The Third Caliph

by Alex Archer

  “The Battle of the Camel.”

  “Yes.” Iskandar nodded enthusiastically.

  “But what is the peacock angel doing there?”

  “My great-grandfather told my mother that out of this battle came the knowledge of the peacock angel.”

  “Adi ibn Musafir al-Umawi was the founder of the peacock angel.”

  Iskandar looked at her in surprise. “Not many people know that history.”

  “I’ve been learning a lot about it lately.”

  “I do not know much about it myself.”

  “It is godless blasphemy.” Hamez frowned in disgust. “A celebration of Shaytan. Those people are wrongly turned.”

  Annja didn’t comment. She continued leafing through the pages. Several contained head-and-shoulder sketches of major players in the struggle to inherit Muhammad’s mantle. She had Iskandar translate, quickly learning to recognize the names of Aisha, Muhammad’s young widow; Ali ibn Abi Talib, the prophet’s cousin and son-in-law; and Uthman ibn Affan, the third caliph, who was assassinated by rebels supporting Ali’s claims to be the next caliph.

  A few more pages into the journal, Annja found a page with an old man’s face and a familiar name—even in Arabic—under it. This sketch showed the man in his older years, with a long beard, hollow, haunted eyes and thin shoulders.

  Annja pointed at the sketch. “Do you know him?”

  Iskandar leaned in and read. “Abdelilah Karam? Mother said this man was a historian, and that he was the man who knew the secret.”

  Annja’s heartbeat picked up. “What secret?”

  Iskandar shrugged. “She said my great-grandfather hoped to tell the story of the battle for caliph, that he might be able to bring the Muslim people together once more.” He wiggled his finger over the pages. “Keep going. There are other sketches.”

  Annja saw several images depicting armed men climbing over a courtyard wall. Once they were in the courtyard, they advanced on the main house. Over the next few pages, more violence ensued, some of it very graphic.

  “This is my great-grandfather’s interpretation of the assassination of Uthman, the third caliph.” Iskandar smiled. “It is a very horrible thing, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “But my great-grandfather was a brilliant artist. These are just thumbnails—sketches. It would have been wonderful to see these fully realized.”

  “Yes.” Annja turned more pages and discovered yet another assassination.

  The sketch showed a regal figure kneeling in prayer with an armed man poised to strike him with a sword from behind. In the next sketch, he was pierced with the sword, but in the one after that, he was still fighting. At the end of the sequence, guards had the assassin in custody while the praying man lay upon the ground.

  Annja felt the power of the art. “This is the assassination of Ali?”

  “Yes.” Iskandar’s voice was somber. “The assassin was Abd-al-Rahman ibn Muljam, a Kharijite seeking revenge for some fight.”

  “The Battle of Siffin.”

  “Perhaps. My mother said during that battle Ali declared a truce but the Kharijites did not agree.”

  “The Kharijites believed God would declare the victor, and Ali had turned away from the will of God. That was why they later assassinated him after he became caliph.”

  Hamez shifted behind them, obviously ready to go. “They—and all their descendants—should have been executed and their blood spilled on the ground.”

  “Not exactly something Judge Judy would agree with.” Arabic script flowed across the next few pages, leading finally to a section written in Kufic, the same language used in the scroll. “Do you know what this says?”

  “The Arabic part, of course. It is about this man Karam. As I said, he was a historian.” Iskandar reached for the book. “It says Karam was driven from his homeland. He spent time among the Yazidi people in Sinjar.”

  Iskandar shrugged and added, “To get peace after all the bloodshed he had seen. It also mentions that he brought his histories with him, and that there were people pursuing him to destroy those books.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of this secret. Whatever it was.”

  Annja pointed to the section in Kufic. “Do you understand any of this?”

  “No. My mother said she could not translate it.”

  “Did your great-grandfather translate this?”

  “I don’t know. Possibly. My mother said he was very good with languages.”

  “Is there any chance a translation exists within this material?”

