by Sean Ellis
“I think I knew all along. I knew the person who killed Aziz was a woman when we fought at the museum.”
Buttrick suddenly understood, and the gravity of the revelation sent him reeling. “Museum? You….”
“I’ll admit, your shrinking violet routine had me fooled. It didn’t help that there was a better suspect. But when it came down to survival, your true colors came through. You produced a gun out of nowhere and started using it like you knew what you were doing. When you shot that man in the cavern where we found the helicopter, it was exactly the same way you killed Aziz: two shots to the chest, one to the head. But you let the other man live.”
“He was unarmed.”
“He was also your accomplice. Colonel Saeed Tariq Al-Sharaf, a former Iraqi intelligence officer who had retired to a life of luxury on the Riviera after discovering a trove of artifacts dating from the dynasty of Nebuchadnezzar, the Babylonian emperor who conquered Palestine in the sixth century BC and razed the Temple of Solomon.
“Saeed needed someone in a position of authority to grease the wheels of his black-market artifact trade, and when he was approached by Marie Villaneauve, personal assistant to the director of the GHC, he must have thought it was a gift from God.” He chuckled mordantly. “I suppose in a way it was.
“Your story about learning to fly in the military set off the warning bells. France didn’t have compulsory military service for females when you would have been of age, but Israel did. You should have seen Saeed’s face when I told him you were a Mossad agent.”
“You killed my men,” Buttrick snarled. Kismet’s revelations had torn away the bandages of his own guilt and the shared trust Marie had been cultivating now seemed like so much salt in the wound.
When she turned to him however, her expression had shed every trace of condescension. “I never meant for that to happen, Jon.”
Kismet continued. “Saeed ordered you to kill Aziz because he knew that Aziz would point us toward him. You were still playing Saeed, hoping to get a line on where those artifacts might be stored, hoping against hope that somewhere in his treasure house, you might find the holy relics of Solomon’s temple. Alive or dead, Aziz was of no consequence, so you accepted the assignment. But then I walked in and ruined everything.”
“Everything that happened after that was a horrible mistake,” she admitted, still directing her words to Buttrick. “I did not intend to harm anyone but the target. What happened to your men was… regrettable.”
Even now, confronted with the terrible truth, Marie was still trying to win him over. Kismet saw it, too. “Just tell me one thing. You had a silenced weapon. Why didn’t you just kill me and save yourself all that trouble?”
Her eyes swung to meet his gaze. “I don’t know. I never understood why it was so important to him that I not harm you.”
Buttrick drew in a sharp breath, and Marie realized too late that she had played into Kismet’s hands. She took a step back, and then seemingly from out of nowhere, drew a small automatic pistol and aimed it at Kismet. “But I’m not following those orders any more.”
Kismet’s eyes flicked down to the gun, then returned to meet her stare. If he was concerned, he hid it well. “Are you sure you want to do that here? In a house of God?”
“Not my God.” All subterfuge was gone. Where she had once used her appearance as a disguise, hiding behind an illusion of helplessness and sexuality, there was now a confidence that was somehow as beautiful as it was deadly.
“It’s just a damn game to you,” Buttrick took a menacing step toward her, oblivious to the threat of the firearm. “Life and death… Those were my boys you killed.”
The weapon shifted to block his approach even as she took another step back. She was now too far away for either man to attempt to wrestle the gun away. Kismet raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Give it up, Marie. It’s not too late. I can still help you.”
An uncertainty crept over her expression, but her voice remained defiant. “I think you’ve forgotten who has the gun, Nick.”
“Help her?” Buttrick gasped. “You can’t be serious.”
Kismet ignored him. “You still work for UNESCO. Maybe it’s under false pretenses, but legally it’s enough for me to protect you.”
She held him with her gaze, and her tone softened. “You could do that? You could forgive?”
Kismet felt the crust of Chiron’s blood on his outstretched fingertips. “I can forgive quite a bit.”
Her eyes flickered between the two men as if weighing the sincerity of the offer, but then she began edging around them. A few more steps and her path to the exit would be clear.
Kismet divined her intention. “If you walk through that door, you’re on your own.”
“I’ve always been on my own.” She took one more sideways step, and then turned away.
“Marie!” Kismet implored. “Is this really who you are?”
That stopped her… But only for a moment. Then she was gone.
Buttrick started after her, but Kismet placed a restraining hand in his path. “She’s a killer.” The officer’s voice was strident, charged with pent-up rage. “You can’t just let her go.”
“It was her choice.” He knew Buttrick couldn’t possibly understand what he meant with the statement, but he couldn’t quite put into words exactly what the consequences of Marie’s decision would be. In spite of all the hard-won victories, he felt the burden of failure.
And when Rebecca entered the basilica a few minutes later to offer a grim but satisfied nod, he knew that this was one moment in time he would not be able to undo.
Epilogue
Reveal
It was raining on the day that Pierre Chiron was laid to rest alongside his wife in the Cimetière du Montmartre and the drizzling precipitation had ignited a smoldering spark of déjà vu in Nick Kismet’s subconscious.
