The Shroud of Heaven

Seven

When he awoke, his first impression was that he was back home in a cool bed, and that everything that had happened in the desert was merely a bad dream. But when he tried to rouse himself, all that he had endured returned with a vengeance. Blinding agony speared through his head and he winced involuntarily, thrashing as he reached up to hold the halves of his skull together. That was when he realized he was in water, laying naked in a makeshift basin filled with tepid liquid. Bracing himself against the expected pain, he cautiously opened his eyes.

Beyond the fact that he was laying naked in a few centimeters of water, it was difficult to discern anything. The room was dark, lit only by a sliver of light seeping in around the edges of the window blinds. Even that nominal amount of illumination felt like a spike piercing through his retinas, so he stopped looking and relaxed once more. It took him a moment to perceive that he was not alone.

“Welcome back to the land of the living.”

The soft voice seemed familiar, but he did not open his eyes to identify the female speaker. “Where am I?”

“Back where you started. The airport.” He sensed her moving closer. “Open your mouth.”

He obliged without thinking, and abruptly found a thin probe thrust under his tongue. He clamped his teeth down to hold the thermometer in place. A moment later, a beeping sound signaled that it had completed its task. The woman removed the device.

“Well?”

“Your fever has broken,” she announced, matter-of-factly. “I consider that no small accomplishment. When you arrived, your body temperature was forty degrees Celsius and you were badly dehydrated.”

“Marie?” He risked opening his eyes once more, trying to bring the face of his caregiver into focus. He immediately recognized the woman, but it was not Marie Villaneauve.

“No,” remarked the auburn-haired woman he had initially encountered on the plane. She looked no different than in that initial encounter, save for a butterfly tape bandaging a small cut under her left eye. “I’m Dr. Gault, and your life is in my hands, so stay put and do as I say.”

I could have killed you…

Staring at her, Kismet suddenly felt vulnerable and it had nothing to do with his nakedness. She gazed down at him a moment longer, her dour expression never softening, then turned away long enough to procure a plastic bag of dextrose solution. Kismet noted a similar container, nearly drained, secured with hemostat clamps and white tape to a wall near his head. A long tube snaked from the fluid bag to his arm, where an intravenous needle had been inserted.

The first thought to cross his mind was that the woman had decided to finish the job she had started at the museum. He tried to dismiss the idea as he had no evidence to support his suspicions, but his instincts told him that this woman was not to be trusted. He had felt it first when she had abandoned him during the effort to rescue trapped soldiers during the RPG attack at the airport. She might have called herself a doctor, but she had not behaved as one. When he had determined that Aziz’s killer was female, he had put her at the top of his list of suspects, even though there was nothing to substantiate that accusation.

Yet, she had saved him from heat exhaustion, hadn’t she?

Your life is in my hands…

She finished changing the IV solution, then turned back to him. “I don’t know what happened to you, but you seem to be a living mass of bruises. It’s difficult to tell where one ends and the next begins. Were you dragged by a horse?”

“It kind of feels that way.” He was ambivalent about sharing information with her. If she was the assassin he had chased, then it was conceivable that she was watching for some sign that he had recognized her. In her role as medical care provider, nobody would think twice if Kismet suffered an unexpected fatal relapse. Even if she was innocent, her unpleasant personality made him reluctant to engage in conversation. “Are my friends okay?”

“If you mean Monsieur Chiron, then the answer is that he will be all right as soon as I allow him to see you. He’s been very worried.”

“I’d like to see him now.”

She frowned. “Well, if it were up to me, I’d make you wait until morning. I don’t think you appreciate that you almost died, Mr. Kismet.”

Several times, actually. He held back the comment, however. “Please, it’s important.”

She crossed her arms. “Very well. I suppose there’s really nothing more for me to do. I’ll come back in about fifteen minutes to remove your line. After that, you’ll be on your own. I can give you some analgesics for your pain… I imagine you’ve got quite a headache. Other than that, you just need to stay hydrated and take it easy.”

“Whatever you say, doc.”

She sighed and turned toward the door. “I hope you brought along some extra clothing. I’m afraid there wasn’t much left of what you were wearing.”

Though it was against his better judgment, Kismet made a final bid for the last word. “Well, I guess this makes us even.”

She paused, then looked back. A single arched eyebrow was just visible in the narrow beam of outside light. “I beg your pardon?”

“I saved your life. Now you’ve saved mine.”

“You give yourself too much credit. I seem to remember that you very nearly killed me.”

Kismet’s lips twitched into a smile but there was no humor in his expression. “Believe me, I’ve thought about it.”

She held his stare for a long silent moment, her eyes unreadable, then pushed through the door.

Pierre Chiron burst through almost immediately, bathing the room in light from hallway. Kismet raised a hand to shade his eyes, then struggled to a seated position as his old friend rushed to his side. Marie was right behind him.

“Nick, we’ve been so worried. They say you fainted in a helicopter.”

Kismet was mildly irritated by the suggestion that he had “fainted”, but clarification to soothe his ego seemed superfluous. “Who was that woman?”

“Do you mean Dr. Gault?”

“I do. Why was she treating me? I would have expected to end up in an army field hospital.”

Chiron appeared confused by the question. “Dr. Gault is with the International Red Cross. She’s certainly capable, if that’s your concern.”

Marie stepped forward, proffering a blanket to Kismet for the sake of modesty. “I was here when you arrived, Nick. The soldiers seemed to think you were to blame for whatever it was that happened out there. I had them bring you to Dr. Gault in order for you get some treatment. From what she’s told us, it’s a good thing I did.”

“Nick,” Chiron intoned. “What happened? Did you know that Mr. Aziz was murdered?”

“Someone didn’t want us talking to him. I walked in on it and tried to chase after the…the guy that did it.” He decided to withhold his knowledge of the assassin’s gender. That tiny scrap of information was his hole card and he wasn’t ready to play it yet. Not until he knew more about Dr. Gault, at any rate. Kismet pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to force the insistent pain to abate, if only long enough to continue speaking. “From there, everything went to hell. I’m sure it’s already made the news by now.”

Marie flashed a wry smile. “They say you started a riot.”

“I wouldn’t say I started it, exactly. I just sort of happened upon it.”

Chiron laid a fatherly hand on his forearm. “Nick, what really happened? Who did this?”

“I–I’m not quite sure. I have some ideas.” His gaze flashed between Chiron and Marie. “I don’t want to speculate right now.”

The old man seemed to comprehend his subtle body English. “Of course. It would serve no purpose. Besides, I’m sure your doctor wants you to rest. And perhaps eat something. Marie, be a dear and see if you can’t find something for our friend to eat. Something palatable, if at all possible. I will stay with Nick and regale him with my own adventures from this afternoon.”

Kismet could tell by her eyes that Marie was disappointed at being dismissed — and that she knew why — but managed a smile and nodded to Kismet. There was more emotion in her expression than he had previously seen, but to his chagrin, he couldn’t will himself to entertain amorous thoughts as he watched her go.

Chiron waited until the door clicked shut behind her. “Well?”

Kismet gingerly extricated himself from the bath, careful not to dislodge the intravenous line. Despite his headache, he felt a primal need to start moving again. The basin of lukewarm water, which had doubtless been instrumental in lowering his fever and probably saving his life, now seemed merely an annoyance. He wrapped the damp blanket around his torso and faced the other man. “What time is it?”

“After nineteen hundred—7:00 p.m. that is.”

He had slept almost nine hours, yet he did not feel at all rejuvenated. “A whole day lost.”

“Perhaps. But you’ve obviously been through a great deal. Rest is the best thing for you, I imagine.”

“I need to get my bag…get some fresh clothes.” He spied his ragged boots on the floor nearby. He had not thought to bring alternate footwear.

“Yes. Nick, tell me what happened. Do you know who killed Mr. Aziz? Or who it was that wanted him silenced?”

“The answer to both questions is ‘maybe’. I’m going to do some digging with respects to the identity of the killer. As to who’s behind it…” He leaned against a table edge. “As I see it, there are two possibilities. The obvious answer is that Aziz was a black marketeer, dealing in antiquities. Either he was offed by a rival, or somebody in his own organization suspected he was cooperating with us and wanted to keep him from spilling his guts.”

Chiron appeared stunned. “I had not considered that approaching him would present any sort of risk.”

“Relax. If Aziz is everything I think he was, the world is probably a better place without him. However, I said there are two possibilities, and right now I’m leaning toward the alternative.”

“And what is that?”

Kismet glanced at the door, wondering if Marie would return before he had finished explaining himself. “The killer said something to me — something that was very much like what Hauser told me, twelve years ago.”

“And that was?”

“I asked him why he didn’t kill me along with everyone else. He said that if he had killed me, my mother would have his head.”

There was a gasp. “Your mother, Nick? But I thought you never knew her?”

“I didn’t…I don’t.”

“The man that killed Aziz said this to you?”

Kismet shook his head, unintentionally aggravating the throbbing pain there. “No. Hauser said that. The…ah, guy that killed Aziz just said the he could have killed me if he had wanted to.”

Chiron began mentally arranging the puzzle pieces. “So you believe that this man Hauser, or someone like him, murdered Mr. Aziz in order to prevent him from sharing information vital to your ongoing search.”

“That pretty well sums it up. I was so close to finding a link to what happened that night, but someone got there ahead of me.”

“What will you do now?”

“I was hoping you’d know. Was Aziz the only lead you had on these Babylonian discoveries?”

“Yes.” Chiron’s reply was thoughtful and Kismet could tell he wasn’t being entirely forthcoming.

“You’re up to something, Pierre. Tell me.”

“Well, I had always recognized the possibility that Mr. Aziz would not cooperate. From the outset, I believed that we would have to go to Babylon.”

Kismet was incredulous. “What, just head out there with a shovel and start digging?”

“Something like that,” Chiron answered with a grin. “I may have to save that for a surprise, though. We’ll go as soon as you are feeling better.”

“In case you haven’t been following the news, I think I’ve pretty much worn out my welcome. Even if Colonel Buttrick doesn’t declare me persona non grata, I can’t see him loaning us more vehicles.”

“That won’t be a problem. The UN inspection team left behind a small fleet of Toyota Land Cruisers.”

“I heard the UN headquarters facility was looted.”

“The offices at the Canal Hotel were ransacked, but the UNMOVIC team stored most of their sensitive equipment, along with some vehicles at an industrial complex along the Hillah Road to the south. As far as I know, the location was secret and remote enough that I doubt anyone will have raided it. The only difficulty will be getting there.”

Kismet sighed resignedly, wishing he knew what scheme Chiron was hatching. “Well, I’ll ask Buttrick tomorrow. The worst thing he can say is: ‘Go to hell.’”

It had been a long time since Saeed had set foot in the part of the world populated by his own people. After more than a decade spent in self-imposed exile, he had grown quite fond of what some in the Islamic world labeled Western decadence. He had come to believe that nothing would ever pull him back to the hellish desert he so loathed. Nevertheless, here he was.

Damascus had the reputation of being the world’s oldest continuously inhabited city, its recorded existence dating back more than five thousand years. Saeed understood how the Syrian capital might have justified its existence in the days when trade caravans sought refuge from the bleak desert, but could not imagine why anyone would choose to continue to remain there when the need for such an oasis had been obviated by modern technology. Whatever the reason, the city certainly seemed to be showing its age, especially in the slums on the outskirts, where people lived in houses of baked clay as they had for uncounted generations.

Damn my brother for bringing me here, he thought sourly.

He suspected that Farid was already there, hiding out somewhere to observe him surreptitiously, or perhaps simply to watch him sweat. Although he had purchased a djellabah—the traditional overgarment — he felt distinctly out of place. The locals had certainly noticed him A group of children had harassed him for nearly an hour before finally tiring of the game and leaving him alone. It had now grown late, but Saeed remained there sitting in the dust.

“Alms?”

Saeed did not look up. He had spied the bent form of the beggar shuffling down the street earlier and had intentionally crossed to avoid making eye contact. The mendicant had moved on, but now it seemed he had worked his way around for a second try. When he was standing directly behind Saeed, he repeated his request in a low, earnest voice, almost daring him to refuse.

Saeed’s nostrils filled with the beggar’s stench. “Go away, old man!”

Then a different voice issued from the tattered rags covering the wanderer’s head. “What a pity that you could not even find it in your heart to observe this smallest command of the Prophet.”

Saeed looked around suddenly. “Farid? Son of a whore.”

“I see that you continue to disgrace our family both in deed and word.” There was no trace of humor in the familiar voice. The beggar stood straighter, but his disguise remained otherwise intact. He was unrecognizable as Farid Tariq Al-Sharaf, even to his own brother.

Saeed scowled at the complaint. He had heard the substance of the comment too many times to count. “Spare me. I did not travel to this godforsaken place because I missed your berating comments.”

“Indeed?” Farid sat down alongside his brother. “And I had desired never to see you again. Yet at your request, I have made this difficult journey. So tell me, brother, why is it that you have left your palace of pleasure behind to visit me after so many years?”

“A matter of mutual concern has arisen—”

”I do not believe our concerns could possibly be mutual,” Farid interjected disdainfully.

“Hear me out.” Saeed took a deep breath to regain his composure. “Have you been following the news from Baghdad? There was a suicide bomb attack against the US soldiers at the airport yesterday.”

“Yes.” Farid spat in the dirt. “Fedayeen Saddam loyalists. I’m glad they failed.”

Saeed hid his disappointment at the revelation. He had believed other forces responsible for that action. “And early this morning, there was another incident near the Monument to the Unknown Soldier.”

This time he saw the reaction he had hoped for. From behind his beggar’s disguise, Farid’s face drew into a mask of rage. “Yes. One of the American devils blasphemed our holy place and killed several innocents. He then ran like a coward into the arms of the soldiers.”

“The man responsible for that atrocity and the man who thwarted the attack at the airport are the same person.”

“How do you know this?”

Saeed risked a smile. “You forget who I am, brother. I served with distinction in the Mukhabarat for many years. Gathering information is my business.”

His mention of the hated Iraqi Intelligence Service triggered another expression of contempt, but Farid withheld comment on the matter, focusing instead on the issue under consideration. “So who is he?”

“His name is not important. What is important is that I can give him to you.”

The old distrust returned. “And why would you do this? How does our struggle for justice against our enemies benefit you?”

“This man has long been an enemy of all that we regard as holy—”

“Please Saeed.” Farid’s tone and expression were sour. “You regard nothing as holy.”

“An unfortunate choice of words, perhaps. But when I left the home of our parents and strayed from the teachings of the mullahs, I did not cease from loving our people or from hating our enemies.”

“Nevertheless, I find it difficult to believe that you would leave your self-indulgent lifestyle behind, simply to take revenge on an enemy of our people.”

Though he was wearying of his brother’s venom, Saeed chose to answer honestly. “The truth of the matter is that this man is a direct threat to my personal interests. For some years now, I have been trading in art treasures recovered from a site near Al Hillah on behalf of our government in order to raise hard currency during the economic embargo.”

“But the embargo has ended, as also has the influence of the dictator and his agents.”

Saeed pretended not to notice the veiled insult. “True, but the demand for these antiquities remains. As you have pointed out, I enjoy my decadent lifestyle and this is how I support it. But the man we have been discussing works for a department of the United Nations dedicated to shutting down my operation. That’s why I want him dead.”

Farid smiled knowingly. “Now at last you have said something I can believe. But if you know his identity, why do you not simply kill him yourself?”

“As events have demonstrated, he is not an easy man to kill. I doubt that I could do it alone and my former comrades in the service have been scattered. I imagine many are dead or imprisoned. Moreover, my information indicates that he may be traveling to Hillah to look for the site near the ruins of Babylon. You could pass there freely with your men, whereas I might draw unwelcome attention from those who dwell there.”

Farid stroked his chin thoughtfully. Saeed now saw that much of what he had mistaken for a disguise was in fact his brother’s true appearance. The Shiite activist and sometimes resistance leader appeared unnaturally aged and haggard. Nevertheless, underneath a crust of desert-parched skin, his younger brother’s eyes burned with the zeal of a true mujahideen. After several silent seconds, Farid faced him once more. “Very well. I will do your dirty work, brother. However, I must ask something of you, as well.”

“I expected no less. I would be honored to contribute to your cause—”

”Your evilly acquired profits do not interest me. Rather, I wish to offer you the chance to acquit yourself of the reproach you have heaped upon our family and your own name. I want you to return with me. Stand with the warriors of God as we send this American devil back to Shaitan.”

Saeed shifted nervously. “I would gladly do as you ask, but surely your men would refuse to join company with me.” The argument, while probably true, was not his primary reason for demurring; there was no reason to burden his brother with the details.

Farid however would not be sidetracked. “They will do as I instruct. The question is, will you?”

For a moment, all Saeed could think about was the desert, and the growing certainty that he would die there, in that awful hell to which he had vowed never to return. But if Kismet was not stopped, all that he had built would crumble anyway. When he finally gave his answer, he almost could not believe what he was saying. “I will go with you, my brother. We will fight together. Death to our enemies and the enemies of God!”

Another nine hours of sleep, aided by a cocktail of pain relievers and sedatives, wiped away most of the lingering effects of his brush with heat exhaustion, but Kismet reckoned it would be weeks before the bruises faded and the aches subsided. When he arose from his sleeping bag to dress, he found he could barely bend his joints in order to pull on his battered boots.

