. “I think we’ve got a problem,” he said, hurrying to the gate. After the total inactivity of Kafashta when they arrived, three vehicles at once was practically a parade.
“What are you doing?” al-Sabban protested. “This is a place of worship, you cannot bring guns in here!”
Chase ignored him, inching open one of the wooden doors to peer out at the street. “Oh, fuck.” A Jeep was pulling up on the other side of the dirt road—a Jeep painted in the dull green of the Syrian army, three soldiers inside. “Company’s com—”
Company was already there.
The other door burst open as someone slammed against it, knocking Chase backward. Momentarily dazed, he stumbled before recovering his footing. He brought up his gun—
Too late.
Syrian troops poured into the courtyard, rifles aimed at them.
ELEVEN
Wondering what was keeping al-Sabban, Nina returned to the cellar entrance with the sword. She climbed out, surprised that nobody was waiting. Hanif was lurking at the doors, his back to her, peering out into the courtyard.
His stance was odd, as if he were frozen in shock …
Something was wrong.
Hanif turned to face her, his expression no longer angry, but fearful. Noises reached her from outside. Boots on the pavement, the clanks and thumps of men laden with equipment.
The Syrians. Somehow they had discovered they were here.
Hanif was the obvious suspect, but as he ran to her she saw something in his eyes that instantly convinced her otherwise. He was as horrified by the arrival of the soldiers as she was. “Quick, quick!” he said, his accent so thick the words were barely understandable. “You, hide!”
“What’s going on?”
“Mahmoud—bad man! He, he …” He shook his hands in frustration, unable to find the right words, before miming holding a telephone receiver to his ear.
“Phone?”
“Yes, yes! He phone army! Sell you!”
“He sold us out?” Hanif nodded frantically. “Son of a bitch!”
“You hide! I stop them!” He raced back to the door, robes flapping.
“Shit,” Nina gasped. The young imam may not have approved of their presence in the mosque—but he clearly approved of al-Sabban betraying them for money in a house of worship even less. She could only assume that al-Sabban’s plan had been to take Mitchell’s money in exchange for the sword and then tell the Syrians they’d stolen it, allowing him to keep both the sword and the money after they were arrested.
She hunted for an escape route. The cellar was out—it had no other exits, and nowhere she could hide that would not be discovered almost immediately. Nothing she had seen going to and from al-Sabban’s office suggested that there were any exits that way either.
That left the minaret.
Most of the mosque was a single story, but the tower was over twice as high as the rest of the building. Maybe there was a way onto the roof …
She ran to the ladder and looked up. Daylight was visible at the top. There had been a staircase running around the interior of the narrow tower at one time, but little now remained, just stumps poking from the walls. The rope tied to the sturdy wooden pallet ran up to a pulley attached to the ceiling. Several electrical cables dangled loosely from the upper floor, but she had no idea what they were for.
No time to wonder either. She heard yells from the courtyard, Hanif’s protests shouted down by deeper voices.
Climb—
She raced up the rungs. Below, the doors flew open. She looked back. Hanif had his arms spread wide, trying unsuccessfully to stop three soldiers from coming in. They saw her.
One of them raised his gun—
Hanif slapped it down. The soldier, an officer, raised an angry hand as if about to hit him, but held back the blow. He may have been young, but he was still an imam.
One of the soldiers, skinny and rat-faced, barely more than a boy, ran to the ladder and leered up at Nina. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, but he had a long and unpleasant-looking knife in one hand.
Nina tried to climb faster, the broken blade impeding her. The ladder shook as the young soldier scurried after her. “Shit shit shit!”
The ladder led to a wooden platform. The power cables turned out to be connected to a tape deck and a large loudspeaker, used to sound the adhan, the Muslim call to prayer, across the village, but Nina ignored them as she searched for a way to stop her pursuer. Maybe she could kick down the ladder …
No use. It was tied to the platform.
She hurried to the half-repaired wall, seeing Chase and the others being forced at gunpoint into the back of a truck behind the mosque. But there was no way down, the scaffolding only extending a few feet below the level of the platform, just enough to give the builders a foothold.
The rope around the pulley—could she use it to climb down the outside of the minaret?
She grabbed the hanging length of rope, a knot stopping it from falling back through the pulley, but already knew the plan would fail. At 116 pounds she was hardly a heavyweight, but the pallet used to lift bricks to the top of the tower probably weighed less than a quarter as much. As a counterweight, it would barely slow her.
But it was too late anyway. The soldier had reached the top of the ladder, the knife ready in one hand.
Still holding the rope, Nina backed away. The soldier grinned mercilessly, seeing she was trapped as he clambered onto the platform beside the loudspeaker—
She hit the tape deck’s play button.
The adhan boomed from the speaker. It almost deafened Nina—but it was like a physical blow to the soldier. He slapped his hands to his ears with an inaudible scream, staggering, and stumbled over the rope.
