The Shroud of Heaven (18 page)

Aware now that his enemies were within striking distance, Kismet slashed back blindly with the
kukri
, sweeping the blade like a scythe in order to clear the area directly to his right. He then made a sharp turn in that direction, creating further confusion among his pursuers and the left-hand wedge inadvertently collided with the other group in their eagerness to adjust course. Before they could orient on his new vector, Kismet wove back in the other direction.

The mosque was now well behind him, along with most of the protestors. A distance equivalent to two football fields separated Kismet from the place where he had, for a moment at least, brought Aziz’s murderer to heel. The featureless arid plain was grudgingly giving way to urban growth and he could discern streets ahead and a handful of commercial structures rising up before him.

A distant crack of thunder signaled that one of his pursuers, possibly with the main body of the crowd, had finally realized that bullets travel farther and faster than human feet. The Kalashnikov assault rifle chattered for only a moment before falling silent. The shooter had discharged the entire magazine with a single fully automatic burst, but a moment later, other guns joined in a thunderous symphony. Kismet saw a few puffs of dust where bullets struck ahead of him. The soldier he had once been knew that the men were simply wasting ammunition. Although the unrelenting stream of lead seemed intimidating, the explosive discharge of gases from the muzzle of the AK-47 typically caused the weapon to buck and pull up, sending most of the rounds off into space. Still, there was always a chance that one of those randomly fired projectiles would find him.

He dismissed that possibility, not because it was unlikely but because there was nothing he could do about it. Dissociating from the dire circumstances, he returned his gaze to the high-rise tower. It seemed no closer now than when he had begun, but in the back of his mind, he decided he would visit the skyscraper and see what the city looked like from its highest vantage.

A different sort of noise overpowered the cacophony of gunfire a deep, rhythmic pulse that resonated in his chest and even throbbed at his fingertips. He tried to fit this puzzle piece into the tapestry of his flight but it simply didn’t belong.

That was when he heard the voice from heaven.

***

The assassin wasted no time separating herself from the crowd. She well knew the fate she would suffer if her gender were discovered by the mob, to say nothing of her ethnicity. Fortunately, the masses were focused elsewhere.

On the margin of the gathering there was little movement and rampant speculation. She overheard some of the men relaying gossip passed back from the front. Rumor had it that a squad of US Marines had attacked the holy men leading the rally and killed several young men with their bayonets. She smiled behind her veil and kept moving.

At the eastern edge of the mosque grounds, she found a flatbed truck, still loaded with steel re-bar. The uniform layer of dust accumulated on the vehicle suggested that it had been some time since anyone had reported for work at the job site. After checking that nobody was paying her any special attention, she climbed up onto the bed, then pulled herself onto the roof of the cab.

Though only about three meters above the desert floor, she had a clear view of what was fast becoming a riot. Kismet was a barely visible speck, followed by several more insect-like shapes, scurrying across the sand. Behind them, a single dark mass, gradually resolving into individual entities. She greeted the scene with satisfaction. Kismet had chased her across half the city and very nearly killed her. It was nice to see him on the receiving end for a change.

Her smug expression fell a moment later as a dark shape hove into view above the crowd. She knew immediately what it was. During her wild ride through the city streets, she had monitored several transmissions between the motorized forces and the crew of a Black Hawk helicopter. The military aircraft had been following the developments on the ground, waiting for an opportunity to move in and rescue Kismet. She shook her head in resignation and took out her phone.

Saeed picked up on the second ring. “Well?”

“It’s done.”

His relief was unmistakable. “And…ah, the other matter?”

She thought for a moment about how to phrase her report. It was no secret that the US National Security Agency employed a small army of computers to monitor every telephone call and radio transmission on the planet. Because the volume of communication was simply too great for every conversation to be analyzed, the eavesdropping programs watched for certain keywords—“bomb” for example—or specific names, at which point a recording would be made for further analysis. If one was not already the subject of scrutiny, it was a fairly simple thing to avoid detection by the carefully employ of euphemisms. However, it had come as no small surprise to learn that one of the earmarked words was the name of the man who had nearly killed her. She had more than once wondered why Nick Kismet merited such special attention.

