“You think a lot about God when you get to be my age. Always wondering if you made the right choices.”
“I imagine that’s only natural.”
Chiron chuckled again, but there was a bitter note in the words that followed. “What a game this is. Blind, we must choose a path through the maze and follow it to the end. Only then are our eyes opened, and the wisdom or foolishness of our choices becomes manifest. I don’t know about you, but I hardly think that’s fair.”
“That’s where faith comes in. You and I aren’t believers, so we can never really understand why someone might choose a life wholly guided by their religious beliefs. But to the true believer, it must seem like the only choice.” It was more than Kismet had wanted to say on the subject and he immediately regretted having let the other man draw him out. Still, nothing he had said was a revelation. They had exchanged similar words on more than one occasion. The difference this time was the import Chiron seemed to place on the subject.
“Ah, yes. Faith. Jesus’ disciples asked for more faith. Do you know that what he told them? ‘If you have faith as a grain of a mustard seed, you shall say to this mountain: Remove from hence hither, and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible to you.’” He moved close, so that Kismet could not avoid direct eye contact. “How can that be, Nick? You either have faith, or you do not, correct? How can you quantify faith?”
“I have no idea.” He moved back a step, then sat on the brick parapet, his back now against the sunset. “Christ, Pierre, you didn’t drag me halfway around the world to debate philosophy, did you? We could have done that in Paris.”
“My apologies. I recall a time when you enjoyed our discussions.”
The reproof lacked the weight of sincerity, but Kismet still chose a conciliatory tone. “Chalk it up to jet lag. Maybe tomorrow, over coffee…”
“No, you are right. There is a time and place for this, and it is not now. It is rude of me to distract you from the real reason I have summoned you. There is important work for us here, and to be quite honest, I need your help.
“As you may have heard, many of the early reports about the pillage of the museums were exaggerated. In some cases, the relics had been stored away by the staff in anticipation of the coming war. A great many other pieces were returned by thieves whose consciences caught up with them. However, a few pieces made it out and are already showing up on the European black market.”
“But you said that Interpol had that covered.”
“Indeed they do, and I’ve no interest in duplicating their efforts. However, I have been monitoring their investigation and discovered some rather disturbing inconsistencies.
“There is a secret list of art treasures being circulated among illicit collectors. Interpol has access to it, but does not wish this information to become public. I have seen the list. Some of the items that are being made available do not appear to have come from the catalogue of Iraq’s national museum.”
Suddenly Kismet understood. “You’re thinking grave robbers?”
Chiron nodded “It is a crime in the eyes of Allah to steal, but to dig something up from the ground and sell it to buy bread for your family? Where is the crime in that?”
“How much are we talking about? Could it just be one guy who got lucky and found a trove, or is this an organized effort?”
“That is what I hope to determine.” He tipped the bottle toward his cup, half-filling it. “A significant historical find would be a great boon to the people of this country—to the whole world. It would remind them that this place is the source of civilization. A timely distraction both from the war and the memories of oppression.”
“Where do we start?” Wheels were already turning in Kismet’s head, the earlier conversation thankfully forgotten.
Chiron refilled Kismet’s cup, decanting the last of the Pinot Noir from the bottle. “There is a man at the museum who has…ah, we shall say that he has demonstrated divided loyalties. He is one of the assistant curators, devoted to the cause of history, but a pragmatist. I suspect he may be trading with a rival organization to the one we are seeking, but his indiscretions are not our concern at present. I believe he will be able to put us on the path. Getting to him in order to conduct an interview however has proven difficult. The city is a very dangerous place.”
The last piece fell into place. “Oh. I guess that’s where I come in.”
“You have experience in this environment. That is unique among our organization. My people are scientists, academics. Furthermore, I suspect that our search will lead us into the wilderness, where our lives may be placed in further jeopardy.”
“So I’m the hired muscle.” He made the statement without a hint of accusation.