Nina pulled with all her might. The rope snapped tight around his ankle. She pulled again … and the soldier toppled over the edge of the platform.
The rope shot through the pulley as the man plunged to the ground. Nina stopped the tape, the adhan still ringing in her ears as she looked down. Screaming and flailing, the soldier fell—pulling the pallet toward her at the same speed.
She threw herself back as it slammed into the pulley, shards of wood scattering everywhere. The rope pulled taut with a thwack. The scrawny soldier’s fall had been caught just above the ground, where he was dangling by one leg, screeching and flapping as his two comrades ran to help him.
Their faces turned upward, guns rising—
Nina grabbed the pallet, flinging herself over the broken wall and into the open air beyond.
She had her counte
rweight.
The soldier was whisked back up the minaret as Nina dropped down its exterior. She kicked at the wall, trying to rappel down—but was falling too fast, her feet slipping and spinning her out of control. The sword piece fell from under her arm. With a panicked shriek, she swung toward the ground, the military truck rushing up at her …
A soldier started to emerge from the back of the truck to investigate the noise—and Nina smashed into him feet first, propelling him inside again. He collided with a second soldier, both of them collapsing at the feet of their prisoners.
Nina landed in a heap on the ground and let go of the rope, which instantly whipped away back up the minaret, the luckless soldier on its other end plunging back down the tower to crash onto the two other men. Winded, she looked up. Chase, Mitchell and Karima stared down at her from the back of the truck. “And I thought Mitzi made a good entrance,” said Mitchell.
Chase grabbed an AK-74 assault rifle from one of the fallen guards. “Let’s truck off!” He jumped down from the vehicle, quickly checking for other soldiers before pulling Nina to her feet and kissing her on the cheek. “Oh, and thanks.”
“Anytime,” she replied, shaken but managing a smile. Mitchell took the other soldier’s AK, and Karima yanked a pistol from his holster before they too jumped down to the ground.
“How many of them are there?” Nina asked.
Chase glanced around one side of the truck to check that the way was clear, Mitchell doing the same on the other side. “About ten. Two Jeeps and this truck.” Five down … but five still remaining, all armed.
“Where’s the sword?” Mitchell demanded.
Nina looked around. “Shit, I dropped it—no, there!” She pointed; the broken blade was sticking out of the sandy ground.
“Come on.” He ran with Nina to retrieve it. “Time to leave.”
Nina heard more shouting from the mosque’s courtyard as she picked up the sword. “You do remember that we’re twenty miles from the border, right?”
“Then we’d better get started!” Chase called. “Karima, get back to the camels. Nina, go with her.”
“We can’t outrun them on camels!” Nina protested. “They’ve got Jeeps!”
Chase grinned. “Not for long.” He waited until she had started after Karima before firing a single shot to blow out one of the truck’s front tires. Then he signaled for Mitchell to follow him around the side of the mosque to the street.
The sound of the shot would have told the soldiers where they were—which was exactly what Chase wanted, as it would draw them away from the two women. He and Mitchell jogged down the alley, AKs raised.
A Syrian soldier ran around the corner—and skidded almost comically to a stop in a cloud of dust, getting off a single wild shot purely on reflex before flinging himself back into cover as Chase and Mitchell fired. Stone chipped and splintered where the bullets hit.
Chase knew where the two Jeeps were parked, having memorized their positions while he was being taken to the truck. The rest of the soldiers would be just around the corner by now, some of them moving across the street to cover the alley while the others prepared to spring out from behind the mosque and blast anyone in sight.
Chase didn’t give them the chance. Instead he ran to the far side of the alley, the first Jeep coming into view across the street. Three of the Syrians were using it as cover, lying in wait—but they hadn’t expected him to sprint right into the open, and needed a moment to react—
The moment was all he needed, flicking the AK to full auto and unleashing a thudding burst of bullets—not at the soldiers, but at their Jeep. They ducked as its rear fender cratered, hot lead ripping through the metal …
Into the fuel tank.
A line of fire spurting onto the dusty road gave the soldiers all the warning they needed that they should run, now. Chase was already racing back to take cover against the mosque as the gasoline vapor inside the punctured fuel tank ignited—
The Jeep blew up like a small bomb. The fleeing soldiers were thrown to the ground by the blast as the blazing vehicle cartwheeled across the road, flaming fuel spewing out behind it. The two soldiers around the corner desperately hurled themselves out of its path as it smashed into the mosque wall, then bounced back to land upside down in the middle of the street.
One of the soldiers sprawled at the end of the alley looked up, saw Chase pressed against the wall, raised his rifle—and took the butt of Mitchell’s AK to his temple. Chase dropped his now-empty gun and picked up the unconscious Syrian’s weapon to replace it. “Thanks.”
Mitchell peered around the corner. “Did you get ’em all?”