He had not thought to bring an umbrella, but thanks to the kindness of another attendee, he had been spared the heavens’ outpouring during the brief graveside service. Now he was alone, facing the weather and the tempest of memories alone.
In the aftermath of the confrontation at the Eiffel Tower, Kismet had discovered that he in fact knew very little about his former mentor, and most of what he thought he knew was wrong. It had come as no little surprise that Chiron had, in the last six months of his life, expressed an interest in rediscovering the faith in which he had been baptized as an infant. Because he had resumed taking communion, there was no hesitancy on the part of Church officials in honoring his willed request to be buried with Collette in the cemetery on Montmartre. The simple fact that he had made those arrangements, even taking into account the need to give outward evidence of devotion, seemed at odds with the blasphemous events that led to his death. Had he simply been hedging his bets? Or had he believed that God—not some entity living in the radiation belts, but the Almighty Lord of Hosts—would thwart his scheme at the end, thus giving him the proof he so badly needed?
Kismet remained near the elegant coffin, studying the fresh inscription on the marble headstone. “May 11,” he said aloud, and suddenly understood the source of his uneasiness. Today was the fourteenth of May, exactly eight years to the day from his first meeting with Pierre Chiron. It had been a Sunday then, and curiously, the eleventh, when Chiron had demanded and received the ultimate apotheosis, had also been a Sunday—the second Sunday of May, known traditionally in most Western lands as “Mother’s Day”. France remained one of the few countries to celebrate the holiday in June, leaving Kismet to wonder if Chiron had chosen the day intentionally, or if it had simply been a coincidence.
The headstone offered no insight however. The bland message “Loving Husband” seemed inadequate somehow, at once too polite for a man who had very nearly destroyed Paris for love of his wife, but at the same time too cold, too unsympathetic to honor a man who had been so much more. Kismet closed his eyes, trying to remember Chiron as a friend and mentor, rather than an architect of destruction
. It was a tightrope walk between extremes and his balance just wasn’t that good. He touched his hand to the exterior of the coffin, as if to offer a final farewell, and then turned away. He was surprised to discover that he was not alone in making final peace with the old man.
“I’m afraid I can’t quite find it in me to grieve for him,” Rebecca observed from beneath the dome of her black umbrella.
“Then why are you here?” he countered.
“Actually, because I knew you would be here.” She moved closer, but remained aloof in her manner. Rain continued to collect on the fabric canopy and flow down in rivulets between them. She made no offer of shelter to Kismet.
Disdaining the weather, he folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t think there’s any unfinished business between us. You have my pledge of silence on the matter of your stray nuclear detonators.”
“If the worst had happened—if Chiron’s bomb had gone off according to schedule—it would have laid the city to waste. But this place—” she gestured to the basilica in the background, “—would have survived. It is far enough from the tower that, I do believe, anyone here would have survived the blast. You sent the Mossad agent here, knowing full well what she was. She would have survived, while all the rest of us—those who knew her secret—would have perished.”
“She had nothing to do with bringing that thing here. That was your doing.”
The French agent blanched, unprepared for the accusation. Kismet felt a perverse satisfaction for having trumped her, but didn’t have the heart to press the advantage. The truth of the matter was that he had wanted to protect Marie from Chiron’s madness. Even knowing what she was, and that everything they had shared had been a lie, he could not bring himself to hate her. Especially not now.
“There is one other thing that troubles me,” Rebecca said, after enduring a suitable silent penance for her ill-timed comments. “The experts who dismantled Pierre’s bomb cannot find a single reason why it did not detonate. By all rights, it should have gone off right on schedule. Any thoughts on that?”
“No.” He shook his head and loosened his stance in preparation to depart. “I don’t know anything about bombs.”
Rebecca remained at his side, unconsciously extending the umbrella to cover him as well. “Where will you go now?”
“I don’t know. Home, I suppose.” His reply was terse, intentionally framed to discourage her continued interest.
“I have been tasked with evaluating the intelligence gathered from Colonel Saeed’s villa in Nice,” she continued, oblivious to his cool manner.
“Really?”
“I am to make sure that no other embarrassing discoveries come to light.”
Kismet scowled. “If that’s your idea of a joke, it’s a damn poor one.”
“Oui. Yes, it was a joke, and yes, it was a poor choice of words. Forgive me, please.” She continued to match his steps as they crossed toward the road where their respective vehicles were parked. “I imagine we will learn quite a lot about Saeed’s trade in illicit artifacts.”
That stopped him. Not the comment, but the implicit invitation.
“What do you say?” she pressed. “Are you up for a little working vacation?”
“With you? Are you serious? I don’t even like you.”
She made a dismissive gesture. “You don’t have to like your doctor. You merely have to accept her recommendation for treatment. Besides, it’s not as if you have any secrets from me.”
Somehow, her fingers found their way into his. He stared in mute disbelief at their joined hands. And then, to his complete amazement, he said simply, “Why not?”
