Navigating by means of a GPS system, the lead vehicle in the column charted a decisive course toward the city. Their route took them along the main highway within sight of several palatial complexes, some of which were now only shattered memories of their former opulence. As the road drew parallel with a westward curving segment of the Tigris River, the convoy threaded between the Sujud Palace and the military parade grounds, both of which bore testimony to heavy bombing and ground battle. Kismet did not strain for a better look. He loathed the idea of playing ghoulish tourist.
The journey progressed uneventfully, but the comfort level inside the Humvee bottomed out rapidly. The Lexan windows remained closed as a protective measure, bottling up the musty odor which emanated from the cracked upholstery. To make matters worse, the driver informed them that he would be running the vehicle’s heater in order to dissipate the rising engine temperature. The interior quickly became a claustrophobic hot-box.
“A pity Marie couldn’t join us,” mused Chiron, raising his voice to be heard over the incessant roar of the engine. It was the first comment the older man had made on the subject—the first thing he had said all morning really, except for a few brief utterances in preparation for departure.
“She didn’t strike me as the rugged, adventurous type. I’d say she’s lucky to have stayed behind.” Kismet then threw a sidelong glance in the other man’s direction. “I thought that it was your decision.”
Chiron smiled cryptically. “I found a pretext with which to discourage her from joining us, but I did so for your sake.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nick, it’s been clear to me from the start that whatever this thing that drives you, it is a deeply personal matter.” He leaned over the upraised platform covering the drive shaft and lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “You’ve kept it secret even from me. What you haven’t told me only fires my curiosity. Shall I review?
“You are sent on a clandestine meeting in the desert with a defector. The man seems to have information about you, and believes you will be interested in a very precious relic, unearthed in the ruins of ancient Babylon. What was that relic? Never mind. I suspect I don’t want to know.
“Then your meeting is violently interrupted by a man who also claims to have knowledge about you. Both men believed that you will have an interest in whatever this relic is, but you claim no particular desire to possess this, or any other artifact of the ancient world.
“I have tried to offer whatever help I can. And I have let you keep your secrets. It is clear that the beginning of this labyrinth begins with a discovery here, in the sands of Iraq—the ruins of ancient Babylonia—and perhaps by returning to source, we will be able to find the thread of Theseus and a solution to this mystery.”
“Theseus.” Kismet echoed the word in a distant voice, his mind elsewhere. He knew he ought to trust Chiron. The Frenchman had certainly demonstrated uncompromising fealty, without demanding a full disclosure of his own personal agenda.
“Pardon?”
“You mentioned Theseus—the warrior in Greek mythology who survived the labyrinth designed by Daedelus and slew the Minotaur. It made me think of something.” He drew in a deep, contemplative breath. “The truth of the matter is that I’ve never shared all the details of my search because most of it is just too unbelievable.”
“I think I can keep an open mind.”
“I told you about the men who attacked us that night and about their leader. What I didn’t tell you was his name. He seemed more than eager to share it at the time: Ulrich Hauser.”
“Ah, a German perhaps?”
“He told me that he was not part of any nation’s army, but he and his men obviously had military training. He told me something else. When I asked who he was—not just his name, but the reason behind his actions—he said: ‘We are the chains of God, sealing Pandora’s box for the preservation of mankind. We are Prometheus, guiding the destiny of the world until humanity is ready to ascend Olympus.’ I’ve never forgotten those words.”
“Ah, thus the association with my mention of a figure from Greek myth. Prometheus, the Titan who stole fire from the gods and gave it to mankind. But what’s the connection to these ‘chains of God’? If memory serves, Zeus chained Prometheus to a mountain, where he was tormented until Hercules set him free. I don’t recall anything about his sealing up Pandora’s box; in fact, Pandora was created as Zeus’ retribution for the theft of fire.”
“I didn’t say I knew what it meant,” confessed Kismet. “From the context, and from some bits and pieces I’ve put together over the years, I’ve come to suspect that they might be some kind of mystery cult.”