“We’ll see in a sec,” said Chase. Two men at his feet, one already out cold: he sent the other to join him by kicking him in the back of the head. It would hurt when he woke up—but at least he would wake up. He had no love for the Syrian military, but nor did he have any personal grievance against these conscripts, most of whom were probably still in their teens.
Of the three men by the Jeep, one had been thrown against a wall by the explosion and didn’t look as though he would be moving for a while; another rolled in panic on the ground, his sleeve on fire. The third staggered to his feet, AK in hand, but hurriedly dropped the rifle when he saw Chase and Mitchell coming toward him, weapons raised. Chase pointed between two of the houses across the street at the open desert beyond. The soldier gulped, then with his hands raised high turned and ran for the empty sands.
“You could have just shot him,” Mitchell said.
“We’re not at war with ’em. Hey, your arm!” Mitchell’s left sleeve was torn, a small patch of dark red slowly spreading through the material. The first Syrian’s lone shot had clipped his bicep.
“Damn,” the American muttered, regarding the wound with surprise. “Didn’t even feel it!”
Chase quickly assessed the injury as minor, nothing a simple bandage couldn’t fix. Mitchell had been lucky. “You’ll live, tough guy. Okay, let’s move.” He fired a couple of rounds to blow out a rear tire of the second Jeep, then rapidly surveyed the scene. Movement in the mosque—al-Sabban, peering fearfully around the gate. Chase glared at him. The imam hurriedly tossed the bundles of dollars out into the street, then slammed the wooden doors.
Satisfied that nobody would be in a position to challenge them before they reached Nina and Karima, Chase moved to pick up the money, but Mitchell shook his head. “Leave it. We got what we came for.”
“You’re just going to chuck away ten grand?” said Chase, reluctantly following him at a jog toward the edge of the village.
“Uncle Sam’s paying for it.”
“You mean me and Nina are paying for it. That’s come out of our taxes!”
Mitchell made an amused noise, and they continued along the road until they reached the camels. Karima and Nina had already mounted their animals, the sword blade protruding from one of Nina’s saddlebags. The other camels were standing, spooked by the gunfire.
The two men clambered onto their saddles. “Okay,” Chase yelled to Nina, “we’re going to have to hoof it! Just grab on as tight as you can!”
Mitchell brought his camel around to head south. “Come on, move!” he shouted, flicking the reins. His camel grunted and broke into a run, Karima right behind him.
“I don’t wanna do this …” Nina muttered through clenched teeth. But she followed Mitchell’s example and snapped the reins, clinging as tightly as she could to the saddle. The camel reared up, almost throwing her off its back, then started running. “Ow—ow—ow—son of a—ow!”
Chase set off, staying behind her so he could help if she got into trouble. But she was holding on well enough despite her staccato complaints. He looked back at the receding village. Some of the soldiers were recovering, the officer in charge limping out of the mosque and taking in the burning Jeep with dismay before spotting his erstwhile prisoners disappearing into the desert.
“Come on, shift your arses!” Chase yelled to the others as
thumping AK fire echoed off the buildings. Little geysers of sand burst up around them, shots smacking into the ground. But they were already beyond the AK-74’s effective range: the Russian weapon was valued more for its qualities as a near-indestructible bullet hose than for its accuracy.
They kept riding, the ungainly gallop of the camels belying their impressive pace through the soft sand. Kafashta dropped away into the heat haze, the soldiers swallowed with it.
Nina, finally getting some degree of control over her charging camel, drew alongside Mitchell. “Oh, my God, you’re hurt!” she cried, seeing his bloodied arm.
“It’s just a scratch,” he said with a smile. “A flesh wound.” Nina smiled back.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Chase groaned from behind them. “More bloody Python.”
They kept up their pace until it became clear that there was no immediate sign of pursuit. Still keeping a watchful eye out for Syrian helicopters, they slowed the camels to a brisk trot as they continued south toward the border.
Chase drew level with Mitchell. “Got to admit,” he said, slightly grudgingly, “you did all right back there. For a sailor.”
Mitchell gave him a thin smile. “I did more in my military career than just sit inside a steel tube.”
“Oh? Like what?” Nina asked.
The smile broadened. “Can’t say. Classified.”
She rolled her eyes. “Great, another guy full of secrets. You’re as bad as Eddie!”
An hour and a half later, they crossed the border, Mitchell taking a GPS handset from a saddlebag to confirm they were safely back in Jordan. They had made it.
And they had the first piece of Caliburn. The first clue to the location of Excalibur.
TWELVE
Austria
The contrast could hardly be any starker: from the stifling, parched desolation of the Arabian desert to the cool, clean air of the Tyrolean Alps. The view from the picture windows of the coffeehouse in the village of Rasbrücke was spectacular, looking up the valley at the towering peaks to the south. The valley floor was carpeted in forests so vividly green that they almost seemed fake, while above them rose the pristine white slopes of the little ski resort. Even the chill edge in the high-altitude air was a relief after the inescapable heat of Syria.