The Secret of Excalibur (11 page)

‘Oh, Mama!’ cried Mitzi, exasperated. ‘I’m a grown woman, I can take care of myself. I’m just having fun!’

‘Don’t worry, she won’t be doing any of that,’ Chase assured Brigitte. ‘Not unless it’s the world’s most extreme library.’

‘Library?’ asked Mitzi, crestfallen.

‘Yeah. We need someone to do some research for us, about some castle in Austria.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded hugely disappointed. ‘Well, of course I’ll help you, but . . . are you sure that’s all you want me to do? You don’t need me to help you climb a mountain or anything?’

‘Nah, just check out this castle and persuade the bloke who owns it to talk to us. Are you up for that?’ He looked at Brigitte, who still didn’t seem happy. ‘And you?’

Brigitte sighed. ‘As she says, she’s a grown woman.’

‘Because if it bothers you, we can do it ourselves,’ Chase offered. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t want to make you mad at me or anything.’

She managed a faint smile. ‘After everything you’ve done for us, I think that would be hard.’

‘Of course I’ll do it, Eddie,’ Mitzi insisted. ‘It might not be as exciting as the last time I helped you, but who knows? Maybe I’ll discover something that surprises you.’

Chase smiled at her. ‘Knowing you, you’ll have found what we’re looking for before we even get back. And don’t you worry, Brigitte. She’ll be fine, I promise.’

Mitchell opened his case and handed a sheaf of papers to Mitzi. ‘These are what we have on the castle and its owner, and what we’d like you to find out for us, if you can.’

‘I’ll have everything you need by the time you get back,’ she told him confidently.

‘Great stuff,’ said Chase. He finished his drink and put down the cup. ‘Well, sorry to have to rush off, but we’re kind of working against the clock.’

‘Exactly what
are
you looking for?’ Brigitte asked.

‘I’m afraid we can’t tell you at the moment,’ said Mitchell, ‘but it’s very important to the IHA and the United Nations.’

‘We really appreciate you helping us out,’ Nina added. ‘Thank you. Both of you.’

Brigitte nodded. ‘I wish you a safe journey, then. And I hope you find whatever it is.’

‘Good luck!’ Mitzi chimed.

Chase stood and kissed her cheek, then did the same to Brigitte. ‘We’ll be back in a couple of days, no problem. See you then.’ He waited as Nina and Mitchell shook hands with the two women, then swept an arm theatrically towards the horizon beyond the lake. ‘Okay. Jordan, here we come!’

9

Jordan

W
here Zürich had been clean, neat and above all orderly, the Jordanian capital of Amman was by contrast a living monument to organised chaos. One of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world, each new stage of civilisation had been built around - or sometimes on top of - that which went before, resulting in a gloriously jumbled mix of ancient and modern, centuries-old structures separated from brand new apartment blocks by no more than the span of a man’s arms. The metropolis rippled under the baking sun of the Arabian peninsula, tinted a soft orange by sunlight, sand and smog.

Nina would have loved to explore the city, but she had work to do. Mitchell had arranged for her to meet the curator of the University of Jordan’s Center for Documents and Manuscripts, the bureaucratic name only hinting at its true purpose: to act as a vast archive, cataloguing the history of a large part of the Middle East. She wanted to delve into the wealth of ancient texts even more than the city, but for now she forced herself to concentrate on one very specific slice of the past.

‘Muhammad Yawar,’ said their host thoughtfully. Adeeb al-Jafri was a middle-aged man with oversized glasses and a neat black moustache; although he was Jordanian, his clipped accent was still very much that of the English university where he had studied. ‘Yes, I remember the name.’

‘You remember him?’ Nina asked. ‘Why, has someone else been asking about him?’

‘Yes, about six months ago, by phone. I think he was German. He asked if we had any material in the archives concerning him, and we told him that we did, but matters never progressed any further than that.’

‘It must have been Bernd,’ Nina said, with a look at Chase and Mitchell. ‘But nobody else?’ Al-Jafri shook his head.

