"Did you find what you sought on the mountain?" Anatoly asked, tearing his gaze away from the firearm.
Kismet sat down, putting the gun on his lap, out of view. "I think so. Let's say I'm off to a good start."
Anatoly set the lamp down and disappeared from the room. He returned with a bottle, and two glass jars into which he decanted a fair amount of the bottle‘s contents. "Irina sleeps?"
Kismet nodded. "It was a long day." The clear spirits burned cool on his tongue. The anonymity of the bottle led him to believe that the vodka originated locally, possibly distilled by Anatoly himself.
"And why are you not also asleep?"
He drew in a deep breath. "I need your help."
Anatoly broke into another grin. "And I was beginning to think you didn't trust me. Of course, Nikolai Kristanovich. In whatever way I can help, I will…"
The Russian's voice trailed off and he turned his head to one side as if distracted by a noise in the distance. Kismet listened too, but heard only the faraway sound of barking dogs. Before he could frame a question, there was a rapping on the front door. Kismet dropped his hand to the firearm beneath the tabletop, and watched cautiously as Anatoly opened the door.
The portly figure of Halverson Grimes filled the doorframe. Dressed in a heavy gray greatcoat and fur cap, the traitor carried only one item in his gloved hands: a stick with a white handkerchief attached to one end. Grimes proffered the makeshift truce flag, waving it to get Kismet's attention.
Before Anatoly could say a word, Kismet snarled: "Grimes. What the hell are you doing here?"
"Easy," Grimes soothed. "I wish only to parlay. Will you hear me out?"
"There's nothing you have to say that I want to hear."
"Are you so sure? I beg you, fifteen minutes of your time. If I have not convinced you, I will go my way honorably and trouble you no more."
Kismet was curious in spite of his reservations. "Why not? Have a seat, but keep your hands on the table." He turned to Anatoly and addressed him in Russian. "Let's give him some vodka."
Both Grimes and Anatoly registered mild surprise that Kismet was speaking in that tongue. The latter quickly recovered his composure, and went grinning in search of another jelly jar.
"What I have to say is meant only for your ears," Grimes continued. "This country is rife with informants and mobsters—"
Anatoly returned a moment later with a glass, filling it to the rim with vodka and setting it in front of the newcomer. Kismet waited until he had taken a seat to answer Grimes. "Anatoly doesn't speak English," he explained. "He may as well not be in the room, for all he will understand."
Growing wise to the deception, Anatoly feigned bewilderment then turned to Kismet and asked him in Russian to translate.
"I did not know that you spoke his language, Mr. Kismet." Grimes chuckled theatrically. "Ah, but of course you traveled extensively in your youth. In how many languages are you fluent?"
"I'm sure that's not what you came here to talk about." Kismet picked up his glass and tilted it toward the other men. "Salud. Bottoms up, Grimes."
With a distasteful look, Grimes drank from the glass, wheezing a moment later as the neutral spirits burned down his throat and into his belly. "No," he said, coughing. "I didn't come to discuss your prowess with foreign tongues. It is your knowledge of antiquities that interests me."
"I thought that Andy was your resident expert."
"Sir Andrew has been most helpful, but he is a visionary, while you are a man of action. The chaos on the mountain has provided me with overwhelming evidence to that effect."
Kismet ignored the jibe, brusquely seizing the vodka bottle and splashing some of its contents into each of the glasses. "I guess I gave you too much credit, Grimes. I would have thought it was obvious that I'm not interested in helping you."
"What are you interested in, Kismet? Saving Petr Chereneyev from my wicked schemes? I think we both know better." Grimes took the glass and raised it to Kismet before downing it in a gulp. This time, the vodka did not produce so much as a grimace.
"That's where you're wrong," Kismet countered. "The safety of Peter Kerns, whom I might add is an American citizen, is very important to me; especially when creeps like you think you can snatch him right out of the States to play your little spy games."
Grimes folded his hands on the table. "Spare me the rhetoric, Kismet. It ill becomes you. The truth of the matter is that you and I have both been victims of our government's treachery."
Kismet was, for the first time, genuinely puzzled. "What in the hell are you talking about?"
"I think you know exactly to what I am referring," hissed Grimes. "You risked your life on a mission that led you to one of the most sought after treasures on the planet. But someone else knew about your mission. A second team was sent, your prize was snatched away and you were left to die in the desert. Who do you think sent that second team?"
Kismet heart skipped a beat as Grimes spoke. Was it possible that this man, who had become his sworn enemy, possessed the answer to the riddle that had haunted him for most of his adult life? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a perplexed look flicker across Anatoly's mien. Struggling to maintain his poker face, he sneered: "I really don't know what you're talking about."
"I was head of joint military intelligence. We were very troubled by Samir al Azir's request, naming you personally as the only man he would meet with to negotiate the disposition of that sacred relic. How was it possible that this Iraqi engineer had knowledge of you, a mere second lieutenant? We could not simply sit by and entrust such an important matter to a junior officer and a platoon of disposable Gurkhas. I received orders from the desk of the President himself, to send another team to secure the relic and leave no witnesses. Your escape across the desert was nothing short of miraculous.
"I'm sure that in the years since, you have imagined a scenario exactly like the one I have just described. I think deep in your heart you have always believed that it was your own country that betrayed you, leaving you to die."
Kismet threw a sidelong glance at Anatoly. The Russian was doing a good job of concealing his ability to understand the conversation — no mean feat considering Grimes' revelations. He was beginning to wonder if he had erred by encouraging Anatoly to stay, but there was nothing he could do about it now. For his own part, there was just enough truth in what Grimes was saying to plant a seed of doubt. "Assuming any of this is actually true, why tell me? If you really did what you said, then I should kill you right now."
Grimes smiled coyly. "Like you, I was a soldier, following orders. But those orders, and many that have followed, were troubling to me. I was shut out of the after-action review. The final fate of the recovery team and the disposition of the relic were kept secret from me, as were too many other things. I began to suspect the existence of a secret coterie within our own government; a cabal following an agenda that has nothing to do with the interests of the American people."
"Ah, the diabolical conspiracy." Kismet tried to inject sarcasm into his tone, but his mind was racing to assimilate the Grimes' suspicions. "A secret society — the Freemasons or the Tri-Lateral Commission perhaps. Or the Teutonic Knights?"
Grimes smiled humorlessly at the last statement. "So you know something of my quest for answers. Yes, I accepted membership into the Teutonic Order of Saint Mary. And when I was forced to resign from the Defense Department, that affiliation opened doors for me overseas. It was not possible to fight the enemy from within his own castle, so I sought willing allies where I could find them."
"Look, Grimes, I think you're too smart to be drinking the conspiracy Kool-aid, but if that's what you want to believe, fine. Why are you so bent on getting me to believe it?"