Into the Black (5 page)

Because he had no memory of his strange nativity, Kismet had over the course of the years, regarded the matter with some suspicion; his father was not above spinning a whopper of a tall tale.  His uniquely stimulating childhood had kept him from agonizing overmuch about the matter as Garral's adventures took him to exotic environments in every corner of the globe.  When at last it became time for him to formalize his education, his affinity for the many places he had visited in his youth led him to pursue the study of international law.  In order to help pay for his studies—a matter of personal pride on his own part, for Garral was certainly wealthy enough to foot the bill—he had joined the Army ROTC, and his grasp of several different languages had led him to choose Military Intelligence as his occupational specialty.  It had all been academic up until the events of late 1990, when armies from Iraq had invaded Kuwait and seemed poised to attack Saudi Arabia as well.  Although he had always recognized the possibility of a deployment, the activation orders had come with the finality of a guillotine.  He had said his good-byes and after a brief train-up, shipped out to Riyadh.

After the initial shock of dislocation had faded, he had come to accept his part in the greater mission to liberate Kuwait, but on one fateful night his world had been turned upside down.  Seemingly from out of nowhere, he had been given orders for an over the border operation—the rescue of a defector with important military secrets.  Compounding the irregularity of the orders was the fact that he would be accompanied only by a squad of Gurkhas.  Britain's answer to the French Foreign Legion, the Gurkhas were a regiment of soldiers named for the fierce warrior tribe of Nepal whose signature weapon was a boomerang-shaped chopping knife called a
kukri
, and like their namesake, the Gurkhas fought heroically wherever they were sent.  Half a century after the fact, they were still boasting about the fact the Gurkhas had suffered the highest casualty rates of Allied soldiers during the Second World War.  Kismet's escorts had certainly honored the memories of their predecessors that night with a sacrifice of their own blood, but not before Kismet made contact with the defector, a man who identified himself as Samir Al-Azir, an engineer for the Iraqi regime who had, in the course of rebuilding the ancient city of Babylon, discovered a strange and extraordinarily valuable relic dating back to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Babylonian Emperor Nebuchadnezzar.  Fearing that the United States might capture the relic and return it to Israel, Saddam Hussein had ordered Samir to destroy it, but the engineer had demurred choosing instead to use the artifact as a bargaining token to secure safe passage for himself and his family.

And that was where it really got strange, for when Samir Al-Azir had contacted a British government official, requesting asylum, he had specifically asked to be met in Tall al Muqayyar—the ruins of ancient Ur, near the modern city of Nasyriah—by an American named Nick Kismet.  All of this was revealed to a young and disbelieving Second Lieutenant Kismet in the half-buried remains of a long forgotten nobleman's dwelling, but before Kismet could fully comprehend what he was being told, a group of commandos had stormed the location, and slaughtered Samir and his family.  Stranger still, the leader of the assault force, a man who identified himself as Ulrich Hauser, indicated that Kismet's life was to be spared out of deference to his mother.  Hauser had then disappeared with the captured relic, leaving only a cryptic reference to Prometheus, a figure from Greek mythology, to explain his actions.

It might have ended right there.  Stranded behind enemy lines as the air war commenced, Kismet and the contingent of Gurkhas were hunted relentlessly by Republican Guard forces, and ultimately captured.  In the end, only Kismet and one other soldier, a Gurkha from New Zealand named Alex Higgins, made it back.

Scar tissue eventually covered the battle wounds, but the events of that night continued to hemorrhage his soul's essence.  Who was Hauser, and what was his connection to Kismet's mother?  How had Samir known to request him specifically by name, and why?  And who or what was Prometheus?

