Kismet’s interest in the relics of ancient history was relatively new. Although he had studied world history extensively during his college education, his personal agenda had very little to do with solving the mysteries of another age. Kismet was interested in solving more contemporary enigma.
Many years earlier, a much younger Kismet had gone into the desert and everything about his life had changed. A junior officer with Army Intelligence, on the eve of Desert Storm, he had been sent on a mission which he believed to be simply the rescue of a defector who wanted to escape from Iraq. Instead, he had witnessed the curtain being thrown back on a conspiracy that seemed inextricably linked with the legendary treasures of the ancient world, and more importantly with his own life. After escaping the desert crucible, he had finished his education in international law and taken a job with UNESCO’s Global Heritage Commission, from which vantage point, he had been able to maintain a vigil on the world of antiquities, watching and waiting for the conspiracy to reveal itself once more. Although he had found nothing conclusive, it had certainly proven to be an interesting career choice.
The dark water offered little insight into these ruminations, but was a welcome change from the gaudy shipboard lights. Kismet’s dread of the days that lay ahead was returning. He didn’t have the patience for a life of leisure; the thought of sipping cocktails poolside filled him with dread…
His brow creased as he caught a glimpse of something moving in the distance. He squinted, trying to bring the object into focus, but the ambient light in the interior of the helicopter confounded the attempt. All he could make out was a series of white streaks on the surface of the distant sea; half a dozen parallel white lines clawing across the velvet darkness. He blinked away the mild headache of eyestrain, and returned his gaze to the front of the aircraft. They were nearly there.
Up close, the lights of The Star of Muara seemed more benign. As the JetRanger flared above the helipad just aft of the towering smokestack, a score of party-goers on a nearby deck welcomed its arrival with pointing fingers and curious stares, doubtless wondering what celebrity was about to grace their presence, but Kismet also saw two other men dressed in dark suits, who did not gawk drunkenly at the approaching aircraft. Instead, their eyes roved methodically back and forth, constantly scanning the decks and passengers, with no trace of awe. Kismet figured them for security guards.
The pilot rattled off instructions for safe egress as the rotor blades began to slow; the operators of the air charter service weren’t about to take any chances with their high-profile guests. Kismet sat patiently and waited his turn. From his brightly lit vantage, the sea was all but invisible. There was no sign of the white lines he had glimpsed from the air.
Including the crew, there were over five hundred people aboard The Star of Muara. A handful, like Kismet, were there for official purposes, but most were celebrity guests, taking advantage of the high-profile exhibit to keep their faces fresh in the minds of the adoring public. In turn, their presence elevated the notoriety of the traveling exhibit, drawing the interest of people who otherwise would not think of setting foot in a museum. It was a symbiotic relationship, based ultimately on the fickle values of the masses. It also greatly increased the threat level.
Immediately after leaving the aircraft, Kismet separated himself from the throng and made his way along the deck toward the stern of the pleasure craft. The superstructure of the cruise ship rode high above the sea, and its hull that was practically a sheer vertical wall all the way down to the waterline. Kismet estimated a four-story plunge awaited anyone unlucky enough to fall from her lowest open deck; boarding the craft from a smaller vessel would be virtually impossible. Nevertheless, Kismet found his unease growing. He was certain that the parallel lines he had witnessed from the air were caused by high-speed watercraft closing in on the cruise liner; boats that were running without any lights.
He scoured the dark horizon for any sign of the approaching armada, but could distinguish nothing. He cupped his hand over one ear, listening for the whine of what he knew must be powerful outboard motors, but heard only sounds of merriment.
“Jumping at shadows,” he murmured, turning away from the railing. Even so, he decided a visit to the ship’s bridge was in order. He had only taken a few steps toward his goal when the noise of the party was suddenly punctuated by the distinctive crack of gunfire.
The sound was muted by the layers of steel comprising the deck plates and bulkheads of the cruise liner. It might have been easy to mistake the noise for fireworks but for the sudden shrieks of terrified passengers. But the noise was repeated a moment later, and Kismet knew his first guess was correct.
He ducked instinctively, trying to present as small a target as possible, even while scanning the deck for some sign of a hostile presence. Seeing no one, friend or foe, he crept silently ahead.
When traveling, Kismet always brought his personal sidearm, a Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol, and the kukri knife he had carried since that fateful night in the desert when the Gurkha blade had been his weapon of last resort. This venture was no exception to that basic rule of preparedness, but he had made the error of assuming nothing dire would occur in the minutes following his arrival aboard the ocean liner. His weapons were safely tucked inside a suitcase, which was probably en route from the helicopter to his cabin. His sole remaining means of defense — or attack — was his Benchmade 53 Marlowe Bali-Song knife. The Bali-Song butterfly knife design was different than an ordinary pocket knife where the blade folded into the side of hand grip. The Bali-Song handle was split lengthwise, and the blade rotated on two pivot points out of the grooved channels on either side. In skilled hands, it could be deployed almost as quickly as a switchblade. Kismet could hold his own with the Bali-Song, but he was also a believer in the axiom of not bringing a knife to a gunfight. Nevertheless, he held the unopened folding knife in his right fist, and continued forward stealthily.
He felt a faint tremor pass through the deck, and recognized that the ship was no longer surging ahead at a steady twenty-five knots. In fact, just over the barely audible thrum of the engines, Kismet could hear the rushing sound of water being agitated at the stern — someone had reversed the engines, slowing The Star of Muara’s forward progress.
It seemed inconceivable that in just the short time since Kismet’s arrival, the small flotilla of watercraft he had witnessed closing in on the cruise ship had managed to come alongside, putting a crew of raiders aboard to overrun the decks and seize either the bridge or the engine room. In fact, he realized, it was impossible. Those boats could not have been fast enough to execute such a takeover, leaving only one unarguable conclusion: the impending assault on The Star of Muara was being aided by someone already on board.
Kismet heard a loud clanking noise behind his position, and turned to find what looked like a small ship’s anchor hooked over the deck railing and trailing a thick rope down into the sea. The noise was repeated as several more grappling hooks arced over the rail, falling into place along the metal barrier.
He crept forward and peeked over the edge at the boarding party. Two shapes were visible in the water directly below — fast-hulled jet boats, commonly known as cigarettes — matching the speed of the larger vessel as its mass carried it forward despite the reversal of her screws. In addition to the pilot helming each cigarette boat, there were ten armed men, five per boat, now attempting to make the four story ascent to the deck. Despite the awkwardness of the rope scaling ladders attached to the grappling hooks, the intruders were making nimble progress. Kismet was going to have company in a matter of seconds.