‘At least they haven’t figured out his notes yet,’ said Mitchell.

Al-Jafri’s eyebrows rose quizzically over the thick frames of his glasses. ‘
They?
’

‘The man who contacted you was murdered,’ Nina told him. ‘To stop him from telling the IHA how to find what he was searching for.’

‘Really?’ He sounded more intrigued than shocked, as if hearing about a plot twist in a detective novel. ‘And for what was he searching?’

‘That’s classified, I’m afraid,’ Mitchell said. ‘But it’s for safety reasons, trust me. The people who killed him won’t hesitate to kill again.’

Curiosity was replaced by concern on al-Jafri’s face. ‘Ah. I see.’

‘That’s why we need to find what he was looking for first, so nobody else gets hurt,’ said Nina. ‘And to do that, we need to find out everything we can about Muhammad Yawar.’

‘He’s not really a terribly important figure, historically speaking. Are you sure he is the right person?’

‘He’s all we’ve got to go on,’ she admitted. ‘He supposedly killed a Crusader called Peter of Koroneou in AD1260 - what we want to know is where that happened.’

‘Peter of Koroneou . . .’ said al-Jafri, brow knitting as he consulted his memory. ‘Ah, yes. He occupied an area of land close to what is now the Jordanian-Syrian border.’

‘Which side of the border?’ Chase asked.

‘The Syrian side.’

‘I bloody
knew
it!’

‘Will your archives have the exact location?’ asked Nina.

‘Perhaps,’ said al-Jafri, ‘but as I said, Muhammad Yawar is a very minor figure - I doubt he rated much more than a footnote.’

‘Anything that you have will help us enormously,’ she assured him.

Al-Jafri nodded. ‘In that case, if you’ll follow me to the archives, I’ll show you what I can.’

‘Tell you what,’ said Chase to Nina, ‘while you’re doing your reading, I’ll go and sort out everything we need.’

‘The US embassy can take care of all that,’ Mitchell told him.

Chase was unimpressed. ‘They’ve got a local guide who can get us across the border, have they?’ He turned back to Nina. ‘Give me a call when you’re done. I’ll come and meet you.’ To Nina’s surprise, he pulled her close and gave her a rather more intense kiss than she’d expected before releasing her. ‘See you later.’

‘Uh, bye,’ she said as he left, taken aback. Al-Jafri looked bemused, while Mitchell veiled a smile. She felt her cheeks flush as she turned back to the curator. ‘Okay, well, so . . .’

‘The archives?’

‘Please!’

‘Here we are,’ said al-Jafri. Wearing a pair of white cotton gloves to protect the ancient pages, he pointed at a particular piece of Arabic text within the book he had taken from one of the Center’s climate-controlled underground vaults. Although the tome itself dated from the fifteenth century, it described events from two centuries earlier, collated from other accounts of the many wars that raged across the Holy Land during that period. ‘This is the first mention of Muhammad Yawar.’

Nina’s knowledge of Arabic was limited. ‘What does it say?’

‘Not much,’ said Mitchell, peering over her shoulder.

‘You know Arabic?’

‘Enough to get by.’ He grinned. ‘But Dr al-Jafri’s right - Yawar wasn’t important enough to rate more than a few lines.’

‘Those few lines may have what you’re looking for, though,’ said al-Jafri, carefully running the tip of his finger across the time-browned page. ‘It says, “The barbarian leader himself came forth to challenge Muhammad, his sword shining bright. But like the Prophet whose name he bore, Muhammad was brave and righteous and a true servant of Allah, and with a blow broke his sword into pieces. With the longest of these, he slew the infidel. Their leader dead, the other invaders retreated in fear.”’

‘Barbarians?’ said Mitchell, puzzled. ‘Is this the wrong battle? Sounds like they’re talking about the Mongols.’

Al-Jafri suppressed a mocking chuckle. ‘No, it’s the right one,’ Nina explained. ‘The Muslim perspective on the Crusades is . . . well, kinda different from the Christian one. They saw the Christians as brutal invaders, there to murder the followers of Islam and plunder their lands.’