“If you like. There are other considerations, some of them personal.”
“Such as?”
Chiron leaned on the short wall next to him, the weariness once more in evidence. “You are like a son to me, Nick. I can’t think of anyone I would rather have with me. That being said, you are also an American, whereas I—not only am I French, but also a representative of the United Nations. As you might well imagine, neither of these factors have endeared me to the military authorities.”
Kismet nodded, comprehending. Despite repeated position statements to the effect that France remained an ally of the United States and that the UN was both a legitimate and important presence in the process of building world peace and security, popular sentiment among Americans, both citizens and soldiers, remained decidedly isolationist. The French government’s vocal opposition to US foreign policy in the days preceding the war had severely widened that rift, so much so that certain reactionaries had pushed to rename “French Fries” and “French Toast” in congressional cafeterias. It had been no coincidence that the bottle of wine Kismet had purchased before leaving New York had been from California; many retailers had pulled French wines from their shelves.
Meanwhile, the perception of an impotent United Nations had only been reinforced by that body’s inability to maintain concerted opposition to the ruthless dictator of Iraq. To make matters worse, immediately following the unquestioned victory of coalition forces, the UN had demanded a significant role in the rebuilding of that devastated nation. For many Americans who were already questioning the relevance of the UN, this only added insult to injury.
A lifetime of travel and association with men like Chiron had taught Kismet not to paint the world in the broad strokes of nationalism. To be sure, political differences among nations could not be ignored, just as religious, economic and tribal distinctions sometimes led to unbridgeable gulfs between individuals, but Kismet preferred to make that determination only after giving a person a chance to demonstrate where their loyalties lay. As for the United Nations…well, perhaps it was deserving of some of the criticism heaped upon it, but Kismet could not escape the fact of where his paychecks originated.
Chiron let out his breath with a sigh. “And….”
“There’s more?”
The older man turned to face him, his expression unusually grave. “The artifacts, Nick. They date from the Babylonian dynasty—seventh century BC—but they are not of Babylonian origin. They are the treasures of Nebuchadnezzar’s conquest. Do you know what that means?”
Kismet felt his breath catch in his throat. He knew exactly what it meant.
A column of olive drab Heavy Motorized Multi-Wheeled Vehicles (HMMWV) known as Humvees in the argot of the common soldier, departed from the airport at 0915 local time. Each of the military transports was identified by a series of stenciled letters painted on the front and rear bumpers. These four were numbered in sequence, from D-42 through D-46. Delta four-six was the vehicle reserved for the platoon leader but today it carried the mission commander—Lt. Col. Jonathan Buttrick—along with two other soldiers. Bringing up the rear was a resupply vehicle, different only from the others with respects to its cargo and passenger complement. This Humvee carried only a driver and an assistant, along with five twenty-liter jerrycans of diesel. The second Humvee in the convoy likewise was crewed by two soldiers, but carried also two VIP passengers.
Kismet had experienced an odd moment of déjà vu upon climbing into the military vehicle. The wide-bodied conveyance had just been coming into its own twelve years earlier, and while he had ridden in them on numerous occasions prior to the first war against Iraq, he had not been in one since. Although the design had been modified for civilian use, proving very popular as an urban utility vehicle especially among wealthy celebrities, Kismet still thought of it primarily as an engine of war. The fact that he was now wearing Kevlar armor only served to reinforce this impression. While his actions the previous day owed a great deal to his military training, that had been instinctual. Voluntarily getting into the Humvee had required a conscious decision, and was therefore just a little bit disconcerting. Once inside, the stale smells of sweat and mildew proved almost overpowering. It was an unwelcome transition from what had occurred the night before.
Locating Buttrick in the sprawling, chaotic complex had been a difficult task, but once accomplished, securing a squad of infantry soldiers to serve as an escort proved virtually painless. Despite Chiron’s fear that support for a United Nation’s mission would be in short supply, the accommodating officer had looked upon the request as good public relations. Nevertheless, Kismet wondered if someone like Major Harp would have been as quick to send the request up the chain of command. Afterward, Kismet had headed back to the GHC office to pass along the good news.