He made his way through the complex, following the route that had previously led him to Colonel Buttrick’s office, but when he arrived, he found only the unpleasant Major Harp seated at the commander’s desk. The officer regarded him with a look reserved for encounters with animal excrement.

“What do you want?”

“I need to speak with Colonel Buttrick.”

Harp scowled. “He’s not here. In fact, thanks to you, he’s been sent home — relieved of his command.”

The major’s words were like a fist to his gut. “That’s crazy. What happened out there wasn’t his fault.”

“No shit. But you aren’t in the army any more, so they can’t take action against the person who is responsible.”

Although he sensed it would be futile, Kismet spoke in his own defense. “I know this is a hard concept for you to grasp, but have you considered that maybe you should be mad at the person we were trying to catch. You know, the bad guy?”

“Lt. Col. Buttrick failed yesterday, Kismet. He failed to apprehend or destroy the enemy, and he failed to bring all his boys home. But in my opinion, his biggest mistake was letting you talk him into going out on that fool’s errand.” Harp stood and leaned over the desk so that he was face to face with Kismet. “Now I know that you aren’t here to ask me for any foolish favors, right?”

“I don’t suppose so.” Kismet sighed and turned away. At the threshold however, he paused and looked back. “Could I at least use your phone?”

“Only if you’re calling your travel agent.”

The phone in this case was a secure military satellite server, which allowed for voice-to-voice transfers, as well as broadband Internet capability. It was a generation ahead of the handset Aziz had employed. When Kismet placed his call, the clarity of the signal was outstanding; he might have been in the same room as the person who answered. Except it wasn’t a person.

“Thank you for calling the International Red Cross and Red Crescent. To continue in English, press ‘one’ now….”

Kismet patiently navigated the computerized system of menus until he eventually reached a living breathing person. After identifying himself, both by name and as a representative of UNESCO, he launched into his carefully rehearsed story. “I was hoping that you could help me contact one of your relief volunteers, a female doctor. She helped me out of a rather sticky situation recently and I wanted to thank her personally, but I’m having trouble tracking her down. Her last name is ‘Gault’ but I’m not certain of the spelling or nationality, and I don’t have a first name.”

“Bitte.” He could hear the sound of the young woman on the other end tapping the keyboard of her computer. “Let me look at our directory. There is a Doctor Rebecca Gault of Belgium.” She spelled both names. “She regularly works with our international relief missions. Where did you say you met her?”

Kismet recognized the trap. Doubtless the woman was looking at a list of Rebecca Gault’s activities, and would volunteer no more information unless he gave the right answer. He took a blind guess. “Afghanistan.”

“Oh, so it was a very recent encounter. She’s only just returned. Would you like me to page her?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“She’s presently here at the headquarters. If you’ll hold a moment, I can page her.”

“Sure.” As soon as he heard the click of his transfer, he hung up. He had his answer.

Chiron was crestfallen by Kismet’s announcement that there would be no further military cooperation. “Then all is lost.”

His reaction seemed disproportionate to the setback. “We could hire a local driver to get us as far as the UN facility. But frankly, I’m not sure we should go on. We’ll be unarmed and unsupported. If something goes wrong — if we have a breakdown or get attacked — we’ll be on our own.”

“Nick, we must get to Babylon. The answers are there.”

Kismet remained skeptical. “I still think this is going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

Chiron smiled. “But you forget, we do not have to find something buried four thousand years ago. They have already done that. When you know that the needle really is in the haystack, all you need to do is search patiently.”

“But there’s no guarantee that the site hasn’t been completely ransacked. We may find the evidence of its existence, but it could just as well turn out to be one more dead end.”

Chiron shook his head emphatically. “The answers are there, at Babylon. I am sure of it.”

“What answers, Pierre?” Kismet’s voice took on a hard edge. “What exactly is it that you are looking for? Yesterday, when we were interviewing Aziz, you practically walked him around answering any of my questions. I thought we were after the same thing, but I’m beginning to wonder what your agenda is.”

For a moment, Chiron looked as if he might continue to protest his innocence, but his expression fell before he could utter a word. “You are right. I am looking for something more. But I assure you, I had no intention of helping Mr. Aziz conceal information. If I erred in my eagerness to gain his cooperation, I sincerely apologize.”

“What are you looking for?”

Chiron rose from his chair and paced around the room. “I tried to broach this subject with you earlier, when you first arrived, but you did not seem interested at the time.”

Kismet recalled the subject of their conversation. “We talked about God and faith. Is that it? Is that what you’re looking for? Is this some kind of vision quest?”

Chiron suddenly smiled. “That’s exactly what it is, Nick. To find God, men of faith — and I suppose men of doubt, too — have always had to wander in the wilderness for a time. In my own way, I’ve been wandering all my life, though not really looking. But the journey to Babylon is something different.

“In the oldest holy writings, God has always had His finger on Babylon. The name of the city literally translates as ‘Gate of God,’ and if you’ll recall, that name was given at a time when most civilizations were polytheistic. The Book of Genesis in the Bible tells how men, in defiance of God, began building a tower that would reach to heaven. To thwart that purpose, God confused their languages, scattering mankind to every corner of the globe. But two thousand years later, He used King Nebuchadnezzar and his Babylonian armies to punish His errant people by razing the city of Jerusalem and exiling the survivors.

“Some of the most startling prophetic visions recorded in the Bible occurred during that time — the writings of Ezekiel and Daniel — and only a generation after the conquest of Jerusalem, God’s finger literally appeared in Babylon, writing a message on the palace wall, declaring that the existing dynasty was to be swept away; a judgment that was carried out that very night.”

Kismet shook his head wearily. “Pierre, I’m familiar with the Bible stories. That’s just what most of them are. The Book of Daniel is a fabrication, probably written in the second century BC, so most of the information supporting your argument is questionable. But even if those writings are based on actual events — actual divine revelations — what is a trip to Babylon going to prove? You said God’s finger has always been on the city. Are you looking for His fingerprint? Are you hoping to find that piece of palace wall with God’s graffiti still intact after almost three thousand years?”

“That would be rather compelling testimony, don’t you think?” He gave a wry smile. “Nick, I don’t expect you to understand. I’m not even sure that I really do. I’m not looking for faith, not at my age. But if there’s even a chance that a god exists — that my Collette is in a better, happier place — then I have to know. One way or another, I need to have that question answered.”

Suddenly Kismet did understand. Chiron was suffering from a crisis, not of faith but rather the lack thereof. The loss of his wife had opened a wound in his heart that a lifetime of skepticism had not equipped him to bear. Because he was a scientist, demanding concrete evidence in support of hypotheses, the only solution he saw was to find proof, either for the existence or non-existence of the Divine. Yet a basic tenet of faith was that it could only occur in the absence of proof. “Pierre, you aren’t the first person to have these doubts, or to look for answers this way. But Babylon has been there for thousands of years; I don’t think you’re going to find anything that hasn’t been studied and catalogued dozens of times over.”

Chiron started to protest, but Kismet quickly raised a hand to forestall him. “On the other hand, I suppose it’s up to God to decide when and where he wants to reveal himself, and like you said, he spends an awful lot of time out there in the desert.

“I’ve got my own reasons for wanting to visit those ruins. Maybe I won’t find anything either, but I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t at least take a look.”

The old man smiled triumphantly. “Then that much at least is settled. Now all we have to do is find someone to get us there.”

“Actually I have an idea about that. I think it’s time we enlisted some local help.”

Hussein arrived early in the afternoon, driving a dilapidated Renault. Kismet and Chiron, this time accompanied by Marie, had trekked to the outermost checkpoint leading to the airport, in order to expedite the young man’s arrival, and had not been waiting for long when the tired-looking compact automobile rattled to a stop. Hussein got out of the vehicle and immediately walked over to Kismet.

Although it had been Kismet’s idea to contact the young scholar, he had allowed Chiron to finalize the arrangements. The two had developed a rapport in the moments leading up to the grisly discovery in the upstairs gallery of the museum, whereas Hussein’s initial reaction to Kismet had verged on antipathy. The determined set of his jaw suggested his opinion had not changed.

“I am told that you tried to apprehend the man that killed my teacher, Mr. Aziz.”

The statement caught Kismet off guard. What he had mistaken for hostility was really nothing more than grief at the loss of a father figure. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Hussein nodded slowly and managed a mournful smile. “You placed yourself in great danger to avenge a man you barely knew. I should have been there for him. I owe you a great debt, Mr. Kismet.”

“Why don’t you call me Nick, and we’ll consider it paid in full.” He extended a hand, which the young man graciously accepted.

Hussein next greeted Chiron as he might a long-lost relative, who in turn introduced Marie. The young man’s eyes lingered on her for an uncomfortable interval, before he finally directed them to stow their gear in the small boot. Marie and Kismet folded themselves into the rear seat, while Chiron rode shotgun.

In spite of its shabby appearance and malfunctioning exhaust system, the Renault drew far less attention than the camouflaged Humvees had on the previous day. Hussein seemed casually indifferent behind the wheel but drove like a madman, rarely observing traffic signs and never slowing for pedestrians.

Kismet made a conscious effort to relax. Still weary from the ordeal of the previous day, he did not welcome the rush of adrenaline that accompanied the wild ride. Beside him, a sun-wilted Marie held the armrest on the door with a white-knuckled grip, saying nothing.

The first part of the journey followed the road from the airport, but at Chiron’s direction, they turned south, into an industrialized section of the city. The roads were empty of traffic and the warehouses and factories they passed seemed deserted. The storage facility used by the UN inspectors was housed in an anonymous-looking complex, which had survived both the bombings and the subsequent actions of the looters.

Chiron leaned over the back seat. “Marie, please call the UNMOVIC headquarters in New York. They will have the codes to disable the security system.”

She uncurled her fingers from their death grip and reached into a canvas shoulder bag. Although he was aware that Chiron had access to some form of telecommunication, he was mildly surprised to see a satellite phone almost identical to the one he had seen Aziz using the previous day. He shrugged the coincidence away.

UNMOVIC, the UN Monitoring, Verification, and Inspection Commission, had carried out an exhaustive, but ultimately futile effort to determine if the former Iraqi regime had been engaged in the development of biological and chemical weapons. The inspectors had continued looking, right up until the last moment, in hopes of providing something that would either demonstrate beyond possibility of reproach that the so-called WMDs did exist, which would unify the UN member nations in their condemnation of the regime, or prove beyond all doubt that Iraq had ceased development of nerve agents and anthrax spores, and had destroyed their stockpiles. On March 22, the warning to evacuate had been given and the inspectors had locked up their equipment and fled the country, only a few days ahead of the war.

The security system they had employed to protect their vehicles and other gear from theft and possible misuse was a basic electronic combination lock, but the inspection team had taken a further step of jury rigging a series of low-yield improvised explosive devices throughout the facility. Anyone attempting to force the door would activate the charges, destroying most of the inspection equipment and permanently disabling the vehicles. A large warning sign, written in English and Arabic explained most of this, but Kismet doubted that any looters had even tried. After several minutes of explaining the situation, Marie received the disarm code, and the door was safely opened.

Kismet stepped inside cautiously, unsure of what he would find. Although the electrical lock mechanism was still working, its computer powered by a lithium battery, the overhead lights were not operable. He shined the beam of his MagLite into the darkness, revealing two rows of white Land Cruisers, adorned with the globe and olive-branch emblem of the United Nations. The keys to each vehicle depended from the ignition switch. Choosing one from the front row, he removed the security measures then slid behind the wheel.

The starter cycled repeatedly for several seconds as the gasoline was gradually drawn through a fuel line that had sat dry for nearly two months. Despite the momentary lag, Kismet was encouraged by the fact that the battery still held enough charge to fire the spark plugs, and after churning for half a minute, the fuel-air mixture ignited and the engine roared to life. He flashed a thumbs-up to his companions, then eased the vehicle through the open roll-up door.

“Maybe our luck is changing,” he remarked, rejoining the group as the Land Cruiser continued idling.

“Nick, there’s something I want to show you.” Chiron led him back into the building, past the vehicles to an area where several pieces of equipment were stored on pallets. “Do you know what that is?”

The object to which Chiron directed his attention was a nondescript metal box, attached by wires to an electronic control unit. The box was labeled: ZOND 12 1.5 GHz.

Kismet raised an eyebrow. “Pierre, you sneaky devil. You had this planned all along, didn’t you?”

“What is it?” inquired Marie, stepping out from the shadows.

“It’s a ground-penetrating radar system.”

“The UNMOVIC inspectors use it to look for entrances to buried bunkers and the like,” Chiron explained, supplementing Kismet’s simple declaration. “It can penetrate to depths of up to thirty meters, revealing buried objects, cavities, and even soil density changes.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it can tell you when someone has dug a hole then filled it in again.” Kismet grinned triumphantly. “This is the magnet that is going to help us find a needle in a haystack.”

Eight

They were greeted at dawn by a glorious sunrise over Babylon. Their arrival the previous night had been in the waning minutes of daylight, depriving them of a chance to fully appreciate the scope of the ancient city. Drawn as they were to the only source of artificial light, emanating from the magnificent neo-Babylonian palace a short distance from the rebuilt city walls, they had eyes for little else after the brief but nonetheless arduous journey from Baghdad.

They had been spared any hostile encounters on the road, but the absence of trouble did not ease their anxiety. Every bend in the road might have concealed a party of armed paramilitary fighters or highway bandits, and there was absolutely no predicting where land mines might buried or if even simpler measures, like nearly invisible wires strung across the road to disable their vehicle, might have been employed. Thankfully, the road from Baghdad through Al Hillah was part of a supply line, regularly patrolled by friendly forces, and despite the constant tension, the journey was without incident.

A contingent of US Marines occupied the palace, which despite its resemblance to a massive ziggurat temple was the product of modern workmanship. Unable to resist the urge to step into the shoes of the ancient Babylonian emperor Nebuchadnezzar, whose Hanging Gardens had been one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, Saddam Hussein had devoted massive amounts of money and man hours to rebuilding sections of the ruined city and erecting a palace to rival that of his historic predecessor. And like so many of the grandiose residences the deposed dictator had constructed during his quarter-century in power, it was rumored that he had never actually set foot in the complex.

The Marines greeted them cautiously, but it was evident that word of Kismet’s recent misadventures had not reached them. They were permitted to set up temporary lodging with their vehicle just inside the walled compound, safe in the knowledge that armed sentries would be walking the perimeter throughout the night. Chiron woke first, gently rousing the others as the first gleams of light appeared on the horizon, backlighting the object of their quest.

The rebuilding of Babylon, commissioned in 1982, had been a controversial topic among archaeologists and historians, chiefly because the supreme architect of the project, Saddam himself, elected to build on top of the buried ruins. Newly baked clay bricks were laid on the ancient foundations — in some cases, there was a visible line of demarcation where the older, darker bricks ended and their modern counterparts began — in keeping with the city map as established by Greek and Roman chroniclers who had witnessed the gradual decline of the city. Yet while a great deal of effort had gone into accuracy, there could be no doubting that the reproductions had covered over many centuries worth of buried relics, which if further excavated might have shed still more light on the civilizations which had occupied the region between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers.

The modern palace was easily within walking distance of the old city, but Kismet and the others got back into their Land Cruiser and made the short drive to a stunning reproduction of the Ishtar Gate at the north entrance to the city. The actual arched entryway, dedicated to the fertility goddess who appeared in nearly every polytheistic culture, currently resided in a museum in Berlin, but in keeping with the pattern of resurrected splendor, the copy probably conveyed a more accurate impression of the sight that would have greeted a visitor to the city, or perhaps one of Nebuchadnezzar’s conquered slaves.

A large map of the city had been posted on the gate, written, curiously enough, in English. Kismet joined the others in staring at the ground plan, and gently took Chiron aside. “So where do we start looking?”

“I’m not really sure,” confessed the Frenchman. He gestured to the rebuilt walls. “I was not prepared for all of this.”

“There’s still an ancient city hidden here. Samir Al-Azir told me that the treasures of Solomon’s temple were concealed beneath the Temple of Marduk. I don’t imagine even Saddam would risk the wrath of the global Muslim community by rebuilding a temple to a false god, so that’s one site that is probably not covered over.” He glanced at the map. The ziggurat of Marduk, chief god of ancient Babylon, had been situated at the southern end of the city, near what had at one time been a bridge over the Euphrates and the western entrance. “I hope you brought your walking shoes.”

Their heaviest burden was the antenna head for the ground-penetrating radar system. Fortunately, it had been designed to be dragged over dirt and rock, so Kismet had no reservations about using it as a sled upon which to heap the rest of their supplies. He was mildly surprised however when Hussein volunteered to pull the cumbersome load. Because he had been mentally prepared to accept every physical task in their expedition, the break from laborious duty came as a welcome if unexpected surprise. He was further caught off guard when Marie approached him during the walk.

“So, Nick Kismet, what is it that we are looking for?”

He gave her a sidelong glance. It was the first time she had addressed him since their departure from Baghdad, and from that moment forward, she had shrunk into the background. To all appearances, Marie Villaneauve was a rose wilting in the desert sun; never complaining, but quite obviously taxed by the harsh environment and the constant threat of violent attack. He did not find her weakness especially endearing. He preferred the company of strong and confident women, and while he did not judge or scorn Marie for her failure to cope with the hardships of their quest, he could not help wondering why she had elected to continue with them.

