The Shroud of Heaven

by Sean Ellis

  ”Marie,” she replied, looking up from beneath the bulky helmet. Her smile could not quite erase his memory of the haughtiness he had earlier detected. “My name is Marie Villaneauve,” she continued in English. “And I also appreciate your prompt action in my defense.”

  She then nodded toward the pack of reporters and videographers that had decided to chase after him. “However, I believe we are now even.”

  ***

  No matter where he went in the world, Saeed Tariq Al-Sharaf always made sure that he had a view of water. He preferred river frontages most of all. Rivers were the source of life, as far as he was concerned. He had grown up in a place without rivers, a place where water was procured only through physical labor, but as he matured, gaining authority and with it a measure of wealth, he had moved closer to the great river and made a solemn promise to always pitch his tent within sight of water.

  Of course, he was not alone in his appreciation of an aquatic panorama. The scenic vistas he craved came with a hefty price tag, especially here where the presence of so many affluent businessmen, politicians and celebrities had inflated real estate prices by an order of magnitude. Additionally, the lease of the chateau was being handled through a proxy, a faceless law office in Geneva, and that act of representation further bumped up the expense of maintaining a view of the river.

  But what a view it is, thought Saeed. Worth every euro.

  His eyes lingered on the sun-dappled surface of the waterway, contemplating it meditatively, as if in prayer. It was as close as he came to devotion. Even when he had lived in the desert, he had flaunted the five-times daily ritual call of the muezzin. He accepted that there was no God but God, but held to the personal belief that Allah had put man on earth to find his own way. Religion was a tool for rallying, and if necessary manipulating, the rabble, but served no divine purpose that he could see.

  The muster of the masses was now fully underway in the country of his birth. The Persians had not won the nation through conquest—that had been the work of the American devils—but in anticipation of the fall of Saddam Hussein’s government, the theocratic government of Iran had sent hundreds of mullahs over the border, insinuating into the Shiite community in order to cultivate popular support for a religious government in Iraq. During his reign, Saddam had brutally quashed any number of attempts on the part of the faithful to organize, recognizing the power inherent in such zeal, but the Americans were reluctant to employ such decisive tactics in defense of their cause, and so the Shiite majority was becoming emboldened to take control of the nation.

  Saeed had been following the story with great interest, even as he had followed the build-up to war and the subsequent campaign. He did not really care how the game eventually played out, but he craved information about the struggle. It was very important to know which way the wind was going to blow in order to chart his course.

  He turned away from the river, his eyes slow to adjust after staring into the glare, and turned up the volume on the television set. The twenty-four hour satellite news channel to which he kept the set tuned at all times had been broadcasting almost nothing but coverage of the war and civil unrest for several weeks. The latest developments concerned him directly. Agents from Interpol and the American Federal Bureau of Investigation had successfully recovered a great number of art treasures looted from the National Museum in Baghdad, preventing them from being dispersed in the European black market. While Saeed’s interests had not been directly affected, the affair would draw unwelcome attention to what had been a largely ignored enterprise.

  A flashing graphic on the screen seized his interest, the words “Breaking News,” which sometimes heralded a significant change in the position of the pieces on the global game board. As he had come to expect, the new development regarded something that had just occurred in his homeland. He listened carefully to the English language broadcast, mentally translating the foreign words as he watched.

  There had been an attack at what he still thought of as the Saddam International Airport. A suicide bomber had blown himself up in an effort to bring great destruction upon the troops massed at the large facility a few kilometers outside of Baghdad. The explosion had done some structural damage and caused several injuries, however it was being reported that the only fatality resulting from the blast was the bomber himself. As if to underscore this point, the handsome journalist reporting the incident stood on the runway, with a smoking pile of debris just over his left shoulder.

  “The suicide bomb attack appears to have been part of a broader strategy. An effort to disrupt a key supply route. However, that desperate mission was thwarted, not by US troops, but rather by a civilian bystander.”

  The screen cut to video footage of two men conversing: one a soldier in desert camouflage, the other wearing blue jeans and a khaki shirt. Judging by his appearance, Saeed would have believed the second man to be a soldier in civilian attire. He was obviously in excellent physical shape and his close-cropped hairstyle was de rigueur among American military personnel. Probably from their CIA.

  “This man,” continued the reporter in a voice-over, “an American representative of the Global Heritage Commission, part of the UN’s effort to address the looting of Iraqi antiquities, happened to be in the right place at the right time, and with the right weapon, to prevent the terrorist bomber from reaching his destination.

  “The man, identified as Nick Kismet, picked up a portable missile launcher, like the one seen here.” The picture changed to stock footage of a US soldier carrying an anti-tank weapon, but Saeed had already stopped watching, and after a moment, thumbed the button on the remote control to mute the speaker in order to make a telephone call.

