Lyse was not looking at the beggar, but at his pet, an Egyptian Cobra which hovered in the center of the street, swaying dangerously from left to right, signaling its clear intent that no one would pass unmolested. The toothless mendicant cackled beside them, mocking their fear as he waved the oblong rod toward them. It was a flute, a snake charmer's horn. If they were to pass by, they would have to give alms and wait for him to play his tune.
"Lyse," muttered Kismet from the corner of his mouth. "Pay the nice man."
"Me? I don't have any money. You pay him."
"Oh, for crying out loud." He fumbled for his waist pack, but the intensity of the cobra's stare was hypnotic, depriving him of volition.
On the avenue they had left behind, an ominous silence settled. The shooting had ceased; the battle was over. The victorious party, whichever it was, would soon remember the original purpose for venturing into the streets of the old city. Kismet knew that time was running out. Biting his lip, he tried to force his eyelids down in order to break visual contact with the viper, but they conspired against him; his fear of what the cobra might do if he looked away nearly overpowered his will to even blink. At last succeeding, he turned his head toward Lyse.
She too was transfixed by the cobra's stare. Kismet kept his gaze focused, refusing to believe the hysterical delusions and visual tricks that were being played in the corner of his eye. His rational mind knew that the cobra was not slithering closer even though every nerve in his body screamed that it was.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached out for Lyse's arm and plucked the golden statue from her grasp. Before she could protest, Kismet whirled and tossed the relic into the beggar's basket. The old fellow nodded his head appreciatively and raised the flute to his lips.
"Nick, no!" Lyse leaped into motion. She crossed in front of him and reached for the basket.
"Lyse, it's a—" Kismet fell silent as he saw the snake move. He knew that this time what he saw was no hallucination.
The cobra knew its responsibility to its master. Once something went into the basket, it became the old man's property. Theft was to be punished. With the swiftness of a lightning strike, its fangs bared and oozing venom, the snake darted for her outstretched arm.
Kismet was faster. He instinctively stabbed out his right hand and plucked the animal out of the air, arresting its deadly strike, and suddenly found himself gripping the business end of a six foot length of squirming reptile.
He squeezed the serpent just behind the curl of its jaw, clenching his teeth in frustration as the snake writhed and coiled about him, hissing angrily. When the viper finally succumbed to captivity, Kismet turned slowly toward the old man and with a weak pitch tossed the cobra away.
Lyse was stunned by the sequence of events, all of which had transpired in the space of a heartbeat. With a more subdued manner, she retrieved the statue. "Let's get out of here."
Armed men appeared in the vacant space behind them, communicating with each other in Teutonic barks. Lyse grabbed his arm, breaking the spell, and they took off running. If the cobra had any sort of ego to bruise, it recovered quickly and slithered back into the street to waylay the next group of passers-by.
At the end of the street, Lyse ran to the right with Kismet on her heels. She continued to chart a haphazard course through the labyrinth, leading them into a more heavily populated area — one of the many suuqs, or covered marketplaces that dotted the city. Kismet was completely turned around now and the growing darkness added to his anxiety. He knew they needed to slow down, get their bearings, but the unknown pursuers were relentless. By fair means or foul, they had quickly dealt with the snake charmer and remained never more than half a block away. One wrong turn into a cul-de-sac might prove fatal. There would be no second chances.
Lyse dashed into a narrow recess, and when Kismet followed, he found himself in near total darkness. He heard strange noises in the pitch black ahead, and sensed that something disastrous had befallen his companion.
"Lyse?"
"Nick." The response was weak, sounding almost distant. It seemed to come from ground level, only a few steps away, but was muffled, as though from a tomb. Kismet advanced cautiously.
His right foot came down on nothing and without warning he plunged forward. His shoulders struck rotted wood as he plummeted into an unseen abyss, and an instant later he was laying face down in something hot and moist. He sat up, shaking his head to clear the sense of dislocation. Then the stench hit him.
"Ohhhh…shit." Fighting back the urge to inhale, he began wiping the streaks of offending matter away from his mouth and nose.
"Nick, is that you? I think we fell into a sewer tunnel."
"You noticed that?" he replied irritably. His only pleasure was in the secret knowledge that if he found the situation — euphemistically speaking — unpleasant, then Lyse, whom he had known to refuse to even enter public restrooms, must have thought she'd died and gone to hell.
Somewhere high above them an opening had been made in the street, guarded only by a simple wooden barricade, affording access to one of the sewer tunnels, which, despite being a relic of another age, still serviced the city above. In any other circumstances he might have found this turn of events amusing, but sitting in rotting human waste soured his sense of humor.
Kismet opened his pack and began sorting through its contents with his fingertips. He could feel the broad outline of his kukri knife, sheathed in a traditional scabbard of wood and leather that was integrated into the custom-made bag. He then encountered the solid composite frame of his Glock 17 automatic pistol, but pushed past it as well. His fingers settled momentarily on an envelope, thick with a bundle of paper — nearly one hundred thousand dollars in American Express travelers checques, which he had brought along in the event that Lyse's artifact had proved worth purchasing. At last he found the object of his search, the long black metal tube of a MagLite LED flashlight. He took it out and pressed the sealed rubber button that protected the switch.
A beam of light pierced the steamy atmosphere, picking out a random spot on the curved sewer walls. Kismet swung the beam around until he located his companion. She seemed less beautiful in that moment, up to her elbows in the muck, searching for something.
"For God's sake, Lyse. That statue is a—"
Another shaft of illumination stabbed down into the shadows between them. Kismet swung his own light up and found the hole through which he and Lyse had fallen, fifteen feet overhead, now ringed by hard looking faces. Two of the men held high-intensity flashlights similar to his own. Another, the motorist with the pistol, pointed down at Kismet and barked a command in German. The men looked back hesitantly, but Kismet knew that eventually he and Lyse would have the pleasure of their company in the reeking passage.
Lyse did not relent in her search. "Just help me find it, will you?"
Growling, Kismet plunged his right hand into the slurry and stirred around until he encountered something hard and heavy. He closed his fist around the object, silently praying that it was the statue, and drew it out. Dark matter fell away to reveal gleaming gold. She snatched it from his hand and jumped erect. The sewage came up to her knees, hampering her steps, but she nevertheless started splashing through the tunnel.
Kismet frowned and shined the light across the surface of the effluent. He detected a faint movement, a gradual flow of the sewage in the direction opposite that she had chosen. "Lyse! Wrong way. Get back here." He flashed the light down the passage and located her; she had turned around and was returning to the spot where they had entered.