“Monsieur Kismet.” The small dark-haired woman who had initially met him upon his arrival darted in front of Buttrick. “You’ll be late for your meeting.”
“My meeting,” Kismet echoed, loud enough for all the journalists to hear. He could almost sense their panic as they saw him maneuver for an escape. “Thank you again for your kind words, colonel.”
The other man nodded with a knowing smile, allowing the woman to guide Kismet away from the swarm. “Hey, Nick. Listen, if you want to blow up some more stuff, do me a favor and re-up.”
Kismet ignored the chuckling officer and focused intently on the woman’s shoulders. She hastened directly to the spot where Kismet had left his bags, the place where he had pushed her down and shielded her with his own body. He didn’t even know her name. “Mademoiselle, I don’t believe we’ve been—”
”Marie,” she replied, looking up from beneath the bulky helmet. Her smile could not quite erase his memory of the haughtiness he had earlier detected. “My name is Marie Villaneauve,” she continued in English. “And I also appreciate your prompt action in my defense.”
She then nodded toward the pack of reporters and videographers that had decided to chase after him. “However, I believe we are now even.”
No matter where he went in the world, Saeed Tariq Al-Sharaf always made sure that he had a view of water. He preferred river frontages most of all. Rivers were the source of life, as far as he was concerned. He had grown up in a place without rivers, a place where water was procured only through physical labor, but as he matured, gaining authority and with it a measure of wealth, he had moved closer to the great river and made a solemn promise to always pitch his tent within sight of water.
Of course, he was not alone in his appreciation of an aquatic panorama. The scenic vistas he craved came with a hefty price tag, especially here where the presence of so many affluent businessmen, politicians and celebrities had inflated real estate prices by an order of magnitude. Additionally, the lease of the chateau was being handled through a proxy, a faceless law office in Geneva, and that act of representation further bumped up the expense of maintaining a view of the river.
But what a view it is, thought Saeed. Worth every euro.
His eyes lingered on the sun-dappled surface of the waterway, contemplating it meditatively, as if in prayer. It was as close as he came to devotion. Even when he had lived in the desert, he had flaunted the five-times daily ritual call of the muezzin. He accepted that there was no God but God, but held to the personal belief that Allah had put man on earth to find his own way. Religion was a tool for rallying, and if necessary manipulating, the rabble, but served no divine purpose that he could see.
The muster of the masses was now fully underway in the country of his birth. The Persians had not won the nation through conquest — that had been the work of the American devils — but in anticipation of the fall of Saddam Hussein’s government, the theocratic government of Iran had sent hundreds of mullahs over the border, insinuating into the Shiite community in order to cultivate popular support for a religious government in Iraq. During his reign, Saddam had brutally quashed any number of attempts on the part of the faithful to organize, recognizing the power inherent in such zeal, but the Americans were reluctant to employ such decisive tactics in defense of their cause, and so the Shiite majority was becoming emboldened to take control of the nation.
Saeed had been following the story with great interest, even as he had followed the build-up to war and the subsequent campaign. He did not really care how the game eventually played out, but he craved information about the struggle. It was very important to know which way the wind was going to blow in order to chart his course.
He turned away from the river, his eyes slow to adjust after staring into the glare, and turned up the volume on the television set. The twenty-four hour satellite news channel to which he kept the set tuned at all times had been broadcasting almost nothing but coverage of the war and civil unrest for several weeks. The latest developments concerned him directly. Agents from Interpol and the American Federal Bureau of Investigation had successfully recovered a great number of art treasures looted from the National Museum in Baghdad, preventing them from being dispersed in the European black market. While Saeed’s interests had not been directly affected, the affair would draw unwelcome attention to what had been a largely ignored enterprise.
A flashing graphic on the screen seized his interest, the words “Breaking News,” which sometimes heralded a significant change in the position of the pieces on the global game board. As he had come to expect, the new development regarded something that had just occurred in his homeland. He listened carefully to the English language broadcast, mentally translating the foreign words as he watched.
There had been an attack at what he still thought of as the Saddam International Airport. A suicide bomber had blown himself up in an effort to bring great destruction upon the troops massed at the large facility a few kilometers outside of Baghdad. The explosion had done some structural damage and caused several injuries, however it was being reported that the only fatality resulting from the blast was the bomber himself. As if to underscore this point, the handsome journalist reporting the incident stood on the runway, with a smoking pile of debris just over his left shoulder.
“The suicide bomb attack appears to have been part of a broader strategy. An effort to disrupt a key supply route. However, that desperate mission was thwarted, not by US troops, but rather by a civilian bystander.”
The screen cut to video footage of two men conversing: one a soldier in desert camouflage, the other wearing blue jeans and a khaki shirt. Judging by his appearance, Saeed would have believed the second man to be a soldier in civilian attire. He was obviously in excellent physical shape and his close-cropped hairstyle was de rigueur among American military personnel. Probably from their CIA.
“This man,” continued the reporter in a voice-over, “an American representative of the Global Heritage Commission, part of the UN’s effort to address the looting of Iraqi antiquities, happened to be in the right place at the right time, and with the right weapon, to prevent the terrorist bomber from reaching his destination.
“The man, identified as Nick Kismet, picked up a portable missile launcher, like the one seen here.” The picture changed to stock footage of a US soldier carrying an anti-tank weapon, but Saeed had already stopped watching, and after a moment, thumbed the button on the remote control to mute the speaker in order to make a telephone call.
Her introduction notwithstanding, Marie Villaneauve was proving to be a tough nut to crack. As she guided Kismet through the mostly vacant terminal building she said very little, answering only a few direct questions with monosyllabic replies. He no longer sensed that she was trying to be rude, but her quiet indifference was nevertheless wearing thin.
He made one last attempt. “So you’re with UNESCO?”
“Oui.”
Kismet admitted defeat. Small talk had never been his strong suit anyway.
Their destination lay in an unfinished wing of the airport building. The Baghdad International Airport — the metal letters affixed to the exterior walls still read “Saddam International”—had never really been used for its intended purpose. Shunned by most of the global community for decades, Iraq had failed to become a leading travel destination, even in the Arab world. The facility had however become a critical target of the US-led coalition during the month-long campaign to overthrow the brutal despot. A perfect landing zone for resupply flights, it was lightly defended and close enough to the capital city to serve as a base of operations for the final push on Baghdad. It now served as a central receiving area for both military and civilian activities, and until the earlier suicide bomb attack, was thought to be a safe haven for foreigners.