The Shroud of Heaven

The Chains of God

The Chinook abruptly lurched, gaining fifteen meters of altitude in a heartbeat, only to plunge back down an instant later. The pilot, an insectoid-looking figure in his bulbous headgear and night vision goggles, tilted his head sideways as if to grin at the helpless passengers clinging to nylon web straps in the rear of the helicopter.

“Sorry, mates. Telephone lines.”

Nick Kismet nodded indifferently, though his stomach was still pitching from the sudden maneuver. Some of the Gurkhas were not as adept at hiding their momentary nausea; the one he knew only as Sergeant Higgins looked positively green despite the liberal coating of camouflage paint that concealed his face. Of course, in the monochrome display of the PV-7 night vision device affixed to his Kevlar helmet, everything looked green.

The swooping flight of the CH47 seemed an appropriate metaphor for Kismet’s life recently. Still trying to overcome the temporary shock of the mobilization orders — a not entirely unexpected event given the escalation of tensions on the Arabian peninsula — he had been further thrown off guard by the strange mission thrust upon him less than a week after his arrival at CENTCOM in Riyadh. Unable to adequately process all of that information, he elected to simply ride it out until things made a little more sense. It was the same philosophy that would, he hoped, get him through this roller coaster insertion.

The flight was probably routine for the pilots. Kismet knew that American Special Forces and British SAS soldiers had already been dropped into enemy-held territory to gather information. As an officer in US Army Department of Intelligence, albeit a lowly 2nd Lieutenant and a reservist at that, he was aware of the covert missions that were laying the foundation for the impending assault designed to drive the fourth largest army in the world from their entrenchments in Kuwait. That he would find himself a part of such an operation, much less one that would penetrate deep beyond Iraq’s border, was a scenario too ludicrous to even consider. Nevertheless, here he was.

The sergeant swallowed queasily and flashed him an insincere thumbs up. Kismet nodded again.

The Gurkhas signified yet another indecipherable factor in the clandestine mission. He did not know a great deal about the men or their combat division; it was his understanding that they were a sort of foreign legion for the British, originating in Nepal and modeled after the fierce warrior tribe that was their namesake. They were indeed a cosmopolitan bunch, evincing a full spectrum of racial characteristics. Higgins, one of two Caucasian soldiers in the squad, was a Kiwi — originally a citizen of New Zealand.

Though their sand-colored uniforms had been sterilized — no indication of nationality, unit or rank — he had recognized them by virtue of their kukri knives. The large chopping knife with a broad, boomerang-shaped blade was their signature weapon. According to their tradition, each recruit was initiated into the elite corps through a bloody ritual in which he was required to behead a young bullock with a single stroke of his kukri. A few bits of presumably outdated trivia, however, represented the full extent of Kismet’s knowledge about the Gurkhas. Not much intelligence for an intelligence officer, he thought sourly.

The presence of soldiers of the United Kingdom of Great Britain was a riddle at least partially explained. According to his commanding officer, the information leading to the mission had been channeled through British resources, and despite the fact that Kismet, an American officer, had been singled out for special attention, the British would continue to manage the particulars of the insertion. But that did not satisfactorily explain CENTCOM’s decision to send this particular unit.

Though legendary for their fierceness, the Gurkha warriors were not an ideal choice for covert insertions. Those assignments, at least where Her Majesty’s armed forces were concerned, typically went to the men of the SAS — Special Air Service — who trained extensively for everything from anti-terrorism to hostage rescue to long-range reconnaissance. He could think of only one compelling reason for the commander in charge of the mission to choose men who were not natural citizens of the British commonwealth, but rather rogues and expatriates: they were expendable. Kismet wondered if he fell into that category as well.

What little he had been told had not inspired him to confidence in the success, much less the importance, of their mission. He knew only that it involved the possible defection of a high-value target; someone who might be a member of Saddam Hussein’s inner circle of advisors. After reading the operation order, a bare bones overview of what he would be expected to accomplish, Kismet had immediately become suspicious. His first impulse was that the supposed defection was an elaborate ruse designed to test the capabilities of coalition forces in penetrating Iraqi air defenses. Despite assurances otherwise, he remained skeptical.

The Chinook continued through the desert night, following the nap of the earth to avoid detection by radar, jinking and swooping when necessary to dodge phone lines and possible SAM sites. There was little for the passengers to see through the small portals on either side of the ungainly looking aircraft. Even with the aid of night vision goggles, the desert was a featureless wasteland. Each wadi — the dry gullies that cut randomly across the dunes — looked very much like the next, but one of them concealed the man he had been sent to meet.

In the earpiece of his headset, Kismet heard the pilots continue their exchange of information, calling out the obstacles that lay in their path as they became visible. He knew they were nearing their destination because the co-pilot regularly updated their ETA. The countdown was now a matter of mere minutes.

“City lights,” observed the flight officer, pointing over the pilot’s shoulder. He consulted a military map specifically designed for use with night vision gear. “That’s Nasiriyah.”

“Close as I want to get.”

“I have a visual of the target,” the co-pilot announced. His voice dropped to an incredulous murmur. “Bloody wanker’s having a fag.”

Kismet absent-mindedly translated the idiomatic expression. Somewhere out in the desert, the man they were supposed to meet was smoking a cigarette. In the display of the night vision devices used by the flight crew, the pencil-thin ember would flash beacon-bright as the man drew smoke into his lungs, even from a distance of several hundred meters.

One of the Gurkhas tisked. “He should know better. Must be an officer.”

Kismet laughed, grateful for their humor. He was the highest-ranked person onboard and well aware of the age-old rivalry between enlisted men and officers, but he took no offense at the veiled jab. This close to the objective, with his adrenaline spiking, he needed the distraction. Nervously, he checked his gear one last time.

The mission called for the team to be dropped near a rendezvous point established by the Iraqi defector. This would give them an opportunity to reconnoiter the area, just in case it was a trap. The Gurkhas would then dig in, securing a temporary forward operating base, while Kismet made contact with the defector. They expected their mission to last no more than forty-eight hours, but even that short time span required each man to carry several liters of drinking water, along with all of their combat gear and body armor. In addition to his ruck, Kismet carried a stubby CAR15, the carbine version of the M16A2 assault rifle, and his personal side arm, a Beretta M9 automatic pistol. Most of the Gurkhas carried American M203s — M16s equipped with integrated 40 millimeter grenade launchers under the rifle barrel — but two of the men were packing fully automatic Minimi light machine guns. Kismet noted that the latter pair would not be carrying their own water, a fair trade for the additional weight of a thousand rounds of ammunition apiece, stored in drum magazines and cloth bandoliers. Ideally, they would not have to expend a single round. If everything went according to plan, they would be returning to Saudi airspace with only their water supply depleted.

The Chinook dropped quickly to the desert floor, bouncing the passengers violently one final time. The Gurkhas immediately burst into action, pitching canvas bags out into the sand as the aft ramp slowly descended. Their movements seemed practiced, belying the tension that Kismet knew each man must be silently enduring. After swiftly disembarking, the small group of soldiers huddled close to the ground as the twin rotors of the Chinook whipped up a sandstorm. A few heartbeats later, the helicopter vanished into the night.

Higgins removed his NOD and gazed skyward, fixing the North Star with a fingertip. He extended his other arm at a ninety-degree angle. “Our guy’s that way. Wong, Renke, dig us a nice little den. Lieutenant, I guess you’re leading the way.”

Kismet was thrown by the Kiwi sergeant’s pronunciation—“Lef-tenant”—and gaped dumbly at the other man for several awkward seconds. “Sorry,” he finally mumbled, hefting the CAR15 and turning in the direction Higgins had indicated. “Let’s go.”

They stayed low to the ground, pausing at the dune crests to survey the landscape for signs of the enemy. Visual contact with the defector — still puffing away on his cigarette, or perhaps chain-smoking one after another — was reestablished almost immediately. They were less than two hundred meters from the man’s location.

“I don’t see anyone else,” Kismet murmured. “No vehicles either.”

“How the hell did he get out here?” Higgins wondered aloud. “Flying bloody carpet?”

Kismet stifled a chuckle. “Maybe.” He turned to the sergeant. “I guess this is it. I’m counting on you guys to watch my back.”

The Gurkha nodded, but Kismet was not overwhelmed with confidence. Nevertheless he crept forward, topped the dune and scooted down the other side, moving unaccompanied toward the sole Iraqi. If it was a trap, he alone would face that peril. Even if the Gurkhas brought their firepower to bear, there was little hope of his surviving the first moments of a hostile encounter.

