Stone of Fire: An ARKANE Thriller (Book 1)

Chapter 19

Tabriz, Iran.
 May 21, 10.02am.

      Morgan followed Jake through the main bazaar of Tabriz, a full length burqa hiding her body as well as concealing weapons beneath. Jake walked briskly in front, without looking back at her, as a man should in this part of the world. She keenly observed the bazaar around them through her veil. It was high domed with red brick ceilings studded with star-shaped skylights that let in shafts of light. The barreled arches were vaulted like a cathedral but it was clearly a place of commerce and business. There were shops selling carpets and sweet tea, men in suits and fez hats playing chess, fabric shops and sacks overflowing with grain and flour, spices, dates and walnuts, apricots and almonds.
    Morgan felt that the high ceilings gave it a light feeling, akin to the European covered markets of Brussels and London. Upmarket shops were built into the bazaar walls, with wooden paneled doors and goods spilling out on to the footpath hinting at the treasures inside. Morgan knew that she could have lingered here under different circumstances, fingers trailing over silk, the scent of jasmine and cinnamon hanging in the air. But there was no time for that now.
     The muezzin’s call to prayer echoed through the bazaar as they walked through. The faithful threw down their mats and prayed with the imam. Jake hesitated briefly but others scurried past, ignoring the devotion, so they continued on, deeper into the souk. Men smoked sheesha pipes in the cafes, drinking mint tea. Women talked in anonymous groups nearby, hidden in full length black. Piles of soap were heaped up next to oil paintings, sweet shops jostled with clothing hanging from doorways, gold glittered in the jewelry shops while the hot sun poured down through the skylights. Morgan noticed that some of the arches were decorated with Koranic verses in deep indigo, a holy color overlaid with glorious pearly Arabic script, and gold patterns set back in the niches.
     It was Morgan’s first experience of Iran, and certainly not the way she had expected to see it. Tabriz was a mottled azure city, colorful and busy with architecture from millennia ago to skyscrapers of the industrial age. She had learnt from Martin’s notes that it was the fourth largest city in Iran, situated in the north western corner of the country, near the borders of Turkey, Armenia, and Azerbaijan. An archaeological paradise few were able to visit because centuries of invasion, war and neglect had left the ruins unable to be explored.
     They were heading for the church of St Mary, considered to be the second oldest church in the world after Bethlehem in Israel. Built in the twelfth century, it was the seat of the Archbishop of the Armenian Church. It was even mentioned by Marco Polo in his travels, as Martin’s notes had informed them. As they entered the tiny square in front of the church, Morgan noticed the high bell tower with its ancient bronze bell and a rough hewn rope hanging down, ready for ringing. It was quiet today, only being rung on high festivals. The whole atmosphere was one of remaining quiet and unnoticed, a silent witness to an ancient faith practiced in an overwhelmingly Muslim country.
    The church had been built over an Armenian holy place, some of the rocks as old as the faith itself. Morgan and Jake approached the porticoed door to the church and stooped to enter the small door set in large wooden panels. A heavy scent of incense overwhelmed them as they blinked in the dark interior of the church, eyes adjusting to the dim light but the cool air was welcoming after the harsh heat outside. At first glance, the church was simple and clean with wooden seats facing a basic altar but looking more closely, Morgan could see frescoes of ecclesiastical figures on the walls.
     “Stay here, I’ll talk to the priest,” Jake whispered. He moved down the aisle towards a robed figure tending the altar near the front of the church. Morgan took the chance to kneel for a moment. Through the veil shielding her face, she looked around the church for some symbol of the Apostles. It was a long shot, coming here, she thought. They really had no idea where the stone might be, but the Armenian Church was one of the most ancient and the apostolic succession was indeed precious to the faith here. She knew that Armenian Christians had been persecuted as early as in the first century AD so the faith had caught hold quickly so it was possible a stone could be here. Morgan could see that there were side altars and a staircase on the eastern side of the church, but it would be too obvious to investigate them closely on her own. There were no women in here, only a few men, so she stood out by her very presence.
     Jake returned and bent down next to her.
     “There’s a shrine to the Apostle Thaddeus at the side of the church. Follow me. I said we wanted to pray there.”
     He walked away and she followed closely, her head down in a modest pose as they entered the shrine. The side chapel was decorated with graphic images from the gospels, as well as the deaths of the saints depicted in fine detail. Morgan noticed a panel showing Simon the Zealot being sawn in half with a long saw while crowds of people looked on, jeering. His face was bright and shining; a halo lit his features. He showed no pain, though blood spurted from his side. Opposite was St Peter’s crucifixion in Rome, upside down at his own request because he didn’t deserve to die like his Savior. The scenes glorified and paid homage to death, or perhaps to the triumph of faith over a physical end. Illuminating the chapel was a large stained glass window intricately decorated with symbols of the saints. Morgan quickly scanned the side panels, looking for any sign of Thaddeus, while Jake went to the altar and knelt in case the priest was watching. She found the figure of the Apostle on the western side, recognizable by the club he carried.
