Into the Black

by Sean Ellis

  He shook his head to clear the image and looked to the left of the window, where a considerably smaller figure stood facing away from the doorway speaking in a low voice to the Fat Man. Although he could not see the person's face or hear the exchange between the two, he instantly knew who the second person was. Making no attempt to hide his chagrin, he stepped forward through the beaded strings.

  "Howdy, stranger."

  Every head in the room turned toward Kismet, including two that he had not previously noticed. The latter—big men with swarthy Moorish features—reflexively reached toward the weapons hidden beneath the breast pockets of their oversized suit jackets. Kismet was taken aback by the sudden reaction but managed to keep his composure. The smaller figure jumped in front of them, a woman he had not seen in more years than he could remember: Lysette Lyon.

  "Nick!" She smiled. Kismet hadn't forgotten that smile. It was the kind of smile that could easily get a guy in trouble. She turned to the Fat Man. "It's all right. This is my friend."

  "Shame on you Monsieur Kismet," clucked the Fat Man in a deeply accented singsong tone. "Sneaking up on people isn't nice." With a shooing gesture he dismissed the boy who had been escorting Kismet, his gaze lingering on the departing figure with unabashed lasciviousness, and then he nodded to his bodyguards. The larger of the two men, marked with a permanent scowl and a long scar that ran the length of his jaw, eased his hand away from the concealed weapon and moved to frisk the new arrival.

  Kismet grunted as the search got a little too personal, but kept his eyes fixed on the only thing in the room worth looking at. She was as lovely as ever. Tiny—the top of her head rose barely to the center of his chest—she had always carried herself with an easy grace. Her natural blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she didn't have any make-up on, but she wore her blue jeans and a pastel T-shirt as if they were the latest Paris fashions.

  Still a knockout, thought Kismet. Too bad that it takes more than looks to make it work.

  Indeed, if physical attraction was the element critical to success in a relationship, he and Lysette Lyon would have long ago become a happily married suburban couple. Of course he was as much to blame for that failure as she.

  Thinking back, he found he could not recall the details of their parting. Had it been amicable? He couldn't actually remember when they had ceased to be in love. He had gone off in search of answers to a mystery begun during a hellish mission into Iraq during Operation Desert Shield and somehow everything else had gotten lost along the way. Had he even tried to look her up upon returning to the United States, several months later? His memory was especially hazy on that point; he'd had so many other things on his mind back then. He had no idea what vocation she had followed after finishing college, but had difficulty believing that the intelligent and motivated young woman from those days had somehow gotten involved in international intrigue and fallen in with the likes of the Fat Man. Nor could he fathom why, in her hour of need, she had summoned him with a cryptic text message that hinted of peril and promised great reward if he hastened to a rendezvous in Morocco. There had to be more to the situation than what appeared at first glance. He decided to play his cards close to the vest.

  "You picked a hell of a place for a reunion, Lyse, but it's good to see you again." He decided not to let her know how good; no sense in giving her that much leverage. "So, I'm here. What's this all about?"

  Before she could answer, the Fat Man spoke. "Your lady friend owes me money, monsieur. A great deal of money."

  The search turned up nothing; no weapons were concealed in the deep cargo pockets of his olive drab military surplus trousers or beneath the roomy fabric of his Ex Oficio photojournalist-style work shirt. Kismet fixed Lyse with an accusing stare. "Want to tell me about it?"

  "I had some bad luck," she replied evasively. She tried to evince anxiety with her facial expression but her body language was confident. She was far more in control of the situation than she wanted Kismet to believe.

  "Your friend begged for me to allow her to send for you, Monsieur Kismet. I would have been content to simply sell her to some friends of mine who provide—ah, shall we say special entertainment services?—in order to recoup my losses, but she insists you can help." The Fat Man smiled and wiped his fingers on the front of his robe. "I trust you can?"

  Kismet did not break eye contact with her. "What do you have in mind?"

  Lyse was still grimacing from the Fat Man's threat, but she looked back hopefully at Kismet. "I've got something you'll want."