The convoy exited from the main highway, entering the city streets, and the driver’s assistant relayed the message that they would be arriving momentarily. Kismet nodded in acknowledgment.
“A modern mystery cult.” Chiron was quick to return to their conversation. “The Pandora’s box reference could indicate their belief that mankind is unready for some secret knowledge that only they possess.”
“I told you it was hard to believe.” He feigned a chuckle, trying to conceal his discomfort with the subject.
“And this artifact? It would have had great significance to them? And to the world?”
Kismet shifted in his seat, but did not answer. The question had been rhetorical anyway.
Chiron began ticking off facts on his fingers. “Let’s see, we have a relic unearthed in Babylon, from the period of Nebuchadnezzar’s conquests. It is something uniquely significant; not some potsherd or clay figurine, but a treasure that might upset the balance of the world. In his day, Nebuchadnezzar conquered most of the Middle East, even taking tribute from Egypt. Most noteworthy to moderns of course was his victory over Jerusalem. The city was razed and all of the treasures of Solomon’s temple were carried off as spoil.”
He paused, his gaze intensifying as he looked across the seat. “Have I found the thread, Nick?”
Kismet shrugged. “I didn’t get a very good look at it, whatever it was. In any event, it’s gone. It sure as hell isn’t here anymore.”
“Then what do we hope to learn today?”
He laughed. “I thought we were trying to protect the cultural history of Iraq.”
Chiron sat back with a smug grin. “There, you see? You have secrets which even now you do not wish to share. I understand, but Marie is curious. She would ask the same questions, but demand a better answer. That is why I have left her behind.”
“Pierre, I promise that one day, I will tell you everything. Right now, it’s so confusing that even I don’t know what to believe.”
The Humvee slowed as it pulled into an almost vacant parking area, alongside a blockish two-story brick building. The ornate facade—a reproduction of a Babylonian era arched city gateway—and prevalence of weathered statuary in the courtyard seemed confirmation enough that they had arrived at their destination: the Iraq National Museum. The spectacle presented by the edifice and the artistry that adorned it was not sufficient to draw the eye away from the damage wrought by the recent fighting. Twisted iron and shattered brick littered the museum grounds, and the walls were now scorched and pitted with bullet holes. To underscore the volatility of the situation, two M1A1 Abrams tanks were parked in front of the structure, their crews hunkered down inside the protective armored shell. The presence of US troops not only deterred potential looters, but evidently also scared off everyone else.
Kismet worked the door lever, eager to be out of the sweltering interior of vehicle. Chiron however had more to say. “Perhaps today will be that day.”
The Frenchman was the last to get out, pulling himself from the vehicle like a man twenty years older than he was. The soldiers had already fanned out around the parked convoy, and though the muzzles of their carbines were pointing at the ground, to a man they gripped their weapons purposefully.
Buttrick was quick to approach, glancing around anxiously. “Well, this is your show now, Nick. I’ve got to tell you, I feel kind of exposed out here.”
“I wish I could tell you how long this will take, but I’ve really no idea.”
Buttrick followed them toward the entrance, warily scanning the surrounding area for any signs of trouble. Kismet focused on the path ahead and spied two men standing beneath the Ishtar gate reproduction. The men were well dressed, but their suits had a rumpled appearance, and their facial expressions were haggard and lean. The older of the two, a distinguished-looking man in his fifties, sporting a bushy mustache shot through with gray, watched their approach nervously. The younger man stepped forward to greet them.
“I am Hussein Hamallah. Peace be upon you,” he said, offering the traditional greeting in accented English. He gestured to his companion. “This is Mr. Aziz.”
Kismet dredged up his own memory of the Arabic response: “Wa aleekum is-salaam.”
Hussein appeared pleased. “I will serve as translator on your behalf today. Please sirs, come inside.”