As he drew closer, he was able to make out the facial features of the defector. The bland countenance seemed pale beneath his thick black brow, as if the man had somehow managed to avoid direct exposure to the sun during his life on the cusp of the Arabian desert. Only the nervous quivering of the cigarette at his lips bore testimony that his bloodless hue had more to do with anxiety than pigmentation. In the green-tinted display of his night optics, Kismet noted that the man’s pupils were tiny white dots. The incessant lighting and smoking of cigarettes had compromised the waiting defector’s ability to see naturally in the dark, verifying the earlier observation made by the Chinook pilot. Either the man was too inexperienced in matters of survival to know better, or he simply didn’t care.

Kismet paused, scanning the surrounding desert for any indication of an ambush party in concealment.

Nothing. If the defector was bait for a trap, then it was a well-covered snare. He edged forward, circling around the smoking man, and approached from his left side. When no more than ten meters separated them, he rose from his cautious crawl and pushed his goggles out of the way.

There was no way to avoid startling the oblivious defector, but he tried to minimize the shock by softly clearing his throat. The Iraqi man turned his head slowly, almost absent-mindedly, before reacting exactly as Kismet feared he would. Yet, as the man flailed backwards, waving his hands defensively, Kismet’s apprehension that he had walked into a trap eased considerably. The defector had not groped for a concealed weapon or called out in alarm; no hidden accomplices had leapt to the man’s aid. Kismet waited motionless for his contact to recover.

“Is salaam aleekum.” Peace be upon you.

The softly spoken greeting did not seem to soothe the frightened man, but he heard the muttered, traditional reply: “Wa aleekum is-salaam.” And upon you be peace.

“Well that’s a good sign,” Kismet muttered in English. His grasp of Arabic was not as strong as he would have liked. A lifetime of world travel with his father had immersed him repeatedly in foreign language environments, but he considered himself fluent only in the Romance languages.

However, despite the fact that his self-directed words were barely audible, the defector suddenly brightened. “You are Mr. Kismet?” he asked in halting English.

Kismet blinked. In his pre-mission briefing, he had been given precious little information about how the rendezvous would proceed. There had been no arrangement made for passwords and counter-signs. His commander was unable even to supply a name for the defector, much less any sort of safeguarding procedures. The last thing he had anticipated was for the Iraqi man to know his name. He switched off his night vision goggles and swung them up, away from his face. “That’s right.”

“Il-Hamdulillaah,” breathed the man. “God be praised. I feared that you would not be coming. I am Samir Al-Azir.”

He sensed that the man expected to be recognized, but the name triggered no memories. He smiled and gave the man a knowing nod, hoping nothing would happen to further expose his ignorance. “We should probably get moving.”

Samir seemed further relieved at the suggestion, as if suddenly remembering why he was lurking in the cold desert night. He flipped his cigarette onto the sand. “Yes, yes. Follow me.”

Before he could protest, Samir turned and began climbing the dune. Dumbly, Kismet started after the Iraqi. At the top of the rise, he signaled the waiting Gurkhas by extending his arms out to either side, as though waiting to be searched. The unusual gesture was a previously established signal, indicating to his comrades that he was not being taken along under duress. If Samir noticed, he said nothing.

Based on his recollection of aerial reconnaissance photographs of the area, Kismet knew that the nearest road was more than a kilometer from their present location. That roadway was a featureless track snaking across the desert to provide access to the semi-permanent Bedouin communities, and more importantly, to expedite the deployment of troops in the event of a war. With that war now looming large, the likelihood of armed forces moving along the highway was greatly increased. He did not find Samir’s eagerness to approach that destination encouraging, but what he saw as they crested yet another dune a few moments later increased his anxiety tenfold. Barely visible across the intervening distance was the unmistakable silhouette of a vehicle waiting beside the highway.

It took another ten minutes of struggling over the uneven terrain to reach the parked sedan, long enough for him to ascertain that the battered, silver Mercedes was unoccupied. “Where are we going, Samir?”

The defector flashed a grin over his shoulder, but Kismet could see the other man’s concern etched in deep lines across his forehead. “Not far. The tell is nearby.”

Tell? There were many ways of interpreting the word, none of which made sense in the context. He frowned, but did not press for more information. Instead, he opened the rear driver side door of the sedan and carefully slipped inside. Samir’s pale face registered confusion at Kismet’s decision to sit behind instead of beside him, but he said nothing as he turned the key and eased the car onto the paved road.

Kismet rested the CAR15 on the seat beside him, shifting the waist pack of his load-bearing vest to avoid sitting on it. That the Army-issue equipment had not been designed for use in the cramped interior of a passenger vehicle was only one factor owing to his choice of the rear seat. Sitting in the back represented an attempt, however insignificant, to take a measure of control over the situation. He was completely at Samir’s mercy. Even if the defector meant him no harm, there would be no effective way for Kismet to respond in the event of a sudden crisis. From the back seat at least, should the worst case scenario play out, he would be able to encourage the Iraqi to heed his suggestions by holding the business end of his sidearm to the base of the other man’s skull.

True to his word, Samir drove the car only a few kilometers along the highway before once more pulling off into the sand. Kismet hastened from the confining interior of the sedan, and began scanning the dunes for any sign of enemy forces. They appeared to be alone in the night. Samir lit another cigarette then motioned for Kismet to follow as he headed into the desert.

The path chosen by the Iraqi defector led north across a section of flat land where bare rock struggled up through the ubiquitous layer of sand. Kismet gradually became aware that they were descending into a low valley sculpted by centuries of wind and, perhaps in a forgotten age, water. In the otherworldly green display of his goggles, he saw clear evidence of previous foot traffic along their course; not simply a scattering of prints, but a line of disruption indicating the passage of several people. He hefted the CAR15, his thumb poised on the fire selector and his finger on the outside of the trigger guard, but resisted the impulse to spin strategies for dealing with a hostile encounter. He would likely be outnumbered and outgunned in such a situation, so there was little to be gained by worrying. Samir, however, seemed to relax, as if each step brought him closer to a place of refuge. Their destination soon became apparent.

From the outside, it did not look like a cave, merely a bruise in the surface of a vertical rock face which might simply have been the product of an ancient boulder collision. Only on closer inspection could Kismet perceive the depth of the cut in the rock and the fact that the stone surface was not stone at all, but weathered bricks of baked clay laid one atop another. It was not a cave, but a structure built by men in the middle of the desert and almost completely hidden beneath the dunes. Samir ducked through the narrow slit without hesitation. An almost blinding flare in the midst of Kismet’s night vision display indicated a light source within. He switched the goggles off and swiveled them out of the way, then crouched down and followed blindly.

The passage beyond was narrow. His shoulders scraped against brick on either side as he descended along a crumbling staircase. The steps, like the structure itself, were clearly the work of human artifice, but their condition suggested centuries of both use and neglect. They were in an ancient place.

At the foot of the stairwell, he saw the source of the light. As his guide stepped forward into a large antechamber, he could clearly make out the flickering of several randomly placed oil lamps. It was not until he moved out from the narrow recess, however, that Kismet realized they were not alone.

Before he could bring his carbine up, or even identify a target, Samir hastened in front of him, arms extended. “No, no, Mr. Kismet. This is my family.”

Kismet exhaled sharply and lowered the weapon. In the undulating lamp-light he made out several human shapes: an elegantly dressed woman, her head covered by a colorful scarf; a teenage boy who seemed a younger, thinner version of Samir; and several more indistinguishable lumps, hidden beneath blankets on the floor. In all, there appeared to be a dozen people camped out in the hidden structure, possibly representing three generations of Samir’s clan.

“Family,” echoed Kismet, the significance of the revelation sinking in. “No one said anything about your family.”

Samir looked shocked. “I could not leave them. When it is learned what I have done, they would be made to suffer. Such is the way with President Hussein.”

Kismet felt a moment of self-loathing for having questioned the matter. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just…well, we didn’t develop a contingency for exfiltrating more than one person. There won’t be room on the helo for all of us.”

Samir’s expression fell, prompting Kismet to hastily augment his statement. “What I mean is, we’ll have to make some changes to the plan.”

The Iraqi seemed pleased at the promise and brightened once more. “Allah is great.”

“Yeah,” muttered Kismet, loosening the chin strap on his helmet as he surveyed the room a second time. “Say, you didn’t all come here in that one car?”

Samir grinned. “No. There is also a truck.”

“Any more surprises?”

“No more surprises.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you wish to see it?”

Kismet sensed the defector was no longer talking about the truck, and that whatever he was referring to would indeed be a surprise, but the only way to know for certain was to play along. “Sure.”

