Sword of God

by Chris Kuzneski

  “What do you know about Muhammad?”

  “I know Muhammad is revered as the Prophet. Muslims believe he received the word of God, and his revelations form the pages of the Qur’an.”

  “I’m impressed. That’s more than most non-Muslims know.”

  Kia smiled. “Unfortunately, that’s where my knowledge ends.”

  “That’s okay. I can pick up the story from there. Even though Muhammad died in 632 AD, the first copy of the Qur’an wasn’t written until 650 AD. It was compiled by Uthman ibn Affan, the third caliph of Islam, based on all the transcripts and teachings he could find.”

  “Eighteen years after Muhammad died?”

  Shari nodded. “Some scholars, myself included, have always wondered what might have been omitted in that span. Languages were evolving, politics were changing, and Muhammad’s original followers were dying off. There’s no telling what could have been lost during that time. Furthermore, many people believe the oldest surviving Qur’an was written in the eighth century, approximately one hundred years after the Uthman version. Suddenly we’re talking about a wide chasm in history that could’ve altered Muhammad’s initial message.”

  “So what did you find?”

  “As I mentioned, the Uthman version was compiled from transcripts of Muhammad’s direct recitations, recorded by his companions on anything they could get ahold of. Bark, bones, whatever was available. Uthman formed a committee that sorted through all these messages, eventually agreeing on the text of the first Qur’an. For years I have been searching for one of these copies, thinking it was the purest version available. But I was wrong. I neglected to consider the transcripts themselves.”

  “The transcripts?”

  “The bark, the bones, the loose parchments of text. In actuality, they contained the original message from Muhammad, the literal word of God. All this time I was looking for the first Qur’an and neglected to search for its source.”

  “And that’s what you found?”

  Shari nodded. “I think I did. Unfortunately, before I had a chance to find out for sure, the site was violated and everything was stolen.”

  The discussion stopped when Payne and Jones walked into me lounge and closed the door.

  “Shari,” Payne said as he took a seat next to the couch, “I have some photos that I’d like you to look at. Please tell me if you recognize anyone.”

  He handed her a folder filled with pictures from Al-Jahani’s webcam. Harrington’s staff had decrypted the files and altered the brightness so the photographs were much clearer.

  The instant she glanced at the first image, her face went pale. It was a reaction she couldn’t fake, a combination of fear and hatred.

  “Oh my God! That’s the guard. The one who attacked me!”

  She flipped to the next photo and nodded. And the one after that. She recognized them all.

  “These are the guards. The ones from the tunnel.”

  Payne smiled. “We had a hunch they were.”

  “Wait. Does this mean you caught them?”

  “Not yet, but we’re working on it. We’re running down some leads.”

  “Then where did you get these photos?”

  “Actually, we got them from you. They were inside your package.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, confused. “I had pictures of the guards?”

  Payne told her the simplified version of the SD card, not wanting to overwhelm her with all the details. When he was done, he shifted her focus back to the photographs.

  He said, “I know you’ve been through a lot, and I know the last thing you want to do is stare at the guys who attacked you. But if you could, I’d like you to take a closer look at them. Maybe their faces will jog your memory. Something from the tunnel or something they said. At this point, any information would be helpful. Sometimes the smallest things mean the most.”

  “Sure,” Shari said. “Whatever you need.”

  She took out the first picture and studied the face of the main guard. She stared at his eyes and mouth, trying to remember anything she could about the man who knocked her unconscious. “He talked on his phone a lot. The first day he arrived he made, like, twenty calls.”

  “Did you hear anything?” Jones asked.

  “To be honest, the guy spooked me from the very beginning, so I stayed away from him as much as I could. I spent half the day avoiding him.”

  “This was when? On Saturday?”

  She nodded. “Omar called them to remove the body.”

  “What were they driving?” Kia wondered.

  Payne looked at her and smiled. It was a good question.

  Shari tried to remember. “It was a red van. Kind of new-looking. They backed it all the way to the tunnel entrance so they wouldn’t have to carry the body very far.”