  “If it is there, I have not ever seen it.”

  “How closely have you been through these things?”

  Iskandar smiled wryly. “I am a carpenter. If you want a house built or reconstruction done, I can do those things.”

  “Would it be possible for me to borrow these? I promise to get them back to you.”

  Iskandar hesitated. “My mother wanted me to care for them.”

  Hamez snorted derisively. “That is not much care.” He looked at Annja. “Do you need these books?”

  “I can take images of them if he wants to keep the physical copies.”

  “We do not have time for that.” Hamez nodded to one of the guards. “Take the box.”

  The man bent and lifted the box.

  “Wait! They do not belong to you!” Iskandar stood and started after the guard.

  With blinding speed, Hamez whirled and slammed his left palm against Iskandar’s chest as he slid a leg behind the younger man. Iskandar hit the ground and groaned in pain. Hamez drew his pistol in his right hand and pointed it at the man’s head.

  Annja stepped forward and hammered Hamez’s arms to the side with her forearm. The pistol’s detonation sounded incredibly loud in the courtyard.

  Hamez spun on Annja. Rage tightened his features into a hard mask.

  Annja kept herself from pulling the sword. David Smythe was in enemy hands, and her chances against Hamez with a gun weren’t good. She raised her hands.

  “You don’t have to kill him.”

  Hamez’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You do not tell me whom I may kill and whom I may not.”

  Annja kept her mouth shut and her hands in the air. She had done all she could do. Chest heaving in fright, the young man stayed put.

  Hamez lowered his pistol and nodded toward the courtyard entrance. “Go.”

  Annja walked toward the doorway, listening for the gunshot that she feared might come. If Hamez did kill Iskandar, she was going to go for the sword and kill him. Her throat was dry, but they walked out into the alleyway without incident. She didn’t let out a breath until the courtyard door closed behind her.

  One of the guards opened the SUV door and she slid in, trapped into place by the guard who had opened the door while the second man put the box in the back. Hamez had just slid into the driver’s seat and was starting to move into the passenger seat when the man standing beside the open door sagged. His head rained down in pieces around him.

  Chapter 32

  “Sniper,” Qurtubi said in a hushed, urgent tone.

  Garin had trailed the SUV caravan easily because it stood out in the neighborhood, and he’d chosen to watch them from an alley two blocks away.

  “He has to be on a rooftop.” Garin flipped up the sun visor and stared, trying to figure out where he would be if he were the one sniping.

  “There.” Qurtubi pointed at one of the buildings ahead of them. Three stories tall, it loomed over the caravan. A muzzle barrel barely broke the line of the roof’s edge.

  “Good eyes. CIA or MI-6?” Garin engaged the transmission.

  “Low-velocity rounds to keep them subsonic, as well as a silencer.” Qurtubi picked up one of the Belgian-made FN FAL assa
ult rifles he’d brought. “My guess would be the British.”

  “Mine, too.”

  The man in the back of the SUV tried to clamber out but a bullet to the back of his head dropped him.

  “Can you distract the sniper?”

  Qurtubi opened his door, threw out a leg to brace himself as he sighted with the rifle, then fired two quick shots. Both bullets chipped the roof’s edge just below the rifle barrel, which disappeared almost instantly. Satisfied with his marksmanship, Qurtubi slid back into the Land Rover.

  “I do not think I was seen.”

  Garin watched the alley and spotted Annja climbing over the seats in the SUV. Freedom was just a few seconds away.

  * * *

  “STOP HER!” HAMEZ YELLED from the front seat as he shifted the SUV into gear. “Do not let her escape!”

  Annja didn’t intend to escape, not with David Smythe being a hostage. She wanted to tell Hamez that, but there wasn’t time. The rear compartment was open and she was afraid they’d lose the box of books and journals.