A large open garden area greeted them just beyond the formal entrance, but it was evident even from the first glance that the museum had undergone an upheaval. Piles of debris—stone chips, broken glass, and reams of tattered paper—were everywhere. Working among the chaos were several men and women, presumably the staff of the facility, attempting to restore the repository to its former glory. Kismet felt a silent respect for those people, knowing that in all likelihood, they were laboring with only a tacit promise of reward. His own office, in the sub-basement of the American Museum of Natural History in New York City, brought him into regular contact with similarly devoted individuals, people for whom the call to educate others about culture and history was more than just a job.
Buttrick excused himself from the group and returned to the convoy to organize security, while Hussein steered the party into a corridor where a few examples of Assyrian art and history remained visible amidst the smashed display cases. They did not linger within sight of these but instead ascended a spiral staircase to the second floor. From there, Kismet and Chiron were directed into a small conference room, which aside from a uniform coating of dust on the furnishings, appeared to have missed out on the ill fortunes of war. They removed their bulky armor while Hussein hastily brushed the seats of two chairs, then gestured for the guests to sit.
Aziz remained aloof, as if debating what tack to take with the men from the Global Heritage Commission. For Kismet, who had studied law and seen his share of deposition proceedings, the man’s reticence was understandable. The Iraqi curator would doubtless hold back from volunteering information, lest he accidentally incriminate himself. The burden of asking the right questions would fall to the interrogators. Addressing the older man directly, Kismet fired off a positioning shot.
“What is your function here, sir?”
The translation was almost instantaneous, and Aziz rattled off a response. “Until this war, I was restoring the palace of Ashurbanipal. Now, I do what I can for the museum.”
“Your efforts are greatly appreciated,” supplied Chiron, diplomatically. “Hopefully, the rich history of your nation will soon be restored to a place of dignity, for all the world to discover.”
“
Inshallah
,” murmured Aziz. God willing.
“We are pleased that many of the relics thought lost in the looting have already been accounted for.”
“Yes. The situation could have been much worse.”
Kismet decided to move in. “Has the looting stopped?”
The curator blinked at him, then turned to his assistant. “Mr. Aziz does not understand your question. Do you refer to the looting in the city, or to the museum?”
“The museum, of course. Are items still being stolen and sold on the black market?”
“No. We have inventoried all that remains. It is accounted for.” The answer was unequivocal, but Aziz’s certainty came as no surprise.
“What about other relics? Relics from archaeological sites that perhaps haven’t been catalogued yet?”
Aziz’s lip twitched. “There are rumors of men finding the treasures of the ancients and selling them illegally. If I knew more, I would immediately contact the authorities.”
Chiron jumped in, his tone conciliatory. “We know, of course, that you have no part in this criminal activity, Mr. Aziz. However, it is these rumors that interest us. Anything you could tell us would be greatly appreciated.”
Kismet struggled to hide his dismay. His old mentor had just tipped their hand to the Iraqi curator, virtually promising the man immunity from further action as well as implying that his cooperation would be rewarded. In a culture where bargaining was almost an art form, a basic rule of negotiation was that the first person to make an offer lost the advantage. Aziz would now be able to dictate the terms of the exchange. He could tell that the Iraqi sensed victory as well by a subtle shift in the man’s posture.
“Do you know Samir Al-Azir?”
Aziz had been on the verge of speaking when Kismet blurted out the name. He paused long enough for Hussein to make the translation, but it was evident that he had understood the question. The Iraqi curator barely concealed a frown as he replied.
“This name means nothing,” explained Hussein. Kismet could not tell if the young man was translating Aziz’s words or elucidating at his own discretion.
Samir Al-Azir; the name given to Kismet by the defector he had met in the desert during the fateful mission in the hours prior to the war known as Desert Storm. Kismet knew that there must be more to the man’s name—the defector had supplied a proper name and a family designation, yet had withheld his surname—but there was nothing else to go on. Samir Al-Azir was the end of the thread Chiron had mentioned. If he failed to pick it up here, a singular opportunity to unriddle the maze of his life might be lost.
“He was an engineer working for the government twelve years ago. He was working on the restoration of Babylon.”
“The restoration of that ancient city has been going on for more than twenty years. Thousands of men have been involved. You can’t expect me to remember one particular man.”