  “That’s good. Real good. Try the next picture.”

  Shari handed the first photo to Kia, who looked at it closer while Shari took the next one out of the stack. “This guy searched the body. He frisked him for his wallet and keys.”

  “Did he find anything?” Jones asked.

  “Keys. He found his keys. After that, he ran off to move the guy’s car.”

  Shari handed the photo to Kia, then moved on to the next one.

  “This guy,” she said as she stared at his face, “helped move the body. He pulled out a big carpet from the back—”

  “Jon,” Kia said, interrupting Shari, “where were these pictures taken?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “These photos. Where were they taken? Were they taken in Jeddah?”

  Payne glanced at Jones, perplexed. Al-Jahani had mentioned the city during his video testimony, but neither of them had brought it up during this conversation. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because of this photo,” Kia said. She pointed over the shoulder of the second guard and tapped the background. “All these crates. They say Jeddah.”

  Payne leaned forward, hoping to see, but all he saw was a bunch of lines and squiggles.

  “You won’t be able to read it,” Kia stressed. “It’s written in Arabic. But I’m telling you it says Jeddah.”

  Shari took the photo from Kia and held it up to the light. She stared at it for several seconds before her lips curled into a huge grin. “Actually, it says a lot more than Jeddah. It’s stamped with the name of a business.”

  “Which business?” Payne demanded.

  Her grin grew wider. “One I know quite well. It’s owned by Omar Abdul-Khaliq.”

  54

  Jeddah Seaport, Saudi Arabia

  With a population of more than three million people, Jeddah is the second-largest city in Saudi Arabia. According to legend, it was named after the Arabic word jaddah, which means grandmother, because the mythical tomb of Eve, the matriarch of all civilization, was there until 1928, when the Saudi government, fearing the perversion of Islam, had it destroyed.

  Nowadays, Jeddah is the commercial center of Saudi Arabia, anchored by a sprawling seaport that sits on the Red Sea and handles the majority of the country’s shipping. Barges, tankers, and ships of all sizes filled the blue water, but on this day the U.S. military was more concerned with the buildings that surrounded the harbor.

  While flying to Jeddah, Payne and Jones studied satellite images of the terrain, focusing on four warehouses owned and operated by Omar Abdul-Khaliq. An advance team that was already in the city on another mission had located the suspects from the photographs and secured the immediate area while they waited for Payne and Jones to arrive. Their chopper landed on one of the port’s helipads, less than a mile from the site, where a young soldier met them and briefed them en route.

  “The suspects are in warehouse twenty-nine,” he said, pointing to a detailed map. “Multiple points of entry. Minimal security. Right now they’re loading cargo into a shipping vault.”

  “Cargo?” Payne asked, hoping it was the artifact from Mecca.

  “Can’t tell what it is, sir. It’s boxed up in a
large crate. Must be important, though.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The old guy keeps yelling at them.”

  “What old guy?”

  “Sorry, sir. I should’ve mentioned him. There are five men in total. Four suspects and some old guy who’s bossing them around. We’ve been calling him the sheik.”

  “The sheik?”

  “Yes, sir. Because he looks like a sheik.”

  “Creative name,” Jones said sarcastically.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Payne glanced at Jones. “Would Omar would be dumb enough to be here himself?”

  Jones shrugged. “According to Shari, the cargo would be invaluable to the Islamic world. So who knows? If Omar wanted to see it or doesn’t trust the guards, he might’ve made the trip.”

  “Seems kind of stupid to me. Why would he risk it?”

  “Hey,” Jones said, “the same could be said about us. We’re supposed to be retired.”

  “Good point.” Payne smiled as he refocused on the soldier. “Do your men understand the parameters of this assault?”

  “Yes, sir. The suspects are wanted for questioning. Nonlethal force unless necessary.”

  “Be extra careful with the sheik. We want him alive.”