“As you instructed, I left it alone. However, the situation almost took care of itself without my help.”

“How so?” Relief was instantly changed to concern.

“I took your advice and went to the meeting. He followed and attracted a lot of attention.”

“Ah, I see. Well, that would be something beyond our control, wouldn’t it?”

She didn’t understand why the distinction mattered, but for now she was content to maintain the illusion that Saeed was calling the shots. “It doesn’t matter. He’s going to be leaving on his own terms.”

There was another audible sigh. “A pity, but perhaps it’s for the best.”

“I can still take care of this.”

“No. I have something else in mind. For now I want you to find out what further plans will be made. Call me again when you know more.”

“Very well.” She severed the connection without exchanging the customary pleasantries and replaced the phone handset in the folds of her garment. Only then did she return her gaze to the scene playing out in the distance.

The Black Hawk was hovering above a block of buildings, evidently looking for a clear area in which to set down. She squinted, trying to bring the far off tableau into focus. Abruptly, a tendril of white smoke leapt from the center of the crowd, arcing toward the helicopter.

The smile returned to her lips. Perhaps she had been premature in reporting Kismet’s escape.

***

The electronically amplified voice from the helicopter suffused Kismet with hope, something that had been in short supply since his initial encounter with the angry mob. But he wasn’t home free yet.

“Mister Kismet! You have to find a clear area where we can set down! Keep moving, sir. We’re here for you.”

The voice was reassuring, although the request seemed a Herculean task. It was all he could do to stay ahead of his pursuers. Furthermore, he had no idea what lay ahead or how to go about finding a suitable landing zone. All he could do was continue moving forward and hope for the best, but knowing that he was no longer alone somehow made it bearable.

The crew of the Black Hawk did not limit themselves to encouraging words however. The helicopter dropped in low over the buildings, its rotor wash stirring up a cloud of sand that occluded the view of all but those closest to Kismet. This was followed by a scattering of warning shots fired from the aft door of the aircraft. The 5.56-mm rounds kicked up more dust, but the noise of the shots was lost in the thunder of the rotors.

Someone on the ground however recognized that the American soldiers were firing on the crowd and took the action he deemed appropriate. The young man had long dreamed of striking a blow against the godless Americans occupying his country, and a lucky discovery of a munitions cache had given him the means to do so. Hauling out the long tube of a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, he sighted in on the open door and pulled the trigger.

An eruption of fire from the back of the tube engulfed half a dozen people standing directly behind the young man. Because the launcher was pointed skyward, an explosive concussion rebounded off the ground, instantly killing the grenadier and two others. Several more people lay stunned and smoldering in a three-meter radius around the now useless weapon. The grenade however, once released, did not require its operator to continue living, and raced mindlessly toward its target.

The co-pilot spied the incoming RPG and shouted a warning. The warrant officer at the controls immediately banked the helicopter. It was a blind throw. If the projectile was aimed accurately then the maneuver would likely save them, but there was an equal chance that by moving, he was putting the aircraft directly in the path of what would otherwise have been a near miss.

While the hapless youth’s inexperience with the weapon had cost him dearly, his marksmanship was intuitive. Had the Black Hawk remained at station, the grenade would have entered the open hatch and detonated inside the armored craft, killing everyone inside and probably dozens more on the ground. The flight officer’s desperate move saved countless lives. The grenade missed the body of the helicopter by scant inches, but the yawing maneuver left the rotor blades completely vulnerable. The white plume of exhaust shot by the fuselage and up into the circle described by the airfoil-shaped vanes. A loud clank filled the cockpit as one of the rotor blades struck the grenade.

Miraculously, the detonator tip of the grenade failed to make contact. The edge of the rotor struck the rocket body scant millimeters from the high-explosive payload, shattering the fuze mechanism and rendering the device impotent. As the broken pieces fell back to earth, the crew of the Black Hawk exchanged incredulous glances. Then the pilot put some more air between them and the ground.