He had found Marie sitting silently in the sparsely furnished office, reviewing maps of the city. “Where is Pierre?”
She raised a finger to her meticulously painted lips, then pointed to a dark corner where lay a shapeless cloth mass: a sleeping bag, presumably with Chiron inside. “He was tired,” she whispered.
Kismet could tell she was being diplomatic. Chiron had been inebriated at their parting—too much wine, drunk too fast—and had likely passed out the moment he lay down. For his own part, the Pinot Noir had left him with a mild headache. He nodded deferentially, then went to find some water.
“Monsieur…Nick.”
Mildly surprised that she had initiated communication, he had turned. “Yes?”
She had crossed the room silently and now stood only a step away. Her expression had changed somehow—nothing more than a relaxing of her disdainful jaw line—but the effect was irresistible. “Did you save any wine for me?”
Although he had not, the ice was nonetheless broken. They had stayed up longer than Kismet intended, talking about their respective tasks with the Global Heritage Commission and how they had each met up with Pierre Chiron. The discussion had then turned to a shared concern regarding the older man’s mental status. Marie had not known him prior to Collette’s death and therefore was unaware of the severe change that his unresolved grief had brought about, but his decline even in the brief time she had known him was impossible to ignore.
Eventually, the conversation had faltered. Kismet’s initial reticence had been swept away by her charm, all the more so because he had not anticipated being attracted to her, but there was a limit to what could be accomplished in a single evening. She was curious about his motives, about his personal stake in uncovering the source of the black market artifacts, and that was something he was not prepared to reveal. Even Chiron, the man who had been like a second father to him, barely knew the half. As she probed his defenses, he had begged off, once more citing the cumulative effects of jet lag, and bade her goodnight. Only a dozen paces separated their sleeping areas, and while nothing more was said, he remained acutely aware of her nearness until fatigue finally overcame him.
Reflecting on the pleasantness of the night before was a welcome distraction from the brief journey into the city. The anxiety of the soldiers escorting them was a constant reminder that they were heading into a potentially hostile area. Each of the soldiers carried an M4 carbine along with an assortment of other personal weapons but the Humvee turrets, which were capable of supporting numerous heavy weapon systems, remained sealed. Kismet understood the logic behind this decision. Openly displayed .50 caliber machine guns would have sent the wrong message in a city where the US military was trying to project a benevolent presence. It was a command-level decision, not necessarily supported by the soldiers on the ground, who felt rather like they were being sent into a potentially dangerous situation with one hand tied behind their backs.
Kismet was also armed, though the handgun in his waist pack—a lightweight Glock 19, semi-automatic pistol—was hardly the weapon of choice for a combat zone. In addition to the gun he carried a
kukri
knife, likewise secured in the small nylon pack he wore around his waist. The heavy chopping knife, with its distinctive boomerang-shaped thirty-centimeter-long blade was a tangible link to the events that had changed his life twelve years previously. The blade had been offered as a token of respect, but before that night had ended, Kismet had been forced to use the
kukri
as a weapon of last resort. It remained a treasured memento of that ill-fated mission, though no less utilitarian.
To distinguish themselves from combatants, the UN personnel wore white flak jackets and helmet covers, prominently displaying the letters of their organization. A similarly adorned banner was draped across the rear of each Humvee, hopefully reinforcing the message to the local populace that their excursion into the city had only peaceable motives.
The convoy moved at a safe but deliberate pace of eighty kilometers per hour, along highways that were virtually empty. In a modern city of six million souls, the lack of automobile traffic was vaguely disturbing, but Baghdad was still recovering from the brief siege that had heralded the end of a dictatorship. Certain parts of the city were still without electricity and running water, and there were reports of gasoline shortages and long lines—even riots—at refueling stations.