     “Jake, look at this,” she whispered. “There are flames around his head but it’s as if he’s above all this suffering. He’s even wearing a stone.” Morgan could see the necklace seemed to be raised above the rest of the painting. “Do you think it’s actually in there? Under the paint?”
     Jake came over quickly.
     “It might be but we don’t have much time in here, so you’d better work fast.”
Morgan nodded.
     “You stand by the doorway and keep watch if anyone comes near. I’ll see what’s under this paint.”
     With Jake guarding the doorway, Morgan hoisted up her burqa and revealed a tool belt underneath along with a couple of hand guns. She took out a tiny metal file and started to saw around the bump in the panel, careful to cut closely so as not to disturb too much of the fresco. The disturbing image of Simon’s bloody sawn torso just to her left made her shudder. What people suffered for faith. Would she be able to go that far for her family if it came down to it? Jake’s low whistle broke her concentration and she looked behind to see him frantically motioning her to stop and come over. Looking around the corner of the door, they saw a group of men in military uniform entering.
     “I recognize the leader from the cathedral in Spain,” Jake whispered. “They must have tracked us here.”
     “Then we must take the stone. We can’t leave it here. You need to hold them off.”
She handed him one of the pistols she had concealed. Back at the fresco, she started to cut more quickly, less worried about preserving the painting and more concerned with her own life. Five men were heading down the aisle to the priest, weapons drawn.
     “Hurry,” Jake whispered.
     He began to slowly close the heavy door to the chapel, just as the leader spoke to the priest who pointed in their direction for this was no sanctuary for armed men or Westerners. The leader swung around to see the door shutting and immediately shouted to his men. They took cover, fanning out around the church, weapons pointed at the closing door.
     “You’d better be ready soon,” Jake said. “We’re about to have company.” He stood next to the door, back pressed against the wall of the chapel. “Lucky these old places have such thick walls. It will buy us some time.”
Morgan desperately poked the file under the stone, trying to lever it out.
“I’ve just about got it. Give me one more minute.” Flakes of paint lodged in her fingernails as she scratched at the broken surface.
     “I don’t think we have another minute,” Jake said, as the firing started, bullets ricocheting off the ancient door and walls. “They’ll blow up this door soon.”
     “I’ve got it,” Morgan said, as she prized the stone loose from the neck of Thaddeus the Apostle. It was covered with bits of paint but she could still make out the carvings. It was the same rock as her own stone. “Let’s get out of here.”
     She tucked the stone deep into her tool belt, securing it under her robe. Jake grinned and pointed up at the dramatic stained glass window.
     “There’s no way out of this chapel, except through that.”
     “You know we’re going to hell for blowing up a church.” Morgan replied, a wry smile on her face. “Just make sure you only shoot out a few panels.”
     “We can get through the biggest one there,” Jake said, pointing upwards. “It looks like the gates of Hell. How appropriate.”
     The door started to rattle as the team of men slammed into it, using one of the pews as a battering ram. Morgan was certain they would move onto explosives next.
     Jake indicated the window with his gun.
“As soon as we’re out, we need to split up and meet back at the plane. Are you good with that?”
     “It’s easier for me to get lost in the crowd. I’m more worried about you.”
     Jake laughed. Morgan noticed that the crinkles around his eyes made his corkscrew scar dance.
     “Time to go.”
     “I think you’re enjoying this just a little too much,” Morgan said, as Jake raised his gun and shot several times at the stained glass window’s bottom panel. Jumping up onto the altar, he used a candlestick to smash the final shards of glass and helped Morgan up through the hole. She used her robe as a cushion against the broken glass and dropped the short distance onto the ground outside. The commotion in the church had caused a crowd to gather, but they were mainly looking curiously at the pair as Jake jumped down beside her.
     “See you at the plane,” Morgan’s smile was masked but her eyes were shining. Despite all the problems they were facing, she had to admit there was an up side. It had been too long since she had felt this alive. Perhaps she had discarded the adrenalin rush of combat in haste when she had left the military. An explosion burst behind them, and they ran off in opposite directions into the crowd. It wouldn’t be long before the men started to track them through the souk.
    Morgan ran a little way and then slowed, ducking into an alleyway to pull the burqa over herself properly. She emerged and entered a fabric shop where she blended in with the other women shopping. She breathed deeply in relief knowing that the men pursuing her could not risk stopping any women on the streets to search them. This was a strict Muslim city and they would be punished for harassment. Soon she was confident the danger had passed and she went slowly back to the plane, hoping Jake wasn’t in too much trouble.