Kismet was unaware of the helicopter’s brush with disaster, but there was no mistaking the sound of its retreat. A grimace crossed his lips as he threaded into an alley, then crossed a through street and continued on in a straight line. He had lost sight of his reference point—the skyscraper—but he had not deviated from his course.

The commercial area gave way to another open field, through which cut Dimashq Street, part of the route leading from the airport into city. Kismet charged headlong toward the lanes without checking for oncoming vehicles.

He made furtive glance to his rear. At least a score of men continued to dog his heels, and behind them perhaps a hundred more spilling from the city blocks. He couldn’t fathom why the Black Hawk crew had not chosen to set down in the open area he had just crossed. He could not imagine a better LZ. But stopping and waiting for them to arrive was not an option.

There was a shriek of rubber on macadam and a strident horn blast as oncoming vehicles, unaware of his life and death crisis, vented their irritation as they swerved past. The mob swarmed over the barrier a moment later.

Beyond the highway lay a stand of trees—some kind of urban park—through which he dared only navigate the straightest possible course. The terrain was irregular, demanding greater exertions and more attention to every step. He stumbled mechanically through the forested area, beyond exhaustion now, beyond awareness of the pain and fatigue. His flight from the mosque had taken him across nearly three kilometers of the city. Nearly fifteen minutes of non-stop effort, while blood seeped from dozens of scrapes, lacerations and contusions; and the desert sun stripped away vital moisture, leaving him dehydrated and feverish.

He had no doubt that, one way or another, it would all be over soon.

His gaze then fell on something that, for the moment at least, defied comprehension. The first thought to cross his mind was that a spaceship was taking off from a low hill a few hundred meters away. From his perspective, the smooth shape looked like an upside down spoon lifting into the sky. Spurred on by an irrational curiosity, he almost forgot about the bloodthirsty mob at his heels as he raced toward the reddish object.

He quickly saw that the curved structure was not floating free above the ground. Rather it was supported at one end by a massive column, from which the rest of the dome cantilevered at a slight angle, giving the illusion of flight. As he drew closer, he recognized it was yet another of the gaudy monuments built by the former government, and while its purpose eluded him, it now became a critical point of focus for a very different reason: the Black Hawk had returned, and was hovering near the copper-colored dome.

Like spider’s silk, a rope dropped from the underside of the helicopter and a human shape slid down onto the upraised surface where he took to one knee and readied his weapon. Kismet couldn’t tell what the man was doing, but a moment later a projectile shot over his head and fell into the midst of the swarm. A cloud of white vapor erupted from the grenade—non-lethal CS gas—which left dozens among the crowd gasping and choking, and stalled the main body of the mob. The head of the monster however—more than two dozen men who had managed to match Kismet’s pace—were already well out of the affected area.

There was an obscene noise from the helicopter, and a simultaneous eruption of stone chips in a line to Kismet’s left. A soldier aboard the Black Hawk had fired a burst from the side-mounted mini-gun. The motorized system of rotating barrels threw an astonishing number of rounds down-range, chewing through a target like a chainsaw—sounding like one too—but the gunner was still trying to minimize civilian casualties, and at some unconscious level, the crowd knew this. The pursuers simply fell into line behind Kismet without breaking stride.

The soldier on the dome now raised the butt of his carbine to his shoulder and commenced firing. Kismet could not hear the M4’s report but there was an audible cry of pain behind him. The agonized cursing continued, suggesting that the shot had wounded rather than killed. In fact, the 5.56 mm round had done nothing more than graze the man’s shin, but it was enough to take him out of the chase. More similarly well-placed shots followed, but the threat of pain was only stoking the fire of rage among the mob, some of whom were also armed with automatic weapons. Sparks began to dance on the surface of the dome as one AK-47 after another was emptied at the lone soldier. The man stood his ground. Most of the wildly aimed shots missed the monument completely and those that hit were nowhere close to his position. Nevertheless, his comrades aboard the helicopter began directing their weapons at the muzzle flashes in the crowd and this time they did not hold back.