Samir launched into motion again, but did not move toward the stairwell as Kismet expected. Instead, he crossed the antechamber, picked up one of the lamps, and headed toward an arched entryway on the opposite side.

“The truck is here? Inside this — whatever it is?”

“These are the ruins of Tall al Muqayyar. We are very near to what you in the West call Ur of the Chaldees. It was the birthplace of Ibraiim; Abraham, the father of Ismail. Our nation takes its name from this place: Uruk. It is the birthplace of civilization.”

“You don’t say.” He thought Samir sounded like a tour guide. He had studied enough source material about Iraq to recognize the truth of Samir’s words, but ancient ruins held little appeal; he preferred the company of the living. “We are under the ground though?”

“The sands come and go. The ruins have been excavated several times since their discovery almost two centuries ago, but the sand always returns. In this instance, I have used the sand to conceal the main entrance to the ruin.” He gestured with the lamp, throwing a wavering yellow glow into the shroud of darkness. Beyond the antechamber was a larger room, its ultimate width and breadth beyond the scope of Kismet’s unaided eyesight. He resisted the impulse to swivel the goggles down, electing instead to wait for Samir’s lamp to expose the room’s secrets. As the Iraqi strode purposefully forward, his light cut a swath through the darkness in the middle of the chamber. After only a few steps, the bare floor disappeared beneath an increasingly dense accumulation of desert sand.

The lamp’s rays soon revealed a vehicle in the buried chamber — what looked to Kismet like a deuce and a half, or 2.5-ton truck — its rear cargo area covered by a low slung canvas tarpaulin. The truck appeared to be a cast-off military vehicle, broken, repaired and mongrelized to the extent that its origins were unrecognizable. Beyond the truck, the sand rose up in a vast dune, completely blocking what must have served as the main entrance to the ruin. Samir placed his lamp on the rear bumper of the truck, but hesitated there.

Kismet tried to peer into the tent-like enclosure, but saw nothing in the shadows. “Well?”

“Forgive me. I am a coward. President Hussein says it is not the hand of Allah — that it is a Zionist trick — but he does not touch it. No sane man dares touch it.”

“The hand of Allah?” Again Kismet sensed that he was expected to know more than he did. He decided to end the charade. “I’m sorry, Samir, but I have no clue what you’re talking about. I’ve never heard of you and I haven’t the faintest idea why you think I’d care about what’s in that truck.”

His declaration hit Samir like a blow. The Iraqi staggered back, his hands moving nervously. “You-you are not Kismet.”

“I am Nick Kismet. Pretty sure I’m the only one.” Given the unique circumstances surrounding the choosing of his name, he felt safe in the assertion.

“But then you must know. You of all people would know…”

Kismet shrugged. “They didn’t tell me much about the mission, Samir. I didn’t even know that you were the person I’d be meeting.”

He could tell the revelation troubled Samir, but the Iraqi began nodding slowly, as if to clear his head. “I believe I understand. When you have seen it, everything will become clear.”

Kismet stared once more into the cargo area of the truck. His thoughts began to spin out of control. Just what was the secret Samir was delivering to him? The hand of Allah? Had the defector snatched one of Saddam’s much-rumored nuclear weapons? Almost trembling with eagerness, Kismet laid the CAR15 on the deck and pulled himself into the truck.

He had to crouch down under the low hanging tarpaulin, but once inside, his ability to see in the darkness began to improve. He could discern that the cargo bay was empty save for a lone object in the center, secured to a wooden pallet by a single nylon rope that zigzagged back and forth across the bed of the vehicle. Whatever lay beneath that web was further concealed by a heavy blanket of dark material, but he could make out a vaguely familiar silhouette. It didn’t look like any kind of nuclear warhead.

Samir held his light close to the opening. “I would advise you not to touch it, but of course, you would know more about this than I.”

Kismet stared in disbelief at the veiled bundle. He recognized the outline of the object only because it looked exactly the way it had in a motion picture he had enjoyed countless times as a child. “What the…is this some kind of joke?”

Samir’s eyes seemed to dance eagerly in the flicker of lamplight. “Does this not buy freedom for my family and I?”

Kismet spun to face the Iraqi. “If this really is what you want me to believe it is, then how in hell did you get it?”

“President Hussein has long feared that if the Zionists — the Israelis — learned that we possessed it, they would not hesitate to use any means necessary to take it back. And once they possessed it, they would be emboldened to make war with all Arabs. Yet he hesitated to destroy it — what if it truly is the work of Allah? But now with America ready to invade, he can wait no longer. If it is from Allah, then Allah must decide how to save it, or so President Hussein says. He ordered me to have it destroyed. Of course I was supervised, but I managed to switch it with a decoy. It was very costly. I had to find enough gold to fool the others, but I did. And when the chance arose, I sent for you.”

Sent for me? He blinked furiously, trying to process what Samir was telling him. “Hold it a second.” He gestured emphatically at the object. “What I meant was, how did this end up in Iraq? I thought it was in Ethiopia. Or Egypt.” Or some US Army warehouse, he didn’t add.

Samir pondered for a moment, then laughed. He shook his head. “None of those rumors are true. When those who ruled this land before — the Babylonians — sacked Jerusalem two thousand six hundred years ago, they took as spoil all the treasures of the Jews. This also was captured, but King Nebuchadnezzar wisely spread the rumor that it had been taken away by Jewish refugees before their temple fell. As the holiest of the Jewish treasures, it was a trophy of victory over God himself, and the Babylonians hid it in the deepest part of the Esagila — the temple of Marduk. When the Jews returned to their land after the Persian Empire conquered the Babylonians, it never occurred to them to ask for it back. They did not know it was there, and in time, it was forgotten by all.

“Even the first archaeologists to excavate the temple did not find the secret chamber where it lay, but when President Hussein decided to rebuild the glory of Babylon, his engineers — and I was part of that group — did find it.”

Kismet shook his head incredulously, his mind racing. Samir had requested him — personally. How had the defector learned about him? And why had the Iraqi believed he would know, or even care, about some three-thousand-year-old relic? He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to banish the rampant speculations in order to form a strategy. “All right, this complicates things further. If we’re going to get this out—” he gestured at the covered artifact,“—and everyone else, then we’re going to need at least three helos and probably a shitload of close air support.” He looked thoughtfully at the truck. “Either that or drive out. Think we could make it to Syria in this?”

Samir frowned. “You would risk bringing it so close to Zionist forces? Their agents would know of it the moment we crossed the border. I would think you, of all people, would want to conceal this from the Israelis.”

Once again, Kismet got the feeling that Samir was dialed into some secret and erroneous source of information about him. He decided it was time to disabuse the Iraqi of those notions. Twisting around on the flatbed deck, he hopped backward onto the sand-covered floor to stand face to face with the other man. “Listen, Samir. My orders are to get you out — you. I am willing to risk my life to carry out those orders. I am willing to risk my life to help your family as well. But I am not about to put my life on the line for a… for some movie prop. If you insist on trying to get that thing back to friendly turf, then we are going to use the safest possible route, and if that means we drive through downtown Tel Aviv, well then I just don’t give a shit.”

Samir gaped in disbelief, but before he could even begin to frame a reply, a faint hissing sound distracted both men. Kismet turned toward the source of the noise and saw sand sliding down the face of the dune wall. His reaction was late by a fraction of a second.

He reached for the CAR15, but it was not where he expected, depending from its sling on his shoulder. Suddenly, the sand barrier erupted in a flurry of bodies and movement. Human shapes burst from the dune wall like reanimated corpses summoned from their graves. Remembering that his carbine lay on the deck of the truck, Kismet reached instead for the M9 holstered on his hip, but there was no time. One of the figures reared up before him and something hard and heavy crashed into his jaw. As he staggered back, the sound of Samir’s cries of alarm dissolved into a ringing noise that seemed to originate inside his skull. Hands swarmed over him, stripping away his pistol and restraining his arms. He hovered at the edge of consciousness, vaguely aware that his wrists were being pressed together behind his back, secured with a hard plastic zip-tie. He struggled both against the shackles that bound his hands and the darkness that was overwhelming him, but in the end both battles were in vain.

Kismet awoke with a start, reflexively trying to raise his hands to shield himself from the object that filled his blurry gaze; someone had peeled back his right eyelid and was tapping the sclera of that eye with a fingertip. His hands did not respond, still securely bound behind his back, but the ferocity of his reaction was enough to remove him from the immediate threat.

