Fortune Favors

by Sean Ellis

  You’re going to die anyway, mate.

  He almost laughed aloud at the admonishment of his inner voice. “So I am.”

  He triggered a three-round burst over the dune crest, then launched into motion. He had gone three steps when a 7.62-millimeter slug from an enemy AK-47 ripped across the back of his right thigh. He winced at the unexpected burning sensation, but his leg did not fail and he did not stop running. After a dozen more strides, with blood streaming down his leg and into his boot, he made a desperate dive for Kismet’s position.

  “I’m out,” shouted Kismet.

  Higgins indicated his own weapon. “My last.”

  Kismet nodded gravely and laid his carbine aside. Then he did something that left Higgins stunned. He drew his blade, the kukri Higgins had given him earlier.

  The large knife was the signature weapon of all Gurkha fighters, and this one had belonged to the fallen Corporal Singh. Higgins had offered it as a token of his respect for Kismet, in that now barely remembered moment when he had glimpsed a bit of steel in the young officer, but had never expected to see it used by the American.

  You’re one of us now, he had said. And at the time he had meant it, even though so much about what had happened that night remained beyond his comprehension.

  How did I forget that? he wondered.

  The lull in firing from their position gave a clear signal to the enemy. Higgins could hear the orders, barked in Arabic, for the soldiers to advance cautiously on their position. Not much longer now.

  He had no idea how many rounds remained in the magazine of his M16—he figured he could probably count them on one hand. He set his gun beside Kismet’s and drew his own kukri.

  The first man to crest the dune led with his rifle, flagging his approach with the barrel of his AK-47. Kismet heaved the boomerang shaped blade against the gun, smashing it aside in a spray of sparks then reversed the edge, hacking across the soldier’s torso. Higgins sprang at the next man, pivoting on his good leg and putting his full weight behind the cut.

  A headless enemy soldier fell back into the arms of his comrades.

  As if linked by a common mind, Higgins and Kismet dove into the heart of the approach. The stunned Iraqi riflemen had no idea how to repulse the crazed attack; they could not shoot for fear of hitting each other. They parried the assault with their rifles, swinging the wooden stocks like cudgels when they saw an opportunity, but several of their number prudently fell back.

  As retreating soldiers formed a ring around the knife-wielding pair, Kismet and Higgins repositioned, back to back, to meet whatever attack was to follow. Both men were bruised from numerous blunt traumas and Higgins’ right trouser leg was soaked in his own blood, yet the fire in their eyes was undimmed.

  There was fire in the eyes of their enemy as well. The soldiers of the Republican Guard orbited their position warily, their visages twisted with a mixture of rage and trepidation. Some of them drew bayonets which they affixed to their AK-47s while others drew long fixed-blade combat knives.

  One strident but nevertheless commanding voice was audible above the rest. Higgins didn’t know enough Arabic to translate, but he had been a soldier long enough to know when an order to attack was given. The ranks began moving in, more cautiously this time, determined not to be taken off guard.

  Higgins gripped the haft of his kukri fiercely and waved it back and forth in front of the advance. He assumed Kismet was doing the same. The American officer’s back was pressed reassuringly against his own. At least he wouldn’t die alone. “A pleasure serving with you, sir.”

  “The pleasure was all yours.”

  Kismet’s voice sounded strange when he said it, and it took Higgins a moment to realize that the American was laughing; a harsh, sarcastic chuckle, but a chuckle nonetheless.

  My God, thought Higgins. He’s actually laughing in the face of death.

  “Hey, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir?” Higgins was in awe, wondering what the American would say or do next, but Kismet’s voice was now only solemn.

  “See you in the next life.”

  PART ONE

  Strange Bedfellows

  ONE

  The present

  In the deepening twilight, the becalmed surface of the South China Sea resembled an expanse of black velvet, stretching in every direction almost as far as the eye could see. The only landmass visible to the occupants of the Bell JetRanger 203 helicopter, beating the air high above the inky waters, was the eastern tip of the Malaysian island of Borneo, rising out of the sea to the south.

