by Sean Ellis
The soldier who had pulled him up knelt beside him, shouting something in his ear. Kismet nodded dumbly and rolled over, automatically sheathing his kukri. Had he been more alert, he might have simply discarded the weapon. It had sentimental value, but his rational mind would have judged his situation far too urgent to squander precious seconds keeping track of his equipment.
The helicopter’s rotor wash tore at the ragged remains of his clothing. He was reluctant to stand up, lest the insistent wind blast him from the smooth metal surface of the dome. The Black Hawk moved off however, easing the tempest, and took up a position just off the forward tip of the upraised monument. Several faces crowded around the open side door, urging the three men to make the short jump to relative safety. The soldier who had pulled Kismet up now turned to him, and shouted in his ear.
“This is easier than it looks, sir. Watch me!”
He turned away and crossed cautiously to the edge of the dome, hunched low to avoid the whirling vanes overhead, and stepped out onto the deck of the Black Hawk. From Kismet’s point of view, it seemed that he had not even leapt. The soldier turned to face him, once more exhorting him to hurry.
The crowd was massing at the base of the monument, the initial attempts to scale the forty-five degree slope had been easily thwarted as the remaining soldier clubbed at outstretched hands with the plastic stock of his carbine. But as reinforcements joined the vanguard, the advantage of their overwhelming numbers now became apparent. From several points around the fulcrum of the cantilevered structure, groups of men began boosting individuals high enough to get a purchase on the hot copper surface. The infantryman, recognizing that their tactic would eventually succeed, turned away and ran toward the helicopter. Only then did Kismet realize that it was Colonel Buttrick.
“Get the fuck off this thing!”
Kismet nodded again, then scrambled to his feet, preceding the officer by a few steps. At the outer limit, the gulf between the aircraft and the dome seemed less traversable. Not trusting his weary body to make the crossing in one easy step, Kismet took a running start and hurled his weight forward at the last instant.
No less than four pairs of hands caught him as entered the helicopter. Once his feet were planted on the deck, he turned to watch Buttrick make his move. Directly behind the colonel, the heads and shoulders of the first wave became visible. Desperate to find a vent for their anger, the mob was not relenting, even though it appeared their prey had already eluded them.
Like Kismet, Buttrick was not about to showboat the crossing. All that mattered to him was getting off the dome by the most expedient means. Hunched over, he moved at a dead run across the dome, gathering his strength for the final jump.
At that instant, the pilot saw the telltale plume of another RPG launch off in the distance. Although he knew there was a still a man outside, his instinctive response occurred a millisecond ahead of rational thought. He tapped the rudder pedal with his left foot, swiveling the helicopter a few degrees on the axis of the main rotor. The grenade’s trajectory brought it nowhere near the aircraft, but that momentary correction came at the worst possible moment.
Buttrick had already committed to the jump. There was no halting or redirecting his momentum. The opening in the side of the Black Hawk was no longer where he expected it to be. He managed to throw an arm around the edge of the door before slamming into the armored side of the helicopter and surrendering to gravity.
Inside, the sudden maneuver had thrown everyone off balance. The confident soldiers, unprepared for the shift, abruptly found themselves clutching for handholds. Kismet, nearest to the door, was hurled against the bulkhead, but even as he hugged the wall, trying to keep his feet, he saw Buttrick make his doomed leap from the monument. He threw out a desperate hand and somehow snared the colonel’s wrist.
As Buttrick’s full weight came down on the outstretched arm, Kismet was pulled to the deck. The colonel’s face twisted in agony as the burden wrenched his shoulder out of joint, but Kismet did not let go. He felt the other man groping with his free hand for a purchase, but dared not release the grip of his other hand on the bulkhead, lest both of them fall. After a few seconds of scrabbling, the colonel’s fingers knotted into the fabric of Kismet’s shirt, easing the strain on his pinned arm.
