And that was where it really got strange, for when Samir Al-Azir had contacted a British government official, requesting asylum, he had specifically asked to be met in Tall al Muqayyar — the ruins of ancient Ur, near the modern city of Nasyriah — by an American named Nick Kismet. All of this was revealed to a young and disbelieving Second Lieutenant Kismet in the half-buried remains of a long forgotten nobleman's dwelling, but before Kismet could fully comprehend what he was being told, a group of commandos had stormed the location, and slaughtered Samir and his family. Stranger still, the leader of the assault force, a man who identified himself as Ulrich Hauser, indicated that Kismet's life was to be spared out of deference to his mother. Hauser had then disappeared with the captured relic, leaving only a cryptic reference to Prometheus, a figure from Greek mythology, to explain his actions.
It might have ended right there. Stranded behind enemy lines as the air war commenced, Kismet and the contingent of Gurkhas were hunted relentlessly by Republican Guard forces, and ultimately captured. In the end, only Kismet and one other soldier, a Gurkha from New Zealand named Alex Higgins, made it back.
Scar tissue eventually covered the battle wounds, but the events of that night continued to hemorrhage his soul's essence. Who was Hauser, and what was his connection to Kismet's mother? How had Samir known to request him specifically by name, and why? And who or what was Prometheus?
There was of course, one other clue that he could not overlook: the relic. He had not actually seen it, but had inferred much about it from his brief conversation with Samir; it was the holiest of holy relics. Hauser had also hinted that Prometheus' mission was to keep such icons and artifacts safely locked away, and so Kismet had begun his quest by embarking on a greater understanding of the world of art and antiquities. If the conspirators he had faced that night in the desert sought ancient relics, then perhaps in the ancient places of the world, he would find their figurative footprints. His quest led to Paris where, despite finding no answers, he cultivated a friendship with the director of the Global Heritage Commission and was ultimately offered a job as GHC liaison to the United States. Reasoning the position would afford him opportunity to investigate the mystery of his life, he had accepted. For years thereafter he had kept his ear to the ground, listening for any whispers that might shed light on what had happened that night in the ruins of Tall al Muqayyar.
He had not even considered what he had lost in his single-minded quests to unmask Prometheus; not until the curious summons had brought him once more in contact with Lysette Lyon. He turned to his desktop where Lyse's latest email continued to shine from the computer monitor:
Nick, thanks so much for bailing me out the other day. I'll be in the city for New Year's Eve. Maybe I can swing by the office. We can settle our business and after that, who knows? I still remember how to say 'thanks' properly. Luv ya, Lyse.
His eagerness to rendezvous with Lyse had nothing to do with her overt promises; things were different now, evidently for both of them, and he was going to exact the price of his favor in information and nothing else. During the days since his escape from Morocco he had mulled over the situation and decided that if Lyse wanted her trinket back — and Kismet knew it was not any sort of rare artifact — she was going to have to make a full confession.
He rose from his desk and paced around the office, then checked his watch again. It was nearly five-thirty and she had yet to show. She was going to have to spring for dinner too, he decided.
The sound of a door opening in the hallway alerted Kismet to the arrival of a guest. He idly ran a hand through his short cropped hair and settled into his chair, then propped his feet up on an open drawer and tried his best to look nonchalant. The figure beyond the frosted pane of the door that bore his name paused then tried the doorknob.
"Mr. Kismet?"
It was not Lyse. He immediately dropped his feet to the floor and sat up. "Yes. Please come in."
The door swung open, revealing a tall man about the same age as Kismet. He was well dressed, bundled against the chill air, and carried himself with the effete manner of a sophisticate. Kismet felt a glimmer of recognition looking at the man's handsome features, wavy blonde hair and thin mustache, but he could not put a name to the face. The man approached his desk, extending a hand, which Kismet accepted, standing to greet the newcomer.
"It's good to see you again," the man offered.
The British accent was maddeningly familiar and his introduction suggested some prior acquaintance, but Kismet once more drew a blank. "What can I do for you?"
The handsome face broke into an odd smile. "You don't remember me?"
"Frankly, I…" All of a sudden, he did remember and the recollection was not pleasant. "Andrew Harcourt."
"Most people call me 'Sir Andrew,' nowadays." Harcourt made no attempt to mask his pride.
"Sir Andrew? Well…congratulations." The pieces continued falling into place, triggering one uncomfortable memory after another, but Kismet nevertheless extended his right hand, accepting Harcourt's quick shake. "Why don't you sit down? You'll be more comfortable."
"Why thank you. I say, were you expecting someone else?"
"I had another appointment, but it seems I've been stood up. No matter though. To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from Her Majesty's favorite archaeologist? Digging on our side of the pond again?"
Harcourt laughed. "Not exactly, but I am in the planning stages of an endeavor which should prove quite…um, earthshaking. Actually, that's what brings me here today. I wish to prevail upon you to join me."
Kismet stared back at the archaeologist. He rarely made judgments about the academics he frequently encountered, but his one brush with Harcourt had been unpleasant enough that a bad taste lingered. He tried to conceal his surprise. "I'm touched, but why me?"
"Given our history, I think it only makes sense for me to bring someone along from the Commission to avoid the perception of impropriety."
The explanation seemed a little shaky but Kismet decided to play along. "Why don't you tell me what you have in mind?"
"I'd rather show you." Harcourt held up a leather attaché case, which he set down on Kismet's desk and opened. He removed a cloth wrapped parcel and laid it on the desk for Kismet to inspect. In the center of the cloth was a fragment of metal, broken it appeared from an ancient war helmet of Greek design. The piece seemed to have been, at one time, the right forward quarter of the helmet. Kismet took note of the straight edges, which ran along the bottom and leading sides, curving into an eyehole, and then dropped down to shield the bridge of the nose. The breaking points were jagged, as though the helmet had been cut or torn apart, rather than decaying from corrosion. The metal was scored and dented in several places, suggesting that it had seen use in combat, but the minor defects had since been covered by a thin veneer of bright, flawless metaclass="underline" gold.
Kismet reached for it. "May I?"
"Please do."
The helmet fragment was not solid gold; it was much too lightweight. He felt a faint residue on the surface and noticed a white concentration in some of the cracks, but the artifact had not tarnished at all. A probing finger wiped the substance away, and when he touched it to his lips, there was only a salty flavor, not the expected tang of copper. He flipped it over and looked inside the helmet. A tiny patch of gold had been scraped away, revealing darker metal beneath — tarnished bronze. "You did this?" Kismet asked, pointing to the defect.