  Nick Kismet gazed through the Lexan viewport, watching as even that last remaining link to terra firma dissolved in the distance, and then swung his gaze forward. He shifted uncomfortably in the cramped rear seat. The headset he wore over his close-cropped dark hair allowed him to converse both with the other passengers and the flight crew, but its primary function was to muffle the noise of the rotor blades as they hacked through the air, giving lift and speed to the craft. He knew from experience that the sound was almost deafening; even muted by the foam earpieces, it was still loud enough to destroy the illusion of floating peacefully above the darkened sea.

  His fellow traveling companions were strangers, though he knew two of them by reputation. One of the female passengers had made a furtive effort at introductions, but no one else had manifested a desire to converse once the helicopter was airborne. The crossing would be brief and there would be plenty of time to socialize once they reached the ship.

  The vessel to which they were bound was a mid-sized cruise ship, based out of Hong Kong. It was presently flying the flag of the Sultanate of Muara, from where it had just commenced a historic voyage that would, if all went according to plan, last nearly two years and take the ship to every corner of the globe. By arrangement with the shipping line, the craft had been renamed The Star of Muara and would be operating both as a fully-staffed maritime luxury resort and a museum of priceless antiquities for the next twenty-two months.

  Unlike his fellow passengers, Kismet was neither enjoying the thrill of a helicopter ride, nor particularly looking forward to a week of being pampered aboard the cruise ship. With respect to the former, he’d had more than had his fill of helicopters during his brief time in the US military; even a sleek JetRanger held no more excitement than a drive to the corner store. As far as his stay aboard The Star of Muara was concerned—well, that would be work.

  At the time of his death a few years earlier, the man who had ruled as Sultan of Muara for nearly thirty years had achieved an undreamed of level of wealth. Although ranked only as the forty-seventh wealthiest man in the world, his riches were unique in several respects. He was not an entertainer or athletic god, nor was he a politically elected figure; his affluence did not depend upon his popularity among a fickle public. Neither was he a hedge fund manager, or the chairman of a board of executives, entrusted with the responsibility of making money for others, and therefore beholden to his shareholders. The Sultanate of Muara, a sovereign nation nearly three hundred years old and occupying a few thousand square miles of the island of Borneo, guarded one of the largest petroleum reserves of any nation outside of OPEC. As the supreme ruler of its simple monarchy, the Sultan had been its sole protector and beneficiary.

  Despite his wealth, the late Sultan had been a man of moderate habits. Although he had certainly made his share of impulse purchases and lavish gifts for his wife and son, he had been a careful manager of the royal treasury. Under his guidance, Muara’s oil industry, and subsequently its economy, had thrived. So, in turn, had the royal family.

  For all his frugality, the Sultan had succumbed to a single expensive vice: he was a collector. For nearly twenty years, he had set his heart upon accumulating art treasures and priceless historical relics, slowly building what was rumored to be the most impressive collection of antiquities anywhere. It was a difficult claim to verify since the international trade in such properties was highly restricted and most of the pieces in
his private storehouse had been traded illegally many times over the centuries. During the Sultan’s lifetime, only a few discreet visitors had the privilege of viewing the treasures of Muara. Because the relics were illicitly obtained, they were not reckoned as part of the Sultan’s net worth, and inasmuch as many of the pieces were unarguably priceless, the Sultan of Muara would rightly have earned a place much higher on the list of the world’s wealthiest men; perhaps at its very top.

  And then he had died.

  The heir to the wealth of Muara, the royal prince, had often demonstrated that he lacked his father’s fiscal discretion but the state-run oil industry was virtually self-perpetuating, so there seemed to be no reason for alarm. The former Sultan had hired the best business managers and paid them well, and they in turn had created a sustainable pipeline of wealth for the small country. The new Sultan, now approaching his thirtieth year of life, needed only to sit back with his American movie star wife, and enjoy the good life for the rest of his years.