With the platform beneath them stable once more, the soldiers hastened to assist their colonel, forming a human chain to keep one another secure. It took them only a moment to pull their leader to safety, after which the helicopter pulled away. Kismet struggled to his feet, still clinging to the bulkhead, and gazed down at the receding mass of people swarming around the monument. As the distance grew, the individual faces smeared into an indistinguishable mass.
“So that’s what it looks like from up here,” he mumbled.
Then he realized that everything else was growing blurry. Despite the desert heat, he began to shiver uncontrollably as his world darkened. He felt strong hands seizing his arms and body, holding him fast, but he nevertheless began falling and there was no pulling him back.
Part Two:Fingerprint
Seven
When he awoke, his first impression was that he was back home in a cool bed, and that everything that had happened in the desert was merely a bad dream. But when he tried to rouse himself, all that he had endured returned with a vengeance. Blinding agony speared through his head and he winced involuntarily, thrashing as he reached up to hold the halves of his skull together. That was when he realized he was in water, laying naked in a makeshift basin filled with tepid liquid. Bracing himself against the expected pain, he cautiously opened his eyes.
Beyond the fact that he was laying naked in a few centimeters of water, it was difficult to discern anything. The room was dark, lit only by a sliver of light seeping in around the edges of the window blinds. Even that nominal amount of illumination felt like a spike piercing through his retinas, so he stopped looking and relaxed once more. It took him a moment to perceive that he was not alone.
“Welcome back to the land of the living.”
The soft voice seemed familiar, but he did not open his eyes to identify the female speaker. “Where am I?”
“Back where you started. The airport.” He sensed her moving closer. “Open your mouth.”
He obliged without thinking, and abruptly found a thin probe thrust under his tongue. He clamped his teeth down to hold the thermometer in place. A moment later, a beeping sound signaled that it had completed its task. The woman removed the device.
“Well?”
“Your fever has broken,” she announced, matter-of-factly. “I consider that no small accomplishment. When you arrived, your body temperature was forty degrees Celsius and you were badly dehydrated.”
“Marie?” He risked opening his eyes once more, trying to bring the face of his caregiver into focus. He immediately recognized the woman, but it was not Marie Villaneauve.
“No,” remarked the auburn-haired woman he had initially encountered on the plane. She looked no different than in that initial encounter, save for a butterfly tape bandaging a small cut under her left eye. “I’m Dr. Gault, and your life is in my hands, so stay put and do as I say.”
I could have killed you…
Staring at her, Kismet suddenly felt vulnerable and it had nothing to do with his nakedness. She gazed down at him a moment longer, her dour expression never softening, then turned away long enough to procure a plastic bag of dextrose solution. Kismet noted a similar container, nearly drained, secured with hemostat clamps and white tape to a wall near his head. A long tube snaked from the fluid bag to his arm, where an intravenous needle had been inserted.
The first thought to cross his mind was that the woman had decided to finish the job she had started at the museum. He tried to dismiss the idea as he had no evidence to support his suspicions, but his instincts told him that this woman was not to be trusted. He had felt it first when she had abandoned him during the effort to rescue trapped soldiers during the RPG attack at the
airport. She might have called herself a doctor, but she had not behaved as one. When he had determined that Aziz’s killer was female, he had put her at the top of his list of suspects, even though there was nothing to substantiate that accusation.
Yet, she had saved him from heat exhaustion, hadn’t she?
Your life is in my hands…
She finished changing the IV solution, then turned back to him. “I don’t know what happened to you, but you seem to be a living mass of bruises. It’s difficult to tell where one ends and the next begins. Were you dragged by a horse?”
“It kind of feels that way.” He was ambivalent about sharing information with her. If she was the assassin he had chased, then it was conceivable that she was watching for some sign that he had recognized her. In her role as medical care provider, nobody would think twice if Kismet suffered an unexpected fatal relapse. Even if she was innocent, her unpleasant personality made him reluctant to engage in conversation. “Are my friends okay?”
