by Sean Ellis
Damascus had the reputation of being the world’s oldest continuously inhabited city, its recorded existence dating back more than five thousand years. Saeed understood how the Syrian capital might have justified its existence in the days when trade caravans sought refuge from the bleak desert, but could not imagine why anyone would choose to continue to remain there when the need for such an oasis had been obviated by modern technology. Whatever the reason, the city certainly seemed to be showing its age, especially in the slums on the outskirts, where people lived in houses of baked clay as they had for uncounted generations.
Damn my brother for bringing me here, he thought sourly.
He suspected that Farid was already there, hiding out somewhere to observe him surreptitiously, or perhaps simply to watch him sweat. Although he had purchased a djellabah—the traditional overgarment—he felt distinctly out of place. The locals had certainly noticed him A group of children had harassed him for nearly an hour before finally tiring of the game and leaving him alone. It had now grown late, but Saeed remained there sitting in the dust.
“Alms?”
Saeed did not look up. He had spied the bent form of the beggar shuffling down the street earlier and had intentionally crossed to avoid making eye contact. The mendicant had moved on, but now it seemed he had worked his way around for a second try. When he was standing directly behind Saeed, he repeated his request in a low, earnest voice, almost daring him to refuse.
Saeed’s nostrils filled with the beggar’s stench. “Go away, old man!”
Then a different voice issued from the tattered rags covering the wanderer’s head. “What a pity that you could not even find it in your heart to observe this smallest command of the Prophet.”
Saeed looked around suddenly. “Farid? Son of a whore.”
“I see that you continue to disgrace our family both in deed and word.” There was no trace of humor in the familiar voice. The beggar stood straighter, but his disguise remained otherwise intact. He was unrecognizable as Farid Tariq Al-Sharaf, even to his own brother.
Saeed scowled at the complaint. He had heard the substance of the comment too many times to count. “Spare me. I did not travel to this godforsaken place because I missed your berating comments.”
“Indeed?” Farid sat down alongside his brother. “And I had desired never to see you again. Yet at your request, I have made this difficult journey. So tell me, brother, why is it that you have left your palace of pleasure behind to visit me after so many years?”
“A matter of mutual concern has arisen—”
”I do not believe our concerns could possibly be mutual,” Farid interjected disdainfully.
“Hear me out.” Saeed took a deep breath to regain his composure. “Have you been following the news from Baghdad? There was a suicide bomb attack against the US soldiers at the airport yesterday.”
“Yes.” Farid spat in the dirt. “Fedayeen Saddam loyalists. I’m glad they failed.”
Saeed hid his disappointment at the revelation. He had believed other forces responsible for that action. “And early this morning, there was another incident near the Monument to the Unknown Soldier.”
This time he saw the reaction he had hoped for. From behind his beggar’s disguise, Farid’s face drew into a mask of rage. “Yes. One of the American devils blasphemed our holy place and killed several innocents. He then ran like a coward into the arms of the soldiers.”
“The man responsible for that atrocity and the man who thwarted the attack at the airport are the same person.”
“How do you know this?”
Saeed risked a smile. “You forget who I am, brother. I served with distinction in the Mukhabarat for many years. Gathering information is my business.”
His mention of the hated Iraqi Intelligence Service triggered another expression of contempt, but Farid withheld comment on the matter, focusing instead on the issue under consideration. “So who is he?”
“His name is not important. What is important is that I can give him to you.”
The old distrust returned. “And why would you do this? How does our struggle for justice against our enemies benefit you?”
“This man has long been an enemy of all that we regard as holy—”
“Please Saeed.” Farid’s tone and expression were sour. “You regard nothing as holy.”
“An unfortunate choice of words, perhaps. But when I left the home of our parents and strayed from the teachings of the mullahs, I did not cease from loving our people or from hating our enemies.”
“Nevertheless, I find it difficult to believe that you would leave your self-indulgent lifestyle behind, simply to take revenge on an enemy of our people.”
Though he was wearying of his brother’s venom, Saeed chose to answer honestly. “The truth of the matter is that this man is a direct threat to my personal interests. For some years now, I have been trading in art treasures recovered from a site near Al Hillah on behalf of our government in order to raise hard currency during the economic embargo.”
“But the embargo has ended, as also has the influence of the dictator and his agents.”
Saeed pretended not to notice the veiled insult. “True, but the demand for these antiquities remains. As you have pointed out, I enjoy my decadent lifestyle and this is how I support it. But the man we have been discussing works for a department of the United Nations dedicated to shutting down my operation. That’s why I want him dead.”
Farid smiled knowingly. “Now at last you have said something I can believe. But if you know his identity, why do you not simply kill him yourself?”
“As events have demonstrated, he is not an easy man to kill. I doubt that I could do it alone and my former comrades in the service have been scattered. I imagine many are dead or imprisoned. Moreover, my information indicates that he may be traveling to Hillah to look for the site near the ruins of Babylon. You could pass there freely with your men, whereas I might draw unwelcome attention from those who dwell there.”