“I thought Pierre would have filled you in. We’re trying to find a site that may have been recently looted.”

She managed a wan smile, which somehow accentuated the fact that she had applied lipstick in defiance of the elements. “I know all about that, Nick. But I get the feeling that there is more to all this.”

He shrugged. “Not much more. This is about the only option left to us since our contact at the museum was killed.”

“And there is nothing more you seek here? I sense that Pierre is searching for something more.”

“What do you mean?”

“In the days before our departure, he seemed very anxious to come here — to Babylon. He spoke of it often, and I assisted him with a great deal of scholarly research.”

Kismet nodded indifferently. “We know that the artifacts probably originated here. It’s no mystery that he would want to do his homework.”

“Perhaps.” She let her response hang for a moment, then abruptly changed the subject. “You are a hard man to kill, Nick.”

The non sequitur blind-sided him and he burst out laughing. “What makes you say that?”

She smiled again, and for a moment, Kismet wondered if her helpless damsel routine wasn’t merely for show. “Just an observation. The person you were chasing obviously tried very hard to kill you, as is evident by your wounds. I imagine most people would have given up long before it reached that level of risk.”

“Well, I have this nasty habit of not quitting.”

“And what of the person you fought with?” she asked. “What if he is similarly resolute?”

“You are thinking he’ll put in another appearance?” Kismet chuckled. “I’m almost sure of it. And when that happens, we’ll know we’re on the right track.”

She suddenly stopped walking, placing her hands on her hips. “You would knowingly place us in danger from this killer? We don’t even have a single gun with which to defend ourselves.”

“Relax. There are about a thousand Marines on the other side of that wall, just waiting for something to shoot. Besides, I don’t think this guy wants me dead.”

Her mask of umbrage slipped and she resumed walking apace. “Why do you say that?”

“You said that it looked like he tried very hard to kill me. Well, believe me, he had several chances. I suspect this killer may have been trying very hard to not kill me.”

“I don’t understand. Why would a killer not want to kill?”

“That’s a very good question,” sighed Kismet. “I’ll tell you when I figure it out.”

Dismayed by his answer, she turned her gaze forward and remained silent as they approached the ruins of the Temple of Marduk.

Saeed was tired — deathly tired. He had been on the move for nearly two days, snatching sleep at rare intervals but always in a seated position: a few hours on the flight to Damascus, a few brief naps during the long overland journey across the Syrian Desert, which were invariably interrupted either by the jarring terrain or the ideological rants of his brother. Thankfully, as the darkness grew, the latter source of irritation had diminished. Intently focused on driving without the aid of headlights, Farid had less to say as he peered into the night.

They had left their vehicle behind a few kilometers from the banks of the Euphrates, and continued on foot, marching toward the dawn and a place of concealment near the water’s edge on the western shore. In the marshes near the river, the normally dry desert heat was transformed into an exhausting humidity. Saeed rubbed sweat and tiredness from his eyes, then raised a battered pair of binoculars.

“I see their vehicle,” he announced. “We are not too late.”

Farid made a spitting noise. “And what are we supposed to do, brother? Take on the US Marines? Even if I had an army to do so, I would not. These Americans will not leave if we attack them; they will simply send more soldiers, in greater numbers.”

“I had not thought you so cautious,” murmured Saeed. He chose his words carefully. Despite the tenuous bonds of blood relation, he suspected Farid would slit his throat if accused of cowardice.

Farid evidently was not offended. “There is no advantage to open warfare. We protest their presence publicly and conduct small raids to weaken their resolve. It is better to kill one man every day with a hit and run attack or a car bomb, than to launch an outright offensive. Our goal is not to kill their armies here, but to wound the hearts of their leaders in America.”

“Well, you need have no fear, my brother.” Another veiled insult. “I also have no desire to fight the Marines. For now, I am content to simply watch and see what they discover. If they find nothing, then we will set an ambush for them on the road. But I suspect Kismet will find what he is looking for, and that will take him well away from the safety of US forces.”

“Kismet,” murmured Farid, thoughtfully. “What a strange name for an infidel. Do you suppose he knows its meaning?”

“I suspect he does.” Saeed was annoyed that he had let the name slip. He waited for the inevitable questions.

“It will give me great pleasure to avenge the blood of the faithful men who died at his hands. But I think his death will give you even more satisfaction than I. Why is that, my brother?”

Saeed did not lower the binoculars as he answered. “You are very astute, Farid. This man is an old enemy. Many years ago, he was captured near An Nasiriyah — he was a soldier then — and I was summoned to interrogate him. He escaped before I could learn the truth about his mission, but my investigation continued. It was that encounter that introduced me to the very profitable antiquities trade.”

“God is great to give you this opportunity to avenge yourself on a lifelong enemy.”

Saeed smiled. His explanation, while truthful, was not the real answer. Nevertheless, it was impossible to refute Farid’s sentiment. “Indeed He is, my brother. Indeed He is.”

After three hours of dragging the GPR unit across the uneven temple mound, Kismet surrendered the towing harness to Hussein then went to join Chiron in the shade. Kismet had concentrated on the foundations of the structure, which in its heyday had measured over two hundred meters in length. The young Iraqi would now focus on one of the three courtyard areas that surrounded the site. Marie had remained in the sheltered area, observing the tedious search without speaking, and did not stir as he sat down. To all appearances, she was on the verge of collapse, and although the three men in her company had repeatedly exhorted her to drink a copious amount of water, her lethargy continued. Chiron, on the other hand, seemed to be holding up well.

Kismet opened the ruggedized laptop computer, which was linked by a wireless connection to the GPR and began analyzing the collected data. “Let’s see what’s under our feet.”

The Zond unit consisted of two parts: the radar unit, which consisted of the antenna head and a control box and the computer. The software loaded into the computer was designed to collate the information gathered after walking a search pattern of overlapping lines, and give the illusion of seeing through the rock and soil to whatever lay beneath. To the uninitiated, there appeared to be no corollary between the rainbow colors on the monitor and the ground upon which they stood, but with just a little practice, Kismet was able to differentiate the large solid blocks, buried beneath centuries of dust, from the surrounding soil. The three-dimensional cross section allowed him to isolate certain areas and examine them from several angles. The results of his search, while fairly easy to digest, were less than encouraging.

“What does it mean?” inquired Chiron, sensing his growing frustration.

“That this whole area has been disturbed, and more than once.” He pointed to several lighter areas on the display. “I can’t tell when this happened. Definitely within the last century or so, and that’s our whole margin for error. But the soil density is pretty much uniform. There are some larger objects: cut stone blocks and so forth, but no evidence that someone dropped an exploratory shaft.”

“Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place?”

Kismet shrugged. “Samir specifically said the artifacts had been located under the Esagila the Temple of Marduk.”

Chiron gestured to a high mound in the distance. “Could he have meant the Tower of Babel? Or perhaps a difference temple to Marduk?”

“I would be inclined to rule out Babel. The site held no special significance to the Babylonians, and unless he was actively trying to deceive me, Samir would not have made that mistake. As to another temple…” He shrugged again. “We may have to accept that we aren’t going to find what we’re after. They’ve had twenty years to completely loot this site. Maybe everything was moved out when they first excavated, and our black marketeers have just been sitting on their trove, saving it for a rainy day.”

“Surely you are not ready to admit defeat so quickly?” Chiron’s words were rapid and anxious. “This may be the only tangible link to the mystery that has troubled you for more than a decade. You know, Nick… You know that something was found here. You have the word of the man who died revealing this truth, and you have the testimony of your own eyes. You have seen the proof.”

“Proof of what, Pierre? Proof of the existence of a historical site that needs UN protection? I think we both know that’s not what we’re talking about anymore.”

The older man glanced quickly toward Marie, looking to see if their sharp words had roused her. She appeared to be sleeping. When he spoke again, his tone had softened. “My apologies. It would seem I find the specter of failure the most haunting ghost of all.”

Kismet sighed, almost regretting what he had said, even though both men knew it to be true. “Christ, Pierre. You don’t really think you’re going to find some piece of rock with the words ‘God was here,’ do you? I know it would make everything better if you could believe that Collette had gone to the Elysian Fields, but you know as well as I do that there isn’t a single tangible thing on this planet that can convince you of that if you don’t already have faith that it’s true.”

Chiron shook his head sadly. “You are right, Nick. Even now, as hungry as I am to believe, I cannot bring myself to accept that God can be found.”

“Then what in hell are we doing out here in the middle of nowhere?” He meant it as a joke; a way to diffuse the gravity of their discussion, but Chiron was not ready to let it go.

“Nick, do you believe in miracles?”

Kismet considered answering once again with levity, but thought better of it. “If you mean the water-into-wine variety, I guess I’d have to say no.”

“And yet so many do believe, and not just in the miracles of Jesus Christ and Moses. There are thousands, perhaps millions, of personal accounts. Everything from healing to the intervention of angels to preserve someone in a time of great danger.”

“Faith is a powerful thing…”

He knew from Chiron’s smile that he had inadvertently made the very point the old man was arguing. “No doubt you will say that those who believe they have been healed, did so psychosomatically, or perhaps that their maladies were imagined to begin with. Or that the reports are simply fraudulent. And you would probably be right in ninety-nine percent of the cases. But it is the one percent that fascinates me. Does an irrefutable account of a supernatural act establish the existence of the Divine?”

“Irrefutable?” Kismet countered. “That’s a pretty tall order.”

“Ah, you are right. I have strayed from what I meant to say.” Chiron checked Marie’s motionless form for any indication that she was stirring, then resumed speaking in a low voice. “Real or not, the world has been shaped by miracles, most outstandingly, those spoken of in the Holy Bible. Moses’ ten plagues and the crossing of the Red Sea are images burned into our collective consciousness. More than that, they are the foundation for a system of belief that dominates our thinking four thousand years later. Think about it — more than half the world’s population subscribe to one of the three forms of monotheism: Christianity, Islam or Judaism. All three worship the same God and recognize the events described in Genesis as part of true world history. The same could be said for the miracles of Jesus Christ. Without those events, do you imagine that these men would have made such an impact on history?”

Kismet recalled this facet of Chiron’s personality — the philosopher. The argument had changed, but the passionate search for truth remained. For his part, the novelty of the debate had worn off. He had never really been that interested in grasping the meaning of life — his personal quest always seemed more immediate — but on warm Paris nights, over brandy and the occasional cigar, philosophical meanderings had their own unique charm. Not so in the swampy heat on the banks of the Euphrates. “So what are you saying? That those miracles had to have been real in order to have such a profound impact?”

“Maybe. Or maybe that they have become real because we need them to be.”

Kismet returned a blank look, saying nothing.

“But again I have strayed,” Chiron continued. “You mentioned earlier the power of faith. What if it is more than simply a neurotic, individualized response to a passionate moment? What if a person could believe something so strongly, they could actually influence the physical reality of their surroundings?”

“Like telekinesis? I tend to lump parapsychological phenomena in with miracles anyway. You’re just substituting psychic power for God. So far, I haven’t seen substantial proof for either.”

The Frenchman raised a hand. “There is compelling evidence to suggest that psychic power does exist, Nick. I’m not talking about parlor tricks — hypnosis and spoon bending — but simple occurrences of precognition…déjà vu. Have you ever been humming a song, then turned on the radio only to discover that very song being played?”

“Coincidence.” Kismet’s voice lacked the weight of certainty.

“Perhaps not. We are electrical beings, and what are radio broadcast waves but electrical signals? In any case, I only ask you to hold an open mind on the subject, as it relates to the broader discussion.

“Are you familiar with the precepts of quantum physics? One of the most basic theories is that something becomes real only if it is observed, and that the observer cannot help but influence the outcome by his presence. I’m oversimplifying, but this has been proved on the subatomic level. Now, employing the inverse of the alchemistic method — as below, so above — let’s apply this to the visible world. Do we influence our reality simply by experiencing it?”

“Think happy thoughts, is that it?”

“On a small scale, yes. But what about collectively? If enough people believe in something — not just wishful thinking, but ardent acceptance that something is true — does it become so?”

“Or if enough people believe in God, does He become real?” Kismet shook his head. “We could debate this forever and never prove any of it. But we sure as hell aren’t going to find the answer under a ton of dirt in the middle of Babylon. Which begs the question, what in God’s name are we doing here?”

“Nick, you have jumped ahead of me. I don’t know if collective faith in God is enough to will Him into existence, but I have seen compelling evidence to suggest that we humans do influence the physical world, not just with our bodies, but also our minds. We are all broadcasting and receiving, every minute of every day. We exchange a torrent of low frequency electrical energy that once in a while becomes coherent — a precognitive event, a premonition — but it is always there.”

Chiron paused to drink from a water bottle, giving Kismet the impression that everything he had posited was merely prelude. The old man did not disappoint. “Now, as you have asked, what does any of this have to do with our activities here?

“You know my heart, Nick. You know that I have long doubted, even in the face of Collette’s belief, but it wasn’t until her death that I began to desire a definitive answer. I cannot bring myself to accept the divine revelations of her church or any other. Would that I could, for then at least I would know that her belief was not in vain. Yet I realized that I had erred as a scientist by automatically refuting these belief systems. I had applied Occam’s Razor to the matter, imagining that if some element of the argument for God failed, the inverse was automatically true. But as Hamlet said, there is more in heaven and on earth than is dreamt of in our philosophy.

“What I am about to tell you is by no means an original concept. It exists in one form or another in many cultures, notably in Taoism, but I arrived at my conclusions quite independently. I have come to believe that our world, perhaps our entire universe, is part of a great organic entity, and that we are its brain cells. Our thoughts and perceptions collectively become the mind of this organism, and this interaction occurs in tandem with the Telluric currents — earth’s own electro-magnetic field. Now, like any force of nature — the wind or the sea — we are powerless to control this…this spirit, if you will…but we can harness it and use it to our advantage. That I believe, is what the great miracle workers have done, whether consciously or otherwise.”

Kismet offered a conciliatory shrug. “Okay, it’s a little wacky, but I’ll take that under consideration.”

“But you’re still wondering: why here and now?” Chiron seemed pleased that Kismet had not dismissed the subject following his revelation, and took a moment to compose himself again before continuing. “Let me tell you another story, one pieced together from papyrus codices discovered in Egypt and presently buried in the UNESCO vaults. It’s about an Egyptian high priest named Thutmosis who lived about 3,500 years ago. Thutmosis was well-versed in all the mystic arts of the ancients, and by that I mean the chicanery used to convince the general public that gods were real and very much involved in the affairs of men. We imagine that we understand how Egypt’s magic-practicing priests used sleight of hand, smoke and mirrors, to deceive the masses, but we don’t know the half. These men, of whom Thutmosis was likely the last, were able to tap into the global spirit I have been describing. Now, this was no simple task. There is evidence to support the idea that the pyramids were erected for the sole purpose of channeling these currents of energy. Or it may have been the other way around. Perhaps it was this power — geomancy or earth magic — that enabled them to move the massive blocks that formed those monuments. I suspect it may have been a little of each, but in any case, the foundation for Thutmosis’ power was laid millennia before his birth.

“Thutmosis was highly intelligent and very popular among the upper echelons of Egyptian society, but the ruling class and especially the Pharaoh became fearful. To discredit him, they circulated a rumor that he was a foundling, cast up on the shores of the Nile and likely the bastard offspring of slaves. As the rumor began to take on a life of its own, Thutmosis twisted it to his own advantage and began looking for support among that lowest of classes, ultimately fomenting a slave rebellion that shook the ruling dynasty to pieces. But this was no mere popular revolt. Thutmosis convinced the slaves that he was the messenger of a god more powerful than those of the Egyptians, and to prove it he performed fantastic acts of magic such as transforming his staff into a snake or changing water into blood—”

Kismet raised a hand to interrupt. “Okay, I’ve seen this movie. You’re telling me that Moses wasn’t a Hebrew, but an Egyptian priest? That’s a pretty bold assertion.”

“And it would be very inflammatory if revealed today. Now you understand why the ancient records which tell of these things have been suppressed by UNESCO. However, it matters little. Thutmosis, or Moses if you prefer, quickly won the hearts of the slaves. Through a clever combination of magic tricks and actual manipulation of the Telluric currents, he convinced them that an unnamed God had chosen them to be His holy people. As their collective faith grew, so did Moses’ power, culminating in a series of fantastic plagues that devastated Egypt.

“As the revolt gained strength however, Moses realized that the framework for this new belief system would not be sustainable if he remained in Egypt. There was too much evidence laying around to expose his secret. Additionally, there remained the possibility that another priest might use the same machinery of magic to overpower him and cast down his new God. Or perhaps he simply got so caught up in the role of demagogue that he lost the ability to distinguish reality; maybe the God he had invented actually began speaking to him. In any event, he decided that his supporters — a new nation of them — should set forth on an expedition to capture the fertile lands of Palestine. This exodus from Egypt culminated in the most fantastic display of his power yet: the parting of the Red Sea.

“Now as you may know, Biblical scholars who can’t quite bring themselves to believe in the power of God have opined that a coincidental volcanic eruption on the Greek island of Thera may have cleared the sea floor temporarily, allowing this nation of people a few hours in which to make the crossing. It is a plausible explanation, but a little too convenient…unless Moses himself triggered those geological events in order to part the sea.”