He now saw the instigator of his torment, a lean lupine individual wearing desert battle dress fatigues similar to his own. The man’s Caucasian features and dishwater blond hair suggested that he was a Westerner, but Kismet did not get the impression that his antagonist was there in order to rescue him. The man flashed a humorless smile, then turned to one of his comrades. The words he spoke sounded familiar, but Kismet didn't recognize the language. It might have been Hebrew, but with his head still swimming from the assault, he couldn’t be sure.

The wolfish man leaned close again, thrusting something against his jaw. The object was frigid but yielding — an instant cold compress. “I told him he is lucky he didn’t kill you,” the man volunteered in English.

Kismet couldn’t fathom why. He thought about Samir’s words. “Israelis?” he croaked.

The man chuckled, again without a trace of humor. “Do you think you can stand?”

“Not without help,” he replied, honestly.

Grasping the front straps of Kismet’s combat harness, the man shifted his weight backward, lifting him from his supine position. Pain radiated from Kismet's bruised jaw and stabbed through his head. Bright sparks of light swam in his field of vision and for a moment, Kismet feared he would lose consciousness again. The man continued to hold him erect as his legs buckled, his head swooning, until the fog gradually receded. The ice pack slipped away from his cheek, but remained tucked in the space between his neck and the stiff collar of his flak jacket.

He saw that he was once more in the antechamber where he had first encountered Samir’s family. They were all there, including the defector himself, lined up against one wall of the room in a classic hostage pose: kneeling with fingers laced together behind their heads. Some of them, mostly the children, were weeping and ululating. Half a dozen men in desert-pattern uniforms were spread throughout the room, each wielding a small submachine gun. Kismet easily recognized their arsenal: Heckler & Koch MP5Ks, the first choice of hostage rescue and commando teams worldwide. Unlike the man who held his load straps however, the rest of the combat force wore camouflage mesh screens over their heads, obscuring their faces, and soft boonie hats that matched their fatigues. One of the men also had Kismet’s carbine slung over a shoulder.

He returned his gaze to the man before him. “You didn’t answer my question.”

His captor, judging that Kismet now stood on his own, relaxed his grip on the LBE straps. He maintained his silence a moment longer, reaching out to grasp the hilt of the Ka-Bar knife which hung from an inverted sheath on the front of Kismet’s harness. As he drew the blade, Kismet shifted his eyes downward, surreptitiously checking the rest of his equipment. He immediately saw that, in addition to the knife, his other defensive weapon, the M9 Beretta pistol, had been removed from its holster. There was no sign of his helmet or night vision goggles, but every other piece of gear he carried seemed to have been left alone.

“Since I have no doubt that you and I will eventually meet again, and since it will not benefit you in any way, I will give you my name.” He spoke with a faint accent that Kismet couldn’t pin down.

The man circled behind him, deftly cutting through the zip-tie with the razor-sharp combat blade. As Kismet’s hands broke free, the man resumed talking. “I am Ulrich Hauser. And lest you take the wrong impression, I am not a member of the Bundeswehr, or any other recognized army. I am not, I might add, an Israeli. Be thankful for that.”

Kismet did not question why this distinction was important, but took note of it; Samir had made a similar statement. He turned his head, following as Hauser continued his orbit, but resisted the impulse to massage his wrists, letting his hands hang loosely at his hips. “Should I take from your comments that you’re not going to kill us?”

Hauser returned to his starting point directly in front of Kismet. He held the Ka-Bar contemplatively between them for a moment, then slipped the naked blade into his own belt. At that instant, for no apparent reason, Kismet felt raw adrenaline dumping into his bloodstream, a premonition of something terrible about to happen, perhaps already beginning.

Hauser took the CAR15 from his accomplice and turned toward the line of hostages. It seemed to Kismet that he was moving in slow motion, but that was simply a trick of hyper-awareness. He didn’t even have time to open his mouth in protest.

The carbine erupted in a spray of fire and noise. Hauser moved it from side to side, hosing Samir and his family with an unceasing torrent of 5.56 millimeter ammunition. Kismet felt hot bile flash into his throat and he involuntarily jerked toward Hauser, hands reaching for the gun even though he knew it was too late. Three of Hauser’s men intercepted him, locking their fists around his biceps. He knew the air must be filled with the screams of the dying but all he could hear was the endless roar of gunfire. A chaotic pattern of gore and pocked brick now decorated the wall of the chamber, a carpet of corpses spread out beneath, yet Hauser did not relent until the last round was fired. Only when the final brass cartridge was ejected, landing with an inaudible tinkling sound in the eerie silence of the aftermath, did Hauser raise the barrel of the weapon.

Kismet’s mouth worked, trying to form words, but there was only rage and futility in his throat. Hauser faced him now, his lips drawn back in a fierce grimace, his eyes dancing hungrily. Without warning, he thrust the gun sideways at Kismet, who reflexively caught it, his left hand grabbing the stock while his right fingers wrapped around the shortened barrel of the carbine. He felt the sting of hot metal scorching his skin but did not release the now-impotent weapon.

“Why?” he whispered, finding at least that single word. It seemed inadequate, but it was all he could manage.

Before Hauser could reply, if he intended to at all, a voice called out from the far end of the antechamber where it passed into the main area. The words were in the same unrecognizable language, but the commando leader understood. Nodding, he fired back a quick response in the same tongue, then addressed his sole remaining captive.

“This prize is not for you, Kismet. Not now.”

The short declaration was not at all what Kismet was expecting. “What the hell are you talking about? You did all this for…for that thing?” He gestured toward the main chamber where he had last seen the truck and its mysterious, ancient cargo.

“One day, you will understand what we have done, and why it had to be done.” Despite his earlier, almost gleeful reaction to his act of violence, Hauser now seemed more subdued. He turned without another word and began striding toward the exit. His men followed, keeping wary eyes on the one man who did not belong to their number.

Kismet glanced down at the CAR15 in his hands, feeling the throb of pain in his right palm. Blue smoke continued to waft from the barrel and the air was heavy with the smell of burned cordite. He knew without looking that Hauser had shot off every round in the magazine, rendering the weapon temporarily useless, but there was something Hauser either did not know or had forgotten about. In two clip-on pouches, one on either side of his combat belt, Kismet carried spare magazines. He tried to estimate exactly how long it would take him to eject the spent clip, tear open the clasp on the ammo pocket, extract a spare and jam it into the magazine well. Two seconds?

Time enough for the cautious commandos to take preemptive measures; their weapons were already loaded.

As he weighed his options, the last of the men exited the antechamber, leaving him alone with the dead. He moved toward the passageway, walking slowly enough that he did not alarm the gunmen.

The commandos had made short work of the sand barrier Samir had used to cover the main entrance. The far end of the ruin was exposed to the chilly desert night, illuminated now only by the stars. Their work finished, the assault team began climbing into the rear of the truck. Hauser lingered behind them, catching his eye once more. “Do not fear, Kismet. It will be kept safe until the world is ready.”

“Safe?” he echoed hollowly. “With you? You’re a fucking psychopath.”

Hauser hopped onto the rear bumper and pulled himself half inside the truck. He then turned to Kismet and grinned, shifting his head back slightly, like a werewolf ready to howl. Kismet shook his head to clear the image. “Who are you?”

“I’ve given you my name,” Hauser replied, elevating his voice to be heard as the diesel engine rumbled to life. “Anything else I could say would only serve to confuse you. However, this much I will reveal: We are the chains of God, sealing Pandora’s box for the preservation of mankind. We are Prometheus, guiding the destiny of the world until humanity is ready to ascend Olympus.”

The words sounded like a mantra; a pledge learned by rote. The truck lurched into gear, spinning its wheels for a moment before finding purchase in the loose sand. Hauser steadied himself, then shouted over the din. “Do not try to follow us, Kismet. I have done what I can to spare you, but I will take no responsibility for the fortunes of war.”

Something Hauser had said earlier now echoed in his mind. I told him he is lucky he didn’t kill you.

“Why?” he shouted as the vehicle moved away from the chamber. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

Hauser broke into unrestrained laughter; his first honest display of emotion. “Kismet, if I killed you, your mother would have my head.”

If Hauser had anything more to say, it was lost as the truck moved away, threading the narrow alley between brick structures and sand dunes. Kismet took a step after them, then stopped as rage built in his chest and arms.

