The corner of Kismet’s mouth twitched in anxious surprise, but he raised his own cup in salute. “To Collette.”
The sun was settling into the western sky, but the air remained warm as an arid wind blew in from the south. After scrounging the porcelain cups, the two men had made their way onto the flat roof of the terminal in order to enjoy the imported repast as they contemplated the end of the day. It was a scene that harkened back to the summer Kismet had spent in Paris, a guest in the Chiron household.
Pierre’s wife had doted on him, welcoming him as the child she would never have, and Kismet, whose biological mother had vanished from his life before his earliest memory, eagerly embraced the attention of a maternal figure. It had proven to be a brief, but mutually satisfying relationship. Meanwhile, Chiron had helped him scour the UNESCO archives for any clues that would lead him to resolve the mystery of what had happened one fateful night in 1991: Kismet’s first journey into the desert. Though never fully understanding what it was the young man sought, the scientist and diplomat had enjoyed the role of mentor. More than once, the two men had gathered, along with Collette, on the veranda to watch the sunset. Her conspicuous absence was now a painful reminder of what had happened in the years that followed.
Chiron sighed. “I do miss her, Nick.”
Kismet nodded uncertainly, but said nothing.
The other man stared into his cup, swirling the dark contents as if looking for an omen in the dregs. “Do you think she is with God?”
The question caught him off guard. He knew Pierre to be a staunch secularist, at best an agnostic. The issue of faith had been broached almost from the start of their acquaintance; two men of uncertain beliefs, meeting on the threshold of a place revered by the devout, had presented a noteworthy contrast.
“If He’s out there, I’ve no doubt she’s with Him.”
“If.” Chiron laughed, then drained the contents of the mug. “The great unanswered question. She never had any doubt though. Not even at the end.”
Kismet looked at his own cup, averting his eyes from the older man. The Frenchman’s turn of speech reminded him of the morose rambling of a drunkard. He made no attempt to fill the uncomfortable void, but silently hoped the other man would change the subject. Chiron however was not finished.
“You think a lot about God when you get to be my age. Always wondering if you made the right choices.”
“I imagine that’s only natural.”
Chiron chuckled again, but there was a bitter note in the words that followed. “What a game this is. Blind, we must choose a path through the maze and follow it to the end. Only then are our eyes opened, and the wisdom or foolishness of our choices becomes manifest. I don’t know about you, but I hardly think that’s fair.”
“That’s where faith comes in. You and I aren’t believers, so we can never really understand why someone might choose a life wholly guided by their religious beliefs. But to the true believer, it must seem like the only choice.” It was more than Kismet had wanted to say on the subject and he immediately regretted having let the other man draw him out. Still, nothing he had said was a revelation. They had exchanged similar words on more than one occasion. The difference this time was the import Chiron seemed to place on the subject.
“Ah, yes. Faith. Jesus’ disciples asked for more faith. Do you know that what he told them? ‘If you have faith as a grain of a mustard seed, you shall say to this mountain: Remove from hence hither, and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible to you.’” He moved close, so that Kismet could not avoid direct eye contact. “How can that be, Nick? You either have faith, or you do not, correct? How can you quantify faith?”
“I have no idea.” He moved back a step, then sat on the brick parapet, his back now against the sunset. “Christ, Pierre, you didn’t drag me halfway around the world to debate philosophy, did you? We could have done that in Paris.”
“My apologies. I recall a time when you enjoyed our discussions.”
The reproof lacked the weight of sincerity, but Kismet still chose a conciliatory tone. “Chalk it up to jet lag. Maybe tomorrow, over coffee…”
“No, you are right. There is a time and place for this, and it is not now. It is rude of me to distract you from the real reason I have summoned you. There is important work for us here, and to be quite honest, I need your help.
“As you may have heard, many of the early reports about the pillage of the museums were exaggerated. In some cases, the relics had been stored away by the staff in anticipation of the coming war. A great many other pieces were returned by thieves whose consciences caught up with them. However, a few pieces made it out and are already showing up on the European black market.”
“But you said that Interpol had that covered.”
“Indeed they do, and I’ve no interest in duplicating their efforts. However, I have been monitoring their investigation and discovered some rather disturbing inconsistencies.
“There is a secret list of art treasures being circulated among illicit collectors. Interpol has access to it, but does not wish this information to become public. I have seen the list. Some of the items that are being made available do not appear to have come from the catalogue of Iraq’s national museum.”
Suddenly Kismet understood. “You’re thinking grave robbers?”
Chiron nodded “It is a crime in the eyes of Allah to steal, but to dig something up from the ground and sell it to buy bread for your family? Where is the crime in that?”
“How much are we talking about? Could it just be one guy who got lucky and found a trove, or is this an organized effort?”
“That is what I hope to determine.” He tipped the bottle toward his cup, half-filling it. “A significant historical find would be a great boon to the people of this country — to the whole world. It would remind them that this place is the source of civilization. A timely distraction both from the war and the memories of oppression.”
“Where do we start?” Wheels were already turning in Kismet’s head, the earlier conversation thankfully forgotten.
Chiron refilled Kismet’s cup, decanting the last of the Pinot Noir from the bottle. “There is a man at the museum who has…ah, we shall say that he has demonstrated divided loyalties. He is one of the assistant curators, devoted to the cause of history, but a pragmatist. I suspect he may be trading with a rival organization to the one we are seeking, but his indiscretions are not our concern at present. I believe he will be able to put us on the path. Getting to him in order to conduct an interview however has proven difficult. The city is a very dangerous place.”
The last piece fell into place. “Oh. I guess that’s where I come in.”
“You have experience in this environment. That is unique among our organization. My people are scientists, academics. Furthermore, I suspect that our search will lead us into the wilderness, where our lives may be placed in further jeopardy.”
“So I’m the hired muscle.” He made the statement without a hint of accusation.
“If you like. There are other considerations, some of them personal.”
“Such as?”
Chiron leaned on the short wall next to him, the weariness once more in evidence. “You are like a son to me, Nick. I can’t think of anyone I would rather have with me. That being said, you are also an American, whereas I — not only am I French, but also a representative of the United Nations. As you might well imagine, neither of these factors have endeared me to the military authorities.”
Kismet nodded, comprehending. Despite repeated position statements to the effect that France remained an ally of the United States and that the UN was both a legitimate and important presence in the process of building world peace and security, popular sentiment among Americans, both citizens and soldiers, remained decidedly isolationist. The French government’s vocal opposition to US foreign policy in the days preceding the war had severely widened that rift, so much so that certain reactionaries had pushed to rename “French Fries” and “French Toast” in congressional cafeterias. It had been no coincidence that the bottle of wine Kismet had purchased before leaving New York had been from California; many retailers had pulled French wines from their shelves.