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Baghdad was actually a safer place for Americans than some of the areas to the south, where Shiite activism was reaching a fever pitch. The Sunni Muslims living in the country’s largest city were primarily interested in restoring their infrastructure, and the US Army engineers assisting in that effort were viewed as heroes rather than interlopers. But as the events of that morning had amply demonstrated, violence did not require a majority opinion. There were international journalists still occupying some of the hotels in the city, but most critical operations were being run from the secure environment of the airport. Likewise, the UN headquarters had been locked up and left behind two months previously, meaning that UNESCO’s mission in Iraq would also have to be based at the airport.

Marie led him to a windowless door at the end of a hallway, identified only by a sheet of paper from a laser printer with the acronym of her organization in block letters, taped beside the doorpost. She turned the knob, pushing the door open, and stepped aside.

Kismet demurred. “Ladies first.”

The instinctive deferment won a crooked smile from his reticent guide, and she proceeded through the door ahead of him. Once over the threshold, he eased his duffel to the floor, sensing that the long journey was nearly over.

“Hello, Nick.”

Kismet whirled, instantly recognizing the voice, and all thoughts of breaching Marie Villaneauve’s social defenses were put aside. “Pierre, you old bastard.”

Pierre Chiron, the man who had befriended him during a visit to France eight years before, and who had ultimately given him a job, crossed the barren room and embraced Kismet heartily. “Ah, Nick. It’s always good to see you.”

“I had a feeling you’d be here, though I can’t imagine why.” Kismet drew back, holding his old friend at arm’s length, and got his first real look at the man. He didn’t like what he saw.

He knew Chiron to be in his late sixties, but the UN scientist seemed to have aged at least another decade beyond his natural years. On the occasion of their last meeting, the Frenchman had been robust if slightly stooped from years of academic torpor, but he now seemed hollow, a summer leaf gone prematurely to autumn. Kismet smiled to hide his dismay.

“My God, Nick. How long has it been?”

“Not since…” He hesitated. He had not seen Chiron since Collette’s funeral. “Almost six years,” he amended hastily, trying to steer his comments away from the painful memories that his recollection was stirring up. “We’ve done a lot of good in that time.”

Chiron managed a wan smile. “My many young protégés have accomplished wonders. Alas, I have done little more than sit back and take credit for it all.”

Kismet was not fooled by the old man’s modesty. Although he had not since paid a visit to Chiron’s home or to the UNESCO headquarters — both in Paris — he had stayed in touch. Following the death of his spouse, Chiron had to all appearances thrown himself into the task of saving the UN’s scientific and cultural organization. His Global Heritage Commission had been an integral part of restoring UNESCO’s credibility, to the point that the United States had now committed itself to restoring its lapsed membership. Nevertheless, his desolate physical appearance bore testimony to the fact that he had not completely found solace in his work.

“Well, you’ve got me this far. What’s next? Are we going to comb the city for looted artifacts?” Though his voice held a hint of irony, he half-expected Chiron to answer affirmatively. The collapse of the Iraqi regime had led to a period of wanton vandalism and pillaging, stripping away in a single night the treasures of the most ancient civilization on earth. Protecting those tangible links to cultures since past was part and parcel of the GHC’s charter. Although Chiron had been trained as an atomic scientist, as chairman of GHC it was appropriate that he take an interest in the crisis.

Chiron however shook his head sadly. “Interpol and your American FBI have already taken that task upon themselves, and with great success I might add.”

“What, then? Putting the National Museum back together? I hope you didn’t bring me over here just to sweep up the broken glass and build new dioramas?”

The old man stared at him silently for a moment, then glanced at Marie. “Ah, where are my manners? You’ve made a proper introduction to my assistant, I trust.”

Kismet’s eyebrows betrayed his irritation, but he otherwise kept his expression neutral. “After a fashion.”

“Monsieur Kismet saved my life,” intoned Marie, her voice matter-of-fact. She removed her bulky helmet, giving Kismet his first real opportunity to study her face. Her dark hair, not quite black, was styled in a modified wedge cut, longer toward the front where it curled under at her jaw on either side. Her forehead was covered by squared-off bangs, perfectly parallel to her sculpted eyebrows. The effect was decidedly contrived, too artificial for such a rugged environment. Kismet recalled his earlier appraisal. She did indeed look like a fashion model, stranded now on the wrong kind of runway.

Chiron burst into laughter. “Did he indeed? He has a habit of doing that.” He laughed again. Though smile lines cracked his face, the humor seemed to erase years of despair. “Yes, I heard some shooting. Was that you, Nick?”

“Old habits die hard.”

“Well you both look no worse for wear. Come, let’s settle down.” He gestured toward one of the unfinished walls where several foam shipping containers had been arranged into makeshift furniture. “Have you eaten?”

“On the plane. I don’t know if that qualifies as food.”

“Alas, it’s better than what I have to offer.” Chiron held up a brown plastic bag about the size of book. “Meals, Ready to Eat, or so they say. I like the fruit candies, but…” He shook his head sadly.

Kismet didn’t think his old friend could afford to miss any meals. He opened his duffel bag, rooting around inside for a heavily wrapped parcel. “When I realized you might be here, I took a chance. I think you’ll be pleased.”

He opened the package, revealing a bottle of red wine along with a baguette and a wheel of Brie. Chiron’s eyes lit up. Kismet turned to Marie. “I imagine you’re getting pretty sick of MREs, too. Join us?”

For a moment, he thought she would accept the invitation. She even took a step toward the improvised settee, an eager smile blossoming on her painted lips. Then, unexpectedly, the smile wilted. “I’m sure you two have a great deal to discuss. Regrettably, I shall have to decline.”

Kismet nodded, unsurprised by her decision. He sensed Chiron’s disappointment, but did not entirely share the sentiment. “Another time, perhaps. Though I’ll warn you, the fare might not be as palatable.”

She nodded, and then backed away, her helmet tucked under one arm. When she was gone, he turned to Chiron. “Where did you find the ice queen?”

The Frenchman pretended not to hear the question. He held up the bottle, displaying the label with mock contempt. “Sonoma valley? I mistook you for a civilized man.”

“It gets worse,” Kismet replied ruefully. “I didn’t bring any glasses.”

* * *

Chiron lifted his drink, tilting the ceramic coffee mug toward the younger man. “To Collette,” he declared in a solemn voice.