He pressed the button to eject the spent magazine from the carbine, then slammed a fresh clip into the weapon, slapping it with a mechanically practiced action to guarantee that the first round would not jam. He released the bolt, advancing a cartridge into the firing chamber, then raised it to shoulder height and sighted down the stubby barrel at the receding truck. Even as his finger flexed on the trigger, he knew the shot would be a futile gesture. He might get lucky and actually hit one of the escaping killers, but the odds were not good. With a defeated sigh, he lowered the gun and backed into the now deserted ruins. The oil lamps placed by Samir and his family continued to illuminate the abattoir that was the antechamber.

The sulfur odor of gunpowder lingered in the air, but there was a new scent added to the mix — the unmistakable stench of death. He had been in the presence of the dying and recently passed, but nothing like this. He had never seen healthy, vibrant individuals so violently ripped away from the world. It took a deliberate effort for him to search the memories of his combat skills training in order to determine his next action.

Like an automaton plugged into a new program, he lurched into action, systematically moving down the row of shattered bodies. The 5.56-mm green-tip ball ammunition had not ripped their flesh apart as larger and softer lead rounds might. Instead, the bullets had stabbed neat little holes clear through the victims, lacerating intestines and vital organs, wreaking internal damage with less outward trauma than might have been expected.

Samir and the woman Kismet assumed to be his wife had both expired from their wounds, but two of the younger children and one older male still drew ragged breaths. One of the children, a girl, clung to consciousness, whimpering when he turned her over to inspect the wounds. It was enough to throw him out of his almost mechanical routine, and he felt hot tears streaking down his face. He drew out one of two Syrettes of morphine hanging from a breakaway chain around his neck and quickly injected the contents into the girl’s thigh. Her agonized moans soon gave way to shallow breathing.

He knew the morphine would probably kill her, but that would merely hasten the inevitable and with less anguish. None of those who still drew breath would survive the night. Perhaps with the care of skilled surgeons in a state of the art trauma center, the hand of the Reaper might be stayed, but here in the desert with only Kismet’s basic first-aid skills and even more rudimentary first-aid kit, it was foolish to entertain hope. He cradled her in his arms and waited for the inevitable silence that would follow her final gasp.

“Bloody hell.”

The low whisper from behind startled Kismet, but he did not let it show. Instead he turned his head slowly and saw Sergeant Higgins and two of the Gurkhas. Higgins was standing exactly where Hauser had been at the moment of the massacre, and was surveying both the carnage and the scattering of 5.56 millimeter brass casings on the floor. Higgins was solemn. “Did you do this, sir?”

Unable to find his voice, Kismet shook his head.

Higgins nodded slowly. “That’s good enough for me, mate.” His words carried the implication that Kismet’s denial might not be sufficient for the others who would eventually ask the same question. The Gurkha continued. “We’ve got to move out, sir. Something has happened. About half an hour ago, the northern sky — by that I mean the sky over Baghdad — lit up like the end of the world. I think it’s finally started.”

Kismet eased the mortally wounded child to the floor and stood. “How did you get here?”

“We ran, didn’t we?” Higgins managed a triumphant grin. “More like walked fast. We followed your tracks to the road. After that, it was trusting luck that we were going the right way and that you hadn’t gone too far.”

“Luck.” Kismet looked around the chamber, at last spying his helmet and night vision goggles. “Let’s get moving. We’re going to need the devil’s own luck to get through this.”

They filed back up the staircase with Kismet leading the way. A fourth Gurkha waited at the entrance to the ruin, a guard left behind by Higgins. With a nod to the sergeant, he fell in with the rest as they marched single file back up to the roadway.

In the still desert night, Kismet could make out the sound of a distant vehicle engine, perhaps more than one. It might simply have been the sound of Hauser’s captured truck stealing away with the prize, but they couldn’t afford to make that assumption. They were deep in enemy territory.

One of the Gurkhas approached Samir’s sedan cautiously, peering through the windows. Higgins turned to Kismet. “At least we won’t have to walk back.”

The soldier tried the door handle.

Do not try to follow…

Kismet threw off his paralysis and started toward the car. “Get away from there…”

The Mercedes suddenly split in two, lifting off the ground in an eruption of orange fire and black smoke. The shock wave slapped Kismet and the others to the ground and sucked the air from their lungs. He felt a heavy weight strike him in the chest — something warm and yielding — and reflexively pushed it away.

It took only a moment or two for the stunned group of soldiers to recover. Higgins, the most senior among the squad, sprang to his feet, sweeping left and right with his weapon. “What the fuck was that?”

The Gurkha sergeant was screaming, but Kismet could barely hear through the ringing in his ears. They had all been close to the blast, but none as close as the soldier who had triggered it.

“Singh!”

Kismet followed the line of Higgins’ shocked gaze and saw what was left of Corporal Sanjay Singh of the 6th Queen Elizabeth’s Own Gurkha Rifles.

The blast had knocked him away from the detonation site a fraction of a second ahead of the flames. The live ordnance in his equipment vest had been triggered by the shock wave, but his flak jacket had directed the force of those secondary explosions away from his torso. Nevertheless, despite escaping the force of fire, Singh’s skeleton had been pulverized within by the release of energy, and his remains were now an almost-shapeless mass of smoking fabric and flesh near Kismet’s feet. Kismet saw the streaks of blood on his own BDU blouse and felt his gorge rise a second time.

Another of the Gurkhas, the machine-gunner Private Mutabe, was down, his left arm opened to the bone by a slashing fragment of metal. The fourth soldier knelt beside the wounded African and fished out his Syrette, injecting him with a dose of morphine to dull the pain.

“Jesus Christ,” scowled Higgins, stomping closer to where Kismet stood, reeling. “What the fuck was that?”

“Car bomb,” murmured Kismet, feeling a fool for stating the obvious. “They booby trapped it. He tried to warn me.”

“They? Who the fuck are they?” And then, phrasing it so it sounded like a curse, the sergeant added: “Sir.”

“I don’t know.” Kismet’s answer was inaudible.

“Well we’re fucked good now, sir.” He jerked a thumb at the column of smoke that spilled up into the night sky. “That’s going to bring everyone within fifty klicks right down on top of us, and in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re down to three.”

“I noticed,” Kismet muttered. He turned away from Singh’s corpse, fixing the sergeant in his gaze, scouring his memory for the leadership skills he had been taught but never applied. When he spoke again, it was more forcefully. “I noticed, sergeant. Now get your shit together and let’s get moving. Those two can buddy up. You and I will carry Singh.”

He felt like a fraud for saying it, for using a command voice; he had never commanded men before. And as he watched Higgins’ face quivering with barely contained rage, he wondered if he had made a mistake. Higgins would blame him for this. He was the officer, the mission leader, and responsible for the lives of his subordinates.

An image of Hauser leering like a coyote flashed in his mind. No, he decided. I didn’t do this. Hauser had murdered Samir and his innocent children. Hauser’s men had rigged the car to blow.

You and I will eventually meet again…

In that instant, he knew that he would endure. For the sake of revenge, if nothing else, he would survive.

Perhaps Higgins saw that light of resolve igniting in Kismet’s eyes. Or maybe it was simply the product of his years of military discipline. Whatever the case, the Gurkha’s expression softened. He took a step toward Kismet, then knelt beside the shattered form of Singh. When he stood, he held the fallen man’s kukri.

Gripping the back edge of the broad blade between his thumb and forefinger, he extended the hilt toward Kismet. “When we lay him to rest, I’ll want this for his widow. Until then…”

Kismet accepted the knife, acutely aware of the honor Higgins was paying him. He held the blade out, contemplating its balance and the visible keenness of its edge. He then did something that flew in the face of his training. Bringing himself to attention, he saluted the sergeant.

Higgins stiffened respectfully and returned the salute, holding it until Kismet lowered his hand.

“Sergeant, I promise you that we’ll give it to her together.”

You and I will eventually meet again…

And that’s the day I’ll cut your heart out, you sick bastard.

But something else Hauser had said gnawed at him. It was a deeper mystery that he would have to solve before exacting his revenge, a conundrum that would supply impetus to his resolve to survive.

Both Samir and Hauser had known that it would be he, Nick Kismet, coming to supervise the defection. Both men had believed that Kismet would have a particular interest in the ancient — perhaps even holy — treasure unearthed in the ruins of Babylon. But Hauser had added one more dimension to the enigma.

Kismet, if I killed you, your mother would have my head.

Nick Kismet had never known his mother. The woman that had borne him into the world had vanished forever from his life mere moments after completing her labor. No memory or trace of her had remained to prove she ever existed, save for a healthy male child of indeterminate heritage, and a single word, written in the blood of her womb, in a language nearly forgotten; a word that translated alternately as luck, destiny and fate.

A word that had become his name.