  As she lunged over the seat, trying not to look at the dead man sprawled halfway inside the vehicle, the other guard roped an arm around her thighs and held on. She could only just reach out and touch the side of the box as the guard started hauling her back in. She curled her fingers over the bloodstained side and pulled, rocking with the motion of Hamez steering down the alley. The dead man fell out in their wake, quickly run over by the SUV following them.

  A half-dozen rounds cored through the top of the SUV, blasting the windows to pieces. At least one shard hit the guard hanging on to Annja and he slid back, his breath rasping in his throat.

  Hamez applied the horn vigorously, honking at the other SUV in front of him to drive faster. He spoke venomously in Arabic, too fast for Annja to understand more than a few frenzied commands to go faster.

  Clutching the box of books with both hands, Annja lifted it over the seats and dropped it into the floorboard. The guard beside her clawed at her shoulder. She turned, prepared to deck him.

  He lay back in the seat, one hand pressed hard against his neck. Blood streamed from under his hand. “Help...help me.”

  Annja turned to Hamez and started to ask where the first-aid kit was. Maybe she was among enemies, but she couldn’t just sit by and watch a man die like that.

  Before she could ask, though, the SUV in front of them accelerated out of the alley onto the narrow street, then brake lights flared as the driver tried to bring his vehicle to a halt. Several gunmen on the other side of the street opened fire. Bullets hammered the lead SUV, shattering glass.

  They’ve got us blocked at both ends. But who are they? Hamez didn’t hesitate, pulling hard to the left. She ducked behind the seat, at first thinking Hamez was going to get their vehicle stuck behind the other as metal crunched, but then the SUV shouldered the other one forward and into the gunmen on the other side of the street.

  Once the first SUV was almost across the street, Hamez yanked on the wheel again, ripping free of the other vehicle in a long, strident scream of tortured metal. The SUV jerked and stuttered, but it kept going forward, rocked loose from the other vehicle.

  Tossed in the backseat, trying to stay low, Annja spotted the first-aid kit secured up under the middle-row seat. She reached under, pulled it out and took out the biggest bandage she could find. She had to stop the blood.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Annja spotted a truck pulling into position to cut them off ahead. Hamez pulled hard to the right, skidding almost out of control as the tires failed to keep a grip on the street. The shrill of tires and the burning stink of rubber invaded the SUV.

  Gunmen filled the alley Hamez had chosen. They opened fire at once and the window became a blurred network of bullet perforations. Hamez roared through them—over at least one of them—and kept going. The SUV swung wildly, kissing both sides of the narrow alley with a brief crunching sound. The open compartment hatch bobbed up and down, coming close to shutting but not quite catching.

  Controlling her panic, Annja turned to the wounded man, who stared at her in fright.

  “It’s going to be all right.” She tugged at his hand covering his wound. “Let me see.”

  Finally, the wounded man removed his hand. Immediately, blood pumped from the tear across the side of his neck. Before Annja could place the bandage, not even certain if she did it would do any good, the blood stopped pumping. The man let out a final breath, relaxing in death.

  Annja looked behind her and saw that the first SUV, the one transporting David Smythe, sat still as armed men surrounded it. One of the doors was opened and Smythe was yanked out, still alive and apparently unharmed.

  The dead man toppled over onto Annja when Hamez took a sharp corner and bumped the rear quarter panel into a stone wall. The car’s fender and bumper tore away. Annja stared back at it, barely seeing it through the dust they’d raised.

  Hamez laid on the horn, his attention divided between the street ahead and the alleys on either side. The steering wheel and the gearshift kept both his hands busy. Their eyes met in the rearview mirror.

  “If you jump, you will injure yourself, Miss Creed.” Hamez jerked the wheel to avoid a head-on collision with a cart filled with produce. He didn’t quite avoid the cart, though, and ended up scattering vegetables and fruit all along their back trail. “If the fall does not kill you, I will.”

  If she didn’t break her neck by jumping out, she’d be able to get up and disappear before Hamez could stop the vehicle. There was a good chance of escape.