  “Understood, sir. I’ll stress it to my men.” Payne nodded. “What do you have for transport?” The soldier pointed at the map. “Our boat is waiting in the harbor. On my signal, he’ll make his approach along this channel and stop at this dock. If all goes smoothly, we’ll load the boat in five minutes. After that, we’re off to international waters.”

  “Can you handle some extra weight?”

  “Why, sir? Are you thinking of joining us?”

  Payne shook his head. “I was referring to the cargo. We want to take that as well.”

  The assault started with a flashbang, a nonlethal grenade that was commonly used in hostage retrieval. No shrapnel. No toxic gas. Just a flash of light that was so bright it activated all of the photosensitive cells in the suspects’ retinas, blinding them for several seconds. Couple that with a blast that was so deafening it disrupted the fluid in their inner ears, and they had no chance to fight back. One moment they were standing; the next they were falling to the ground in agony.

  Temporarily blind and completely disoriented.

  Soldiers breached the warehouse from multiple angles, swarming the suspects before they had a chance to recover. Within seconds they were bound and gagged and ready for transport. Payne and Jones studied their faces, making sure they had everyone in their grasp. Four guards in total, including the one who had assaulted Shari.

  “Let me break his nose,” said Jones, who was only half joking.

  Payne shook his head, realizing that the guards would be roughed up worse than that once Harrington’s men started interrogating them. Early in his career, Payne had asked one of his commanders what would happen to a prisoner they had just captured, and his response was one that always stuck with him.

  He’s going to be beaten until he starts leaking answers.

  For some reason, that expression seemed to fit.

  Next, Payne turned his attention to the old guy. It was, in fact, Omar Abdul-Khaliq.

  He did not look very happy.

  Like the soldiers had mentioned, he looked like a stereotypical sheik—though not nearly as dignified, since he was hog-tied on the floor. Payne wanted to ask him why he was there. Why he was dumb enough to give up the sanctuary of his oil business, which made him off-limits to some American politicians, to supervise the shipment of an artifact that had been stolen during a terrorist attack.

  It was one thing to send your goons. It was quite another to be there yourself.

  Now the door was wide open. They had caught him red-handed and could question him about anything they wanted, for as long as they wanted, and they wouldn’t have to worry about lawyers breathing down their necks. And if Payne guessed right, the process would go on indefinitely.

  In the vernacular of the U.S. military, it was called a ghost detainee.

  Abdul-Khaliq would enter their system and simply disappear.

  EPILOGUE

  Tuesday, January 9

  U.S. Army Base, Kwajalein

  Republic of the Marshall Islands

  A week had passed since Payne and Jones wrapped up their mission in Jeddah. Afterward, they spent several days in Taif, tying up loose ends and dealing with the political mess that their unauthorized trip to Mecca had caused. Harrington was the lightning rod in the whole ordeal, taking the blame for Schmidt and the massacre in Jeju but being congratulated off the record for saving the Great Mosque and capturing several terrorists who could be linked to the Soldiers of Allah.

  Payne wasn’t privy to what Abdul-Khaliq and his men had revealed during their first few days of questioning, but Harrington hinted that Hakeem Salaam would soon be in their grasp.

  As for the Saudi government, they were furious when they first learned the identity of Schmidt’s crew. They demanded an explanation from the United States, wanting to know why Special Forces soldiers had threatened their most sacred city. Obviously, the Pentagon responded in the only way they could: they lied. They claimed that Schmidt and his men were actually Muslims and had been sent to Mecca to rescue the lives of American archaeologists who were being threatened by terrorists. While they were there, they stumbled across a bigger plot and eventually saved the day.

  The Saudis didn’t believe it for one minute but were willing to overlook everything when the Pentagon sweetened the deal. They told the Saudis about a stone crypt they had recently discovered that was filled with dozens of documents that were written by Muhammad’s closest companions. Transcripts of Muhammad’s revelations. If the Saudis were interested, the Pentagon would be happy to let them study it as a token of goodwill. The Saudis were so excited about the possibilities that they allowed Shari Shasmeen to participate on the research team.