Farid stroked his chin thoughtfully. Saeed now saw that much of what he had mistaken for a disguise was in fact his brother’s true appearance. The Shiite activist and sometimes resistance leader appeared unnaturally aged and haggard. Nevertheless, underneath a crust of desert-parched skin, his younger brother’s eyes burned with the zeal of a true mujahideen. After several silent seconds, Farid faced him once more. “Very well. I will do your dirty work, brother. However, I must ask something of you, as well.”
“I expected no less. I would be honored to contribute to your cause—”
”Your evilly acquired profits do not interest me. Rather, I wish to offer you the chance to acquit yourself of the reproach you have heaped upon our family and your own name. I want you to return with me. Stand with the warriors of God as we send this American devil back to Shaitan.”
Saeed shifted nervously. “I would gladly do as you ask, but surely your men would refuse to join company with me.” The argument, while probably true, was not his primary reason for demurring; there was no reason to burden his brother with the details.
Farid however would not be sidetracked. “They will do as I instruct. The question is, will you?”
For a moment, all Saeed could think about was the desert, and the growing certainty that he would die there, in that awful hell to which he had vowed never to return. But if Kismet was not stopped, all that he had built would crumble anyway. When he finally gave his answer, he almost could not believe what he was saying. “I will go with you, my brother. We will fight together. Death to our enemies and the enemies of God!”
***
Another nine hours of sleep, aided by a cocktail of pain relievers and sedatives, wiped away most of the lingering effects of his brush with heat exhaustion, but Kismet reckoned it would be weeks before the bruises faded and the aches subsided. When he arose from his sleeping bag to dress, he found he could barely bend his joints in order to pull on his battered boots.
He made his way through th
e complex, following the route that had previously led him to Colonel Buttrick’s office, but when he arrived, he found only the unpleasant Major Harp seated at the commander’s desk. The officer regarded him with a look reserved for encounters with animal excrement.
“What do you want?”
“I need to speak with Colonel Buttrick.”
Harp scowled. “He’s not here. In fact, thanks to you, he’s been sent home—relieved of his command.”
The major’s words were like a fist to his gut. “That’s crazy. What happened out there wasn’t his fault.”
“No shit. But you aren’t in the army any more, so they can’t take action against the person who is responsible.”
Although he sensed it would be futile, Kismet spoke in his own defense. “I know this is a hard concept for you to grasp, but have you considered that maybe you should be mad at the person we were trying to catch. You know, the bad guy?”
“Lt. Col. Buttrick failed yesterday, Kismet. He failed to apprehend or destroy the enemy, and he failed to bring all his boys home. But in my opinion, his biggest mistake was letting you talk him into going out on that fool’s errand.” Harp stood and leaned over the desk so that he was face to face with Kismet. “Now I know that you aren’t here to ask me for any foolish favors, right?”
“I don’t suppose so.” Kismet sighed and turned away. At the threshold however, he paused and looked back. “Could I at least use your phone?”
“Only if you’re calling your travel agent.”
***
The phone in this case was a secure military satellite server, which allowed for voice-to-voice transfers, as well as broadband Internet capability. It was a generation ahead of the handset Aziz had employed. When Kismet placed his call, the clarity of the signal was outstanding; he might have been in the same room as the person who answered. Except it wasn’t a person.
“Thank you for calling the International Red Cross and Red Crescent. To continue in English, press ‘one’ now….”
Kismet patiently navigated the computerized system of menus until he eventually reached a living breathing person. After identifying himself, both by name and as a representative of UNESCO, he launched into his carefully rehearsed story. “I was hoping that you could help me contact one of your relief volunteers, a female doctor. She helped me out of a rather sticky situation recently and I wanted to thank her personally, but I’m having trouble tracking her down. Her last name is ‘Gault’ but I’m not certain of the spelling or nationality, and I don’t have a first name.”
“Bitte.” He could hear the sound of the young woman on the other end tapping the keyboard of her computer. “Let me look at our directory. There is a Doctor Rebecca Gault of Belgium.” She spelled both names. “She regularly works with our international relief missions. Where did you say you met her?”
Kismet recognized the trap. Doubtless the woman was looking at a list of Rebecca Gault’s activities, and would volunteer no more information unless he gave the right answer. He took a blind guess. “Afghanistan.”
“Oh, so it was a very recent encounter. She’s only just returned. Would you like me to page her?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She’s presently here at the headquarters. If you’ll hold a moment, I can page her.”
“Sure.” As soon as he heard the click of his transfer, he hung up. He had his answer.
***
Chiron was crestfallen by Kismet’s announcement that there would be no further military cooperation. “Then all is lost.”
His reaction seemed disproportionate to the setback. “We could hire a local driver to get us as far as the UN facility. But frankly, I’m not sure we should go on. We’ll be unarmed and unsupported. If something goes wrong—if we have a breakdown or get attacked—we’ll be on our own.”
“Nick, we must get to Babylon. The answers are there.”