‘
Plus ça change
. . .’ al-Jafri said quietly. Mitchell shot him a cutting look. ‘But there is one more line about Yawar here. “Muhammad returned home to Kafashta and gave the blade to the imam of the town, to show that the servants of Allah will always be triumphant.”’

‘Kafashta?’ asked Nina.

‘It’s a small town in southern Syria. Well, it was considered a town in Yawar’s time - it probably barely qualifies as a village now. I can find it on a map for you, if you’d like.’

‘That’s okay, thanks,’ Mitchell told him, straightening. ‘That’s what we needed to know. We’ve got to go to Kafashta.’

‘In Syria,’ Nina reminded him. ‘What was it you said? Something about them not exactly being big fans of Americans . . .’

Chase met Nina and Mitchell outside the US embassy a couple of hours later, accompanied by his local contact, a Jordanian woman named Karima Farran. As Nina had come to expect, she was extremely attractive, her long dark hair wafting in the breeze.

Karima’s Land Rover looked almost as ancient as Amman itself, the military green paint so sand-scoured that it looked like patches of mould on the bare aluminium. After greeting the new arrivals and helping them load the gear Mitchell had requisitioned into the rear of the 4x4, she tied her hair back and wrapped it in a dark headscarf before handing another one to Nina. ‘You’ll need this.’

Nina took it reluctantly. ‘I, er . . . I thought hijabs weren’t compulsory for women in Jordan?’

‘They’re not,’ Karima replied, sharing a look of amusement with Chase. ‘I just don’t like getting sand in my hair.’ She gestured at the Land Rover’s decidedly tattered canvas roof. Nina got her point and quickly followed suit.

They headed northeast along a highway, quickly leaving the city behind and entering a parched landscape of pale sand and rocks. ‘So, Eddie,’ said Karima to Chase, who was beside her in the front passenger seat, ‘when is the wedding?’

Chase half laughed. ‘You know, so many people keep asking us that, I think we might actually have to come up with an answer sometime.’

‘Are you married, Karima?’ Nina asked. The Arab woman was wearing several ornate rings, but Nina wasn’t sure whether they had any significance or were simply jewellery.

‘No, I’m not,’ she replied, glancing back, ‘but there is someone. The problem is getting him to make a commitment.’

‘I know that feeling,’ said Nina. Chase snorted.

They drove for over two hours, Nina using the time to continue the crash course in Arthurian mythology she had begun during the flights. Karima eventually turned off the highway and guided them along a succession of increasingly bumpy back roads. Finally, they bounced to a stop in a village so tiny Nina suspected the handful of tumbledown houses wouldn’t even rate a dot on a map. Around it, the desert stretched off forebodingly in all directions. The sun was a bloated red ball shimmering above the western horizon.

‘This is as far as we drive,’ said Karima, climbing out. The others followed, stretching and working the kinks out of their rattled spines. ‘The border is about eight kilometres north of here.’

Nina stared into the distance, seeing nothing but rocks and the occasional scrubby bush poking above the sand. ‘We’re walking?’

‘No, no! But the Syrians watch out for vehicles that cross the border away from the official checkpoints. So we need another kind of transport.’ She led them round one of the buildings.

‘What kind of transport . . .’ Nina began to ask, tailing off as she saw the answer. ‘Oh.’

Waiting for them were four camels.

An Arab man in dusty robes stood with them, beaming when he saw Karima. They exchanged greetings, then she turned back to the group. ‘This is Attayak - he’s from one of the local Bedouin tribes.’ Nina noticed that in addition to a gun and a knife, he had a walkie-talkie and a GPS handset on his belt: clearly the Bedouin had no problem with incorporating modern technology into their traditional lifestyle. ‘There aren’t many nomad tribes left, but the ones that are cross the border all the time - they have lived here for thousands of years, and don’t care about lines on a map. Most of the time, the Syrians ignore them. Which is very useful if you want to enter the country undetected. As Eddie knows.’