Chiron paused and waited for Kismet to weigh in. “Okay, it might have happened that way. I’m familiar with some of the fringe theories about pyramid power and ancient Egyptian science as magic, so I know you’re not just making all this up. But what does it have to do with us?”

“If you will for the moment accept that this version of events is more or less true, then ask yourself this question. How did Thutmosis defeat the other priests who were also tapped into the Telluric energies? And how did he sustain his own connection to this power once removed from close proximity to the pyramids?”

Kismet shook his head. “I don’t know. In the movie, I think he used a stick.”

“The wizard’s staff? The magic wand?” Chiron chuckled, but his eyes were serious. “That’s exactly how he did it. The Staff of Moses was no mere shepherd’s rod. The Midrash Rabbah, an oral argument expounding on the Torah, has a great deal to say about the Staff of Moses. It is said to be made of pure sapphire, weighing hundreds of kilograms — too heavy in fact for a man to lift without God’s power. According to Rabbinic tradition, the Staff was given to Adam by God following his expulsion from Paradise, and was passed down through a succession of holy men until it came into the possession of Jethro, one of Pharaoh’s advisors, who lived in the land of Midian. Jethro incidentally became Moses’ father-in-law. However, I suspect this story was merely a clever invention by Moses himself to conceal the Egyptian origins of the Staff. It is my belief that the Staff was fashioned by Egyptian priests as a key to unlock the energies channeled by the pyramids, and that Moses wrested control of this talisman from them, ultimately turning their greatest weapon against them.”

Kismet finally understood. “So that’s what we’re looking for? Moses’ magic stick?”

Chiron raised a hand. “Is it so hard to believe? At some point the Bible stories do begin to agree with recorded history. The people who named themselves Israelites — descendants of Jacob — did conquer Palestine and establish a kingdom that endured until Roman times. More than that, they established a belief system unique in their time — a religion where there existed only one true God. Some factual incident inspired these accounts. I think that classifies it as more than just a bedtime story.”

Kismet rubbed the sweat from his eyes, trying to hide his exasperation. Philosophical discussions notwithstanding, he could not escape the fact that Chiron had somehow shanghaied him into a war zone for the sake of a treasure hunt. “What makes you so certain that it ended up here?”

“Ah, there’s another story. The Bible does not speak of the disposition of the Staff. In fact, every effort is made in the writings attributed to Moses to minimize its significance. I suspect that he did not want his own acolytes figuring out how to steal the power and seize control, so he couched much of the knowledge inside the rites of the Levitic priesthood. The design of the priestly vestments and the architecture of the holy tent of meeting are consistent with theoretical mechanisms for modulating the earth’s magnetic energy. The fabled Ark of the Covenant is perhaps the best example of such a device.”

Kismet made a sour face at the reference, but he did not comment.

“In any event, the Staff’s fate is unknown. Some traditions hold that Moses placed it inside the Ark. Others believe that it returned to God. One thing is certain, with the passing of Moses, the frequency and magnitude of miracles began to diminish. The Bible tells how Joshua stopped the sun in its tracks and threw down the walls of Jericho, but remember that he was in the company of priests hand-selected by Moses. It is also quite likely that some of these events — stopping the sun, for instance — were embellished to establish Joshua’s legitimacy.

“I tend to believe that the Staff remained in the care of those priests, even though they gradually lost touch with the knowledge of how to use it. As the traditions of their new religion deepened and victory in their wars brought an end to the need for uncanny power, the priests forgot how to utilize the awesome resource that lay at their fingertips. In fact, according to the Bible, the Ark was put into storage until the time of King David.

“I believe that David may have commenced the search to relearn the mysteries that Moses brought out of Egypt, handing them down to his son Solomon, who in turn used this newfound wisdom to acquire extraordinary wealth for his nation and to build a permanent structure which, like the pyramids, would channel the earth’s energies. Evidently his quest for knowledge offended some of the true believers. The Book of Kings records that Solomon left the God of his forefathers. Doubtless he realized the truth that Moses had so cleverly concealed. God was not a wizened old man in a heavenly abode, but an awesome omnipresent force that could be tapped as one might harness the wind in a sail.”

Curious in spite of his skepticism, Kismet volunteered a question. “Are you saying that he found the Staff?”

“Quite likely. Or else he learned how to make one for himself. The alchemists believe that he found or made a ‘Key,’ also sometimes referred to as the Philosopher’s Stone, with which, among other things, he could transmute base metals into gold. Since Moses’ Staff was a whole crystal of sapphire, no doubt a singular occurrence in nature, I’m inclined to believe that he located that original Staff or was given it by his father. But once again, the knowledge fell into disuse as the next generation, spoiled and self-satisfied, saw no reason to continue the pursuit of wisdom. There are a few noteworthy incidents recorded in the Bible that, if true, would suggest that the power was still there to be used: the miracles of Elijah and Elisha; the defeat of an Assyrian army numbering nearly 200,000. For the most part however, the power and certainly the Staff — or Solomon Key — was once more hidden away. When Nebuchadnezzar successfully overthrew Jerusalem, casting down her walls and carrying everything away as spoil, he no doubt took the Staff and likely the Ark of the Covenant along with all of the other temple treasures.

“I suspect that Nebuchadnezzar might also have been adept in the power of geomancy, but evidently he did not recognize the significance of these items, or perhaps feared to use them, and hid them away in a vault deep beneath the ziggurat temple of the chief Babylonian deity.

“That is where you come into the story, Nick. Whatever it was that Samir Al-Azir showed you twelve years ago, it convinced you that at least the last part of my story is true. And the artifacts that have begun appearing on the world market are identical to the utensils used in Solomon’s temple, as described in the Book of Kings. We both know that someone found that vault. Yet the most treasured artifacts have not reappeared on the world scene.”

“Has it occurred to you maybe there’s another very good reason for that? If even half of what you’re suggesting is true, then this is exactly the kind of thing the Prometheus cult would be interested in.” Kismet drew in a sharp breath, still wondering if it was time to tell the old man the whole story. He chose his words carefully. “I can tell you this much — at least one of the artifacts you mentioned was taken by Hauser that night.”

Chiron’s lips moved as if trying to form a word, but no sound was uttered.

“Pierre, I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but there’s almost no way that your Staff — or Solomon Key or whatever you want to call it — is still here. If someone had tried to fence it, the Prometheus gang would have pounced on them in about two seconds.”

After the impassioned argument, Chiron seemed to deflate a little, but he stood his ground. “But if we could find the vault, at least that would give us a starting point, and perhaps we would find some clue to guide us on our way.”

“It’s a long shot. Honestly, Pierre, what difference would it make? It’s not going to prove your theory, and even if it did, how is that going to… how will it ease your sorrow at losing Collette? I don’t think the answer’s here, at least not the one you’re really looking for.”

“So that’s it? You’re giving up after only a few hours of searching?”

“Pierre…” Kismet sighed, shaking his head in frustration. “If you had been up front about this, I probably would never have even started looking. A magic Staff? We don’t belong here, Pierre. It’s time to go home.”

Chiron opened his mouth as if to continue protesting, but Kismet did not linger. He rose and headed across the ruin to where Hussein was laboring, pausing only long enough to switch the computer off. The brightly colored display abruptly winked into nothingness; a fitting metaphor for Chiron’s quest and its abrupt end.

From a window on the fourth story of Saddam Hussein’s Babylonian palace, the woman calling herself Dr. Rebecca Gault watched the distant figures from the GHC expedition through a pair of 7 X 50 binoculars. The magnification was not good enough to allow her to pick out facial features at this distance, but it was easy enough to determine the identity of each person.

Rebecca, along with her team, had trailed Kismet and the others from Baghdad, finding overnight lodging in Al Hillah to avoid discovery, and ended their travels in the early hours of morning. They had taken a station in the palace complex, content for now, at least, to simply observe. She had little doubt that the search upon which Kismet had embarked would not be quickly resolved. That was why she found the scene unfolding in the circular view-field of the binoculars so disturbing.

After only a few hours of dragging the ruins, the expedition appeared to be packing up and leaving. When there could not longer be any doubt as to their intent, she lowered the glasses. This was one eventuality they had not anticipated. On an impulse she took out her phone, but paused without entering a numeric sequence.

It wasn’t her place to determine their next course of action. Her controller was even more dedicated to the success of their expedition than she. He would know what to do and he would call with the next move. For now, she and her team needed only to stay out of sight. Putting the phone away, she resumed her surveillance.

Nine

Although centuries had passed since her fall, the ancient city of Babylon continued to suffer from what seemed like a divinely sent plague: mosquitoes. The marshy banks of the Euphrates teemed with enormous blood-sucking insects, and as the evening shadows began to cool the bricks of the palace, a great buzzing cloud settled in as well. Because looters had smashed every window in the massive edifice, there remained no overall defense against the swarm. The Marines not actively engaged in their duties sought refuge inside tents, which they had pitched in the interior rooms, or in the closed environs of their vehicles. Insect repellant compounds were effective, but in the face of such a constant attack, it made more sense to simply limit exposure.

Kismet however found the small sacrifice of blood preferable to the company of his associates. Since his decision to suspend the survey of the Esagila, Chiron had been alternately contemptuous and desperate, insisting that the truth was there to be found, while Hussein seemed torn between his respect for the old man and the unarguable certainty that Kismet had made the right decision. Marie merely acted irritated that they had endured so much difficulty for no apparent reason, but she at least had not burdened him with reproachful stares. In any case, he was enjoying the seclusion of the open third floor terrace, and as the sky darkened, a slight breeze fluttered across the balcony, driving even the mosquitoes away. Stretching out on the bare marble floor, Kismet closed his eyes and enjoyed the rare moment of peace.

“You made the right decision.”

The voice intruding on his solitude belonged to Marie, and while he did not open his eyes or rise to greet her, he could tell by the sound of footsteps that she was alone. “I know,” was his simple reply.

Her steps grew louder with her approach and when she stopped, it wasn’t difficult to conclude that she had lowered herself to sit beside him. “I have a confession to make. I was eavesdropping this afternoon.”

Kismet slowly opened his eyes. For some reason, his heart had begun beating faster.

“There’s obviously a great deal more to you then I had first believed, Nick Kismet.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he replied, guardedly. “But there are a few things I prefer to keep private.”

“Forgive me. I did not mean to intrude. In fact, I only came here to assure you that I am in full agreement with your decision. I heard what Pierre said…what he’s looking for. It’s crazy. He’s put us all in grave danger for the sake of…of a Bible story.”

“Pierre is a complicated man. I may not agree with what he’s done, but I understand it.” He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to defend the old man, but the words poured forth unbidden.

“Perhaps. But the Staff of Moses? It’s ridiculous.”

“Probably.”

“Don’t tell me you believed him?”

Kismet finally sat up and looked at her. “I don’t have all the answers, and I don’t believe anyone else does either. But a whole lot of people in the world believe that Moses was a real person, looked a lot like Charlton Heston, and used his stick to part the Red Sea. Who am I to say it didn’t happen that way?”

“You know that’s not what Pierre was saying.”

He thought her argument strange. She wasn’t refuting the basic story, but rather Chiron’s elaborate interpretation. “No, Pierre believes in a slightly different version of events but either way, his belief that the Staff might be hidden here somewhere is not without merit.”

She fixed him with a deliberate stare. “So you do think it’s here? Or that it was?”

“I didn’t say that either. I don’t know.”

“I don’t understand. If you thought it might yet be found, why did you turn away?”

He frowned, and then jumped to his feet. The pleasant solitude was gone, and suddenly the idea of sitting still was anathema. He paced over to the balustrade and gazed out over the dark river. Directly below was an elaborately tiled courtyard with a large square swimming pool, partially drained since the occupation and overgrown with dark moss so that it now resembled a deliberately built mosquito fen. Kismet worked loose a piece of mortar from between the tiles and flicked it out toward the pool as he answered. “Because it was all wrong. I don’t know, maybe I was just mad at Pierre for dragging me out here under false pretenses. I’m no treasure hunter.”

She joined him at the railing, standing close enough that their elbows were touching. “But that’s not what you said out there. You said that if it had been there, it was almost certainly gone…Wait a minute. I remember now. You said something about a cult of Prometheus? Who are they?”

“Just one more unanswered question. And one of those things I mentioned that I prefer to keep to myself.”

“But Pierre knows about it.” Her tone was insistent. Her curiosity, now aroused, would not be satisfied with a brush-off. “He used it to get you out here. What’s the connection?”

“I don’t know. To be perfectly honest, all I know is what you probably overheard. There may or may not be a group of people out there with a particular interest in artifacts with religious significance. I’d like to find them, and there’s reason to believe that they may have already discovered what we were looking for.” Despite the deepening twilight, Kismet found that he could see the ruins of the temple in the distance off to his left. “Only we couldn’t prove it today.”

“So if it can’t be proved, what does it mean? That this treasure vault doesn’t really exist? Or that is was never really discovered?”

“Well, no. All we really determined was that there has been no significant change in the soil around the temple mound to a depth of thirty meters. If the vault exists there, it must be deeper than that. And if Saddam’s engineers found it, they must have gone in by a different route—” His fingers abruptly tightened on the railing. “Damn!”

His sudden exclamation caught her off guard and she jumped back a step, breaking the subtle physical contact. “I’m sorry—”

He shook his head, self-deprecatorily. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

He drew in a deep breath, willing himself to relax. “I first learned about this from a man who was involved in the project to rebuild the old city. He claimed to have been there when a discovery was made at the Marduk temple. But there hasn’t been any work done there.”

“So he lied?”

Kismet shook his head. “No. Don’t you see? He wasn’t working on the temple site at all when he made his discovery. He was doing something else…some kind of excavation that inadvertently uncovered the vault. It had to have been deep, because we didn’t detect any sort of cavity, but somewhere under that ruin is a tunnel leading to a secret chamber underneath the Esagila.”

“Then where’s the entrance?”

“That’s what we have to figure out. We assumed that after the discovery, the engineers simply filled in the hole, but if the discovery of the vault was incidental, then the excavation was an end in itself.”

Marie blinked uncomprehending. “What end?”

“We’ll know that when we find the entrance.” He peered once more into the darkness, as if doing so might reveal what hours of patient surveying had not. “It would have to be very well hidden. The UNMOVIC team scoured this place for underground bunkers and buried weapons caches.”

“Could he have used the rebuilt ruins to conceal the excavation?”

“Maybe, but that wouldn’t really permit free access to the tunnel.” Kismet shook his head, as if to clear away cobwebs. “Let’s try to think about this logically. We know there’s a tunnel down there. We know that it runs under the ruins of the temple and that it’s very deep. We also know that Saddam managed to build it in complete secrecy and a thorough search of the area didn’t uncover it. So, where didn’t the UN inspectors look?”

“In the river?” Marie ventured.

Kismet’s gaze involuntarily swung toward the ribbon of water passing below their vantage. “I don’t know. This whole country has been under satellite surveillance for most of the last decade. I doubt an undertaking that on that scale would have gone unnoticed. Still, you may have something there. The inspectors probably wouldn’t have looked in submerged areas, so water would be an excellent camouflage…”

As his words trailed off, they both looked down at the courtyard three stories below. The square basin of the swimming pool was a shadowy void in the ornate terrazzo floor. Marie spoke first. “Surely not.”

“Only one way to find out.” Kismet spun on his heel and raced into the palace.

He had no difficulty navigating the corridors back to the ornate stairway and quickly descended to the main floor. He could hear Marie’s footsteps tapping out a rhythm but no one else seemed to be moving in the main hall of the palace. She caught up with him a few moments later as a shortage of choices forced him to rein in his eagerness.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as she reached his side.

“That pool was just off this wall, right?” He gestured toward a broad expanse, decorated with antique swords and a gaudy mural which looked as though it might have been inspired by a pulp fantasy novel from the 1920s.

“I think so.” She glanced back up the stairs to see if the descent had somehow turned them around. “Yes, that’s where it is.”

“Well, it looks like we can’t get there from here.”

Her gaze swung back to the wall and she instantly understood. Its entire breadth was solid. There were no doors or windows to the outside. “Perhaps you have to go through one of the adjoining rooms.”

“I don’t think so.” The apparent setback had not blunted his enthusiasm. “Something tells me that we’re not supposed to be able to find that pool.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“It’s like a secret room. From the outside, say with satellite reconnaissance or a flyby, you would see an ordinary swimming pool. Nothing too suspicious about that. But there’s always a chance that a closer inspection will reveal its true purpose, so it was designed to be inaccessible from within the palace. My guess is that we’ll have the same trouble outside. I’d even bet that it doesn’t appear on the floor plan.”

“So how do we reach it?”

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Well, there has to be some way to get to it, but I’m in favor of the direct approach.”

“Which is?”

He flashed a grin, then headed back up the stairs, returning to the balcony. In the moments since their departure, the night sky had deepened to the extent that the floor of the courtyard below was no longer clearly discernible. He nevertheless peered down into the darkness, leaning out over the balustrade to get a better look at what lay directly below. After a moment, he turned to Marie. “I’ll be right back.”

Without further explanation, he climbed up onto the stone railing and lowered himself out into the open. His initial moment of bravado faltered as the gravity of the situation quite literally asserted itself, but he forced away the instinctive reaction and surrendered himself to the drop. By first dangling from the lip of the balcony, he was able to reduce the distance between his feet and the terrace below to just over four meters. At nearly twice his own height, it was not an insignificant distance. The drop he had taken from a similar overlook at the museum had been only three meters and the landing surface had been softer, if somewhat thornier. Still, that leap had been in extremis, whereas this occasion allowed for a more cautious approach. Steeling his courage, he let go.