***

Jake slipped into the crowd but people were turning and staring at him, some pointed and soon several of the men were charging after him. The bazaar seemed the best place for him to hide so he kept turning corner after corner, doubling back towards the church. He heard shouting behind him and ducked into a barber’s shop that clung to the side of the souk.
    A man was being shaved and several cut-throat razors lay on a side table. Jake pulled out a pile of US dollar notes and shoved them at the barber, picking up a razor and ducking out the back of the shop. The barber shrugged and pocketed the cash. It was not his business what this man wanted with a razor in the narrow streets of the market. Jake waited outside the back door of the barber’s shop, knowing that they would come after him. He was tense and ready, stilling his breathing and focusing on what he must do next.
     He heard voices in the shop, angry shouting. The barber must have pointed out the back as the noise grew closer. There were two men at least. They must have split up, but he was still outnumbered. Jake tensed, ready to strike. At least he had surprise in his favor.
    One man came out, then a second, both striding away from him into the alley behind the shop. They clearly didn’t expect him to be waiting for them. He grabbed the second man from behind and sliced across his throat with the razor. The man didn’t even have time to scream. Blood spurted over Jake’s arm and as the body dropped he shoved it into the back of the first man, ripping the gun from his hand and firing it into his body. It was done in less than thirty seconds.
     Jake’s breath came heavily and fast. He slowed it purposefully, calming the adrenaline rush. He had not killed in a while, but his pent up anger and knowledge of what these men would have done to him and Morgan had left him no choice. There was too much at stake here to let them live, and he knew they would not have stopped for him. The frantic shouting of the barber was enough to get him moving again.
    He ran down the alley away from the bodies and back towards the plane. Marietti would have some cleaning up to do, as his prints would be on the razor and people had seen his face. Luckily ARKANE had connections that made these issues go away. They also  provided a priest for confession if team members needed it. Jake didn’t. He had made his peace with death a long time ago, when he had identified the bodies of his butchered family in Walkerville, near Johannesburg. South Africa was a mess of politics and religion wasn’t the only thing that could spark attempted genocide. After he had revenged their deaths with a silent bloody rampage, he’d needed an outlet for his violence. His mother’s British passport enabled him to join the British military and he soon rose through the ranks until the fateful night he had encountered Marietti. So Jake didn’t shy from killing if the mission demanded it, and he didn’t need to talk about it afterwards. Life was brutal and there were no prizes except to stay alive.

***

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