The Shroud of Heaven (37 page)

***

For the second time in a week, Kismet awoke with an intravenous needle in his arm and a solution of saline flowing into his veins. The bedside manner of his savior in this instance could not compare to that of the ersatz Dr. Rebecca Gault. Even without opening his eyes, he knew that he was in a vehicle; the noise of the engine and the vibration of the tires jouncing over the rough desert terrain was unmistakable. Suddenly remembering that he was in a war zone, he tried to sit up, but succeeded only in banging his head against an obstruction.

“Easy on, mate.” A reassuring hand gripped his shoulder.

The words were in English, spoken with a British accent, which at least relieved his worst concerns. It was dark in the vehicle’s interior and he could not distinguish the face behind the voice. “Marie?” he croaked.

“The lass is in bad shape, but no worse than you.” There was a chuckle. “The devil must be on your arse, because it’s a sure thing you two escaped from hell.”

“How did you find us?”

A second voice, more sophisticated than the first and with a slightly different inflection, issued from the darkness. “Your message eventually got through to CENTCOM, but that put everyone in a bit of a spot. The Yanks didn’t want to admit that they had just shot down a pair of UN envoys and they dragged their heels organizing a response. I think they were hoping you’d expire out here and save them some embarrassment.”

“Then I guess I’m lucky Her Majesty’s soldiers were a little more decisive.”

An uncomfortable silence followed, as if the unseen conversants were waiting for the comment to be forgotten before moving on. “We knew approximately where you went down, but had a devil of a time finding the site. Eventually we crossed your trail and followed behind until we found you.”

“Well, it hardly seems adequate, but thanks.”

“Anytime, Lieutenant Kismet.”

The word, pronounced “lef-tenant” caught him off guard. “I’m not—”

”Oh, I know you gave up your commission. But you still carry one of our knives, and that makes you one of us.”

“You’re Gurkhas?” Comprehension dawned. There was an old axiom about the loyalty of the Gurkhas; once you earned it, it never failed. Now at least he knew why the soldiers had not been willing to let the awkward situation simply vanish in the desert sands.

“Captain Christopher Sabian-Hyde, formerly of the Sixth Queen Elizabeth’s Own Gurkha Rifles. I was a wet behind the ears ensign—Second Lieutenant—back in ‘92, as I believe you were also. You were leading my platoon out there, Kismet.”

For a fleeting moment, he relived that awful mission. Of the soldiers who had gone into the desert with him that fateful night, only one other man had survived. “It wasn’t my call.”

Sabian-Hyde made a dismissive grunt. “You misunderstand. That was our finest hour since World War II. My only regret is that I wasn’t out there with you.”

“Believe me, I’d have traded places with you in a heartbeat.”

“I imagine so.” He sensed the officer smiling in the darkness. “Water under the bridge. We all get our chance for glory. It seems mine has finally come.”

It was only when they arrived at the British command post outside of Basra that the enormity of Sabian-Hyde’s decision to mount a rescue operation hit home for Kismet. The southern city, nominally pacified by more than a brigade of British soldiers, remained a hotbed of insurgent activity. Dozens of Her Majesty’s fighters had fallen in one of the longest battles of the war, many to battlefield ruses such as faked surrenders or ambulances hiding ambush parties of Fedayeen paramilitaries. The small force of infantrymen that had slipped away to locate the crashed helicopter had been drawn from the ranks of those rotating back from the front lines for a brief respite. These battle-weary veterans had traveled more than three hundred kilometers across the wilderness to find a man who their superiors preferred to simply let perish. Had the unsanctioned venture ended in disaster, the onus would have rested heaviest upon Captain Sabian-Hyde.

The British camp stood in stark contrast to the American operation at the Baghdad airport. Not only had the month of hard fighting to capture and occupy the critical oil export hub taken its toll on men and equipment, but the British Army was notoriously underprovisioned to begin with. It had been counted a major coup when a large cache of combat boots meant for Iraqi regular army units had been seized and distributed to British soldiers whose own standard issue footwear was literally falling apart in the harsh conditions. Unfortunately for Kismet, there was not a spare stitch of clothing in the camp to replace his own tattered and scorched garments.