Kismet remained skeptical. “I still think this is going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
Chiron smiled. “But you forget, we do not have to find something buried four thousand years ago. They have already done that. When you know that the needle really is in the haystack, all you need to do is search patiently.”
“But there’s no guarantee that the site hasn’t been completely ransacked. We may find the evidence of its existence, but it could just as well turn out to be one more dead end.”
Chiron shook his head emphatically. “The answers are there, at Babylon. I am sure of it.”
“What answers, Pierre?” Kismet’s voice took on a hard edge. “What exactly is it that you are looking for? Yesterday, when we were interviewing Aziz, you practically walked him around answering any of my questions. I thought we were after the same thing, but I’m beginning to wonder what your agenda is.”
For a moment, Chiron looked as if he might continue to protest his innocence, but his expression fell before he could utter a word. “You are right. I am looking for something more. But I assure you, I had no intention of helping Mr. Aziz conceal information. If I erred in my eagerness to gain his cooperation, I sincerely apologize.”
“What are you looking for?”
Chiron rose from his chair and paced around the room. “I tried to broach this subject with you earlier, when you first arrived, but you did not seem interested at the time.”
Kismet recalled the subject of their conversation. “We talked about God and faith. Is that it? Is that what you’re looking for? Is this some kind of vision quest?”
Chiron suddenly smiled. “That’s exactly what it is, Nick. To find God, men of faith—and I suppose men of doubt, too—have always had to wander in the wilderness for a time. In my own way, I’ve been wandering all my life, though not really looking. But the journey to Babylon is something different.
“In the oldest holy writings, God has always had His finger on Babylon. The name of the city literally translates as ‘Gate of God,’ and if you’ll recall, that name was given at a time when most civilizations were polytheistic. The Book of Genesis in the Bible tells how men, in defiance of God, began building a tower that would reach to heaven. To thwart that purpose, God confused their languages, scattering mankind to every corner of the globe. But two thousand years later, He used King Nebuchadnezzar and his Babylonian armies to punish His errant people by razing the city of Jerusalem and exiling the survivors.
“Some of the most startling prophetic visions recorded in the Bible occurred during that time—the writings of Ezekiel and Daniel—and only a generation after the conquest of Jerusalem, God’s finger literally appeared in Babylon, writing a message on the palace wall, declaring that the existing dynasty was to be swept away; a judgment that was carried out that very night.”
Kismet shook his head wearily. “Pierre, I’m familiar with the Bible stories. That’s just what most of them are. The Book of Daniel is a fabrication, probably written in the second century BC, so most of the information supporting your argument is questionable. But even if those writings are based on actual events—actual divine revelations—what is a trip to Babylon going to prove? You said God’s finger has always been on the city. Are you looking for His fingerprint? Are you hoping to find that piece of palace wall with God’s graffiti still intact after almost three thousand years?”
“That would be rather compelling testimony, don’t you think?” He gave a wry smile. “Nick, I don’t expect you to understand. I’m not even sure that I really do. I’m not looking for faith, not at my age. But if there’s even a chance that a god exists—that my Collette is in a better, happier place—then I have to know. One way or another, I need to have that question answered.”
Suddenly Kismet did understand. Chiron was suffering from a crisis, not of faith but rather the lack thereof. The loss of his wife had opened a wound in his heart that a lifetime of skepticism had not equipped him to bear. Because he was a scientist, demanding concrete evidence in support of hypotheses, the only solution he saw was to find proof, either for
the existence or non-existence of the Divine. Yet a basic tenet of faith was that it could only occur in the absence of proof. “Pierre, you aren’t the first person to have these doubts, or to look for answers this way. But Babylon has been there for thousands of years; I don’t think you’re going to find anything that hasn’t been studied and catalogued dozens of times over.”
Chiron started to protest, but Kismet quickly raised a hand to forestall him. “On the other hand, I suppose it’s up to God to decide when and where he wants to reveal himself, and like you said, he spends an awful lot of time out there in the desert.
“I’ve got my own reasons for wanting to visit those ruins. Maybe I won’t find anything either, but I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t at least take a look.”
The old man smiled triumphantly. “Then that much at least is settled. Now all we have to do is find someone to get us there.”
“Actually I have an idea about that. I think it’s time we enlisted some local help.”
***
Hussein arrived early in the afternoon, driving a dilapidated Renault. Kismet and Chiron, this time accompanied by Marie, had trekked to the outermost checkpoint leading to the airport, in order to expedite the young man’s arrival, and had not been waiting for long when the tired-looking compact automobile rattled to a stop. Hussein got out of the vehicle and immediately walked over to Kismet.
Although it had been Kismet’s idea to contact the young scholar, he had allowed Chiron to finalize the arrangements. The two had developed a rapport in the moments leading up to the grisly discovery in the upstairs gallery of the museum, whereas Hussein’s initial reaction to Kismet had verged on antipathy. The determined set of his jaw suggested his opinion had not changed.
“I am told that you tried to apprehend the man that killed my teacher, Mr. Aziz.”