He flexed his knees before landing and threw himself forward into a roll as soon as his feet made contact. A twinge of pain shot through his lower extremities, followed by a more pronounced hurt in his shoulder as he slammed onto the hard tile surface. Mindful that he was being observed — and by a woman for whom he could not deny a certain attraction — he jumped to his feet, disdaining the multiple aches that were starting to flare up all over his battered body.

“Are you okay?” Marie whispered her question, although there seemed to be no reason for stealth.

“Piece of cake,” he called back.

“Should I come down?”

Something about the question struck him as odd. His brief experience in Marie’s company had not conveyed the impression of a woman who embraced difficulty. After a day of languishing in the semi-tropical environment that pervaded the ruins, her sudden interest struck him as out of character. She now seemed almost eager to jump off the balcony into the darkness. “No,” he answered, certain his concerns were unfounded. “Wait up there for me. I won’t be a minute, and besides, I might need your help to get out of here.”

The slick terrazzo mosaic reflected gleams of moonlight, but not enough to show any detail. To better investigate the courtyard, Kismet took out his MagLite and pierced the veil of darkness. His earlier assumption, namely that the pool area was completely isolated from the house, was quickly proved correct. There were several faux windows lining the wall that bordered the courtyard, but a close inspection showed bare masonry under the dark glass. He continued along the perimeter of the pool deck, looking for other points of egress. A three-meter high wall, topped with wrought-iron spears surrounded the pool on the remaining three sides, but on one corner near the palace, the wall was interrupted by an arched gateway. An iron barrier, like a portcullis, stretched across the opening and was secured by a heavy chain and padlock.

“I guess he didn’t want anyone crashing his pool parties,” called Kismet, quickly detailing the results of his initial survey. “I’m going to check out the pool now.”

He played his light toward the murky reservoir. It was impossible to distinguish the bottom through the accumulation of moss and algae, but given the relative smallness of the square basin, Kismet concluded that it was probably no more than two meters deep and currently half-filled. The muck covering the surface offered no further clue as to how the pool might conceal an entrance to his hypothetical tunnel, but the smooth walls, though discolored, caught his eye. Unlike the ornate mosaic work on the pool deck, the vertical concrete faces were strictly utilitarian, finished only with a coat of white sealant, now almost uniformly stained by rings of dead algae and numerous irregular dark streaks that looked curiously like tire skid marks. The pool’s period of disrepair seemed to go back further than the start of hostilities.

Kismet noted that the corners were set at right angles. Most swimming pools utilized rounded corners with smooth seamless joints. It stood to reason that the bottom of the pool was likewise squared at the corners and Kismet tried to draw a mental picture of what it might look like when empty. He was now certain that the swimming pool concealed the entrance to a subterranean passageway, but there remained one more crucial piece of the puzzle: a means of opening that secret door.

Stepping away from the edge, he returned the beam to the outer perimeter and began scrutinizing the walls and the false windows for some sort of control mechanism, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He was not overly disturbed by the lack of discovery; the efforts at concealing the doorway would have been poorly served if the doorknob were so obvious to spot.

Marie seemed to understand what he was looking for. “Perhaps it uses a remote control unit, like a garage door opener.”

He pondered the suggestion. “Think about this from their point of view. Radio signals can be detected and intercepted. For that matter, any kind of electrically operated system would be detectable. They would have tried to eliminate any elements that might attract unwanted attention.”

“What does that leave us?”

“A simple mechanical system.” He glanced back at the pool. “Or hydraulics.”

Although he had looked past them several times, the four decorative statues guarding the corners of the basin seized his attention. The life-sized stone carvings — two lions and two water buffalo — were incongruous with the general decor of the area. Though it was easy to dismiss their presence as one more example of Saddam’s eclectic sense of style, Kismet decided to take a closer look.

The nearest lion’s torso straddled a single stone tile, roughly two meters in length. The rectangular surface appeared to have been laid as a pedestal for the sculpture, but none of the lion’s feet were touching it. Kismet knelt and shined his light around the edges of the tile and found that the slab was not held in place by mortar. Inspired by this discovery, he set down the flashlight and used both hands to give the statue a shove.

With surprisingly little resistance, the stone lion moved. Like the slab it guarded, the statue was not anchored in place. Kismet pushed from different angles until all four of the figure’s feet were on the rectangular tile.

Nothing happened.

“We’re missing something,” he declared after a moment of waiting. “But I think we’re on the right track.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Marie from the darkness above.

“This lion has Teflon pads under its feet. It was designed to be moved around without damaging the tile beneath. I think the four statues are counter-weights. If I can figure out the correct sequence, it should open the door.”

“But where is the door?”

“It’s in the pool…under the water.” He briefly illuminated the other statues, lingering on the horned likenesses of the water buffalo. “Could it be that simple?”

He returned the lion to its original position, then moved to the next sculpted figure, a representation of the domesticated river bovine once common in the marshes of southern Mesopotamia before dam construction dried up the swamps. Kismet was not surprised to see that the buffalo’s feet were already positioned on a similar stone tile. After a moment’s exertion, he shifted the statue away from the slab.

From deep beneath his feet, there was a groaning noise and a faint tremor. The rectangular stone seemed to waver in the beam of his flashlight, but there was no dramatic movement and after a few seconds the noise from below ceased. Encouraged nonetheless, Kismet crossed to the opposite corner where the remaining water buffalo was stationed, and likewise pushed it from its perch.

The groaning resumed instantly, followed a moment later by the sound of rushing water. Kismet checked the level of the pool and was not surprised to see that it had been completely drained in a matter of seconds. As the last few drops vanished into drains located along the perimeter of the pool bottom, the groaning noise changed into the scrape of stone sliding against stone. The stone on which the water buffalo statues now stood abruptly rose into the air, revealing that the slabs were merely the caps to twin pillars of concrete. As the columns rose from the deck, the bottom of the pool rose also. Movement ceased only when it drew level with the edge of the pool.

“It’s a hydraulic lift,” declared Kismet, a hint of amazement creeping into his voice. “They built an elevator in the swimming pool.”

“An elevator to what?” inquired Marie. “How do you make it go back down?”

“I’m betting it’s as simple as moving the lion statues onto the trigger tiles.” He moved to test this theory.

“You didn’t answer my first question,” she complained. “Where does it go?”

He tried to answer in between grunts of exertion as he moved the statues. “To our mysterious tunnel. Whoever built this made it big enough to handle a truck. My guess is that it was supposed to be some kind of bunker; a last redoubt, designed to hide the remnants of the high command, along with a representative number of vehicles and tanks, until the immediate threat had passed.”

“We’re more than a kilometer from the temple ruin. Are you saying the tunnel is that extensive?”

“I guess it would have to be.” He gave the last remaining lion a final push, and as the legs of the sculpted feline came to rest on the stone, the supporting slab began to sink. At the same time, the pool deck fell away, sliding back down to its original position. The pedestals for the water buffalo statues also receded into the pool deck, but stopped as soon as they were flush with the mosaic surface. The pool bottom kept going.

In the beam of the MagLite, Kismet could distinguish the catch basins in the walls to which the pool water had been shunted. Doubtless, the architect had designed the pool to be emptied or refilled on a moment’s notice. He found himself once more in awe of the engineering achievement.

The descent of the surreptitious elevator continued unchecked, dropping to a depth of ten fathoms — nearly twenty meters — into the darkness below. The shaft had been reinforced with concrete, maintaining the illusion of a swimming pool, albeit one that was ridiculously deep. When it finally stopped, Kismet could not tell if there was a means of continuing on.

He walked back to stand below Marie on the balcony. “I’m going to play with this for a minute to see if I can bring it back up. Go get Pierre and tell him what we found.”

“You’re not thinking of going in tonight, are you?”

“Why not? It’s time something went our way for a change.” As she turned away, he remembered one more thing. “And bring a rope!”

Marie hastened away, oblivious to the human form concealed in the shadows that had listened to every word of their conversation.

Saeed and his brother had remained concealed until well after the fall of night, long after Kismet and the others had withdrawn from the temple site. The hasty retreat was disturbing, for while he knew that the UNESCO team would find nothing of consequence in the ruins, he had expected them to invest several days, perhaps even weeks, before admitting defeat. The swiftness with which they concluded their operation made him wonder what Kismet had discovered, but he dared not contact his informant for fear of exposing her presence. So, he and Farid waited in the sweltering heat as the sun finished its journey across the sky.

They had only begun the trek back to Farid’s vehicle when the satellite phone receiver trilled, signaling the call he had been so eagerly awaiting. He answered immediately. “Yes?”

“Our mutual friend is very efficient. He has discovered untapped reservoirs of ingenuity.”

The double-speak wasn’t too hard to unriddle. ‘Reservoir’ surely referred to the hidden lift in the swimming pool. Saeed had known of it since its creation, but he was one of a privileged few. That Kismet had so quickly located it verged on the miraculous. “I understand. When you follow him in his voyage of discovery, we will no longer be able to communicate in this way. However, I will meet you along the way.”

“You know of another way in?”

“I do. But that need not concern you. Do nothing to arouse suspicion. This matter will soon be resolved.” He ended the conversation with typical abruptness then turned to Farid. “Kismet has found the tunnel entrance.”

“What? You mean it is inside the palace?”

“Fear not, my brother. That is but one entrance of many. When he begins to comprehend what he has found, he will make his way to the ultimate destination. That is where we will meet him. Now however, it is time to gather your men. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

As the concealed elevator bearing Nick Kismet and his companions slowly receded into the unseen depths, Rebecca emerged from her hiding place. Her simple civilian attire had been replaced by a utilitarian black combat uniform and her mane of fiery copper was concealed beneath a matching knit watch cap. Almost invisible against her dark clothing was a compact Steyr TMP machine-pistol.

She moved stealthily to the balcony rail, unsure of how long it would take to remove the descending group from her line of sight. She risked a quick look, ducking back before her brain could completely process the information gathered by her eyes. Her caution was unnecessary. Kismet and the others were nowhere to be seen. She raised a hand from her weapon and made a “come along” gesture.

Immediately, seven similarly clad figures stepped from various hiding places and wordlessly moved to join her. One man drew to within a few centimeters of her face in order to hear her whispered orders.“Chance and Jacques will stay here to guard our rear and maintain contact with our recovery team.”

The man nodded then moved back to relay the orders in a whisper while Rebecca climbed over the railing. Kismet’s group had left behind a fixed rope which, under his guidance, each person had used to rappel down to the pool deck three stories below. She had watched with great interest as Kismet coaxed and cajoled the reluctant woman and the older Chiron, eventually convincing them of the inherent safety in what he was asking them to do. Rebecca now coiled several lengths of that same rope around her torso, then effortlessly abseilled down to the terrazzo surface below.

There was a faint grating sound emanating from the depths of the shaft. The platform was still making its ponderous descent. Rebecca stayed well away from the edge until the vibrations ceased, and then held back a few minutes more. She had been told that the objective was not immediately accessible from the shaft, so there was no harm in allowing their quarry to get a head start. Better that than to reveal their own presence by activating the noisy lift.

The remaining members of her team descended in order, joining her on the pool deck. In a subdued voice, she directed each of them to stand beside the statues and wait for her cue to begin the complicated sequence of shuffling that would bring the lift back to the surface. She had surreptitiously observed Kismet’s experiments with the sculpted animals, noting the exact pattern of movements required to raise or lower the device.

One of the men made a faint tisking noise to get her attention. She could see that he was holding something, but in the darkness it was impossible to discern what the object was. She moved closer to get a better look.

It was a crude sign — a permanent ink marker on a sheet of paper — with a brief message. Her first impulse was to believe that Kismet had somehow become aware of her presence and left the message behind to mock her. She read the words a second time:

“Gone after the White Rabbit. Back soon! Alice and the gang.”

The message was in English, flippant in tone, but vague. Kismet’s handiwork, she reckoned, but not for her eyes. Doubtless, he expected the Marines to find his ropes and the blank hole where the swimming pool had been, and had left the message as a clever way of letting them know who it was that uncovered this mystery. She crumpled the sign in her fist and stuffed it into one of her deep cargo pockets.

Exactly five minutes after the elevator platform completed its descent, she gave the signal for her men to begin moving the statues. As soon as the pool bottom was level with the deck, she and five selected members of the team moved out onto the concrete slab. The remaining men — Jacques and Chance — shifted the lion statues into place and commenced yet another drop into the dark shaft. One of the men began unspooling a thin antenna wire that would serve as their communications link to the surface.

Rebecca watched as the gossamer strand paid out in generous curlicues overhead. As the walls began to rise up on all sides, the implications of what she and her team were doing finally hit home. The smooth concrete shaft resembled nothing less than a tomb, and while she would never reveal even a hint of the trepidation she now felt to her subordinates, she was keenly aware that their lives hung by that single thread-like strand of metal.

Pure, unrefined darkness swelled around them and still they descended. When they finally stopped, it took a supreme effort of will to take that blind step away from the platform. She took out a flashlight, capped with a red lens, and shined it up the shaft, signaling for their comrades to return the elevator to its original state, effectively sealing them in.

As the platform removed their final link with the world above, her fingers unconsciously found the crumpled page in her pocket. She once more curled her fist around the message and decided that Kismet had gotten it all wrong. This wasn’t a magical doorway into Wonderland. More apropos would have been the words of Orpheus.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here…

The inscription above the gates of Hell.

The darkness swallowed them whole. Kismet’s MagLite was insignificant against the overwhelming totality of the subterranean night. There was a larger lantern in the supplies Hussein had packed, but it seemed pointless to use up that resource when there was nothing in particular to look at. They had settled instead for yellow Cyalume sticks — plastic tubes filled with a phosphorescent substance that would shine for hours once activated. The chemical light source did not afford much in the way of illumination, but was useful for keeping the group together.

From his position at the front of the line, Kismet could not see the handheld light sticks, but he could hear the distinctive sounds of his companions’ footsteps. In the absence of visual cues, he was soon able to distinguish the differing styles of footwear and the particular rhythms of each person’s stride. The tapping of their feet on stone however was the only sound in the dark womb of the earth; hardly a word had been spoken since their arrival.

The tunnel began immediately at the bottom of the shaft and cut due east through the bedrock at a gentle slope. Compared to the claustrophobic confines of most caverns and mine shafts, the passage through the rock was immense, rising several stories overhead to a smooth arched ceiling. With the exception of an occasional buttress to reinforce the walls or roof, the tunnel was unremarkably uniform. It was a long hallway stretching on indefinitely without doors or junctions. As Kismet had earlier suggested, the corridor was easily large enough to accommodate a military vehicle. He surmised that most of those who found their way to this place made the journey with the assistance of motorized transport.

The slope of the tunnel soon leveled out. Kismet was keeping a careful pace count, reconciling the distance traveled in the subterranean passage with the actual separation between the palace and the temple ruins. There was no question that the tunnel’s vector would intersect that point, and he had little doubt that they would find the treasure vault when they reached that critical junction. Despite his earlier dismissal of Chiron’s agenda, there was no denying the excitement he felt as he pushed forward.

“We’re getting close,” he said, breaking the unintentional silence. His words echoed hollowly, ricocheting indefinitely from one wall to the other. The effect was anything but reassuring. To counter the ominous cloud of dread, he turned his flashlight beam against the walls, scanning for any irregularities. As diligent as he was in his search, he almost missed the opening.

The architects of the passage had used crushed rock from the excavation to plaster over a semicircular section of wall, rising from the floor to just above Kismet’s knees. There was only a faint seam delineating the patch from solid rock and an almost indistinguishable color difference. He knelt beside the cemented wall and probed it with his fingertips.

“This is it,” he said, unable to hide the eagerness in his tone.

Rather than wait for Hussein to sort through the gear for an excavating tool, he drew his kukri and used its iron-capped pommel to hammer at the facade. The rest of the group crowded around, barely giving him room to swing. He passed his light to Marie and resumed the assault with both hands.

The improvised plaster crumbled after only a few blows, revealing a web of chicken wire. Pieces of the patch dropped through into the void beyond and rattled against a solid surface almost instantaneously. He banged the knife hilt against it a few more times, then used his feet to smash through the mesh. The entire facade vanished into the darkness beyond.

Kismet tossed his chem-light into the opening and followed its journey with his eyes. The glowing stick dropped a few meters, illuminating a series of perfectly parallel lines for only an instant before rebounding and disappearing from view. He took back his flashlight then cautiously poked his head through the hole. There was a faint odor underneath the generic mustiness that pervaded the tunnel. It was a repugnant smell but diluted to the point that it was impossible to identify. He wrinkled his nose, then pulled back from the opening.

“It’s a stairway,” he reported. “It looks like they just barely intersected it during the excavation. If they had deviated by a few degrees, they would have missed it altogether.”

“Where does it go?” Chiron asked.

“Up and down. Beyond that, who can say? The treads are carved from solid rock and don’t show any wear whatsoever. If this is an ancient tunnel, then it was hardly ever used.”

“We must be over a hundred meters below the surface.” Marie now added her voice to the chorus. “I can’t believe the Babylonians would have dug so deep.”

“The ruins of the city also lie beneath the surface,” Hussein supplied. “Perhaps it was not so far for them to dig.”