The former Gurkha officer found them again in the field hospital where a surgeon was bandaging their many wounds and continuing to infuse them with fluids, analgesics and antibiotics. Kismet’s physical condition elicited a sympathetic grimace. “Where will you go now?”

Marie had asked him the same question and unlike the British officer, she was in possession of all the facts.
Well, maybe not all the fa
cts, he thought. He wanted to say simply that his next destination was home, but deep down he knew absenting himself from the war would not give him peace from the questions that ate at him like a malaise. The specter of Chiron, standing on the other side of the steel door with his finger on the fail-safe button, haunted him whenever he closed his eyes. There was only one way to exorcize that ghost, only one place where he would find answers. “Paris.”

Sabian-Hyde nodded. “I wish I were going with you. There’s a convoy bound for Kuwait City leaving in an hour. I can get you on it.”

“I appreciate that.”

“From there, you’ll be on your own.” He gave Kismet another appraising glance. “I hope you brought your charge card.”

***

Because she was the executive assistant to the director of the Global Heritage Commission, Marie was able to access a special discretionary account and arrange a wire transfer at the National Bank of Kuwait. She purchased two one-way first-class fares on a direct flight to Paris the following afternoon, and had enough cash left over for food, accommodations and new clothes. She also acquired some disturbing information. “Pierre is back in Europe,” she announced after leaving the bank manager’s office. “He used the account to charter a helicopter flight from Hillah to Baghdad, then flew to Geneva.”

Kismet did not vocalize the curse that was on his lips. Chiron hadn’t wasted any time getting out of Iraq. “Was he alone?”

“It’s hard to say. All I know is how much he spent and where. I could find out more by contacting the office.”

He shook his head. “Not yet. I don’t know what his game is, but I don’t want to spook him.”

A short taxi ride brought them to the Sheraton Kuwait Hotel and Towers where, despite a dour reception from the concierge, they were able to get clothes, rooms and food, in that order. Kismet purchased a powder-blue cotton summer suit with a subtle silk tie and a pair of lightweight huarache sandals. The airy shoes were a pleasant relief from the boots, which despite protecting him through so many trials, were beyond any hope of recovery. A brief shower, while welcome, was an excruciating reminder of how much punishment he had endured, and when he gazed at his reflection in the mirror, it was a haggard wraith who stared back.

But if his own appearance came as a surprise, then Marie’s transformation was nothing less than miraculous. Her simple red satin cocktail dress accentuated the femininity that Kismet had initially counted a liability. Away from the war zone and its practical necessities, the woman that she was had re-emerged. She had lost weight and her cheeks were ruddy from exposure, but somehow she made it all look good. As they left her room, she gave him an impulsive hug.

By some unspoken agreement, their conversation never touched on the events they had recently experienced, nor did they discuss what lay ahead. Rather, they made small talk about likes and dislikes, favorite books and hobbies, anything and everything, so long as it had nothing to do with the matter weighing most heavily on their hearts. When their dessert was cleared away, they agreed that it was easily the best meal they had ever eaten, though in fact neither of them could remember now what the main course had been. Arm in arm, they left the restaurant and made their way back to the rooms.

Kismet was not surprised at all when Marie took his hands, stared up into his eyes and whispered, “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

But much later, when she lay sleeping nestled against his body, his mind wandered over all the pieces of the puzzle that just didn’t quite fit, and he found himself wondering if he really knew who she was.

He spied them as they entered the terminal building and quickly ducked into a place of concealment until they passed. “Nick Kismet,” he whispered, staring at the receding figures. “There is a God.”

He began to follow, maintaining a casual pace so as not to attract unnecessary attention. The pair moved with no particular haste into the duty-free area. He found a telephone kiosk where he could continue his surveillance and waited for them to emerge. As he waited, he considered what his next move would be.