  She motioned for him to follow her to a table against one wall. The Fat Man struggled to his feet and joined them. Lyse pulled back a covering piece of fabric to reveal a small statue, about a foot long and a hand's breadth high. Kismet reached for it and examined it more closely.

  "Know what it is?"

  "Golden calf," Kismet muttered, mostly to himself. "Agricultural deity. Designed along the lines of an Egyptian Apis bull. Disk of Amon Ra, the sun god, between the horns."

  He rubbed a finger along the surface of the disk, feeling a faint indentation, then held the statuette up to the light and peered intently at the inscription on the disk. Four characters of Semitic script were engraved on the soft metal, the four consonants which represented the name of God. Kismet frowned, then turned the statue over and examined its underside.

  "On a hunch, I'd say this is a replica of the golden calf, described in the Bible account of the exodus from Egypt. Possibly used by the Hebrews in calf worship ceremonies in Samaria, circa—oh, say 800 BCE." He hefted it, trying to judge the content of gold. "Not very heavy, probably acacia wood, overlaid with gold. Where did you pick it up?"

  "That is unimportant," interjected the Fat Man. "It belongs to your friend; it is her only remaining possession. My sources tell me I can get twenty thousand Euro on the open market. Mademoiselle Lyon's debt to me is more than twice that amount. She says that she can convince you to pay fifty thousand Euro. If you do not, I will sell it to a private collector for whatever I can get—" He glanced over at Lyse, a gleeful look of mayhem dancing in his squinty eyes— "and deal with the mademoiselle accordingly."

  Lyse swallowed, a touch too dramatically. "Come on, Nick. You know this thing is priceless. Help me out here."

  Kismet turned the statue over once more. "Fifty thousand?" In his head, he juggled the current rate of exchange, converting the figure into an approximate value in American dollars. It remained a large sum in any denomination.

  It was not Nick Kismet's job to roam the world purchasing art treasures in order to rescue damsels in distress. In fact, for more than a decade he had been dedicated to the prospect of stamping out the black market trade of cultural art, as part of the UNESCO Global Heritage Commission. Men like the Fat Man, and evidently women like his former college flame Lysette Lyon, were the enemy in that struggle. The idea of paying the Fat Man--negotiating a ransom price--for something that belonged in a national museum was repugnant.

  He did however, have the money.

  "This thing is right out of the Bible," continued Lyse, as if the assertion would somehow lend gravity to her plea. "It proves that they really did worship calves."

  "It would really help if I knew where you got it," Kismet countered as he continued his examination. He carefully pressed a thumbnail against the soft yellow metal. It was gold all right, and too pure to be an electroplated fake. Nevertheless, something about the statue nagged at him; something about it was not right.

  "Enough discussion," roared the Fat Man, his bulk jiggling as he gestured emphatically. "Will you pay, monsieur? Is fifty thousand too much? How about thirty thousand, and I let Tariq have some fun with Mme. Lyon for our viewing pleasure."

  Kismet ignored the man's tirade, but one of the bodyguards—the man with the scar—moved closer, as if eager to indulge the proposition. Lyse continued pleading for him to buy the statue, but he tuned her out, focusing on the sun disk. He stared at the inscription for several seconds before realizing wh
at it was about the statue that had been bothering him. He kicked himself for having failed to note the discrepancy in his initial inspection, then lowered the calf and turned to Lyse.

  "We need to talk," he said in a low voice.

  "No talk," declared the Fat Man. "Buy the statue now or she dies. That is a promise, Kismet. And might I add that it would also be to your own advantage to act quickly."

  Kismet glanced from Lyse to the Fat Man, then back again, trying to read the intent on their faces. Someone was trying to con him, but who was the mastermind: the Fat Man or Lyse? There had been times during the course of their relationship when she had delighted in pranks, twisting him around her little finger, but nothing like this.

  He was sure of one thing. The Fat Man was not going to let them just walk away. It was time to take the initiative. Hefting the statue casually, he faced their corpulent host. "Well, I don't actually have that much cash with me. Do you take American Express?"