“I think we also need to consider what it was that Nebuchadnezzar sought to conceal.” Chiron’s comment must have seemed cryptic to the young Iraqi, but Kismet understood and agreed.

“It would have been an ambitious project, but we’re talking about the architect of the Hanging Gardens. And Nebuchadnezzar certainly had the resources to pull it off. Ruthless dictators never have a shortage of cheap labor.”

Hussein nodded gravely, but did not comment.

“So it is your belief that this stairway ascends to the Esagila,” Marie persisted. “Why then did we not find the other end of it when we searched the ruins?”

“Judging by the condition of those stairs, I’d say that the shaft was sealed up during the time of Nebuchadnezzar himself. He must have piled enough rock on top of the opening to keep it hidden through thousands of years of looting.”

“And archaeology,” added Hussein with a grin.

“Never mind where it goes up,” Chiron interjected. “What we want lies in the other direction.”

“For once, I can’t fault your logic.” Kismet stuck his head and shoulders through once more. “It’s a little bit of a drop. Do we have any more rope?”

“We left all of it tied to the balcony,” Hussein answered guiltily.

“A fine bunch of Boy Scouts we’d make.” His quip earned only blank stares and he thought better of elaborating. “Well, if somebody stays behind to pull us back, we can probably boost one another high enough to reach this opening. The last one down is going have to jump pretty high.”

Hussein’s expression fell as he realized that he would be the one to remain while the others pushed deeper into the unknown, but he nevertheless volunteered to serve as the anchor. “Perhaps you will find a ladder down there, so I can join you,” he offered with a weak smile.

Kismet gave him a nod of gratitude. “How about you, Pierre? Want to sit out this round of rugged adventure and daring acrobatics?”

The Frenchman’s face revealed his inner turmoil, but his answer was unequivocal. “I have not come so far to be turned aside at the very threshold of discovery.”

“I was afraid of that,” Kismet murmured. He repositioned so that he could enter the portal feet first in a reverse belly-crawl. “I’ll wait below to help you through.”

As his thighs scraped over the rough edge, he felt the familiar sensation of losing control. With his legs dangling over nothingness — worse, dangling into the darkness of an ancient crypt underneath millions of tons of earth — he felt the urge to scramble for a safer position. It was an instinctual response and easy enough to sublimate. Nevertheless, as his torso slid deeper into the hole, his anxiety increased proportionately until at last, he was dangling above the stairway, secured only by his fingertips on the flat surface to the tunnel floor.

Marie leaned in and illuminated the stairwell with Kismet’s flashlight. It would be a tricky drop. The stairs were uniform, but the treads were shallow, providing only about a hand’s breadth of surface upon which to light. Even the slightest deviation might cause him to pitch headlong down the stairwell.

To compensate, Kismet kicked his legs, working up to a gentle pendulum motion, and at the optimum moment he let go. The momentum of his swing carried his body up the stairs, and even though his feet slipped uncertainly on the short steps, his controlled fall was less painful than a chaotic slide into the depths.

The rotten smell was stronger now that he was fully immersed in the environment, and he saw the first evidence that the original unsealing of the ancient vault had exposed it to contemporary vermin. A fine layer of dust covered the stairs along with heaps of rodent excrement, petrified with the passage of time. He quickly brushed off and shouted for Marie to descend.

The petite Frenchwoman eased through the opening and the dim artificial light from above was momentarily eclipsed by her body. Kismet felt another wave of irrational fear as darkness enveloped him, but he shook it off. As her feet dropped toward him, he hugged her legs to his chest, relieving the strain from her arms. “I’ve got you. Let go slowly and I’ll do the rest.”

She hesitated for only a moment before Kismet felt her weight shift fully against his body. It was then a simple thing to deposit her on the step beside him. She gazed back up at the illuminated opening and shook her head in despair. “Are you certain we can get back up there?”

“Piece of cake,” he replied, with more conviction than he felt, then turned his attention to the hole as well. “All right, Pierre. Your turn.”

Chiron’s approach was predictably more tentative. Kismet could hear Hussein patiently explaining how he ought to position himself, but the Frenchman seemed bent on scooting through the hole from a seated position. His focus on the older man’s plight prevented him from hearing Marie’s soft footsteps as she commenced descending, but when he reached up to take hold of Chiron’s ankles he caught the subtle movement in the corner of his eye.

“Marie!”

His shout caught her by surprise and she turned to face him with a guilty expression. Her chagrin turned to surprise and horror however as she lost her balance and wavered backward over the decline. Forgetting Chiron, Kismet impulsively reached out for her frantically waving hands, but his fingers closed on nothing. Marie gave a shriek and tumbled down the stairs.

Ten

Kismet dashed after her, shouting her name, but the steps were so steep that he could not match the runaway rate of her fall. She vanished into the darkness before he could take three strides, and each subsequent foot forward dropped him deeper into the absolute subterranean night.

Marie’s cries of surprise were quickly replaced by less strident grunts of pain, which punctuated the thudding of her body against the stone. These noises however were abruptly replaced by a sound like the breaking of tree branches. Or bones, thought Kismet.

“Marie?”

There was a low groan then the sound repeated. “I’m all right,” she finally said, with far less misery than he would have expected. “I’ve landed in something…I’m not sure what it is.”

“I’ll be right there.” He backtracked to the opening, where Chiron was scrambling out of the opening, and called for Hussein to throw down the flashlight. Thus armed, he stabbed the beam of light into the depths and charged after his fallen companion. Yet while he was bracing himself for the discovery of Marie’s broken form at the end of the flight, he was completely unprepared for the sight that awaited him at the bottom of the stairwell.

His initial impression was of zebra stripes: a haphazard pattern of light and dark which either reflected his light at oblique angles or swallowed it whole. Yet there was no mistaking the unique spherical shapes, each uniformly marked by a pair of smaller craters, that were scattered throughout the endless web of shadows: human skulls.

Marie’s fall and subsequent movements had left her partially submerged in the skeletal sea. As her eyes focused on the area revealed by Kismet’s light, she lost any semblance of control. However, her hysterical attempt to flee only shifted the interlocking puzzle of bones, opening a chasm that drew her deeper into the charnel embrace.

The bones were everywhere, stripped clean of flesh and gleaming white. Beyond the area where Marie had landed, the arrangement was more orderly. The corpses had been stacked in tight rows and heaped several layers deep. The descending stairs continued out into the midst of the vaulted ossuary, completely obscuring the floor.

“Hold still!” shouted Kismet, wading into the jumble. At the first crunch of bone beneath his boots, he felt an otherworldly chill; there were unhappy ghosts here.

He tried to think of it like quicksand.It was certainly swallowing Marie down like a quagmire and her frantic thrashing was only exacerbating the situation. He shouted another unheeded exhortation for her to be still, then cautiously stretched himself horizontally over the skeletal bed. For a moment, the bones shifted beneath his weight, opening a rift to snare him and he could feel thousands of fleshless fingers closing around him to pull him under. The urge to break free and scramble to safety was almost overwhelming, but he forced himself to remain motionless, with his arms and legs spread-eagled. Despite the initial settling, the bony lattice bore his weight. Buoyed by the minor success, he began rolling with deliberate slowness toward her.

Though her panic had left her deeply mired in the ossuary, Marie had regained a degree of self-control. She continued trying to extricate herself, but with more deliberation and less hysterics. When Kismet was close enough to extend a hand, she simply took hold without succumbing to the drowning victim’s impulse to drag her rescuer under.

“Good.” He tried to inject a note of optimism into his tone. “Now, carefully pull yourself toward me. Focus on trying to stretch yourself out. It’s just like swimming.”

She gave a nod then cautiously brought her other hand up to grasp his wrist. The skeletons beneath him shifted again and he felt Marie’s grip tighten as both of them settled deeper. Neither of them moved, patiently hoping the network would stabilize before swallowing them completely, and after a moment it did.

“Okay, let’s try that again.” Kismet could barely get the words out. Trepidation and exertion had conspired to rob him of his breath and left his throat so tight that his voice had to struggle to reach his lips.

Marie resumed pulling and this time the bones merely groaned in annoyance. She released her grip on his hand and extended incrementally up his forearm. In this fashion, she worked her way toward him, hand over hand as if climbing a rope. She managed to draw her torso up from the embrace of the long since departed occupants of the chamber and laid flat atop the surface, until only her legs remained caught in the snare.

She was close enough now to grasp his shoulder and her fingers knotted in the fabric of his shirt. He nodded encouragingly. “Good. I’m going to start rolling back toward the stairs. Do the same, but don’t let go.”

He waited for an affirmative reply then slowly twisted away from her. As his right cheek lighted on the irregular surface, he spied a subtle movement in the shadows. A careful turn of his wrist pointed the flashlight that way and Kismet realized with a start that he and Marie were not the only living creatures in the mass tomb. A shiny black scorpion, as long as his hand, was silently stalking them.

“Marie, don’t move a muscle.” He tried to keep the panic out of his voice, but there was a faint quaver in his undertone.

Marie did not ask for more information, but as the venomous arachnid drew closer, she began to utter a low wail. The tip of the scorpion’s tail, pregnant with a toxin that could paralyze or even kill, wavered in her direction. Kismet grimaced, but with the creature’s attention thus diverted, he saw his opening. Using the small flashlight like a club, he struck the scorpion a glancing blow that launched it several meters across the bone pile.

“Nick!” Marie’s voice was growing frantic again.

“It’s okay. There was a scorpion, but I took care of it.”

“It?” Her voice was incredulous. “What about them?”

He gingerly raised his head and peered over her supine form. In the broad circle of illumination cast by his MagLite, he saw the reason for her anxiety. An army of vermin was emerging from the bones, swarming toward them with a collective goal. There were more scorpions in their midst, along with enormous cockroaches, centipedes and dozens of other scavenger and predatory insect species.

It was easy to imagine what had happened. Once upon a time, when the bones had belonged to recently deceased slaves and prisoners, a few insects had found their way into the chamber. Trapped though they were, there was a seemingly endless feast of flesh, sustaining not only the insect and arachnid populations, but likely larger vermin such as mice and rats. The supply was not infinite however, as food began to dwindle in the closed environment, its denizens adapted to a new diet, devouring one another as occasion arose. No doubt, the scorpion’s deadly sting had moved it to the top of the food chain, but now that fresh meat had been delivered, there was no longer reason for anyone to go hungry.

Kismet turned back to roll the remaining distance to safety, then froze. Dozens more insects, spiders and scorpions had materialized and were relentlessly advancing from every direction. Before he could even begin to think about a way of hastily quitting the tomb, he espied movement on his own person. An enormous black scorpion had emerged from a nearby cavity and made its way stealthily onto his trouser leg. He could just make out its shiny carapace and the curl of its venomous tail as it scuttled along his thigh, moving higher in search of a place to plant its sting. Then he felt something tickling the back of his hand.

He flicked his eyes downward and saw a second multi-appendaged creature meticulously working its way toward the glowing lens of the MagLite. The scorpion’s pincer feet were lightly gripping the skin of his hand, securing itself with each step forward.

Kismet’s familiarity with the scuttling crab-like creature was limited. The only thing he was certain about was that he didn’t want them crawling all over him. He knew that not all members of the animal kingdom relied upon sight to stalk and locate prey. Some used sound, smell or even the ability to detect changes in body temperature. He did not even know if the stings of this particular species would prove fatal, but only that he didn’t want to find out.

There was another tickle in his hair and he barely restrained himself from reaching up to scratch the sudden itch. It occurred to him that the scorpions might have been drawn to motion, in which case the heaving of his chest as he fought to control the adrenaline coursing through his veins was like a brass band announcing his presence. He carefully sucked in another deep breath, holding it so that no movement would betray him. His heart continued to pound against the walls of his chest cavity, but slowed in response to his cautious breathing. The scorpion continued meandering along his scalp and onto his forehead.

In spite of the chill in the subterranean air, Kismet could feel perspiration leak from his pores, pooling wherever the scorpion gripped his skin. The creature stopped abruptly as if curious about this subtle change in its environment, or perhaps sensitive to the pheromones of panic that his body was pumping out in each drop of sweat. Its tail curled and flexed slowly over his left eye, and despite a furious impulse to blink, Kismet remained motionless. The scorpion on his hand meanwhile settled near the end of the flashlight, drawn to the unfamiliar warmth and light, but at the same time tentative in its approach, while the one on his leg continued its journey seemingly unaware of the living body upon which it traveled.

His foot twitched as the urge to flee overcame his intentional paralysis. The nearest arachnid paused as it detected the movement then quickly reversed, intent upon confronting this new prey. With surprising speed, it darted along the seam of his pant leg and gripped the sole of his boot with its front pinchers. Even through the thick leather, Kismet could feel the repeated thrusts of the stinger against his foot. Acting on an impulse, he brought his feet together in an abrupt, violent motion, to grind the creature beneath his heel. There was a satisfying crunch as the black exoskeleton was crushed, ending the attack.

He felt the grip of the scorpion on his face tighten as it detected the movement at his opposite extremity. Its tail stiffened and extended defensively, ready to strike if threatened by the fate that had befallen its brother. Kismet wiggled his foot again, trying to draw the creature away from his unprotected skin, but its reaction was slow and methodical. The poisonous tail gradually relaxed, curling back over its body, and the scorpion took a step onto his cheek.

Kismet’s lungs were burning with a breath held for too long, but he dared not even let it out in a subtle exhalation. The menacing arachnid would surely detect the movement and plant its sting on his exposed face. He felt his throat tightening with the urge to exhale and draw a fresh breath, but he willed the impulse away and continued moving his foot to draw the creature away. The scorpion responded, moving from his cheek onto his throat and over the flap of his collar. Kismet slowly exhaled in relief as the pincher claws at last broke contact with his unprotected skin.

He could not see Marie beside him and heard no sound to indicate whether she was similarly overrun by the scaly denizens of the ossuary. He took her silence as a good sign, but if she was not currently plagued, it would only be a matter of time before she too felt the pinch of scorpion appendages on her skin or in her hair. When that happened, he had no doubt that she would erupt in a screaming fit that would bring them all down on her.

“Marie.” He let the words out in a low whisper through clenched teeth. “On the count of three, we’re going to get out of here as fast as we can, got it?”

There was a guttural affirmative. He could hear her better now, breathing rapidly, panicked.

“It doesn’t have to look pretty,” he continued. “We just have to move. Do you see where the stairs are? That’s as far as we have to go.”

“Got it.”

“Okay. Take a deep breath.” He took his own advice, filling his lungs with the odious atmosphere of the crypt, then exhaled half of it. “One…two…three!”

On the final number, he threw the MagLite with a snap of the wrist. The scorpion on his hand had no time to attack, but was flung away as the flashlight arced through the air. There was a scattering of random rays into various nooks of the chamber as the light rattled down onto the mesh of skeletons. Upon landing, the heavy aluminum tube slipped into a crevice between the bones and continued its journey, noisily rattling through the layered remains and casting an eerie shadow show on the ceiling of the vast hall.

Kismet and Marie paid no attention to the MagLite’s final moments. They were already scrambling to avoid joining the ranks of the permanent occupants. Just as he had suggested, their hasty attempt to reach the staircase was not a study in graceful movement. The bones shifted and broke beneath them, dropping them deeper into the quagmire, but the impetus driving them granted a nearly superhuman strength. Much like a run through deep snow, Kismet’s legs scattered the remains with each step, hooking the interlaced bones with his feet and thrusting them out of the way as he plowed forward. Behind him, Marie was having similar success.

The sacrifice of the flashlight however had limited their ability to navigate by sight. The MagLite’s rays were indistinct behind the curtain of bone, forcing them to follow a path marked only in their memories. In the frenzy to escape, Kismet could only hope that they stayed on course. Then the sudden darkness yielded an almost insignificant bit of luck.

Their eyes were drawn to a slightly elevated point only a short distance away. In the back of his mind, Kismet recognized it as the Cyalume stick he had initially dropped into the stairwell. It had rolled down several steps before coming to rest near the base of the flight. Though its yellow light provided scant illumination, it shone like a beacon, guiding them to safety.

Kismet’s feet abruptly hit something solid — stone treads buried beneath a covering of skeletons — and he redoubled his efforts. As he emerged from the mire, he swung his arms out, caught hold of Marie’s wrist, and yanked her from the bony embrace of the ossuary, but their flight did not end there. Pausing only long enough to scoop up the light-stick, Kismet led the way up the steep staircase. The crunching noise of their footsteps suggested that simply escaping the mass grave had not ended their encounter with the venomous denizens of the chamber.

A second beacon materialized in the darkness ahead; a single shaft of brilliant light stabbing down from above. Kismet gave an audible sigh of relief as they stepped into the cone of illumination cast by the powerful lantern Hussein had activated in order to guide them back. Both he and Marie sagged onto the steps beneath the protective aegis of overhead light, catching their breath and letting the adrenaline drain from their extremities.

“Nick? What happened?”

Kismet took several more deep breaths before looking up to answer Chiron. “Marie fell.”

The short statement did not begin to explain what they had seen and experienced in the chamber below, but Kismet found that as he tried to put it into words, he kept sticking on that initial point: why had Marie fallen? Why had she even attempted to descend the dark stairway alone?

“Did you find anything?”

Kismet looked up again. “What we found…no, there’s nothing down there. Get us out of here and I’ll tell you all about it.”