  Somehow, the young Sultan had done the impossible: he had squandered his father’s legacy. Five years after the death of the old Sultan, the royal house of Muara was bankrupt.

  The oil had continued to flow unchecked from the earth’s veins, but the wealth of Muara had hemorrhaged even faster, financing the Sultan’s outrageous parties, expensive hobbies and extravagant gifts to friends and mistresses. It was rumored that guests to the royal residence could have their choice of carnal pleasures, including cocaine and heroine of such purity that doses were regulated and administered by a registered nurse.

  The approaching storm had not gone unnoticed; several members of the household staff had openly warned the heir that the wealth of his father was not an unlimited resource. Rather than heeding the message, the Sultan had followed the time-honored tradition of killing the messenger. The staff was relieved of their duties and replaced; the business and financial advisors were dismissed and their jobs given to several of the new Sultan’s friends. Silencing the voices of dissent however could not change the inevitable outcome, and a mere sixty months after his ascension to the throne of Muara, the checks began bouncing.

  His newfound friends may not have offered the Sultan worthwhile advice, but they certainly had the wherewithal to get out before the collapse of the kingdom. Stunned at the disappearance of both his riches and his associates, the Sultan had at last turned to the advisors trusted by his father, begging for their help in saving the kingdom. Because they were men of conscience, and recognized that there was more at stake than merely the Sultan’s standard of living, the advisors resumed their duties, laboring feverishly to salvage the wreck of Muara.

  It was determined that the oil revenues would be sufficient to bring the Sultanate back into solvency in less than a decade, but that did not take into account the day to day operations of the kingdom. Nor did it address a growing threat from Muara’s neighbor, and chief debtor, Malaysia. The government in Kuala Lumpur was already making overtures to bring the sovereign nation permanently into its fold. If Muara did not allow annexation and could not pay its debts, the Malaysian government would place a lien against any profits from the sale of petroleum in order to pay the interest on the Sultan’s loans, keeping the country indefinitely in the red. What was needed, the financial ministers decided, was a rapid infusion of cash.

  The old Sultan’s collection of antiquities had not completely survived the appetites of his heir and the latter’s friends. Several baubles of precious metals and jewels had been gifted to young ladies in exchange for a few hours of entertainment, and several other smaller curiosities of indeterminate value had likewise disappeared. Nevertheless, the bulk of the collection remained intact, an assemblage of artifacts each deservingly appraised as priceless. Yet the Sultan could not sell a single piece.

  Although his father had been discreet in acquiring the antiquities, the existence of his private museum was nonetheless well known by those who enforced the laws governing the international art trade. As long as the treasures remained on the soil of a sovereign nation, no one could touch them. But a potential buyer had to face the very real possibility that law enforcement agents from any of a number of national and international bodies would be waiting to seize the relics should they leave the country, and perhaps arrest the purchaser as well.

  At last, one of the Sultan’s advisors had hit upon a solution that satisfied not only the letter of the law, but also guaranteed the future of Muara. The treasures of the kingdom would be put on display, touring the world on a floating museum, during which time every nation with a reasonable claim to individual artifacts would be able to make their case for rightful ownership. At the end of a two-year circumnavigation, the collection would be broken and distributed accordingly. Not only would Muara receive a modest finder’s fee, but a percentage of profits from the tour and merchandising would also pour into the emptied treasury. It was a gamble to be sure, but for the young Sultan facing the dissolution of his kingdom, it was the only option.

  The oversight of the world tour and the legal proceedings that would determine ownership of the relics fell to the only body capable of maintaining a semblance of objectivity: the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural, Organization’s Global Heritage Commission. Each member nation sent their representatives to begin the tedious process, commencing immediately after the gala opening of the exhibit which was housed aboard The Star of Muara. As the Global Heritage Commission liaison to the United States of America, Nick Kismet was the lucky winner of an all-expenses paid cruise in the South China Sea.