  She gazed longingly at the books. Hamez had left the scroll on the helicopter, as well. All of those things would be lost, and she might never know the end of the story. She reached for the seat belt to buckle herself in.

  Before she succeeded, a truck shot out in front of the SUV to block the street.

  Hamez cursed the other vehicle and whoever was driving it. He pulled hard on the wheel and downshifted. Bullets beat a rapid tattoo on the side of the SUV, but neither she nor Hamez were hit. They headed down a new alley, but the truck roared after them in quick pursuit.

  Gunners leaned from the passenger’s side and rear driver’s side windows. Their weapons chattered, but the numerous potholes and Hamez’s weaving made them hard to hit.

  Ducking, Annja scooped up the pistol the dead man had been carrying. She leaned back over the seats, took aim at the truck’s tires because she didn’t know who was following them, got the timing of both vehicles and squeezed off some rounds.

  She fired seventeen times as quickly as she was able, aware of the bullets slapping into the SUV and exploding through the seats. She didn’t know how many of the bullets found a home in the truck’s driver’s-side tire, but enough of them had to deflate it. In seconds the metal rim chewed the tire to pieces and bit into the alley, throwing the steering off. The truck swung into the wall and settled like an arthritic dog on the bare rim.

  Annja pressed the magazine release and dropped the empty clip, then leaned down to start going through the dead man’s clothing for a spare.

  “Stop.”

  Not believing what she was hearing, Annja looked up to see Hamez pointing his gun at her. “What are you doing?” she snapped.

  “Throw the pistol out the window.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. I just saved us. If I hadn’t shot that tire out, those guys were going to fill us full of holes.”

  “Yes. You are a fine shot. That makes me even more nervous about you carrying a weapon.” Hamez jerked his gun, struggling to keep an eye on the road and on Annja. “Throw it out. Do it now.”

  Annja could wrest the gun from Hamez. He was distracted by his driving. That would give her a split second to work. But even if she got the weapon, he could still wreck the SUV. The books could get damaged or the vehicle could catch fire and everything
would burn.

  She threw the pistol out the window and watched as it bounced off the stone wall and into the street.

  “Good. Now buckle yourself in.” Hamez watched her till she did as he ordered. “Sit still. If we get very lucky, we might arrive at the airport in one piece.”

  “That helicopter isn’t going to be able to get us far enough away. It doesn’t have range.” Anyone who had the resources to field a team like the one pursuing them would have air support. She didn’t know whether it was better to remain Hamez’s hostage or hope for capture. The new arrivals seemed pretty bloodthirsty.

  “Then it is a good thing we have something more than a helicopter awaiting us.” With the street open in front of them again, Hamez stepped on the accelerator and shifted gears.

  * * *

  “DO YOU SEE THEM?” Garin drove too fast for the street conditions, barely maintaining control of the Land Rover. He plowed through a clothing display set outside a small shop, narrowly avoided a donkey, and watched as pedestrians dove into alleys and shops to get out of his way.

  “They are over there. To the right.” Qurtubi sounded excited and held on to his assault rifle.

  “Can you see the woman?”

  Qurtubi leaned in the seat and peered through the occasional alleyway that was straight enough to permit a view of the parallel street. “Yes, yes, I see her. She is fine.”

  Garin risked a glance at the GPS screen but the streets were a confused maze of interconnecting lines. He glanced back at the road just in time to yank the Land Rover away from a building. He lost the side mirror in a shower of glass and twisted metal.

  Qurtubi never flinched. Evidently the son was a chip off the old man. Garin grinned. He’d always liked Qurtubi. The original. And he had a growing fondness for this version, as well.

  The young warrior pointed ahead. “There. Three blocks, maybe four. That street they are on will intersect with this one. If you hurry, we can beat them there.”

  Garin stepped harder on the accelerator. The Land Rover’s engine whined louder, but the vehicle picked up speed at once. Just before he reached the intersection, a midsize sedan braked to a stop and men with assault rifles started to get out. Evidently one of the other teams was well-versed in geography, too.