It had been twelve years and three months, give or take a few days, since Kismet’s first journey into the desert. He had not come quite so far north that time, but in some ways he had gone much further. Yet that crucible of violence, from which he had escaped using only his wits and the devil’s own luck, was not what he would remember most about his experience in the desert. War, even on such a personal, visceral level, was not the element which had forged him like steel and set him upon the path he now followed. Something else had happened that night in the desert, something he still could not fully explain. Somewhere in the world however, there was at least one person who did know, and Kismet had sworn to find that man. When he did, he would demand an answer to his questions and settle a very special account — a debt payable in blood.
He had been on that path for more than a decade, finding little in the way of solid information, but had never lost hope. In all that time however, his quest had not returned him to the desert sands where he had been reborn. It had taken another war to bring him back here.
He was not returning as a soldier to battle a modern enemy, but rather as a protector of ancient wonders. The second Gulf War — designated Operation: Iraqi Freedom — was not over. Not officially, as the objectives of the war plan had yet to be fully realized, and not literally. Not by a long shot. Men were still fighting and dying in nearly every corner of the country. Sporadic resistance continued to break out, both from organized groups still loyal to the fallen regime and from enraged citizens, striking out blindly at the foreigners who had come unbidden and shattered their world. In many cases, that violence had been directed at objects rather than at people. Several days of looting had followed the collapse of the regime, mostly from government offices, but also from hospitals, banks and museums. It was the latter area of need that had prompted Kismet’s return to the desert.
As the city grew closer, the pilot put the plane into a shallow dive, shedding altitude rapidly. The engines whined with exertion, but Kismet knew they were actually giving up airspeed, slowing down in preparation for landing. He nevertheless got the feeling that the pilot was in a hurry to get his aircraft on the ground. The jet would never be more vulnerable to attack than when on final approach. The landing gear came down with a thump, and he sat back in his chair, knowing that while the flight was almost over, the journey was only just beginning.
Kismet took his place in the queue of passengers poised to disembark. He found it slightly amusing that he was nearly at the head of the line. That never happened when he traveled. Always a stickler for obeying the flight crew’s directive to remain seated until the plane stopped moving, he usually found himself fighting to get out of the cramped row and into the aisle. Evidently no one on this flight was eager to leave the aircraft, their last link with a world that was, if not completely civilized, then at least recognizable.
He noticed one group of Red Cross workers who, like himself, were not put off by their arrival in the war zone. They moved with calm assurance toward the exit, shouldering their gear as if they were simply reporting for another day at work. It was not their collective demeanor that drew his attention however, but rather the face of their leader, a red-haired woman who pushed past him with a confident stride that could only be earned through years of experience in dangerous areas. She caught his appraising glance and returned it with a contemptuous curl of her lips. On a face less lovely, it would have been a sneer.
Must be French, he thought, answering her with a wink.
The heat of the day was beginning to fill the cabin, rapidly displacing the cool air-conditioned environment. The effect was welcome, buffering the passengers against the furnace blast that awaited them on the tarmac. Kismet squinted involuntarily as he stepped out onto the gantry, and then quickly descended. The recently re-christened Baghdad International Airport had not exactly been designed with a view to making travelers feel welcome, but an overwhelming presence of armored vehicles made it seem downright inhospitable. Like his fellow passengers, he was eager to be inside where there was at least the illusion of safety.
A small knot of grim-faced soldiers waited at the foot of the descending staircase. They were young—just boys, thought Kismet, remembering a time when he had been one of them — but their weapons added a gravity to their presence that somehow obviated the need for maturity. Kismet recognized the M4 carbines — the latest incarnation of the venerable M16 assault rifle — and the M136 AT-4 missile launch tubes slung over several shoulders. Despite their almost juvenile countenances, to a man they all had an aged appearance, as if the desert sun had bleached away the flush of youth.
“This way,” directed one of the men, a staff sergeant and leader of the squad. His voice was tight, without a trace of pleasantness. He was not there to play welcoming committee. Kismet nodded and headed in the direction of the soldier’s brusque gesture.
He reached the relative shade of the terminal, passing more soldiers but also men and women in civilian clothes. Armbands differentiated relief workers and agents of the UN, while cameras and sound equipment were the badge of the journalist, but all of the civilians, like the soldiers before them, wore flak jackets and Kevlar helmets. Kismet had been issued similar protective equipment, but it was packed away in the large duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He debated donning the equipment, but decided he could survive a few more steps without the precautionary armor.
“Monsieur Kismet?”
Despite the buzz of noise circulating through the terminal, Kismet distinctly heard his name and began looking for the person who had spoken. The voice had been feminine and accented — French, he determined, based on nothing more than the choice of honorific and the lapsed pronunciation of the last syllable: “Kis-may.” He stopped moving, waiting for the caller to present herself.
A petite figure stepped forward, her hair and facial features concealed by a black combat helmet. Her stature was such that he found himself looking down at the top of her headgear. He ducked to get a better look at her face. “Je suis Nick Kismet,” he replied, correcting her pronunciation.
She looked up at him, blinking as if in incomprehension. “Bonjour, monsieur. This way please.”
She turned away before Kismet could commit her features to memory, but his initial impression was one of haughtiness. Twice in one day, he thought, shaking his head. What is it with me and French women?
He knew that his generalization was not quite fair. She had done nothing to earn such an accusation. He was simply projecting the leftover ire from his encounter with the woman on the plane.
He had seen enough to know that his guide was an attractive woman, with the sort of angular features common to European runway models. Though only a stray lock of her dark hair had been visible, sneaking out across her right cheek, it stood in stark contrast to her pale skin, as did her immaculate crimson lipstick. Perhaps her expression was not so much one of arrogance as an unconscious declaration that she did not belong in this place. Shaking his head, he followed after her receding form.
He had gone only two steps when a familiar cry rolled through the crowd. “Incoming!”
He reacted without thinking, echoing the message at the top of his voice though unaware that he was doing so, and launched himself forward. There was no hesitation; this was a lesson learned so deeply as to almost become instinctual. The woman was just starting to respond when Kismet grabbed her arm, pulled her down and covered her with his torso. As an afterthought, he held the duffel bag over his head, reasoning that the armor equipment inside would afford a degree of protection from whatever was about to happen.