  Eventually, when Payne and Jones were permitted to leave Taif, they decided to take the long way home. Instead of flying west, toward Pittsburgh, where it was cold and snowy, they flew east, toward the Pacific, where it was warm and sandy. Besides, Kia Choi had told them they were free to visit anytime, and they wanted to take her up on the offer before she forgot.

  The plane landed on a familiar runway and eased to a stop near one of the main hangars. The temperature was in the low eighties but felt cooler due to the tropical breeze that blew across the Kwajalein atoll. Jones glanced out the tiny window and admired the sapphire sky.

  “Wow, would you look at that sun! I can’t wait to work on my tan.”

  “Yeah,” Payne joked. “You’ve been looking kind of Caucasian.”

  Jones smiled as he grabbed his bags and headed for me open hatch. Taking one step outside, he suddenly stopped in his tracks. A beautiful island woman, wearing a coconut bikini and a hula skirt, stood at the bottom of the plane stairs. A flower lei swayed in her hands as she moved to the rhythm of a Don Ho song that played over the hangar’s loudspeakers.

  “Welcome to the Marshall Islands,” she announced.

  Jones stared at her, then glanced back at Payne, who was struggling to hold in his laughter. He’d been dying to tease Jones about the kissing incident with Kia for several days, and now he had managed to do it in style.

  “You know what?” Jones said. “Screw you and screw Kia. That’s not funny.”

  “You’re right,” he said with a laugh. “It’s hilarious.”

  “Ha, ha. I get it. Make fun of the pale black guy.” He dropped his bags and glanced into the cockpit, where even the pilot was laughing. “Driver, I’ve had enough. Take me home.”

  Which made Payne laugh even louder.

  “Fine,” Jones said. “Be that way. But I’m telling you, I’m marching down there and slipping her the tongue.”

  “You better not,” said Kia, who had snuck up the stairs behind him. “She’ll charge me extra.”

  “She’s a hooker?”
r />   Kia laughed and gave him a hug. “She’s not a hooker, but she is single.”

  “In that case, we can stay.” Jones turned toward the cockpit and shouted. “Bellman, change of plans. Please get my bags. I’m going downstairs to make a friend.”

  Payne waved him off, glad he was being such a good sport.

  “Wow,” said Kia, who had set everything up at Payne’s request. “That worked well.”

  He nodded in agreement. “Perfect. Simply perfect. No way you can top it.”

  “You don’t think?” she flirted.

  Payne smiled at the possibilities. “Honestly, I can’t wait to find out.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Even though Sword of God is a work of fiction, most of the locations in my novel are quite real. Al-Gaim is a military housing compound in Taif, Saudi Arabia. Lava tubes stretch for miles underneath Jeju, South Korea. And the Abraj Al Bait .Towers are being built across the street from the Great Mosque in Mecca.

  (Payne and Jones showed me the blueprints. They look amazing!)

  Anyway, when I first started researching this book, I quickly realized an important fact: I can’t read Arabic or Korean. Heck, I can barely read English. That meant I was forced to rely on translated documents to provide several details in my story. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem, but there was one major issue that kept popping up over and over. Translators tend to disagree on the spelling of proper nouns. I swear, to this day I still don’t know the official name of Jeju. Some call it Jeju-do. Others use Jejudo. Then there is Jeju Island. And Cheju-do. And Cheju. And, well, you get my point. After a while, I realized that I needed to choose one spelling for every location—even if many linguists disagreed with my choice— and stick with it throughout.

  Then again, I guess that’s what writing is. A series of choices.

  That being said, I think the riskiest choice I made was the concept of a terrorist attack in the holy city of Mecca. My goal was to entertain, not to offend. If I crossed any lines, I sincerely apologize. As I mentioned during my story, there are a number of similarities between Islam and Christianity. That might seem strange, considering the clear cultural differences between Saudi Arabia and the United States, but if you take the time to examine the sacred texts of the two religions, you will find many shared beliefs.