  ***

  Her introduction notwithstanding, Marie Villaneauve was proving to be a tough nut to crack. As she guided Kismet through the mostly vacant terminal building she said very little, answering only a few direct questions with monosyllabic replies. He no longer sensed that she was trying to be rude, but her quiet indifference was nevertheless wearing thin.

  He made one last attempt. “So you’re with UNESCO?”

  “Oui.”

  Kismet admitted defeat. Small talk had never been his strong suit anyway.

  Their destination lay in an unfinished wing of the airport building. The Baghdad International Airport—the metal letters affixed to the exterior walls still read “Saddam International”—had never really been used for its intended purpose. Shunned by most of the global community for decades, Iraq had failed to become a leading travel destination, even in the Arab world. The facility had however become a critical target of the US-led coalition during the month-long campaign to overthrow the brutal despot. A perfect landing zone for resupply flights, it was lightly defended and close enough to the capital city to serve as a base of operations for the final push on Baghdad. It now served as a central receiving area for both military and civilian activities, and until the earlier suicide bomb attack, was thought to be a safe haven for foreigners.

  Baghdad was actually a safer place for Americans than some of the areas to the south, where Shiite activism was reaching a fever pitch. The Sunni Muslims living in the country’s largest city were primarily interested in restoring their infrastructure, and the US Army engineers assisting in that effort were viewed as heroes rather than interlopers. But as the events of that morning had amply demonstrated, violence did not require a majority opinion. There were international journalists still occupying some of the hotels in the city, but most critical operations were being run from the secure environment of the airport. Likewise, the UN headquarters had been locked up and left behind two months previously, meaning that UNESCO’s mission in Iraq would also have to be based at the airport.

  Marie led him to a windowless door at the end of a hallway, identified only by a sheet of paper from a laser printer with the acronym of her organization in block letters, taped beside the doorpost. She turned the knob, pushing the door open, and stepped aside.

&nbs
p; Kismet demurred. “Ladies first.”

  The instinctive deferment won a crooked smile from his reticent guide, and she proceeded through the door ahead of him. Once over the threshold, he eased his duffel to the floor, sensing that the long journey was nearly over.

  “Hello, Nick.”

  Kismet whirled, instantly recognizing the voice, and all thoughts of breaching Marie Villaneauve’s social defenses were put aside. “Pierre, you old bastard.”

  Pierre Chiron, the man who had befriended him during a visit to France eight years before, and who had ultimately given him a job, crossed the barren room and embraced Kismet heartily. “Ah, Nick. It’s always good to see you.”

  “I had a feeling you’d be here, though I can’t imagine why.” Kismet drew back, holding his old friend at arm’s length, and got his first real look at the man. He didn’t like what he saw.

  He knew Chiron to be in his late sixties, but the UN scientist seemed to have aged at least another decade beyond his natural years. On the occasion of their last meeting, the Frenchman had been robust if slightly stooped from years of academic torpor, but he now seemed hollow, a summer leaf gone prematurely to autumn. Kismet smiled to hide his dismay.

  “My God, Nick. How long has it been?”

  “Not since…” He hesitated. He had not seen Chiron since Collette’s funeral. “Almost six years,” he amended hastily, trying to steer his comments away from the painful memories that his recollection was stirring up. “We’ve done a lot of good in that time.”

  Chiron managed a wan smile. “My many young protégés have accomplished wonders. Alas, I have done little more than sit back and take credit for it all.”

  Kismet was not fooled by the old man’s modesty. Although he had not since paid a visit to Chiron’s home or to the UNESCO headquarters—both in Paris—he had stayed in touch. Following the death of his spouse, Chiron had to all appearances thrown himself into the task of saving the UN’s scientific and cultural organization. His Global Heritage Commission had been an integral part of restoring UNESCO’s credibility, to the point that the United States had now committed itself to restoring its lapsed membership. Nevertheless, his desolate physical appearance bore testimony to the fact that he had not completely found solace in his work.

  “Well, you’ve got me this far. What’s next? Are we going to comb the city for looted artifacts?” Though his voice held a hint of irony, he half-expected Chiron to answer affirmatively. The collapse of the Iraqi regime had led to a period of wanton vandalism and pillaging, stripping away in a single night the treasures of the most ancient civilization on earth. Protecting those tangible links to cultures since past was part and parcel of the GHC’s charter. Although Chiron had been trained as an atomic scientist, as chairman of GHC it was appropriate that he take an interest in the crisis.

  Chiron however shook his head sadly. “Interpol and your American FBI have already taken that task upon themselves, and with great success I might add.”

  “What, then? Putting the National Museum back together? I hope you didn’t bring me over here just to sweep up the broken glass and build new dioramas?”

  The old man stared at him silently for a moment, then glanced at Marie. “Ah, where are my manners? You’ve made a proper introduction to my assistant, I trust.”

