The Secret of Excalibur

with the younger imam. He finally managed to shout Hanif into silence, then clambered out of the cellar entrance. ‘He is angry because you two are in the prayer hall,’ he told Chase and Mitchell, ‘and also because you are with her.’ He indicated a curtain at the other end of the room that could be drawn to divide the prayer hall into two sections. ‘Men and women are kept apart during prayer. He thinks you are insulting Islam by being here like this.’

Hanif began shouting again, and al-Sabban listened before irritably conceding some point. ‘It seems I will only be able to shut him up if you wait in the courtyard.’

‘What about Nina?’ Chase asked.

‘She is fine. She is engrossed,’ said the imam. He shook his head, then started for the door. ‘Come, wait outside. Mr Mitchell, this may be a good time to talk about your donation.’ He eyed Mitchell’s bag.

Hanif followed the group, waiting in the prayer hall’s doorway like a guard dog as al-Sabban led Chase, Mitchell and Karima to a small pool in the courtyard. Chase blinked in the sunlight; the cool of the mosque’s interior made returning to the desert heat all the more jarring. Over the gurgle of water from the fountain he heard a car coming along the street outside, the first sign of life in the village.

‘So how big a donation were you thinking, Mr al-Sabban?’ Mitchell asked.

Al-Sabban made a show of considering the question. ‘I was thinking of . . . something in the region of . . . ten thousand dollars?’

‘Done,’ said Mitchell, holding out his hand. Somewhat startled, al-Sabban hesitantly shook it. Mitchell then opened the bag and laid out several bundles of banknotes on a low wall before the imam. Karima looked on disapprovingly, but Chase simply smirked. Al-Sabban had clearly expected to haggle, thinking ten grand was an amount well out of reach, whereas Mitchell had been willing to pay more - probably a lot more.

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 any more,’ 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 Kasfashta 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 backwards. 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.

11

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 paving, 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 storey, but the tower was over twice as high as the rest of the building. Maybe there was a way on to the roof . . .

She ran to the ladder and looked up. Daylight was visible at the top. There had been a staircase running round 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 flexes 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 . .