  The Fat Man gazed back, incredulous. Kismet grinned, and then burst into motion. Turning on his heel, he swung the statue like a club, catching the bodyguard Tariq in the jaw. The big Moor collapsed backward, dazed but not unconscious.

  "Nick, what are you doing?" shrieked Lyse.

  As the remaining guard reached for his gun, Kismet hurled the statue at him. The artifact caught the man in the elbow, and his pistol tumbled from his grasp. Kismet leapt across the room, laying the stunned man out with a haymaker punch. Now nothing stood between him and the exit.

  Lyse seemed to be frozen to the spot where she stood. Her eyes flashed around the room, glancing rapidly at the Fat Man and the bodyguards, but then her gaze settled upon the golden statue where it lay.

  "Are you coming?" growled Kismet.

  The Fat Man suddenly began crying out for help, but did not move to hinder either of them. Lyse overcame her shock and dashed across the room, pausing only to scoop up the fallen relic.

  "Lyse, that statue—" He was unable to finish the sentence as Tariq got to his feet and charged. Lyse's small form darted through the beaded curtain, leaving him to face the wrath of the bodyguards alone. Rather than attempt to match the big man in hand-to-hand combat, he simply stepped aside at the last minute, sweeping out with his foot out to hook Tariq's ankle. The big man plunged headlong into the wall, and Kismet vaulted over him in pursuit of his old flame.

  He caught up to her at the front entrance where she was panting to catch her breath. A dark shape rested on a table beside the door; his waist pack waiting right where he had left it after entering the Fat Man's lair. He looped the buckled strap over his head so that it hung from his shoulder like a satchel, then took hold of Lyse's arm and dragged her out into the street.

  "Which way?" she asked, her breathing almost normal again.

  Kismet shrugged then chose to follow the street to the right, toward the fading glow of the sunset. The main suuq, the Djemaa el-Fna, lay in that direction. The crowded marketplace would provide ample opportunity to blend in and escape spying eyes. A moment later Tariq and his companion burst from the house and gave chase.

  The streets were narrow, the two and three story buildings seeming to fold over on top of them like a subterranean passageway. He knew that these streets, like some of the forgotten places he had explored in his search for answers about the strange mystery of his life, formed a daunting maze full of dead ends and unpleasant surprises.

  As they rounded a corner, Kismet saw that the street ahead was partially blocked; a forest-green Range Rover was parked at an angle to effectively limit access to the avenue. A Caucasian man leaned against the front fender of the vehicle, idly smoking a cigarette and shooing off beggars and children as thought they were flies, with a dismissive smoky wave. When he caught sight of Kismet and Lyse running toward him the half-finished butt fell from his fingers.

  A commotion erupted behind them as Tariq, his companion and several other men—undoubtedly the Fat Man's domestic staff—burst out onto the street, shouting angrily and scanning in all directions to locate the fleeing duo. Kismet glanced at them then returned his gaze forward, focused on darting past the parked vehicle. He almost failed to notice the bystander withdrawing a handgun from a concealed holster.

  "Jesus," he gasped, whirling in mid-step and all but tackling Lyse in his haste to seek cover. He knew the gesture was futile. At less than ten paces, the man with the pistol could cut them to ribbons. As Lyse went down, barely aware of the new threat, the golden statue tumbled from her grasp. The relic clanked loudly on the brick surface of the street and rolled a few feet away. In his peripheral vision, Kismet saw her struggling to retrieve it.

  "Lyse, that thing is—"

  The gun spoke. Loud explosions echoed in the narrow confines of the street as the forty-five-caliber pistol discharged several times into the air over their heads. The man continued to pump bullets, not at the hapless pair on the ground, but into the crowd of men pursuing them. Several of the shots found their mark; Kismet heard cries of pain and cursing as the mob scattered, seeking the cover of doorways and debris. He knew it would not be long before Tariq and his cohorts returned fire, with himself and Lyse caught in the middle.

  Why the motorist had come to their assistance, Kismet could not fathom, but when he looked up, he found the man gesturing for them to get in the Range Rover. Kismet nodded, and tried to crawl toward the vehicle, but his left ankle seemed rooted in place. He looked back and found Lyse clutching his foot.