The woman—he didn’t know who she was, and didn’t really care—was Caucasian, but had dressed in an elegant but modest dress with a matching head scarf, and from a distance was almost indistinguishable from the handful of Arab women who also roamed the vast facility. Kismet’s attire was similarly nondescript. He wore a simple suit and might have passed for a visiting oilman or journalist, but for the bandages swathing his hands.

After browsing the duty-free shops but making no purchases, the pair moved back toward the heart of the airport complex. Their unnoticed observer followed, gradually closing the distance as contemplation fanned his smoldering rage into a blaze of indignation.

They purchased food from one of the concessions and moved to a table in the center of the seating area, as if intentionally seeking the protection of open space. He bought a soft drink and took a seat in the corner, facing the departure gates, with his back to them. Their voices were sometimes audible, and while he couldn’t make out their conversation, one word emerged from the ambient hum: Paris.

Leaving his half-empty cup on the table, he moved into the terminal to make new travel arrangements.

***

The desert fell away beneath the fuselage of the Kuwait Airways Boeing 737-306, and with it, Nick Kismet felt the macabre gravity of the place loosening its grip on his soul. For a second time, this desolate place had tried to kill him, and while he had once more eluded the Reaper’s grasp, he was nevertheless marked by the encounters with scars that ran much deeper than the damage to his flesh.

Chiron’s treachery remained an open wound in his heart. He could not help but revisit his memories of each and every encounter with the old Frenchman, from that first meeting on the bank of the River Gave to their reunion in the Baghdad Airport, wondering if it had all been a deception leading to this end. The Frenchman had always presented himself as a pacifist rather than a patriot. It seemed almost inconceivable that he had been some sort of agent provocateur, awaiting the orders that would lull him from clandestine sleep to commit acts of sabotage in the interests of French national security. No, it was far more likely that his motives were immediate in nature. His alliance with the DGSE had to be more a marriage of convenience than a mating of sympathetic ideologies. But how had the scientist profited from the cover-up?

He glanced at Marie, seated beside him and evidently napping, and wondered if Chiron’s executive assistant held some piece of the information that would further illuminate the puzzle. For reasons other than courtesy, he decided not to rouse her.

Though he had not yet revealed it to her, he was apprehensive about confronting Chiron on French soil. He had little doubt that the authorization for the mission to destroy the detonators had come from the highest levels of government. Eliminating any witnesses to existence of those weapons and their fate would be imperative to national security. There was a very real possibility that the DGSE would simply make Kismet and Marie disappear.

As the flight crew began the drink service in the steerage class, Kismet rose and made his way toward the commode, more out of a desire to keep moving than any real need to use the facilities. A week of living on little more than adrenaline had left him almost perpetually on edge. If the claustrophobic confines of the plane, with its dry recycled air and pervasive humming machinery, offered little solace, the tiny restroom, barely bigger than a coffin, promised none at all. Nevertheless, he moved inside and gently eased the bi-fold doors closed.

Suddenly the door burst open and someone pushed inside. The intruder’s shoulder slammed into his back and forced him against the bulkhead. The commode platform struck him just below the knees and knocked his feet out from beneath him. Before Kismet could move, a hand snaked over his shoulder and snared his right wrist. His arm was pulled up across his throat and his assailant’s forearm pressed into the back of his neck to form an almost unbreakable chokehold. Kismet rammed backward with his left elbow, but the blow glanced ineffectually against the man’s torso, while the pressure against his airway doubled. Dark spots started to swim across his vision. The unseen attacker had, with almost minimal effort, rendered him completely helpless.

Then, mercifully, the death grip relaxed, if only by the merest fraction. He felt hot breath on his neck, and through the ringing in his ears, heard a voice low and harsh. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

Through his growing panic, Kismet felt a pang of disbelief. He recognized the voice; he knew the attacker. From the corner of his eye, he could just make out the image of the man who held him, reflected in the stainless steel mirror mounted above the lavatory. Despite the civilian attire, he had no difficulty identifying the man. “Buttrick?”