Miracle

She came to the waters once a year, not on Christmas or Easter or any of the days reserved for Saints and their feasts, but always on the same day: the second Sunday of May.

Pierre Chiron had once asked his wife what significance that date held but her answer had been vague and insincere. He had not thought to press the issue then. It was on the occasion of her second pilgrimage, and he could not have imagined that her annual tradition would endure through so many turnings of the calendar. Though he did not share her faith, he had always secretly believed she would receive her miracle. Surely it was only a matter of bad timing. Later, when the years of her barrenness stretched out for more than a decade — when the best doctors in France, then Switzerland, and eventually New York pronounced over and again the same sentence with the same requisite apology — Chiron could not find it in his heart to ask again or to call into question her earlier response. By that time there were other questions hungry for answers.

Once, after too many glasses of Bordeaux, he had shaped his smoldering ire into words. “How can you continue to beg this God of yours for a miracle when he repeatedly denies you?” How can you continue to believe?

He was not angry with her, of course, and her answer absorbed all of his fire, tacitly excusing his outburst. “There is a veil between heaven and earth. We cannot always see clearly the will of the Divine. It may be that He is still testing me to see if my faith is strong enough to deserve such a reward.”

He did not want to relent in accusing her God for withholding the blessing of a child from this woman, his devout servant, while any common street whore, too lost in the delirium of a heroin fix to remember or care to employ a condom, might be graced with another bastard child, but her quiet certitude disarmed him, as it always did.

“Sarah, the wife of Abraham, was ninety years old when she conceived Isaac,” she had said, quietly repeating what she surely must have told herself every day. “Hannah, the mother of Samuel, wept openly before God for years, and He listened. I pray only that He will find me as worthy as those women.”

“Well,” he had harumphed, trying to step back from his argument without conceding the point. “If it takes until we are ninety years old, then I shall do my part and keep trying every night.”

Collette had kept trying as well, praying every day in the Basilique du Sacré Coeur and visiting the Massabielle Grotto at Lourdes once every year in May. She was 56 years old now. From a biological standpoint, there was no longer any reason to continue trying. Her menstrual blood had ceased to flow and most of the symptoms associated with the change of life had already abated. Perhaps not as old as ancient Sarah, he thought, but it will nevertheless take a miracle to give me a child.

Millions came to Lourdes every year looking for miracles, and many went away believing they had found them. The history of the place, insofar as the believers were concerned, was rich with divine acts of provenance. The first such blessing had occurred in 1858 when two young sisters had experienced a visitation while gathering firewood in a cave on the banks of the Gave River, just west of the garrison town of Lourdes. In the years that followed, one of the women continued to experience the presence of the Divine, at one point miraculously locating a spring, the waters of which possessed healing powers, at least for the faithful. It was to this holy place in the southwest Hautes-Pyrenees that Collette made her annual journey looking for just such a miracle.

Pierre Chiron did not believe in miracles.

He always stayed behind when she went to the Shrine, not at home in Paris, but at a hotel in the nearby city. He knew from experience that she would be gone all day, and upon returning shortly after dusk, she would be eager to put her faith to work. Chiron had come to think of the yearly pilgrimage as a sort of holiday. If the weather was accommodating, he would lay by the pool and read a bestseller from cover to cover. When conditions were inclement, he would take a walking tour, safe beneath the capacious dome of his umbrella, darting from one café to the next until his veins were almost humming with caffeine and sugar. On such days, his stimulant-induced insomnia permitted Collette to repeatedly test whether her prayers would be answered.

Today was such a day, but Chiron no longer cared to hyper-stimulate his nervous system. He was getting old and missed sleep was now something he regretted. He nursed his café au lait rather than gulping it down, and lingered at his table, idly browsing through the morning edition of the Courrier International. Even at that, he ran out of coffee before he was ready to leave. Sighing, he folded the paper under his arm and stepped out into the rain. In defiance of Collette’s God, he left his umbrella furled, letting the angry raindrops pelt his face and thinning hair. He was blinking rapidly to clear his vision when a limousine pulled alongside.

He started momentarily. The vehicle had appeared almost as if by magic. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of such deluded musings, and continued walking. The limousine kept pace with him, creeping along in the street less than a meter away.

When he was certain that the presence of the oversized car was no coincidence, he stopped, turned and peered at the tinted glass. A dark line appeared across his reflection and descended slowly as the window was lowered. Then he recognized the face gazing at him and instantly regretted his initial irritation.

“Bonjour, Pierre.”

“Madame?” He fumbled for words. “This is a great honor.”

The woman smiled wryly. “Get in.”

The driver of the vehicle, a large man whose barrel chest strained the seams of his immaculate black uniform, circled around to open the door for Chiron, who climbed in without hesitation and laid his umbrella on the spacious floor. The limousine eased forward, cruising slowly along the narrow streets, but for Chiron, the world beyond the darkened interior of the vehicle had ceased to exist.

The woman scrutinized him for several moments as he settled into the plush interior, and Chiron stared back, his blood roaring with an unexpected surge of adrenaline. Though they had never met, he had no doubts concerning her identity. He recognized her by reputation alone. Like Sophia Loren, only more so, he had been told. The whispered, anonymous rumors were not very specific on the latter point, but he had developed his own interpretation, which he now found to be slightly in error. She indeed bore a striking resemblance to the Italian-born movie star, although considerably younger. And yet there was something in her that was like nothing he had ever seen in that actress, or for that matter in any woman: A fire of purpose…No, he thought. It’s rage. But at what? It was not altogether unattractive. Chiron did not even realize that he had put all thoughts of his wife’s struggle and his own divinely directed ire out of his head.

Thankfully, the woman’s simmering wrath did not seem directed at him. Despite the fire behind her eyes, she gave him a reserved smile, then reached into a cabinet alongside the broad seat. “Cognac?”

Normally, he would not have dreamed of drinking so early in the day, but he surprised himself by accepting the offer. The warm brandy soothed his anxious nerves, allowing him to breathe and speak with more ease. “As I said, madame. You have paid me a great honor. I had not expected to meet you in person.”

“It was convenient,” she replied, explaining nothing. “I expect you have been eager to learn the status of your…shall we say, application?”

“After six months, I had come to accept the worst—”

”These things take time, Pierre. Six months is not even a tick on the clock of the universe. Besides, our enemies continue to multiply and ever seek to infiltrate our ranks. Our vetting process must be thorough.”

“Then I…I don't understand why—”

“You may consider this a final interview, Pierre.”

He gulped and suddenly even the cognac wasn’t enough to calm his nerves. “I see.”

“Tell me,” she continued, as if his anxiety was irrelevant. “Have you determined the identity of your sponsor?”

He grimaced. “I’m sorry, I know I’m not supposed to have that information, but I could not resist trying to figure it out. I believe it is one of two men in the Ministry of—”

”It’s not whom you imagine it to be,” she said with a hint of dismissive irony. Then she told him.

“Mon dieu! He is one of you?” He had never met the person she named, a noted inventor and marine explorer, though he had corresponded with the man a few years previously in an effort to end atomic testing in the South Pacific.

“I did not say that, and you would be wise not to fuel such a rumor. Suffice it to say, he brought you to our attention — whether directly or indirectly, I cannot reveal.”

Chiron raised the snifter to his lips once more, only to realize in dismay that he had already drained its contents. “Then I am doubly honored.”

“We will speak no more of how this honors you.” There was an edge to her voice. “Ours is not some gentlemen’s drinking club where we sit around and congratulate each other on achievements of avarice and notoriety. Our goals are lofty, our purpose transcendent. You bring to our cause something of extraordinary import. All of us contribute something essential, or else no invitation is extended. You cannot buy your way in or know the right people; you must be the right person.”

Her oration in no way diminished Chiron’s sense of accomplishment, but he withheld further banalities. “And what do I have that will serve your cause?”

“Our cause,” she reproved, but with a smile. “That is no great mystery, Pierre. Before you took your current post, you were the foremost scientific advisor to the French government. You still have a certain degree of influence in an area that is currently of great concern. We need you to do something, a very small something, but of considerable importance to an ongoing experiment.”

“Yes?”

She shifted in her seat, banking her inner fire as the discussion became more business-like. Outside, the world was a blur of green; they were well beyond the city, cruising through the countryside. “On the fifth of September, the French Army will detonate a device in the Fangataufa atoll testing grounds.”

Before her words could sink in, Chiron felt his heart lurch in his chest. “I cannot prevent that,” he said hastily. “God knows I have tried.”

“You misapprehend. The test must go forward on schedule, no matter what other forces conspire to postpone or cancel it, and they will try. We require only that you alter the order of the tests.”