There was of course, one other clue that he could not overlook: the relic.  He had not actually seen it, but had inferred much about it from his brief conversation with Samir; it was the holiest of holy relics.  Hauser had also hinted that Prometheus' mission was to keep such icons and artifacts safely locked away, and so Kismet had begun his quest by embarking on a greater understanding of the world of art and antiquities.  If the conspirators he had faced that night in the desert sought ancient relics, then perhaps in the ancient places of the world, he would find their figurative footprints.  His quest led to Paris where, despite finding no answers, he cultivated a friendship with the director of the Global Heritage Commission and was ultimately offered a job as GHC liaison to the United States.  Reasoning the position would afford him opportunity to investigate the mystery of his life, he had accepted.  For years thereafter he had kept his ear to the ground, listening for any whispers that might shed light on what had happened that night in the ruins of Tall al Muqayyar.

He had not even considered what he had lost in his single-minded quests to unmask Prometheus; not until the curious summons had brought him once more in contact with Lysette Lyon.  He turned to his desktop where Lyse's latest email continued to shine from the computer monitor:

Nick, thanks so much for bailing me out the other day.  I'll be in the city for New Year's Eve.  Maybe I can swing by the office. We can settle our business and after that, who knows?  I still remember how to say 'thanks' properly.  Luv ya, Lyse
.

His eagerness to rendezvous with Lyse had nothing to do with her overt promises; things were different now, evidently for both of them, and he was going to exact the price of his favor in information and nothing else.  During the days since his escape from Morocco he had mulled over the situation and decided that if Lyse wanted her trinket back—and Kismet knew it was not any sort of rare artifact—she was going to have to make a full confession.

He rose from his desk and paced around the office, then checked his watch again.  It was nearly five-thirty and she had yet to show.  She was going to have to spring for dinner too, he decided.

The sound of a door opening in the hallway alerted Kismet to the arrival of a guest. He idly ran a hand through his short cropped hair and settled into his chair, then propped his feet up on an open drawer and tried his best to look nonchalant. The figure beyond the frosted pane of the door that bore his name paused then tried the doorknob.

"Mr. Kismet?"

It was not Lyse. He immediately dropped his feet to the floor and sat up. "Yes. Please come in."

The door swung open, revealing a tall man about the same age as Kismet.  He was well dressed, bundled against the chill air, and carried himself with the effete manner of a sophisticate. Kismet felt a glimmer of recognition looking at the man's handsome features, wavy blonde hair and thin mustache, but he could not put a name to the face. The man approached his desk, extending a hand, which Kismet accepted, standing to greet the newcomer.

"It's good to see you again," the man offered.  

The British accent was maddeningly familiar and his introduction suggested some prior acquaintance, but Kismet once more drew a blank.  "What can I do for you?"

The handsome face broke into an odd smile. "You don't remember me?"

"Frankly, I…" All of a sudden, he did remember and the recollection was not pleasant. "Andrew Harcourt."

"Most people call me 'Sir Andrew,' nowadays." Harcourt made no attempt to mask his pride.

"Sir Andrew?  Well...congratulations."  The pieces continued falling into place, triggering one uncomfortable memory after another, but Kismet nevertheless extended his right hand, accepting Harcourt's quick shake.  "Why don't you sit down? You'll be more comfortable."

"Why thank you. I say, were you expecting someone else?"

"I had another appointment, but it seems I've been stood up. No matter though. To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from Her Majesty's favorite archaeologist?  Digging on our side of the pond again?"

Harcourt laughed. "Not exactly, but I am in the planning stages of an endeavor which should prove quite...um, earthshaking.  Actually, that's what brings me here today.  I wish to prevail upon you to join me."

Kismet stared back at the archaeologist.  He rarely made judgments about the academics he frequently encountered, but his one brush with Harcourt had been unpleasant enough that a bad taste lingered.  He tried to conceal his surprise. "I'm touched, but why me?"

"Given our history, I think it only makes sense for me to bring someone along from the Commission to avoid the perception of impropriety."

The explanation seemed a little shaky but Kismet decided to play along.  "Why don't you tell me what you have in mind?"