He dragged himself erect then proffered a hand to Marie. Shelving his doubts, he focused on the more immediate problem of how to escape the tunnel shaft. The well-lit opening where Hussein and Chiron waited was a good three meters from the stair tread directly below. The narrow steps were a precarious platform from which to attempt an ascent, and even more so for what Kismet had in mind. His gaze flickered between the opening and the steps, trying to gauge the optimal location from which to boost Marie high enough for the others to pull her clear. He finally settled on a position that placed him sideways beneath the opening, squatting on one leg while the other was extended downward as a brace.

“All right, let’s get you out of here.”

She made no effort to hide her relief. Despite the awkwardness of using a living stepladder, she gripped his shoulder and planted her foot on his thigh. Her balance did not waver as she lifted herself from the stairs then reached up to take Hussein’s hand, leaving Kismet to wonder how she had fallen in the first place. She seemed as footsure as a tightrope walker. After only a few seconds, her weight lifted and she rose through the hole. There was a moment of darkness as her body eclipsed the bright lantern and Kismet was once more alone in the stairwell.

When the light returned, he began looking around to plan his own exfiltration, but something was different. As he stood and brought his extended leg back up, he both heard and felt a crunch beneath his boot soles. The brilliance of the lantern had compromised his ability to see into the shadowy crenellated recesses of the steps, but he was sure of one thing: there had been nothing on the bare stone moments before. He knew without looking what had caused the sound and hastened up several steps as a pure reflex. Just as quickly, dark menacing shapes began to materialize under the rays of the lantern. The multi-appendaged swarm had followed them from the ossuary. The scorpions, as kings of their food chain, once more led the charge, but behind them were species of arachnids and insects too numerous and diverse to identify.

Kismet backed up the stairwell, instinctively withdrawing from the creeping menace. His head was now level with the opening and he could see the faces of his companions, staring down in horrified disbelief as the miniature army overwhelmed the area where he and Marie had rested only moments before. Drawing a deep breath, he flexed his legs and thrust himself toward the opening.

His fingertips grazed the edge of the hole and in a single instant, bloated out of proportion by the rush of adrenaline, he knew that his hold would fail.He would rebound from the overhang and plunge headlong into the swarm. But then, as his weight came down and his fingers slipped against the stone, Hussein seized his forearms with an iron grip.

He hung there like an offering, arms extended over his head while his feet dangled above the squirming mass. Hussein’s hold seemed to be failing — he could feel his wrists slipping through the young man’s hands — but it was just an illusion. With Marie and Chiron lending their support, the Iraqi scholar hauled Kismet’s upper body through the hole in a single heave.

Hussein did not immediately let go, even though his ferocious pull had caused him to lose his footing and fall backward. His eyes reflected his determination — he would not let go until Kismet’s feet were once more on solid ground — but his grin was a triumphant assertion of victory. Kismet returned the smile with a grateful nod, but in that instant, Hussein’s expression changed to a mask of sheer terror.

A single black scorpion scuttled along Kismet’s right arm and darted toward the exposed flesh of the young Iraqi’s hand. Hussein instinctively let go of Kismet, shaking his hand to thwart the attack, but it was already too late. The creature’s pincers closed around his fingers and it jabbed forward with its tail, planting its sting.

Kismet immediately began sliding back through the hole. His hands curled into claws, fingertips scratching against the smooth rock for a purchase, but the forces of gravity and inertia were allied against him. As his chest scraped over the stone lip, the buttons popped from his shirt like a burst from a machine gun.

And then he stopped.

Nothing he had done in the brief struggle had arrested his fall. At the last possible instant however, Marie had leapt into motion, bracing her feet against the tunnel wall and knotting her fingers in the fabric of his shirt. The strain of halting his slide and simply holding him was evident in the bunched muscles of her jaw line, and Kismet knew that without more assistance, her efforts would merely serve to postpone the inevitable.

Hussein wailed in agony, unable to shake the scorpion free. In desperation, he slammed his fist against the wall, crushing the relentless arachnid even as it stung him again. Through the pain, he remembered his friend’s peril and hastened to relieve Marie. Kismet could see bright red welts erupting like tiny volcanoes on the back of the young man’s right hand and blood streaming from the wounds caused by the scissor-like claws. Only when he and Marie had nearly succeeded in drawing Kismet back from the brink, did Chiron shake off his languor and lend a hand.

As soon as Kismet’s knees touched the stone, he rasped: “I’m good. Let go.” His first concern was to make sure that the scorpion that had stung Hussein was a solitary hitchhiker — it was — then he rushed to help the young scholar.

Hussein’s hand had swollen like a balloon. The stings had darkened and spread to form a single grotesque bruise. Kismet searched his memory for the first-aid treatment for venomous bites, but his ability to offer aid was limited by the scant medical supplies they had brought along. He activated two instant cold-compresses and bound these to the affected area with a loose wrapping of bandages. Beyond the initial pain and surprise of the attack, the swelling seemed to be the only ill effect from the toxin.

Chiron watched as Kismet finished ministering to the young man, then broke his silence. “Nick, what did you find down there?”

Kismet gave him a sharp look. He had never known the Frenchman to be so single-minded, and had in fact always thought of him as a compassionate figure. His apparent disregard for Hussein’s misery seemed out of character. “Nothing. Whatever was down there was completely looted when this tunnel was cut.”

“Nothing?”

“Bones,” Marie intoned. “Nothing but bones.”

“The vault has been turned into a mass grave,” explained Kismet. “There are hundreds of skeletons down there. Maybe thousands.”

“Babylonian slaves?” wondered Chiron.

Kismet felt profoundly uncomfortable with the older man’s eagerness for all the gruesome details. “Not Babylonian and not ancient, but slaves nonetheless: Saddam’s workforce. After they excavated this tunnel, he had them all slaughtered to keep its existence secret.”

Marie shuddered involuntarily, but offered nothing more. Despite his suffering, Hussein was also keenly attentive, his expression revealing that he was all too familiar with atrocities of the sort Kismet was describing.

“Perhaps we have been looking for the wrong treasure chamber,” Chiron mused.

“It makes no difference now. We have to get Hussein back to the surface.”

“He can go back alone. Or with Marie. We need to find out where this tunnel leads.”

Kismet stared in disbelief at his old mentor, but before he could begin to formulate a contrary argument, Hussein interjected. “I am able to continue. The sting of this creature — it is not fatal.”

“If Hussein can go on,” voiced Marie, “I vote to continue our search as well. I also would like to know where this tunnel leads.”

As the lone dissenting voice, Kismet fought back an urge to rage at his associates. “It doesn’t matter. There’s no reason to continue. Whatever we hoped to find is long gone. If Saddam’s engineers found some kind of treasure trove, they would have moved it—” he fixed a stern gaze on Chiron, “—or destroyed anything of religious significance.”

“Nick.” Chiron’s tone was passionate and pleading. “We’re here. We’ve come so far… you have brought us this far. Don’t you want to see where this path leads?”

Kismet sensed his friend was talking about more than just the tunnel. He stared back silently for a moment, then glanced once more at the wounded Iraqi. “Hussein, are you sure you can make it?”

In spite of the cool air in the tunnel, the young man’s forehead was beaded with droplets of perspiration and his face showed a distressing pallor, but he nevertheless nodded eagerly. Kismet drew in a breath and exhaled with a defeated sigh. “Well, I suppose it has to lead somewhere. I just hope we don’t run into any of the former tenants.”

After a few moments spent gathering and inventorying the remaining supplies, the small party began advancing once more along the tunnel route. Although they progressed in much the same manner as before, Kismet was now more keenly aware of the separation of each member of the party. The space that divided them as they moved was more than simply a physical interval. Alone with his or her thoughts, each person walked silently more than a meter from the next, and Kismet found himself wondering what occupied the minds of his companions.

Chiron’s obsession with finding the trove, and specifically the Staff of Moses, was most troubling, but at least it was something he could understand. In his own way, Kismet was also searching for the answer to a question that was much bigger than anything he could put into words. He didn’t for a moment believe that the old man would find something definitive — the fingerprint of God, written large in the desert sand — but in a quest for faith, sometimes the search itself was the goal.

Marie’s motivations were less easy to read. Initially, it had been easy to dismiss her attendance as peripheral, a titillating presence in the right environment, but a deadly distraction in the midst of life and death hardships. Yet, there had been a few moments when her behavior seemed out of character with that impression, not the least example of which was her eagerness to push ahead into the treasure vault. And her simple declaration of interest in discovering what lay at the end of the tunnel bespoke a deeper personal investment in their quest than a simple wish to support her employer.

Under the pretense of checking his physical condition, Kismet diverted the lantern’s broad cone of light away from the tunnel to briefly illuminate Hussein’s face. The young man’s movements were labored, as was his breathing, and his countenance betrayed the ongoing war his body was fighting against the toxins in his bloodstream, but he flashed a determined smile and managed to straighten his posture.

Kismet had no reason to doubt that Hussein’s intentions were anything beyond the obvious. The young scholar, like most people his age, was interested in adventure and discovery. In that, they were not so different, though Kismet could remember a time in his own life when subterranean passageways and ancient ruins held no significance for him. In fact, it had not been until that fateful night in the desert that he had begun looking into the mysteries of the past, and even then only as means to solving a more immediate enigma. The depth of his knowledge of history was incidental to a quest rooted solely in the present.

As he continued to tread the trail of his thoughts, he found Marie at his side. “Nick, a question if you please. You said that anything of religious significance would be destroyed. Is that the goal of the Prometheus group? To destroy that which might reinforce religious faith?”

He tried in vain to read her expression; she floated like a wraith in the darkness beside him. He resisted the urge to play the light on her face as he had Hussein’s. “I don’t know for sure. In any case, that’s not what I meant. There’s reason to believe that Saddam Hussein would have ordered the destruction of certain relics — artifacts from the Temple of Solomon and perhaps even the Staff Pierre is seeking — out of fear that the Israeli government might risk war in order to recover them.”

“How can you know this?”

Kismet gave a vague shrug. “It’s not so farfetched. The Taliban government of Afghanistan destroyed several stone carvings of Buddha because they believed it to be the will of God.”

“But Saddam Hussein has never been devoutly religious. He would view such relics merely as antiquities to be prized or sold.” She took a step forward so that her face was partially bathed in light, her expression stern. “And you did not answer my question. Is this something that Samir Al-Azir told you?”

He made no attempt to hide his dismay, but lowered his voice in an unspoken plea for her to use discretion. “So you really were eavesdropping. But the answer is yes. That’s what he told me.”

“And had he been so ordered? I am wondering what he found that could have been so inflammatory.”

“Marie.” Kismet’s voice took on a forceful edge. “Drop it.”

“I think I have as much right to know as Pierre,” she continued defiantly, but dropped her tone to a whisper. “And you may be sure that I will demand an explanation when this is finished.”

Kismet breathed a relieved sigh at her temporary retreat from the subject. Between Chiron’s probing and Marie’s spying, he had inadvertently revealed more about his encounter with Samir Al-Azir than at any other time in his life. He had kept the details of what had happened that night secret with a passion that bordered on mania for the simple reason that he wasn’t really sure who he could trust. His attempts to regulate how much of the tale he would reveal were proving futile. Each revelation led to more questions and to deductions that were startlingly accurate.

Nothing more was said on the subject and a few minutes later the discussion was forgotten as the group reached the terminus of the tunnel. There was an abrupt transition from the smooth, symmetrical tube through which they had walked into a vast cavern hewn by nature but reinforced by human engineers. The discovery of the cave must have been a serendipitous event for the excavators of the tunnel, who had evidently chosen it as the place to begin the next phase of the project. As Kismet played the light into the recesses of the grotto, he saw what the tunnel had been leading up to.

The cavern had become a subterranean warehouse. Vehicles and medium-sized shipping containers lined the nearby wall, while several neat rows of pallets, each loaded with various crates and cardboard boxes, occupied the middle. Three crude shacks had been erected along on the far edge of the area, but their doors were secured with padlocks. These discoveries however were insignificant alongside the one other feature of the cavern that was also the work of men. Commencing at the center of the underground chamber and cutting across the floor at a forty-five degree angle when viewed from the mouth of the tunnel, were two parallel rails of iron, which disappeared into a second passage bored into solid rock.

“I’ll be damned,” whispered Kismet. “They built a subway.”

The group advanced with cautious curiosity to stand at the railhead. A gunmetal gray control box stood adjacent to the enormous shock-absorbing bumper which established the absolute end of the line. Kismet played the light over the green and red switches, absently noting the almost uniform layer of dust on the operator’s panel. “No one’s been down here in a while. I’d say this facility was abandoned weeks — maybe months — before the start of the war.”

“Can you tell where it leads?” Chiron inquired.

Kismet shook his head. “Hussein?”

The young scholar shuffled forward, and after a momentary assessment, leaned over the panel and blew across its surface. A cloud of dust lifted from the neglected control buttons, the motes dancing eerily in the artificial brilliance of the electric lantern. When the air cleared, he surveyed the tableau. Behind him, Kismet could now clearly distinguish the delicate Arabic script which marked several of the buttons and LED indicators, as well as a numeric ten-key push button pad. The letters were incomprehensible to him, but the universal numerals required no translation.

“These are simply controls for summoning and operating the tram,” Hussein explained after a moment. “It does not indicate what the final destination is, or how far away.”

“It would have to be a significant distance to warrant construction of a train,” intoned Chiron. “Otherwise they would have simply continued to utilize trucks.”

Kismet stepped away from the group, playing the beam once more onto the tracks. Still curious about the control box, Chiron directed Marie to break out two Cyalume sticks and a few moments later, the area around the dull metal panel was bathed in a surreal yellow glow. In the stillness, their conversation echoed tinnily from the cavern walls.

“Is it still operational?” Marie asked.

“The power indicator light is off,” Hussein explained.

Kismet’s eyes followed the parallel rails to the point where they disappeared into the tunnel. The unreadable darkness offered no clues to the train’s opposite terminus, but for the first time since discovering the railway, he noticed the overhead wires which were suspended at intervals from the ceiling of the excavated passageway. The lines appeared to be uninsulated power lines, designed, he surmised, to deliver non-stop energy to a trolley car. If Hussein’s assessment was correct, those lines were presently dead. Without being able to utilize the railway, the feasibility of continuing the underground journey was in doubt, an outcome that was by no means unwelcome to Kismet. Especially since the disastrous foray into the desolate treasure vault beneath the Esagila, he had come to believe that no more answers would be found in the tunnel, and did not share Chiron’s enthusiasm for pursuing the search literally to the last dead end. A disapproving scowl crossed his face as his old mentor’s next question reverberated through the cave.

“Is there any way to turn it on?”

Hussein’s answer was not audible and Kismet did not turn back to see if the injured scholar was attempting to follow through on Chiron’s request. Despite his reticence, Kismet could not help but be curious about what clandestine operations or discoveries had been so important as to motivate the former Iraqi dictator to undertake such a colossal construction project. He was mildly surprised to find himself speculating about the destination of the railway and wondering if perhaps other palaces concealed similar entrances. Perhaps Saddam Hussein had built an elaborate, nationwide subway system in order to move swiftly and secretly through his domain.

His eyes followed the power line out of the tunnel and through the air to one of the upright stanchions which reached out over the tracks, suspending the line at a constant height. The design was similar to mass transit street cars in many cities, though notably different than the third rail system used by the New York transit authority, with which Kismet was more familiar.

His gaze was then drawn to a smaller brown wire which ran the length of the main line. It was basic sixteen-gauge, two-conductor stranded wire, often called “speaker wire” because of its use in home audio systems. Kismet knew it wasn’t good for much else. Cheap and thinly insulated, the copper strands could only conduct a very low voltage current. He followed the wire along its path, wondering if it was part of some kind of intercom system. There was only one other application he could think of that did not involve the transmission of electrical impulses for purposes of sound amplification; stranded wire was also used for triggering blasting caps.

“Hussein, wait—”

His admonition came a moment too late. Even as he shouted, he heard the click of a circuit breaker being thrown on the main panel, but the expected detonation did not occur. His relief was short-lived, however. In the relative silence that followed his warning, there was a faint, modulated tone, oscillating at intervals of exactly one second.

It was a countdown.

Eleven

Kismet muscled past the paralyzed forms of his companions and scanned the control board. Directly above the numeric keypad, an LED display ticked off the seconds remaining until whatever ugly surprise hard-wired into the security system was revealed, with what he now had little doubt would be explosive consequences.

24…23…22….

A thirty-second countdown, he realized. But thirty seconds — now twenty — to do what?

“Run!” he rasped. “Get out of here, now!”

As he moved to heed his own advice, he saw Hussein and Marie following suit. Chiron however hesitated, then leaned over the control board, his gnarled fingers hovering above the buttons. Kismet half-turned and shouted over his shoulder.

“Pierre, leave it! It’s wired to blow!”

“I can’t.” The old man’s voice was pleading. “I’ve come too far. There’s got to be a way to turn it off.”

“Damn it.” Kismet’s rage was mostly self-directed. He knew that he wasn’t going to surrender Chiron to his fate, and that meant he was going to have to figure out a way to defuse the bomb or die trying. He wheeled around and came up to the platform alongside the other man. The count was down to eighteen seconds. “Don’t touch anything.”

He located the wire strand where it disappeared into the control box. One hard yank on the wire might be enough to rip it free of the timed trigger. Or it might complete the circuit and blow the detonators. In fifteen seconds, it would cease to matter.