  "No, Nick. This way." She jumped up, the golden calf tucked under her arm, and began running back the way they had come.

  "Lyse! What the hell--?" Kismet gaped in amazement as she threaded the gauntlet seemingly unnoticed by the Fat Man's mob, which apparently had more pressing concerns. He turned back to the pistol-wielding motorist, and found that the man's expression was no longer that of an eager rescuer. A muscle in the gunman's face had begun to twitch with rising ire, leading Kismet to believe that perhaps Lyse had made the correct decision after all. "Oh," he muttered, then took off running.

  As he darted through the huddled group of men that had now given up pursuit, he heard the motorist barking orders in German. He risked a rearward glance and found that the fellow had not come to the street alone. Several men wearing casual Western attire materialized from the rear of the vehicle and took up the chase. Kismet swung his eyes forward, straining to catch a glimpse of Lyse, and poured on a burst of speed. Behind him the concussions of pistol fire resumed, but now the shooting was from both parties; a small war had begun in the street outside the Fat Man's house. Sparks danced on the walls to either side telling Kismet that although he was no longer the primary target, he was still in grave danger of catching a stray bullet. Lysette was nowhere to be seen.

  "Ni-i-ick!"

  The cry for help came from up ahead and to the left. Kismet spied an intersecting street and darted down it, leaving the firefight behind. When he turned the corner, he skidded to a halt.

  An old beggar, eyes staring blankly in apparent blindness, sat with his back to one wall, oblivious to the violence a block away. He held a long rod in his fingers, and a straw basket lay before him, its lid resting against his knee.

  Lyse was not looking at the beggar, but at his pet, an Egyptian Cobra which hovered in the center of the street, swaying dangerously from left to right, signaling its clear intent that no one would pass unmolested. The toothless mendicant cackled beside them, mocking their fear as he waved the oblong rod toward them. It was a flute, a snake charmer's horn. If they were to pass by, they would have to give alms and wait for him to play his tune.

  "Lyse," muttered Kismet from the corner of his mouth. "Pay the nice man."

  "Me? I don't have any money. You pay him."

  "Oh, for crying out loud." He fumbled for his waist pack, but the intensity of the cobra's stare was hypnotic, depriving him of volition.

  On the avenue they had left behind, an ominous silence settled. The shooting had ceased; the battle was over. The victorious part
y, whichever it was, would soon remember the original purpose for venturing into the streets of the old city. Kismet knew that time was running out. Biting his lip, he tried to force his eyelids down in order to break visual contact with the viper, but they conspired against him; his fear of what the cobra might do if he looked away nearly overpowered his will to even blink. At last succeeding, he turned his head toward Lyse.

  She too was transfixed by the cobra's stare. Kismet kept his gaze focused, refusing to believe the hysterical delusions and visual tricks that were being played in the corner of his eye. His rational mind knew that the cobra was not slithering closer even though every nerve in his body screamed that it was.

  With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached out for Lyse's arm and plucked the golden statue from her grasp. Before she could protest, Kismet whirled and tossed the relic into the beggar's basket. The old fellow nodded his head appreciatively and raised the flute to his lips.

  "Nick, no!" Lyse leaped into motion. She crossed in front of him and reached for the basket.

  "Lyse, it's a—" Kismet fell silent as he saw the snake move. He knew that this time what he saw was no hallucination.

  The cobra knew its responsibility to its master. Once something went into the basket, it became the old man's property. Theft was to be punished. With the swiftness of a lightning strike, its fangs bared and oozing venom, the snake darted for her outstretched arm.

  Kismet was faster. He instinctively stabbed out his right hand and plucked the animal out of the air, arresting its deadly strike, and suddenly found himself gripping the business end of a six foot length of squirming reptile.

  He squeezed the serpent just behind the curl of its jaw, clenching his teeth in frustration as the snake writhed and coiled about him, hissing angrily. When the viper finally succumbed to captivity, Kismet turned slowly toward the old man and with a weak pitch tossed the cobra away.