by Sean Ellis
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 translati
ng 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.”
“Don’t you?” Kismet’s voice held a tone of accusation. He was trying to regain control of the situation by putting the curator back on the defensive. “He uncovered a wealth of artifacts from the Babylonian dynasty. I can’t believe such an important discovery would have gone unnoticed.”
Hussein rattled off the Arabic equivalent, then turned to Kismet before the older man could reply. “Please sir, you must understand. What you are asking… It would be like asking you if you know Joe from New York.”
Kismet’s stare never left Aziz. The other man continued to squirm uncomfortably as he uttered another denial.
“I don’t believe you.” Kismet understood enough that he did not need to wait for an interpretation before pressing his argument. “I think you know exactly who I am talking about, and what he discovered. I think you’ve been illegally selling other artifacts from that same dig. And I think you had better start telling us everything you know about Samir Al-Azir and what he found at Babylon.”
The accusation hung in the air like a static charge as Hussein reluctantly converted the demand into his native language. Before Aziz could reply however, a trilling noise broke the silence. Mildly startled, Kismet turned to Chiron, but the Frenchman only shrugged. It was Aziz who eventually responded to the electronic tone, drawing from his breast pocket a familiar-looking object: a Qualcomm portable telephone handset. He opened the oblong device and began speaking in a low voice. After a brief exchange, he rose and excused himself via Hussein.
As Aziz stepped across the threshold of the conference room, Kismet turned his attention to the young translator. It was evident to Kismet that Aziz was concealing information, but Hussein seemed truly in the dark respecting his superior’s activities. “Where did you learn English?”
After a moment of distrustful incomprehension, the young man smiled. “Oxford. I studied abroad in my youth.”
Kismet smiled at the implication that Hussein had somehow left his immaturity behind during his instructional years. “You speak it very well. How long have you been working with Mr. Aziz?”
“I have been at the museum for three years, but not exclusively with Mr. Aziz. I translate for many among the staff and assist visiting dignitaries, such as your honored selves.”
Kismet nodded slowly. It was doubtful that Hussein would be privy to any dark secrets. Men like Aziz rarely entrusted such matters to their subordinates. He decided to try a different tack. “I wasn’t aware that phone service had been restored.”
Hussein raised an eyebrow, then cast a glance over his shoulder toward the exit where he had last seen Aziz. “It has in some places. But that phone does not require a local connection.”
“It’s a satellite phone, isn’t it?” Kismet already knew the answer. The unusual antenna configuration of the Qualcomm GSP1600 marked it as a device designed to do more than simply interface with the local cellular network. In an age where most cell phones were miniaturized to the point that they might easily be concealed in a closed hand, the bulky handset and long antenna extension had given Aziz’s phone away as a receiver capable of picking up transmissions beamed to the Globalstar satellite network. With a sat-phone, you could take a call from almost anywhere in the world. “That’s a pretty expensive piece of hardware.”
Hussein immediately went on the defensive. “We maintain a large repository of knowledge about the ancient world. Our patrons in Europe want us to be able to share information with universities and scientists around the world. When the threat of war began to loom, they arranged for this technology to be put at our disposal.”
Kismet nodded slowly. “And there’s been a lot of communication since?”
“Many scholars are concerned about the looting and damage to priceless antiquities. They call to express their support for our efforts to restore the collection.”
“Then we are all working toward the same goal,” intoned Chiron.
For once, Kismet was grateful to the older man for his saccharine observation. He had no desire to keep Hussein on guard. If anything, he needed the young translator in a more cooperative frame of mind. “Have you been to any of the major dig sites?”
The young man remained wary. “I have been to all of them.”
“I spent some time in the ruins of Ur, Tall al Muqayyar.”
“Near An Nasiriyah. Yes, I have been there.”
“This is a wonderful country to live in if you are a lover of history,” Chiron remarked. His expression of vague disinterest belied the conviction in his tone, but the sentiment was evidently something the young assistant curator could grasp. Hussein broke into a broad smile.
“It’s all here,” he answered, an enthusiastic boy discovering the world for the first time and eager to share. “The birthplace of civilization, the oldest forms of writing, the oldest laws. The father of all faiths, Ibraim, was born here and his descendants—the twelve tribes of Arabia—remain to this day. Alexander the Great walked here, as did the Christian Saint Peter. History begins here.”