He looked at the dust-covered ten-key buttons again. Their significance was now obvious. Anyone attempting to summon the train would first have to enter a security code. Failure to do so would quite literally bring down the roof. “Impossible,” he muttered, reaching for the wire. “There must be millions of combinations.”

He stopped again. 12… 11….

On an impulse, he leaned close to the numeric keypad and blew away the fine coating of dust. About half of the numbers remained partially obscured by an accumulation of particles adhering to a film of skin oils. Curiously, these buttons — seven, four, one, and zero, along with the asterisk and pound symbol — formed an L-shape. The significance of this was not lost on Kismet. These six characters alone had been used whenever anyone wished to disarm the security system.

9…8….

“Hussein! What was Saddam’s birthday?”

“What?” The young man’s voice was faint, whether because of distance or the venom-induced illness, he could not say. “Twenty-eight, April. 1937.”

Kismet shook his head. “That’s not it. Any other important dates in April, January, July—”

“Fourteen, July! The revolution!”

4…3….

He quickly punched the asterisk, followed by 1, 4, 0, 7 and then the pound sign. The beeping tone abruptly changed to a long single note then fell silent. The numeric countdown likewise ceased.

Kismet sagged against the console, his extremities feeling numb from the surge of adrenaline. When he could breathe again, he looked over at an ashen Chiron, and enunciating slowly and clearly as he might with a wayward child, said: “Don’t touch anything.”

It was nearly fifteen minutes before they heard a distant screeching sound of metal on metal issuing from the tunnel. There was a faint breeze as air was pushed ahead of the arriving mass, and a few moments later, a single flatbed rail car rolled out of the darkness and coasted to a halt against the bumpers. Perhaps owing to their most recent brush with disaster, no one approached the car until Kismet made the first move.

The flatbed was little more than a freight platform. The motors were situated near the wheels and the only part of the vehicle that rose above the flat surface was a metal tower that reached up to make contact with the power lines. There were no creature comforts, nor did there appear to be any means of regulating speed or direction.

“It’s all controlled from the main console,” Kismet deduced aloud. “There’s probably a computer in there to automatically slow it down when it gets to the end of the line.”

“Dare we get aboard and see where it leads?” asked Chiron.

“Since you’ve probably already determined to do that, I guess there’s no reason not to. Go ahead and climb on. I’ll get it started and run over to join you. Hopefully, there’s another control panel at the other end.”

“What if there’s not?” inquired Marie. “Should someone remain behind?”

Before he could weigh in, Chiron once again exercised his veto. “I don’t think that’s wise. Look what happened when we separated before. We should remain together. I trust that Nick is right. Logically, there must be a second set of controls.”

Kismet did not find his mentor’s vote of confidence especially gratifying, but the older man’s certitude seemed vaguely inappropriate. He felt a shiver of déjà vu and wondered once more what Chiron was really up to. “Well, if I’m not, it will be a long walk back. All aboard, everyone. Last call for the Helltown Express.”

Once Hussein, as the last member of the group save Kismet himself, had ascended the platform and secured one of the heavy nylon freight slings anchored around the perimeter, Kismet pressed the green button to activate the rail car motor. After a momentary delay, in which Kismet was unsure if he had selected the wrong control, the vehicle began to roll away from the bumper. Though it moved slowly, Kismet had to sprint to catch the car before it was once more swallowed up by the tunnel. He could feel its velocity increasing as the darkness swelled all around.

They activated several chem-lights to illuminate the journey but there was very little to see. Except for the overhead lines suspended at regular intervals, there was nothing but roughly worked black stone. The tunnel was a long, straight passage driving through the earth’s crust. The narrow dimensions of the tube reflected the noise of the motors and wheels in an endless cacophony that was comparable to a torture session with fingernails on a chalkboard, but amplified to monstrous proportions. Conversation was impossible, and Kismet was left alone with his thoughts which, given the circumstances, were not the best of company.

The featureless tunnel ended abruptly, much as it had begun, and the rail car rolled out into an open chamber similar to the depot at the opposite terminus. Before anyone could react to the sudden arrival, the car screeched to a halt.

Kismet jumped down first, eager to scout the area for further traps. A control panel was situated near the bumper assembly but the security keypad was conspicuously absent, as was the wire strand that might indicate that it was linked to an explosive device. As his companions moved closer, he expanded the scope of his survey.

The chamber in which they now found themselves was much smaller than the first and hewn into a rough rectangle. Although there were several pallets and containers near the tracks, most of the area was vacant. The walls parallel to the train’s approach were broken with stainless steel doorways — two on either side — bolted into the coarse stone and sealed with a thick seam of epoxy. At the end of the chamber opposite the tunnel entrance, a second cylindrical passage, large enough to permit only pedestrian traffic, led into the dark beyond. Kismet withheld comment, but gestured to the nearest framed opening.

At Chiron’s nod of assent, he began walking toward the doorway, but when he had crossed only half the distance, a torturous noise — metal shrieking against metal — caused him to start. He whirled toward the source of the familiar sound and was chagrined to discover that Chiron had held back. Only Marie and Hussein had followed along behind him while the Frenchman had gravitated toward the control panel. In that moment, he caught a glimpse of the rail car as it vanished into the tunnel.

“Damn it, Pierre. I told you not to touch anything.”

Chiron evinced guilt with a grimace. “I was looking for the overhead lights.”

Kismet shook his head in frustration as he reached the other man’s side. He toggled the switch that Chiron had used to activate the rail system, but nothing happened. The noise of the car on the tracks continued to diminish as it progressed away from the chamber. “Must be an automatic sequence. We’ll have to wait until it gets to the other end before we can call it back. At least I hope it works that way. Otherwise, we’ll have quite a walk.”

“Time enough to do some exploring,” replied Chiron with a wan smile.

“I suppose so,” Kismet conceded. “But I don’t think we’re going to find what you’re after in here. This looks like it might have been some kind of research facility.”

“Have a little faith, Nick.” Chiron gave his shoulder a paternal squeeze then moved toward the others.

“Faith?” Kismet’s repetition was barely audible and if Chiron heard, he gave no indication. Instead, the Frenchman took the lead, moving purposefully toward the opening, and Kismet had to sprint to head him off. “Pierre, remember. Don’t touch anything. If this was, as I suspect, some kind of weapon’s lab, not only will it probably be wired to a fail-safe, but there might also be some nasty things laying about.”

Chiron raised his hands by way of reply, but the meaning of the gesture was uncertain. Kismet shook his head again, then moved through the open portal. The lintel of the steel doorway concealed an overhead panel designed to drop like the blade of a guillotine and seal the chamber beyond. The thickness of the steel panel, a good thirty centimeters, was more than a little unnerving.Whether it was meant to keep something out or prevent something from escaping, Kismet knew he did not want to be caught on the wrong side of that door if it closed.

There proved to be little reason to continue beyond the threshold. The chamber was impassible, almost completely filled with a haphazard arrangement of metal vats. Some of the enormous containers were secured to floor along the perimeter, but most had simply been shoved in hastily. Kismet instantly recognized the tanks and divined their diabolical purpose.

“Well, either we’ve stumbled upon Saddam’s answer to Anhauseur-Busch…” He trailed off in response to the blank looks he was receiving from his comrades. “They’re fermenters,” he explained. “A sealed environment where bacterial cultures can thrive and propagate. You use them in the final stage of brewing beer.”

Chiron nodded in dawning comprehension. “Ah, of course. Dual-use technology.”

“Exactly. You can also grown and harvest any number of bacteriological strains. Anthrax comes to mind.”

“Then this is a bio-weapons laboratory,” Marie gasped. “This is what UNMOVIC was looking for: proof of an ongoing program for weapons of mass destruction.”

Kismet glanced around again. “I’m not sure ‘laboratory’ is the right word. It doesn’t look like any of the equipment has ever been used. More likely this is the hole they shoved everything into so that the inspectors wouldn’t find anything.”

“Still, this would qualify as…what is your expression? A smoking gun, n’est pas?”

“That’s not for us to say,” reproved Chiron, but his tone and expression were distracted, as though the discovery was inconveniently timed. “But rest assured, we will report this to the correct agency. Come, let us continue looking. If they were using this place to hide secrets, then we may yet find the object of our search.”

The Frenchman again led the charge, forcing Kismet to hasten to catch up. The second opening, like the first, was equipped with an emergency gate. Beyond the doorway however, the scene was markedly different. The enclosure seemed to be a general storage area, and was cluttered with wooden crates and hard plastic shipping containers. The cartons rose before them like a wall, almost completely blocking access to the room beyond. Many of the boxes were stamped with stenciled Cyrillic characters, but a few were easier to decipher, with descriptions written in French, German and English. Without exception, the painted letters indicated the contents of the containers to be military munitions. A random inspection revealed only packing dunnage. “Just empty boxes,” Kismet observed. “Either this stuff was passed on to army units before the war, or it’s being stockpiled somewhere else by insurgents.”

“But why keep these?” inquired Hussein, gesturing with his bandaged hand at the pile of containers.

“I’d say this was their answer to throwing it away.”

“If I may,” Chiron interjected. “There may be another explanation. Camouflage.”

“You think there’s something behind all this refuse?” Kismet sighed and resignedly began shifting the cartons out of the way. It was painfully clear that the French scientist would not be satisfied until he had explored every possibility. Nevertheless, the stacked containers did look a little like a facade, set up to give the illusion that the space beyond was entirely filled up, and he wasn’t surprised at all when, after clearing three vertical layers out of the way, he revealed another laboratory workspace. He continued digging at the barrier until the opening was large enough for them to pass through single file.

The space that Kismet now thought of as “Laboratory Two” appeared to have nothing at all to do with the development of biological weapons. Rather, it looked more like a machine shop, with drill presses and metalworking lathes, and a large supply of metal ingots. He picked up one experimentally and found it to be lighter than expected. “Aluminum?” he speculated aloud. No one answered.

A large worktable occupied the center of the area, and spread out across its surface were the pieces to some kind of device. Kismet studied the fragments, trying to imagine what they would look like if assembled. A spherical casing in the middle of the puzzle gave it away.

He sucked in his breath suddenly and glanced at his companions. Both Marie and Hussein seemed only mildly curious about the items on the tabletop. He sensed no recognition from either of them. Chiron had given the device only a cursory glance before continuing his explorations, but Kismet wasn’t fooled. Chiron knew what it was. He had to know.

There were three hard plastic containers, each about half the size of a coffin, stacked at the end of the table. One was open, but the cavity inside was filled with packing foam, cut out to cradle a torpedo-shaped object. The exterior was marked with the seal of the French Ministry of Defense and what seemed to be an identification code: CER 880412. The other two cases were similarly labeled, though with a different six-digit code. Extruded plastic seals, resembling tiny yellow padlocks, were threaded through the clasps. These containers had never been opened.

Kismet nonchalantly moved closer to Chiron, who was presently examining the contents of a workbench. He kept his voice low. “There’s something over here you need to see.”

“The detonators?” Chiron seemed to understand the need for discretion. “I saw. Do not worry, my friend. They are not armed.”

“How can you tell?”

“Many years ago, my government foolishly agreed to exchange certain technologies for oil leases. It was their belief that the Iraqis would never be able to successfully reverse engineer the devices or refine the nuclear fuel to make them operational.” He gave a half-hearted smile. “In this at least, it would seem they were correct. Saddam Hussein’s nuclear program never got off the ground.”

Kismet realized that the object Chiron was inspecting was a partially assembled version of the same item that lay exploded on the table. But unlike the latter, this device seemed rougher at the edges. This fourth atomic detonator had been manufactured here in Laboratory Two, rather than in the Centre d’Etudes du Ripault.

Because he was a nuclear scientist, Chiron’s grasp of the intricacies both of atomic weapons and the politics of exchanging such technologies far outstripped Kismet’s, and the latter had no reason to question his old mentor’s appraisal. Nevertheless, the idea that he was looking at a nuclear bomb, or rather the detonator — the component that used a shaped charge of plastic explosives to bombard a core of plutonium with neutrons, thereby triggering a catastrophic fission reaction — was just a little unnerving.

Chiron turned away from the workbench. “This isn’t the relic we seek. Let’s continue looking, shall we?”

Their counter-clockwise circuit of the laboratory complex moved, not to the third such stainless steel room, but to a tunnel situated at the end of the rectangular cavern opposite where they had entered. After the artificial symmetry of the first two rooms, the passage through which they now moved seemed wholly organic, as if carved out by the forces of nature. It was in fact more likely that the original dimensions of a naturally occurring fissure had been improved with excavating tools and explosives. Yet the workers had not seen fit to work the walls smooth or bore the tunnel in a straight line. It wended back and forth, ascending steeply for more than one hundred meters, before emerging into a larger open chamber.

Kismet flicked off his flashlight and waited for the others to catch up before announcing: “I think we just found the back door to this place.”

The opening, through which indirect daylight was streaming in, was situated more than twenty meters off the cavern floor. It was large enough to fly a helicopter through, which apparently was exactly what someone had done. At the bottom of the chamber, hibernating like a tired old dragon, was a Russian-made Mi-25, NATO designation HIND D. A combination of gunship and transport, the Hind had gained recognition during the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan in the 1980s. Beneath a five-bladed rotor, the Hind’s fuselage was aerodynamically thin, like the body of an insect, with stubby outriggers on either side — the wings of the wasp — supporting multiple weapons platforms.

The helicopter appeared to have been well maintained and kept ready for action. Only a thin layer of dust had accumulated on its exterior. Nearby, several drums of aviation fuel were arranged in a neat formation. Kismet slid back the door and briefly inspected the fuselage. “This was somebody’s ‘Plan B’. They kept it ready to go right up until the end.”

Marie offered the only response. “I wonder why it was never used?”

“Like everything else down here, what was the point? There was no way one helicopter, or some incomplete weapons research or a stockpile of munitions, would have made an iota of difference.” Kismet turned away from the Hind and rejoined his companions. “And it’s not going to do us much good either.”

They returned back down the passage and moved toward the third stainless steel laboratory. Of the three they had so far encountered, this one seemed to most resemble the sobriquet Kismet had applied to the facilities. The neatly ordered space was equipped with stainless steel tables, computer terminals attached to gas chromatographs, centrifuges and autoclaves, and racks of glass beakers and test tubes. There was even a glass alembic, looking like a prop from an old mad scientist movie, on one of the tables. Additionally, there were two sealed glass chambers with airlocks and glove ports, and a bank of empty cages large enough to hold a variety of animals. The back wall was arrayed with shelves and cabinets storing glass and plastic containers of various chemical compounds. There was nothing resembling an archaeological discovery — no holy relics. Kismet turned to Chiron. “Well, let’s look behind door number four.”

But Chiron was not there.

“Pierre?”

There was a sudden rasp of metal, then the guillotine gate slammed shut with a forcefulness that sent a tremor through the room, shattering several glass containers. Marie shrieked reflexively and rushed to the solid barrier, along with a stunned Hussein. Kismet hastened to join them and peered through the narrow view port.

“Pierre, I told you—”

Chiron stood just beyond the doorway, his finger still on the large red button that had activated the emergency measures, which had sealed the lab. He raised his eyes slowly to the window and spoke. Although the thick glass completely muted his voice, Kismet had no trouble reading his lips. I’m sorry, Nick. Then he turned away.

Kismet felt numb. Marie and Hussein began frantically searching for some means to open the door, but Kismet was looking for something else: comprehension. Try as he might, his mind could not put the pieces together. The man he thought of as one of his closest friends had intentionally trapped him inside a chemical weapons lab, deep underground, and he couldn’t think of a single reason why.

And then he noticed something else about their situation that forced him to leave off wrestling with the riddle of Chiron’s actions. “It’s getting hot in here.”

When Pierre Chiron hit the switch, he did more than simply lock his companions inside Laboratory Three. The large red button controlled a fail-safe mechanism designed to protect the rest of the facility from an accidental release of biological or chemical contaminants. Under normal operating conditions, each of the four laboratories would have been monitored by an officer from the Republican Guard with a single order: at the first hint of danger — if a researcher dropped a test tube or if a Rhesus monkey, whether infected or not, escaped its cage — he was to hit the button.

Rihab Taha al-Azawi al-Tikriti, the scientist known to Iraqis as ‘Doctor Germ’, had designed both the laboratories and the fail-safe mechanisms with grim efficiency. The door was composed of a thick panel of lead, sandwiched between equally dense sheets of steel, and was held in place only by two stubby bolts. When the system was triggered, a tiny explosive charge would blast the bolts out of their recesses, allowing the gate to drop. There was no device in place to raise the barrier, which was nearly as heavy as a railroad car. Once a laboratory was deemed compromised, there was no reason for anyone to ever enter it again.

Between the steel walls and floor of the laboratory, and the solid stone of the cavern, there were several bands of granular magnesium. The same impulse that blew the door bolts also ignited these strips of flammable metal, causing them to burn with a brilliant white intensity. By the time the fuel supply was exhausted, the temperature inside the laboratory would approach 1600 degrees Celsius, at which point the stainless steel would become molten and collapse, releasing the final measure: an almost equivalent volume of sand and rock suspended above the laboratory that would drop down and completely bury the thoroughly sanitized remains of the laboratory.

Anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the laboratory would of course be completely incinerated long before the catastrophic denouement.