Chase looked innocent. ‘Can’t comment on military operations I may or may not have carried out in a hostile sovereign state . . . but, yeah, I do know how to ride a camel.’

Mitchell nodded. ‘Funnily enough, so do I.’

‘Er, hello, hi,’ Nina said. ‘I
don’t
.’

‘It’s a doddle,’ Chase assured her. ‘Just as easy as riding a horse.’

‘Which I don’t know how to do either!’

Chase went to the nearest kneeling camel and stroked its forehead. It eyed him, then shook its head lazily and made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a yawn. ‘Good lad,’ said Chase, moving back and swinging a leg over the broad padded saddle behind the camel’s single hump. He gathered up the leather reins, then gently tugged on them, calling, ‘Heya, heya!’ The camel shook its head again, then obediently unfolded its legs and rose to its full height.

Nina had seen camels in zoos, but only now fully realised just how large they were. Standing, the animal was considerably taller than her, and Chase’s head was at least eleven feet off the ground. ‘Okay, that’s . . . that’s quite big.’

Under Chase’s guidance, the camel trotted towards her, bowing its head for a closer look. She leaned back nervously. ‘Does Attayak speak English?’ she asked Karima, who replied in the negative. ‘Oh, good. Because this really, really
smells
. It smells
bad
.’

‘Oh, you’ll hardly notice it after a few hours,’ Chase said cheerfully. He backed the camel away, then with another command and flick of the reins prompted it to kneel so he could dismount. He and Mitchell retrieved the group’s belongings from the back of the Land Rover and loaded them into the animals’ saddlebags.

‘Here,’ said Mitchell, handing Chase a pistol. ‘Thought you’d find this useful.’

Chase nodded approvingly. ‘Ruger P95,’ he said, quickly and expertly checking the weapon before loading it. Mitchell did the same with his own Ruger. ‘Not bad. I still miss my Wildey, though.’

‘You had a Wildey?’

‘Yeah, a .45 Winchester Magnum. Until some bastard used it to assassinate a government minister and put the blame on me. It’s probably still in an evidence locker in Botswana somewhere. Good gun. You ever used one?’

‘God, no,’ said Mitchell, shaking his head vehemently. ‘Bulky, heavy, limited ammo capacity, insane amounts of recoil? I’ll stick with something that’s actually practical. And you know,’ he went on, a teasing glint in his eye, ‘I’m sure you could draw some psychological inference from a man using a gun with an eight-inch-long barrel.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t expect a navy man to know anything about proper guns,’ Chase replied with a scowl. ‘The recoil’s no problem if you’re not limp-wristed . . .’

‘Now, now, boys,’ said Nina, stepping between them. ‘Enough with the inter-service rivalry.’

‘Yeah, I suppose,’ Chase said grudgingly. He looked at Mitchell. ‘At least you weren’t in the air force!’ Both men laughed at that.

‘We should get moving,’ said Karima, tipping her head towards the setting sun. ‘We’ll cross the border before nightfall, and then we’ll set up camp.’

The camels loaded, Karima said her farewells to Attayak before mounting one. Nina regarded her own slobbering beast with trepidation. Though the smallest of the four, it was still almost eye to eye with her even while kneeling. ‘Y’know, maybe I’ll just jog alongside it.’

‘Ah, get on there,’ said Chase. ‘You’ll be fine. All you’ve got to do is not fall off.’

‘Don’t worry, Nina,’ Mitchell assured her. ‘Camels really are very easy to ride. You’ll get the hang of it in fifteen minutes.’

‘And how many times will I fall off in those fifteen minutes?’ she asked.

‘You won’t fall off. Here, let me help you get on.’

He held out a hand, but Chase hurriedly interposed himself. ‘Nah, I’ve got her. Just get your leg over.’ He cackled at the double entendre. Nina tsked and warily hoisted herself over the saddle, gripping it tightly as the animal shifted position beneath her. ‘You sorted?’