“Alter…I don’t understand.”

“The September fifth test must be conducted underground, in the Mururoa proving grounds. The Fangataufa test may take place on the second of October, the date originally set aside for Mururoa. Additionally, you must modify the yield specifications for the first test. The device must not exceed ten kilotons.”

Now he understood her earlier declaration. This was indeed no platform for social climbing. He was not even a member of their ranks and already they were demanding sacrifice, a sacrifice that stood in opposition to everything he had worked for. “Madame, I fear that you have overestimated my influence. I have already petitioned President Chirac to suspend these tests he has planned. My advice was not heeded. Our new president insists on reminding the world that France is also a global power. Why do you think anyone will listen now if I make this demand?”

“We trust that you can make a persuasive argument to accommodate our request. What you say is at your discretion. It is not a significant deviation from the schedule, but the time and location are critical to an experiment we will be conducting at the observatory.”

“Observatory?”

“You would know it by a different name.” She told him.

He could not hide his surprise. “How can an event on the other side of the world influence your experiment in Paris?”

“That will become clear in time. There are many levels to our cause, and you are yet on the verge of the outermost ring. Do not mistake my presence here as an initiation. That will come when we see how you…” Her eyes lost focus and her voice trailed off, as she gazed past him out the rear window of the limousine. Curious, Chiron turned to see what had distracted her.

A motorcycle had appeared behind them and was racing to close the intervening distance. It did not seem a noteworthy development, but the woman continued to stare at the approaching vehicle as if trying to assess the significance of its presence. She toggled a switch on the armrest, activating the intercom.

Her words were unrecognizable, but after a second, the chauffeur’s voice scratched from the speaker, likewise incomprehensible. It’s true, was Chiron’s first thought. They have their own language.

The limousine immediately charged forward, racing into a turn with a roar of horsepower. The tires slipped on the wet macadam, shrieking in protest as the heavy vehicle fish-tailed, only to become silent as the road straightened and control was once more asserted. The motorcycle fell back momentarily, caught by surprise and unable to match the other vehicle’s power, but the rider lowered himself behind the abbreviated windscreen and surged forward.

“Is he chasing us?” inquired Chiron, still not grasping the situation.

“I told you our enemies were multiplying,” replied the woman through clenched teeth.

The concern evident in her expression hit Chiron like a slap. My God, we’re in danger.

With the prey alerted, the hunter now forsook subterfuge, taking full advantage of the motorcycle’s superior maneuverability to close the gap whenever the road forced the chauffeur to apply the brakes. Chiron could now clearly see their pursuer. The aerodynamic motorcycle had been painted a glossy black to cover any telltale markings. It was impossible even to be certain of the vehicle’s manufacture, but Chiron was a fan of speedway racing and instantly recognized it as a Caviga 125 Roadster. The rider’s black leathers and helmet were not so easy to unriddle, but his driving skill suggested that he too was more than a little familiar with the dangerous sport.

The limousine was forced to slow as it entered a hairpin turn, the beginnings of a switchback that carved its way into the Pyrenees. The motorcycle shot forward and the rider lifted his left hand from the grip and drew an oblong object—a gun, thought Chiron. Of course it’s a gun—from a holster on his hip. As the gap shrank to nothing, the rider laid the long barrel of his weapon across his rigidly straight right arm and sighted on the back window of the limousine.

Chiron ducked instinctively, but not before he saw a pinpoint of flame at the tip of the weapon. He knew the gun had been fired but heard no report; the limousine’s insulation effectively squelched all outside noise. What he did hear however — a harsh, surprised gasp from his companion — froze his blood.

This cannot be. The glass must be bulletproof.

He looked over at the woman, confirming his worst fear to be true. She sat in stunned disbelief, her right hand clapped over her left shoulder but unable to staunch the scarlet flow that stained her white jacket.

She’s wearing white, he thought. Why didn’t I notice that before?

There was a sharp cracking sound, and he saw a neat hole, smaller than the thickness of a pencil, appear in the partition behind her head. The bullet had passed through both the rear window and the barrier separating the inner compartments. Even Chiron, who knew very little about small arms, was familiar with the concept of armor-piercing bullets. Impulsively, he threw himself forward, pushed the woman down onto the floor and covered her with his body.

The adrenaline that had surged through him at the initial meeting was now gone. The instinctive urge to flee or fight had departed, just when circumstances dictated he ought to have needed it most. Instead, there was only a surreal calm, as if he were a spectator watching a scene from a movie. There was no horror, only a curiosity about what would happen next.

Another Teflon-coated projectile perforated the window and continued through the partition with a harsh crack. Chiron immediately felt something change; the limousine was slowing. Even without looking he knew what had happened. The round, blindly fired through the mirrored glass by the motorcyclist, had struck the chauffeur. Something about the way the vehicle meandered toward the edge of the road told Chiron that the wound had been fatal.

The car careened from the road with deceptive slowness, as if it might at any moment stop, allowing its passengers to get out and stretch their legs. Chiron braced himself between the opposed seats and hugged the woman close as the large car left the paved road and crashed down an abrupt slope. Despite his preparations, he was thrown violently about the interior of the vehicle as it bounced chaotically down the hill. It was difficult to ascertain the moment at which the limousine stopped moving, but there was a final intense heave forward that lifted him off the prone woman and slammed him into the fractured partition.

Chiron felt no pain, though he knew the hammering he had taken must have resulted in, if nothing else, at least a mass of bruises. He lay stunned for a moment in the crook of the upholstered seat. The car was tilted forward at a forty-five degree angle, skewing his sense of balance like a trick in a carnival funhouse. He pulled himself toward the edge of the seat and looked down at his female companion.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” he rasped, surprised at the sound of his own voice in the sudden silence.

She nodded, but seemed to be having trouble righting herself. Chiron reached toward her, then changed his mind and focused instead on disengaging the door handle. The door fell open, revealing a rain-soaked, but familiar landscape. Just outside the door flowed a body of water, and in the distance, he could see an overhanging wall of rock.

The grotto, he thought dumbly, cursing himself for having paid no attention to the route chosen by the chauffeur. An instant later, he realized what good fortune had provided them: if they could reach the mass of people, which even now was looking up from their prayers and ablutions in order to gaze on this unfolding spectacle, the assassin would not dare to follow.

There was a tortured squeal of metal behind him and Chiron turned to find a man clad in dark riding gear peering in through the opposite door. The cyclist had removed his black helmet, but the gun remained, now held in his right hand.

The assassin looked like a man about to transform into a savage beast. He sneered, thin lips pulling away to reveal teeth that seemed too large—the better to eat you with, Chiron thought, manically — and his eyes blazed with barely restrained fury. He glanced at the scientist first, appraising his value as a target and potential threat, then turned his fiery gaze upon the woman and began speaking.

It was a short declaration uttered, Chiron supposed, in the same strange tongue the woman had used earlier with the chauffeur. That their killer shared the mysterious form of speech with the woman ought to have been troubling to him, but somehow it seemed only a minor concern. He did not need to be fluent in their language to comprehend what the man had said. It was unquestionably a gloating pronouncement of victory: a death sentence. As if to underscore this supposition, the man extended the gun toward the woman and aimed down the barrel so that they were looking into each other’s eyes.

A sudden flash of light filled the interior of the wrecked limousine. The gunman flinched involuntarily, blinded by the brilliant burst. The muzzle of the gun wavered as he blinked furiously to clear away the retinal fireworks.

A flash camera, thought Chiron. Someone is here to save us.

But any well-intentioned passerby with a camera would be ill-equipped to deal with a vicious, armed killer. That Good Samaritan would simply be added to the list of victims when the assassin’s eyesight recovered. Chiron knew he had to act.

He thought about trying to leap at the man and attempting to wrestle the gun away, but dismissed the idea instantly. He was no fighter, and would have only the vaguest idea of what to do with the gun in the unlikely event that he succeeded in capturing it. Then his eyes fell upon the one weapon he was familiar with, not for close-quarters combat but rather battling the elements.

Without thinking, he snatched the umbrella off the floor and gripped its hook-shaped handle in both hands. The gunman must have seen the movement in his peripheral vision because the end of his weapon shifted toward Chiron, but the French scientist had the advantage. He thrust the metal tip of the umbrella up at the man’s face.

Whether due to good aim or sheer luck, his attack struck home, extinguishing the fierce glow in the man’s left eye. The lupine assassin’s head snapped back and the cane handle was ripped from Chiron’s grasp. The gun fell away as his hands flew up to his face to wrap around the shaft of the object that had reduced his eyesight by half, and he unleashed a bestial cry of pain and rage as he tore it free.