  Kismet’s eyebrows betrayed his irritation, but he otherwise kept his expression neutral. “After a fashion.”

  “Monsieur Kismet saved my life,” intoned Marie, her voice matter-of-fact. She removed her bulky helmet, giving Kismet his first real opportunity to study her face. Her dark hair, not quite black, was styled in a modified wedge cut, longer toward the front where it curled under at her jaw on either side. Her forehead was covered by squared-off bangs, perfectly parallel to her sculpted eyebrows. The effect was decidedly contrived, too artificial for such a rugged environment. Kismet recalled his earlier appraisal. She did indeed look like a fashion model, stranded now on the wrong kind of runway.

  Chiron burst into laughter. “Did he indeed? He has a habit of doing that.” He laughed again. Though smile lines cracked his face, the humor seemed to erase years of despair. “Yes, I heard some shooting. Was that you, Nick?”

  “Old habits die hard.”

  “Well you both look no worse for wear. Come, let’s settle down.” He gestured toward one of the unfinished walls where several foam shipping containers had been arranged into makeshift furniture. “Have you eaten?”

  “On the plane. I don’t know if that qualifies as food.”

  “Alas, it’s better than what I have to offer.” Chiron held up a brown plastic bag about the size of book. “Meals, Ready to Eat, or so they say. I like the fruit candies, but…” He shook his head sadly.

  Kismet didn’t think his old friend could afford to miss any meals. He opened his duffel bag, rooting around inside for a heavily wrapped parcel. “When I realized you might be here, I took a chance. I think you’ll be pleased.”

  He opened the package, revealing a bottle of red wine along with a baguette and a wheel of Brie. Chiron’s eyes lit up. Kismet turned to Marie. “I imagine you’re getting pretty sick of MREs, too. Join us?”

  For a moment, he thought she would accept the invitation. She even took a step toward the improvised settee, an eager smile blossoming on her painted lips. Then, unexpectedly, the smile wilted. “I’m sure you two have a great deal to discuss. Regrettably, I shall have to decline.”

  Kismet nodded, unsurprised by her decision. He sensed Chiron’s disappointment, but did not entirely share the sentiment. “Another time, perhaps. Though I’ll warn you, the fare might not be as palatable.”

  She nodded, and then backed away, her helmet tucked under one arm. When she was gone, he turned to Chiron. “Where did you find the ice queen?”

  The Frenchman pretended not to hear the question. He held up the bottle, displaying the label with mock contempt. “Sonoma valley? I mistook you for a civilized man.”

  “It gets worse,” Kismet replied ruefully. “I didn’t bring any glasses.”

  ***

  Chiron lifted his drink, tilting the ceramic coffee mug toward the younger man. “To Collette,” he declared in a solemn voice.

  The corner of Kismet’s mouth twitched in anxious surprise, but he raised his own cup in salute. “To Collette.”

  The sun was settling into the western sky, but the air remained warm as an arid wind blew in from the south. After scrounging the porcelain cups, the two men had made their way onto the flat roof of the terminal in order to enjoy the imported repast as they contemplated the end of the day. It was a scene that harkened back to the summer Kismet had spent in Paris, a guest in the Chiron household.

  Pierre’s wife had doted on him, welcoming him as the child she would never have, and Kismet, whose biological mother had vanished from his life before his earliest memory, eagerly embraced the attention of a maternal figure. It had proven to be a brief, but mutually satisfying relationship. Meanwhile, Chiron had helped him scour the UNESCO archives for any clues that would lead him to resolve the mystery of what had happened one fateful night in 1991: Kismet’s first journey into the desert. Though never fully understanding what it was the young man sought, the scientist and diplomat had enjoyed the role of mentor. More than once, the two men had gathered, along with Collette, on the veranda to watch the sunset. Her conspicuous absence was now a painful reminder of what had happened in the years that followed.

  Chiron sighed. “I do miss her, Nick.”

  Kismet nodded uncertainly, but said nothing.

  The other man stared into his cup, swirling the dark contents as if looking for an omen in the dregs. “Do you think she is with God?”

  The question caught him off guard. He knew Pierre to be a staunch secularist, at best an agnostic. The issue of faith had been broached almost from the start of their acquaintance; two men of uncertain beliefs, meeting on the threshold of a place revered by the devout, had presented a noteworthy contrast.

  “I
f He’s out there, I’ve no doubt she’s with Him.”

  “If.” Chiron laughed, then drained the contents of the mug. “The great unanswered question. She never had any doubt though. Not even at the end.”

  Kismet looked at his own cup, averting his eyes from the older man. The Frenchman’s turn of speech reminded him of the morose rambling of a drunkard. He made no attempt to fill the uncomfortable void, but silently hoped the other man would change the subject. Chiron however was not finished.

  “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?”