***
Less than two hundred meters from the final resting place of Pierre Chiron, a black-clad figure looked on from behind a gauzy veil. Her attention was so riveted upon the departing pair that she did not hear the man approach. Nevertheless, when he announced his presence by softly speaking her name, she did not give evidence of being startled. She did however react. “How dare you come here?” she hissed. “Does the truce mean nothing?”
The man regarded her with his single, steely eye. “You think too highly of yourself, madame. There is no longer anything to be gained by your execution. The truce stands. Even if it did not… Well, I have moved beyond the simple role of executioner, as was ever my right.”
She shook her head contemptuously then turned away.
“You should not have interfered.”
That stopped her. She turned slowly, lifting her veil to direct the full intensity of her gaze upon him. “Interfered? Are you mad? Do you know what was at stake? What Chiron sought to do?”
“We knew. It was our belief that—”
“Your belief? You would have risked everything, the future of every living thing, on your untested theory? You know the role fate has chosen for him. You know that he is to be the one.”
The lupine face of the one-eyed man seemed to become more feral as he leaned close to answer. “I know,” he said, enunciating acidly, “that whatever will happen must be allowed to happen, without interference. You have changed that, and in so doing, it is you who has risked everything.”
Her defense wavered, as if the argument, despite its loathsome source, had merit. “I did nothing.”
“You changed the password of Chiron’s computer to something that he would know.”
“That signifies nothing. He would have figured it out anyway.”
“Perhaps. But what has been done cannot be undone. What we have lost cannot be replaced.”
“You are a hypocrite. If you believe that this was in the hands of fate, then you must accept that what happened—losing control of the entity—was destined. Else you would have taken Chiron out long before this came to pass.”
The man smiled, but there was no humor in his eye. “The experiment had to be seen to its conclusion, no matter the outcome.”
“Then accept that what I did had negligible impact on that outcome.”
“If I believed otherwise, madame, you would already be dead. But there may come a time when you will be tempted to take greater risks to protect Nick Kismet.”
“You are mad. Nothing matters but the Great Work.”
“See that you don’t forget it, madame.” He leaned closer still until she could feel his breath on her face. His words rumbled in her ear like an earthquake. “Nothing can be allowed to prevent my brother from meeting his destiny.”
About the Author
Sean Ellis enjoys a life-long love affair with adventure. As a teenager, he pursued an elusive pirate legend and combed the Pacific coast for buried treasure. He has searched for Mayan ruins in the jungles of Honduras and chased rumors of gold in the American southwest. As a soldier in the Army National Guard, he has served abroad and at home, participating in hurricane relief efforts in New Orleans. Sean also enjoys adventure sports and has participated in mountain bike races, off-road triathlons and even a marathon in Afghanistan. He currently resides in the shadow of Mt. Saint Helens where he divides his time between studying environmental science and pursuing his greatest adventure: fatherhood.
It seemed too good to be true. It was.
Judgment at John’s Hollow
© 2007 Lionel A. La Vergne
When an accident half-severs Dwight’s hand, a mysterious organization offers him free medical treatment.
Free medical treatment that turns out to reverse the aging process and give him super-human powers.
The only person on whom the treatment has worked, he acquires the perfect body and the perfect mind. Unfortunately, to reproduce their success, the heads of the organization need his body back. And they don’t much care if they have to kill him to get it.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Judgment at John’s Hollow:
I got into the car and drove up to the fence following the small lane and up to the main road. Getting out of my vehicle, I saw the gate was unlocked and hanging open. Inside the hut I found two bodies. Circling the building, I loc
ated four dead men piled like logs. Whoever was doing this didn’t care if the bodies were eventually found, but they had stacked the dead men away from the small blacktopped road that led to the highway. There was no back door but the front door was unlocked and inside the foyer were two more bodies. I quickly checked the rest of the building. The metal room was still there. No computer sat on the desk and I figured the one I had taken from the house was the same one Olivier had been using to record his findings at home, rather than doing it here in the clinic, as he had done when I was a test animal. Everything else seemed pretty much the same. Some of the monitors used to take readings were gone and I was sure that was part of the equipment I’d seen the men loading into the vans. What had been inside the long boxes? I was getting nervous. I needed to get far away from there, but still something held me. I had spent a little over a year in this place. I had arrived an old man, severely physically traumatized. When I left I was a new person. In the time since I had changed somewhat. The biggest change had taken place in a part of me where love and goodness resided. I had received a strange mixture of blessing and curses in this room. I walked around but didn’t see anything else of interest. I peeked inside my old room. Someone had been living there. A different set of books sat on a table and a robe lay on the unmade bed.
I needed to get out of there. Sooner or later, the shit would hit the fan and I didn’t want to explain to anyone what I was doing there and what had happened. I was heading for the front door, my head swiveling back and forth, when I spied the kitchen. I’d never known exactly where it was located when I was a patient here. Beyond the stove and counters I saw a large door. I walked to the door and indeed it was what I thought it was, a large walk-in freezer. Probably used to store fresh food so no one would have to shop often. That’s what I told myself, giving me an excuse not to look.