  The ship was easily distinguishable in the descending darkness. Its decks were strung with lights, causing it to resemble nothing less than an enormous funeral pyre in the middle of the ocean. Kismet cringed as that image sprang unbidden into his imagination; he tried to think of the lights in a more festive setting and failing that, he simply looked away, which was harder than it seemed. The eye was naturally drawn to the overwhelming light source as a moth to a flame. He turned his head away, deliberately gazing out into the darkest part of the sea.

  Kismet’s interest in the relics of ancient history was relatively new. Although he had studied world history extensively during his college education, his personal agenda had very little to do with solving the mysteries of another age. Kismet was interested in solving more contemporary enigma.

  Many years earlier, a much younger Kismet had gone into the desert and everything about his life had changed. A junior officer with Army Intelligence, on the eve of Desert Storm, he had been sent on a mission which he believed to be simply the rescue of a defector who wanted to escape from Iraq. Instead, he had witnessed the curtain being thrown back on a conspiracy that seemed inextricably linked with the legendary treasures of the ancient world, and more importantly with his own life. After escaping the desert crucible, he had finished his education in international law and taken a job with UNESCO’s Global Heritage Commission, from which vantage point, he had been able to maintain a vigil on the world of antiquities, watching and waiting for the conspiracy to reveal itself once more. Although he had found nothing conclusive, it had certainly proven to be an interesting career choice.

  The dark water offered little insight into these ruminations, but was a welcome change from the gaudy shipboard lights. Kismet’s dread of the days that lay ahead was returning. He didn’t have the patience for a life of leisure; the thought of sipping cocktails poolside filled him with dread...

  His brow creased as he caught a glimpse of something moving in the distance. He squinted, trying to bring the object into focus, but the ambient light in the interior of the helicopter confounded the attempt. All he could make out was a series of white streaks on the surface of the distant sea; half a dozen parallel white lines clawing across the velvet darkness. He blinked away the mild headache of eyestrain, and returned his gaze to the front of the aircraft. They were nearly there.

  Up close, the lights of The Star of Muara seemed more benign. As the JetRanger
flared above the helipad just aft of the towering smokestack, a score of party-goers on a nearby deck welcomed its arrival with pointing fingers and curious stares, doubtless wondering what celebrity was about to grace their presence, but Kismet also saw two other men dressed in dark suits, who did not gawk drunkenly at the approaching aircraft. Instead, their eyes roved methodically back and forth, constantly scanning the decks and passengers, with no trace of awe. Kismet figured them for security guards.

  The pilot rattled off instructions for safe egress as the rotor blades began to slow; the operators of the air charter service weren’t about to take any chances with their high-profile guests. Kismet sat patiently and waited his turn. From his brightly lit vantage, the sea was all but invisible. There was no sign of the white lines he had glimpsed from the air.

  Including the crew, there were over five hundred people aboard The Star of Muara. A handful, like Kismet, were there for official purposes, but most were celebrity guests, taking advantage of the high-profile exhibit to keep their faces fresh in the minds of the adoring public. In turn, their presence elevated the notoriety of the traveling exhibit, drawing the interest of people who otherwise would not think of setting foot in a museum. It was a symbiotic relationship, based ultimately on the fickle values of the masses. It also greatly increased the threat level.

  Immediately after leaving the aircraft, Kismet separated himself from the throng and made his way along the deck toward the stern of the pleasure craft. The superstructure of the cruise ship rode high above the sea, and its hull that was practically a sheer vertical wall all the way down to the waterline. Kismet estimated a four-story plunge awaited anyone unlucky enough to fall from her lowest open deck; boarding the craft from a smaller vessel would be virtually impossible. Nevertheless, Kismet found his unease growing. He was certain that the parallel lines he had witnessed from the air were caused by high-speed watercraft closing in on the cruise liner; boats that were running without any lights.