In a moment of unreal clarity, Chiron saw that the tip of the umbrella was now stained red and clumps of tissue were clinging to the metal point like bits of paper plucked up off the grass by a groundskeeper. The wounded assassin continued to cover his ravaged eye with one hand, but the remaining orb was bright with intensity of purpose. He scanned the interior, looking for his lost weapon, then gazed past his victims at the approaching throng of devotees drawn away from the healing waters by the commotion. His attention returned to Chiron.

“Well done.” His voice quavered slightly but was otherwise restrained. “But you now find yourself on the wrong side of this war. Ask her and she will tell you what sort of enemy you have made today.”

Dismissing Chiron, he turned to the woman and made another brief utterance in their shared tongue. She continued to hold her wounded shoulder, but her eyes were triumphant. When she spoke, it was in French, doubtless for the benefit of her companion, and though her comment was cliché, the sentiment rallied Chiron. “Go to hell.”

The assassin chortled as he pulled back through the doorframe and vanished from sight. Chiron slumped in relief, and then roused himself to thank their savior. He turned to the door he had opened but there was no one there. Certainly no one with a camera, close enough to have activated the blinding flash that had distracted the assassin from his lethal task. The closest person — a young man running toward them — was still a hundred meters away.

That’s odd, he thought. Was it only lightning?

“Pierre, listen to me.” The woman’s voice remained defiant, but he could hear a faint hiss of anguish in her gasping breaths. “This man would not have acted alone. He is a soldier, not a general. But I do not know who gave the order, nor whom to trust.”

“You can trust me,” Chiron replied, instantly feeling foolish for his eager promise.

She chuckled through the pain. “You are more right than you’ll ever know. Alas, this will likely be our only meeting.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The timing of this crisis is unfortunate for you, Pierre. It would have been a great privilege to offer you a seat at our table, but now I must implore you to forget everything.”

“Forget?”

“Trust no one, Pierre. If someone tries to persuade you that the danger has passed, then you will know that the enemy is close at hand. Only in ignorance will you find safety.”

Chiron sighed, comprehending the wisdom of her strategy, but nevertheless felt a pang of loss. So close. “And the tests? The atomic tests?”

Her eyes darted sideways, then fixed his stare once more. “The tests must proceed as I described.”

He nodded earnestly. “It will be so, madame. And will you be safe?”

“I’ll manage.” She looked aside once more, her gaze shifting to the open doorframe behind Chiron. “There is one more thing, Pierre. A personal favor.”

“Name it.”

“Soon, you will cross paths with a young man. He is very special to me.”

“I will welcome him as I would my own son.” Even as he spoke the words, the irony of the statement rang in Chiron’s ears.

“Thank you, Pierre. But he must never know of this conversation, nor anything about the group. He will find those answers in due time.”

“How will I recognize this young man?”

“Oh, I don’t believe you will have any difficulty. Your rendezvous will seem like an act of fate.”

“Are you injured?” shouted a voice in French. “What happened?”

He turned and saw the man he had earlier spied now drawing even with the wreck of the limousine. The newcomer wore casual clothes, a navy blue polo shirt with khaki chinos, but Chiron saw none of the expected accouterments of a devotee; no gold chain around his neck, no crucifix. The man was a tourist, marking this place off a list in a guidebook rather than seeking a blessing from the Divine. Somehow, the scientist found that encouraging. The young man was the vanguard of a small army of Good Samaritans, leaving their devotions at the grotto in order to render assistance to the victims of the accident.

Chiron did not know how to answer the latter question, so he addressed the former. “Yes. For God’s sake, call the medics.” He then turned back to the woman. “Everything is going to be fine…”

The words died on his lips. The woman was gone.

Chiron pulled himself across the seat and thrust his head through the opposite doorway, but there was no sign of his host. She had vanished as completely as the assassin before her. Only the crimson-tipped umbrella remained to give evidence that the encounter was not merely a delusion. Stunned by the disappearing act, he fell back into the seat, a wave of nausea creeping over him.

The tourist stuck his head inside and made eye contact with Pierre. "Help is on the way. I'm going to check on the driver."

The man then splashed into the shallow water surrounding the front end of the vehicle and forced open the driver’s door. Chiron found himself wondering if the chauffeur had likewise evaporated, but a shocked exhalation from the young rescuer affirmed that such was not the case.

The young man reappeared before Chiron, his eyes now accusatory. “That man has been shot, murdered. What happened here?”

Chiron opened his mouth to reply without really knowing what he was going to say. He stared back at the tourist, trying to formulate a plausible fiction to conceal a truth he barely understood. “I’ll wait for the gendarmes to arrive before I tell the story,” he said finally, forcing his eyes away from the young man.

He could feel the young man’s eyes boring into him. There was a familiar fire in that gaze, yet it wasn’t until he looked away that recognition dawned.

It was convenient…

I should have seen it right away, thought Chiron.

He looked back into the other man’s eyes. “Pardon, monsieur, but what is your name?”

“My name?” The tourist seemed rightly surprised by the question, but answered nonetheless. “I’m Nick Kismet.”

“Kismet?” Chiron savored the word. “That’s an unusual name. You are not French?”

“I’m an American.”

“But the name is something else; Arabic, if I’m not mistaken.” He gazed at the young, masculine face, astonished at the similarity of features. “But you do not appear to be an Arab.”

“Right on both counts.” The young man remained aloof, evidently suspicious of the stranger who shared a car with a gunshot victim and now seemed so interested in his name. “It’s a long story.”

“I imagine so. Still, it is a unique name. A powerful word. I believe it means luck or destiny. Or fate.”

It was convenient…an act of fate.

Kismet nodded hesitantly, but said nothing.

Chiron managed a thin smile. “Well, I hope you will count this meeting an instance of good luck. My name is Pierre Chiron, and I am the director of the Global Heritage Commission of the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization. If there’s anything I can do to assist you during your stay in my country, please do not hesitate to ask. I have a feeling I can be of great assistance to you.”

He knew by the sudden gleam in the young man’s eyes that he would have to make good on his offer in ways he could scarcely imagine.

Six days shy of four months from the occasion of Collette Chiron’s annual pilgrimage to the Grotto of Lourdes, a small borehole in the basalt gut rock of the Mururoa atoll vomited forth an eruption of force and fire. Though modest by the standards of modern destructive power, equivalent only to about eight thousand metric tons of TNT, the explosion nevertheless rocked that remote corner of the world.

Twenty-four thousand miles away, Pierre Chiron stood at the foot of the structure he now thought of as “le observatorie”. He had arrived ninety minutes ahead of the projected time for the test and lingered for three hours beyond that pivotal moment. Yet he saw no indication of activity, nothing to suggest that an experiment was being monitored in the observatory, nor any sign that the atomic test in the South Pacific had exerted an influence here, on the other side of the globe. At last admitting defeat, Chiron left, pausing only long enough to take a picture for a tourist couple posing gaily in front of the monument, blissfully unaware of its dual purpose.

In the four months since the incident in the Haute-Pyrenees, Chiron had received no further contact from the woman or any of her agents. He had however developed a close friendship with the young man with the unusual name, fulfilling the second of two promises made that fateful day. Now, with the underground detonation of an atomic device at Mururoa, both pledges had been satisfied. He remained curious to see what fruit each of those disparate branches would bear.

The second test, an airburst over Fangataufa on the second of October, was judged a success by both the military scientists overseeing the project and the nationalist politicians intent on flexing the French military muscle in the face of NATO and the United States. Because he was paying attention on a different level, Chiron’s observations were less sanguine.

Almost immediately following the Fangataufa test, Mount St. Helens, an active volcano in the Pacific Northwest region of the United States, began to resonate with tremors. In New Zealand, Mount Puapehu entered into a period of intense eruptive activity, as did Mount Merapi in Java. One week after the test, Mount Hosshu, dormant for over 250 years, rumbled to life in Japan.

Over the next few months, Chiron saw fingers of force reaching out from the test sites to distant locations around the world, a series of unprecedented volcanic and seismic events coinciding with the atomic detonations. His observations led to more research, which in turn revealed an astonishing link between the weapons tests and geological activity, but he shared his findings with no one. He knew others were also watching and had perhaps been doing so for decades.

Meanwhile, a cluster of cells began to thrive and multiply in the warm and dark embrace of Collette Chiron’s womb. It would yet be two months before she and her husband would discover that what grew there was no miracle.

She would make just one more journey to Lourdes, but her supplications would once more go unanswered.