"I'd rather show you." Harcourt held up a leather attaché case, which he set down on Kismet's desk and opened.  He removed a cloth wrapped parcel and laid it on the desk for Kismet to inspect.  In the center of the cloth was a fragment of metal, broken it appeared from an ancient war helmet of Greek design. The piece seemed to have been, at one time, the right forward quarter of the helmet.  Kismet took note of the straight edges, which ran along the bottom and leading sides, curving into an eyehole, and then dropped down to shield the bridge of the nose.  The breaking points were jagged, as though the helmet had been cut or torn apart, rather than decaying from corrosion.  The metal was scored and dented in several places, suggesting that it had seen use in combat, but the minor defects had since been covered by a thin veneer of bright, flawless metal: gold. 

Kismet reached for it.  "May I?"

"Please do."

The helmet fragment was not solid gold; it was much too lightweight. He felt a faint residue on the surface and noticed a white concentration in some of the cracks, but the artifact had not tarnished at all.  A probing finger wiped the substance away, and when he touched it to his lips, there was only a salty flavor, not the expected tang of copper. He flipped it over and looked inside the helmet.  A tiny patch of gold had been scraped away, revealing darker metal beneath—tarnished bronze.  "You did this?" Kismet asked, pointing to the defect.

Harcourt nodded.

"And the overlay is gold?"

Harcourt pursed his lips. "It's not exactly an overlay.  The metallurgists I've showed it to say it's as if the outer surface of the bronze were transmuted."

Kismet raised an eyebrow, but did not pursue the matter; he remembered Harcourt's penchant for blending pseudo-science and mysticism with the facts in order to paint a dramatic, if not entirely authentic picture of the past.  He placed the fragment against his face, trying to imagine how it would have looked on the ancient warrior to whom it originally belonged.  "What do you think?"

"Very becoming."

The helmet had been fashioned for someone with a smaller head, probably a youth. "Where did you find this?"

"Unfortunately I didn't find it, but rather purchased it.  If I knew where it had been found, my quest would be far simpler."

"So it could be from almost any site, anywhere. What makes you think this will lead to an undiscovered site?"

"That piece is like nothing that has ever been uncovered.  It is unique in many ways, not the least of which is the gold covering."

"That could have been done later. The Greeks pioneered the technique of electroplating thousands of years ago, but you know as well as I that the ancients didn't waste their gold decorating war helmets.  Maybe the person who sold it to you was trying to increase its value."

"Perhaps there is another explanation."  Harcourt's Cheshire cat grin suggested he was about to elaborate.

"I'm listening."

Harcourt reached into the case and drew out a large manila envelope, which he casually tossed over to Kismet.  The envelope contained five 8"X10" photographs. They were all images of a single piece of white stone viewed from different aspects. Kismet spread them out and began examining from left to right.

The subject of the photos was unquestionably an artifact, a product of some intelligence rather than a random occurrence of nature. Like the helmet, the white stone had been damaged at some point in its long history, destroying its intended symmetry.  One of the photographs showed it lying alongside a measuring tape, helping Kismet to understand why Harcourt had not simply brought the piece itself.

The stone was a block, a foot in depth and width, and about two feet to the long point of where it had been broken.  The fracture had cleaved a forty-five degree angle through length, more or less leaving the other dimensions unaltered.  The fourth picture was a close-up of one facet, and the photographer had adjusted his angle to highlight in shadow a series of carved letters.

"Can you read what it says?"

Kismet shrugged.  "Ancient Greek really isn't my field."

"Ah, of course.  But you are proficient in its modern equivalent, are you not?  There are differences of course, but the letters are similar.  Give it a try."

Kismet frowned, but returned his gaze to the photograph.  "The first word is partly damaged, but I would imagine that this is an altar stone, so I would infer that it says '
bomos
,' or 'altar of offerings.'"

"I knew you were only being modest. And the second word?"

"'Medea.' Offerings to Medea?"

Harcourt sat back smugly. "What do you think of that?"

Kismet's reply was guarded. "What am I supposed to think?"

"Oh, don't be so coy, Nick. You know as well as I who Medea was; the witch-queen from the legend of Jason and the Argonauts, daughter of the king of Colchis, the land where the Golden Fleece was hidden."

Kismet frowned, recalling the old adage about a little knowledge being dangerous.  "Medea was never worshiped by the ancient Greeks. She was merely a character in a story that was a myth even to them."