He shook his head to clear the image and looked to the left of the window, where a considerably smaller figure stood facing away from the doorway speaking in a low voice to the Fat Man. Although he could not see the person's face or hear the exchange between the two, he instantly knew who the second person was. Making no attempt to hide his chagrin, he stepped forward through the beaded strings.
"Howdy, stranger."
Every head in the room turned toward Kismet, including two that he had not previously noticed. The latter — big men with swarthy Moorish features — reflexively reached toward the weapons hidden beneath the breast pockets of their oversized suit jackets. Kismet was taken aback by the sudden reaction but managed to keep his composure. The smaller figure jumped in front of them, a woman he had not seen in more years than he could remember: Lysette Lyon.
"Nick!" She smiled. Kismet hadn't forgotten that smile. It was the kind of smile that could easily get a guy in trouble. She turned to the Fat Man. "It's all right. This is my friend."
"Shame on you Monsieur Kismet," clucked the Fat Man in a deeply accented singsong tone. "Sneaking up on people isn't nice." With a shooing gesture he dismissed the boy who had been escorting Kismet, his gaze lingering on the departing figure with unabashed lasciviousness, and then he nodded to his bodyguards. The larger of the two men, marked with a permanent scowl and a long scar that ran the length of his jaw, eased his hand away from the concealed weapon and moved to frisk the new arrival.
Kismet grunted as the search got a little too personal, but kept his eyes fixed on the only thing in the room worth looking at. She was as lovely as ever. Tiny — the top of her head rose barely to the center of his chest — she had always carried herself with an easy grace. Her natural blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she didn't have any make-up on, but she wore her blue jeans and a pastel T-shirt as if they were the latest Paris fashions.
Still a knockout, thought Kismet. Too bad that it takes more than looks to make it work.
Indeed, if physical attraction was the element critical to success in a relationship, he and Lysette Lyon would have long ago become a happily married suburban couple. Of course he was as much to blame for that failure as she.
Thinking back, he found he could not recall the details of their parting. Had it been amicable? He couldn't actually remember when they had ceased to be in love. He had gone off in search of answers to a mystery begun during a hellish mission into Iraq during Operation Desert Shield and somehow everything else had gotten lost along the way. Had he even tried to look her up upon returning to the United States, several months later? His memory was especially hazy on that point; he'd had so many other things on his mind back then. He had no idea what vocation she had followed after finishing college, but had difficulty believing that the intelligent and motivated young woman from those days had somehow gotten involved in international intrigue and fallen in with the likes of the Fat Man. Nor could he fathom why, in her hour of need, she had summoned him with a cryptic text message that hinted of peril and promised great reward if he hastened to a rendezvous in Morocco. There had to be more to the situation than what appeared at first glance. He decided to play his cards close to the vest.
"You picked a hell of a place for a reunion, Lyse, but it's good to see you again." He decided not to let her know how good; no sense in giving her that much leverage. "So, I'm here. What's this all about?"
Before she could answer, the Fat Man spoke. "Your lady friend owes me money, monsieur. A great deal of money."
The search turned up nothing; no weapons were concealed in the deep cargo pockets of his olive drab military surplus trousers or beneath the roomy fabric of his Ex Oficio photojournalist-style work shirt. Kismet fixed Lyse with an accusing stare. "Want to tell me about it?"
"I had some bad luck," she replied evasively. She tried to evince anxiety with her facial expression but her body language was confident. She was far more in control of the situation than she wanted Kismet to believe.
"Your friend begged for me to allow her to send for you, Monsieur Kismet. I would have been content to simply sell her to some friends of mine who provide — ah, shall we say special entertainment services? — in order to recoup my losses, but she insists you can help." The Fat Man smiled and wiped his fingers on the front of his robe. "I trust you can?"
Kismet did not break eye contact with her. "What do you have in mind?"
Lyse was still grimacing from the Fat Man's threat, but she looked back hopefully at Kismet. "I've got something you'll want."
She motioned for him to follow her to a table against one wall. The Fat Man struggled to his feet and joined them. Lyse pulled back a covering piece of fabric to reveal a small statue, about a foot long and a hand's breadth high. Kismet reached for it and examined it more closely.
"Know what it is?"
"Golden calf," Kismet muttered, mostly to himself. "Agricultural deity. Designed along the lines of an Egyptian Apis bull. Disk of Amon Ra, the sun god, between the horns."
He rubbed a finger along the surface of the disk, feeling a faint indentation, then held the statuette up to the light and peered intently at the inscription on the disk. Four characters of Semitic script were engraved on the soft metal, the four consonants which represented the name of God. Kismet frowned, then turned the statue over and examined its underside.
"On a hunch, I'd say this is a replica of the golden calf, described in the Bible account of the exodus from Egypt. Possibly used by the Hebrews in calf worship ceremonies in Samaria, circa — oh, say 800 BCE." He hefted it, trying to judge the content of gold. "Not very heavy, probably acacia wood, overlaid with gold. Where did you pick it up?"
"That is unimportant," interjected the Fat Man. "It belongs to your friend; it is her only remaining possession. My sources tell me I can get twenty thousand Euro on the open market. Mademoiselle Lyon's debt to me is more than twice that amount. She says that she can convince you to pay fifty thousand Euro. If you do not, I will sell it to a private collector for whatever I can get—" He glanced over at Lyse, a gleeful look of mayhem dancing in his squinty eyes— "and deal with the mademoiselle accordingly."
Lyse swallowed, a touch too dramatically. "Come on, Nick. You know this thing is priceless. Help me out here."
Kismet turned the statue over once more. "Fifty thousand?" In his head, he juggled the current rate of exchange, converting the figure into an approximate value in American dollars. It remained a large sum in any denomination.
It was not Nick Kismet's job to roam the world purchasing art treasures in order to rescue damsels in distress. In fact, for more than a decade he had been dedicated to the prospect of stamping out the black market trade of cultural art, as part of the UNESCO Global Heritage Commission. Men like the Fat Man, and evidently women like his former college flame Lysette Lyon, were the enemy in that struggle. The idea of paying the Fat Man-negotiating a ransom price-for something that belonged in a national museum was repugnant.
He did however, have the money.
"This thing is right out of the Bible," continued Lyse, as if the assertion would somehow lend gravity to her plea. "It proves that they really did worship calves."
"It would really help if I knew where you got it," Kismet countered as he continued his examination. He carefully pressed a thumbnail against the soft yellow metal. It was gold all right, and too pure to be an electroplated fake. Nevertheless, something about the statue nagged at him; something about it was not right.