“If you mean Monsieur Chiron, then the answer is that he will be all right as soon as I allow him to see you. He’s been very worried.”
“I’d like to see him now.”
She frowned. “Well, if it were up to me, I’d make you wait until morning. I don’t think you appreciate that you almost died, Mr. Kismet.”
Several times, actually. He held back the comment, however. “Please, it’s important.”
She crossed her arms. “Very well. I suppose there’s really nothing more for me to do. I’ll come back in about fifteen minutes to remove your line. After that, you’ll be on your own. I can give you some analgesics for your pain… I imagine you’ve got quite a headache. Other than that, you just need to stay hydrated and take it easy.”
“Whatever you say, doc.”
She sighed and turned toward the door. “I hope you brought along some extra clothing. I’m afraid there wasn’t much left of what you were wearing.”
Though it was against his better judgment, Kismet made a final bid for the last word. “Well, I guess this makes us even.”
She paused, then looked back. A single arched eyebrow was just visible in the narrow beam of outside light. “I beg your pardon?”
“I saved your life. Now you’ve saved mine.”
“You give yourself too much credit. I seem to remember that you very nearly killed me.”
Kismet’s lips twitched into a smile but there was no humor in his expression. “Believe me, I’ve thought about it.”
She held his stare for a long silent moment, her eyes unreadable, then pushed through the door.
Pierre Chiron burst through almost immediately, bathing the room in light from hallway. Kismet raised a hand to shade his eyes, then struggled to a seated position as his old friend rushed to his side. Marie was right behind him.
“Nick, we’ve been so worried. They say you fainted in a helicopter.”
Kismet was mildly irritated by the suggestion that he had “fainted”, but clarification to soothe his ego seemed superfluous. “Who was that woman?”
“Do you mean Dr. Gault?”
“I do. Why was she treating me? I would have expected to end up in an army field hospital.”
Chiron appeared confused by the question. “Dr. Gault is with the International Red Cross. She’s certainly capable, if that’s your concern.”
Marie stepped forward, proffering a blanket to Kismet for the sake of modesty. “I was here when you arrived, Nick. The soldiers seemed to think you were to blame for whatever it was that happened out there. I had them bring you to Dr. Gault in order for you get some treatment. From what she’s told us, it’s a good thing I did.”
“Nick,” Chiron intoned. “What happened? Did you know that Mr. Aziz was murdered?”
“Someone didn’t want us talking to him. I walked in on it and tried to chase after the…the guy that did it.” He decided to withhold his knowledge of the assassin’s gender. That tiny scrap of information was his hole card and he wasn’t ready to play it yet. Not until he knew more about Dr. Gault, at any rate. Kismet pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to force the insistent pain to abate, if only long enough to continue speaking. “From there, everything went to hell. I’m sure it’s already made the news by now.”
Marie flashed a wry smile. “They say you started a riot.”
“I wouldn’t say I started it, exactly. I just sort of happened upon it.”
Chiron laid a fatherly hand on his forearm. “Nick, what really happened? Who did this?”
“I-I’m not quite sure. I have some ideas.” His gaze flashed between Chiron and Marie. “I don’t want to speculate right now.”
The old man seemed to comprehend his subtle body English. “Of course. It would serve no purpose. Besides, I’m sure your doctor wants you to rest. And perhaps eat something. Marie, be a dear and see if you can’t find something for our friend to eat. Something palatable, if at all possible. I will stay with Nick and regale him with my own adventures from this afternoon.”
Kismet could tell by her eyes that Marie was disappointed at being dismissed—and that she knew why—but managed a smile and nodded to Kismet. There was more emotion in her expression than he had previously seen, but to his chagrin, he couldn’t will himself to entertain amorous thoughts as he watched her go.
Chiron waited until the door clicked shut behind her. “Well?”