“You’ve barely scratched the surface, my boy. God himself has walked here. In the oldest writings, His presence is felt. The Garden of Eden was here, at the headwaters of the river Euphrates.”
“Yes!” Hussein clapped his hands together emphatically. “And He spoke to Ibraim and called him out of Chaldea. Exactly. No matter what your faith, you cannot escape the fact that God has made His will known in this place.”
Kismet glanced at Chiron, trying to determine if the sudden oration on the religious significance of the region was part of some broader plan to gain the younger man’s trust. If it was, the Frenchman hid it well.
“I wonder what’s keeping Aziz?” he ventured, looking for a way to put the conversation back on track. Hussein started to rise, eager to be of service, but Kismet forestalled him. “No, I’ll go. I wouldn’t mind a chance to stretch my legs. I’ll yell if I get lost.”
He moved past the long table toward the doorway Aziz had exited through. As he turned the knob, he listened for the sound of the man’s voice. “Mr. Aziz?”
The door opened into an office half the size of the conference room. It was difficult to say what purpose the room had served prior to the chaos following the war. Now it was an impromptu storeroom cluttered with paper and boxes. Another doorway on the opposite wall exited the room and Kismet picked his way carefully though the litter, intent on locating their reluctant host.
The next room appeared to be a gallery set aside for seasonal exhibits, but like the storeroom, it now housed only rubble. Piles of broken statuary and brick were heaped in the corner, while empty display cases with smashed-out glass windows lined both long walls. At the far end of the hall, Kismet saw Aziz talking animatedly to a shorter individual dressed in the long garments of a Bedouin. The man’s face was almost completely covered by a swath of fabric from his turban.
Kismet stopped short, mildly embarrassed at the interruption. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were—”
Both men turned abruptly at the sound of his voice. Aziz wore a guilty expression, as if caught in an indiscreet moment, but the robed figure showed no such hesitancy. He thrust a hand into the folds of his garmen
t and whipped out a long, tubular object. In the instant of time it took Kismet to recognize that it was a pistol, outfitted with a sound and flash suppressor, the man aimed and fired.
Aziz took two rounds in the chest at close range before Kismet could raise a hand in protest. The groan that escaped from the curator’s lips as he sank to his knees was far louder than the noise of the fatal shots. Then, a third shot bored a red cavity, no thicker than a pencil, in the center of Aziz’s forehead to silence him forever.
Four
Kismet’s initial shock wore off in the instant the killer administered the coup de grace. He threw himself sideways, ducking behind the solid base of a shattered display case, and thrust a hand into the nylon pack belted around his waist. The small pack was designed around a breakaway holster, secured with Velcro, which contained his Glock 19 semi-automatic handgun. He ripped it free of its stays and balled his fist around the grip as he chambered a round. His finger tightened on the trigger. With his left hand steadying the barrel, he rolled into the open, bringing the gun to bear on the place where he had seen the assassin a moment before, dreading the inevitable return fire.
The hall was empty.
He caught a glimpse of the killer’s loose robes, fluttering through the doorway like a bird taking to flight, and decisively gave chase. After crossing the hall, he vaulted over the still-twitching form of Aziz, and was just in time to see the assassin’s back disappear into a gallery to his right. With the pistol outstretched before him, he gave chase.
The gallery into which he ran seemed to abruptly transition him four millennia into the past. The room was like a darkened chamber in an ancient temple keep. One wall was devoted entirely to a sculpted alabaster relief featuring figures with curly, square-cut beards. Even in the mere seconds in which Kismet had to identify the objects in the gallery, he had no difficulty recognizing the signature of the Akkadian civilization, the second great culture to arise in Mesopotamia.
Yet here too, the hand of war had dealt a blow. Many of the artifacts had been vandalized, smashed by looters with no rational motive. Kismet had read news reports concerning one noteworthy sculpture, a bronze bust of the great Akkadian king Sargon, that had been taken by an opportunist hoping to score a small fortune in the international antiquities trade. Though the head had been recovered, it would be some time before such a valuable relic would again be displayed openly. Hundreds of other pieces—cuneiform tablets dating back to the time of Hammurabi, alabaster lions and gryphons, bronze artworks from the dawn of metallurgy—were now likewise secreted away from public view.