The Shroud of Heaven (22 page)

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.”

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.