Kismet gingerly extricated himself from the bath, careful not to dislodge the intravenous line. Despite his headache, he felt a primal need to start moving again. The basin of lukewarm water, which had doubtless been instrumental in lowering his fever and probably saving his life, now seemed merely an annoyance. He wrapped the damp blanket around his torso and faced the other man. “What time is it?”
“After nineteen hundred—7:00 p.m. that is.”
He had slept almost nine hours, yet he did not feel at all rejuvenated. “A whole day lost.”
“Perhaps. But you’ve obviously been through a great deal. Rest is the best thing for you, I imagine.”
“I need to get my bag…get some fresh clothes.” He spied his ragged boots on the floor nearby. He had not thought to bring alternate footwear.
“Yes. Nick, tell me what happened. Do you know who killed Mr. Aziz? Or who it was that wanted him silenced?”
“The answer to both questions is ‘maybe’. I’m going to do some digging with respects to the identity of the killer. As to who’s behind it…” He leaned against a table edge. “As I see it, there are two possibilities. The obvious answer is that Aziz was a black marketeer, dealing in antiquities. Either he was offed by a rival, or somebody in his own organization suspected he was cooperating with us and wanted to keep him from spilling his guts.”
Chiron appeared stunned. “I had not considered that approaching him would present any sort of risk.”
“Relax. If Aziz is everything I think he was, the world is probably a better place without him. However, I said there are two possibilities, and right now I’m leaning toward the alternative.”
“And what is that?”
Kismet glanced at the door, wondering if Marie would return before he had finished explaining himself. “The killer said something to me—something that was very much like what Hauser told me, twelve years ago.”
“And that was?”
“I asked him why he didn’t kill me along with everyone else. He said that if he had killed me, my mother would have his head.”
There was a gasp. “Your mother, Nick? But I thought you never knew her?”
“I didn’t…I don’t.”
“The man that killed Aziz said this to you?”
Kismet shook his head, unintentionally aggravating the throbbing pain there. “No. Hauser said that. The…ah, guy that killed Aziz just said the he could have killed me if he had wanted to.”
Chiron began mentally arranging the puzzle pieces. “So you believe that this man Hauser, or someone like him, murdered Mr. Aziz in order to prevent him from sharing inform
ation vital to your ongoing search.”
“That pretty well sums it up. I was so close to finding a link to what happened that night, but someone got there ahead of me.”
“What will you do now?”
“I was hoping you’d know. Was Aziz the only lead you had on these Babylonian discoveries?”
“Yes.” Chiron’s reply was thoughtful and Kismet could tell he wasn’t being entirely forthcoming.
“You’re up to something, Pierre. Tell me.”
“Well, I had always recognized the possibility that Mr. Aziz would not cooperate. From the outset, I believed that we would have to go to Babylon.”
Kismet was incredulous. “What, just head out there with a shovel and start digging?”
“Something like that,” Chiron answered with a grin. “I may have to save that for a surprise, though. We’ll go as soon as you are feeling better.”
“In case you haven’t been following the news, I think I’ve pretty much worn out my welcome. Even if Colonel Buttrick doesn’t declare me persona non grata, I can’t see him loaning us more vehicles.”
“That won’t be a problem. The UN inspection team left behind a small fleet of Toyota Land Cruisers.”
“I heard the UN headquarters facility was looted.”
“The offices at the Canal Hotel were ransacked, but the UNMOVIC team stored most of their sensitive equipment, along with some vehicles at an industrial complex along the Hillah Road to the south. As far as I know, the location was secret and remote enough that I doubt anyone will have raided it. The only difficulty will be getting there.”
Kismet sighed resignedly, wishing he knew what scheme Chiron was hatching. “Well, I’ll ask Buttrick tomorrow. The worst thing he can say is: ‘Go to hell.’”
***
It had been a long time since Saeed had set foot in the part of the world populated by his own people. After more than a decade spent in self-imposed exile, he had grown quite fond of what some in the Islamic world labeled Western decadence. He had come to believe that nothing would ever pull him back to the hellish desert he so loathed. Nevertheless, here he was.
