The Humvee slowed as it pulled into an almost vacant parking area, alongside a blockish two-story brick building. The ornate facade — a reproduction of a Babylonian era arched city gateway — and prevalence of weathered statuary in the courtyard seemed confirmation enough that they had arrived at their destination: the Iraq National Museum. The spectacle presented by the edifice and the artistry that adorned it was not sufficient to draw the eye away from the damage wrought by the recent fighting. Twisted iron and shattered brick littered the museum grounds, and the walls were now scorched and pitted with bullet holes. To underscore the volatility of the situation, two M1A1 Abrams tanks were parked in front of the structure, their crews hunkered down inside the protective armored shell. The presence of US troops not only deterred potential looters, but evidently also scared off everyone else.
Kismet worked the door lever, eager to be out of the sweltering interior of vehicle. Chiron however had more to say. “Perhaps today will be that day.”
The Frenchman was the last to get out, pulling himself from the vehicle like a man twenty years older than he was. The soldiers had already fanned out around the parked convoy, and though the muzzles of their carbines were pointing at the ground, to a man they gripped their weapons purposefully.
Buttrick was quick to approach, glancing around anxiously. “Well, this is your show now, Nick. I’ve got to tell you, I feel kind of exposed out here.”
“I wish I could tell you how long this will take, but I’ve really no idea.”
Buttrick followed them toward the entrance, warily scanning the surrounding area for any signs of trouble. Kismet focused on the path ahead and spied two men standing beneath the Ishtar gate reproduction. The men were well dressed, but their suits had a rumpled appearance, and their facial expressions were haggard and lean. The older of the two, a distinguished-looking man in his fifties, sporting a bushy mustache shot through with gray, watched their approach nervously. The younger man stepped forward to greet them.
“I am Hussein Hamallah. Peace be upon you,” he said, offering the traditional greeting in accented English. He gestured to his companion. “This is Mr. Aziz.”
Kismet dredged up his own memory of the Arabic response: “Wa aleekum is-salaam.”
Hussein appeared pleased. “I will serve as translator on your behalf today. Please sirs, come inside.”
A large open garden area greeted them just beyond the formal entrance, but it was evident even from the first glance that the museum had undergone an upheaval. Piles of debris — stone chips, broken glass, and reams of tattered paper — were everywhere. Working among the chaos were several men and women, presumably the staff of the facility, attempting to restore the repository to its former glory. Kismet felt a silent respect for those people, knowing that in all likelihood, they were laboring with only a tacit promise of reward. His own office, in the sub-basement of the American Museum of Natural History in New York City, brought him into regular contact with similarly devoted individuals, people for whom the call to educate others about culture and history was more than just a job.
Buttrick excused himself from the group and returned to the convoy to organize security, while Hussein steered the party into a corridor where a few examples of Assyrian art and history remained visible amidst the smashed display cases. They did not linger within sight of these but instead ascended a spiral staircase to the second floor. From there, Kismet and Chiron were directed into a small conference room, which aside from a uniform coating of dust on the furnishings, appeared to have missed out on the ill fortunes of war. They removed their bulky armor while Hussein hastily brushed the seats of two chairs, then gestured for the guests to sit.
Aziz remained aloof, as if debating what tack to take with the men from the Global Heritage Commission. For Kismet, who had studied law and seen his share of deposition proceedings, the man’s reticence was understandable. The Iraqi curator would doubtless hold back from volunteering information, lest he accidentally incriminate himself. The burden of asking the right questions would fall to the interrogators. Addressing the older man directly, Kismet fired off a positioning shot.
“What is your function here, sir?”
The translation was almost instantaneous, and Aziz rattled off a response. “Until this war, I was restoring the palace of Ashurbanipal. Now, I do what I can for the museum.”
“Your efforts are greatly appreciated,” supplied Chiron, diplomatically. “Hopefully, the rich history of your nation will soon be restored to a place of dignity, for all the world to discover.”
“Inshallah,” murmured Aziz. God willing.
“We are pleased that many of the relics thought lost in the looting have already been accounted for.”
“Yes. The situation could have been much worse.”
Kismet decided to move in. “Has the looting stopped?”
The curator blinked at him, then turned to his assistant. “Mr. Aziz does not understand your question. Do you refer to the looting in the city, or to the museum?”
“The museum, of course. Are items still being stolen and sold on the black market?”
“No. We have inventoried all that remains. It is accounted for.” The answer was unequivocal, but Aziz’s certainty came as no surprise.
“What about other relics? Relics from archaeological sites that perhaps haven’t been catalogued yet?”
Aziz’s lip twitched. “There are rumors of men finding the treasures of the ancients and selling them illegally. If I knew more, I would immediately contact the authorities.”
Chiron jumped in, his tone conciliatory. “We know, of course, that you have no part in this criminal activity, Mr. Aziz. However, it is these rumors that interest us. Anything you could tell us would be greatly appreciated.”
Kismet struggled to hide his dismay. His old mentor had just tipped their hand to the Iraqi curator, virtually promising the man immunity from further action as well as implying that his cooperation would be rewarded. In a culture where bargaining was almost an art form, a basic rule of negotiation was that the first person to make an offer lost the advantage. Aziz would now be able to dictate the terms of the exchange. He could tell that the Iraqi sensed victory as well by a subtle shift in the man’s posture.
“Do you know Samir Al-Azir?”
Aziz had been on the verge of speaking when Kismet blurted out the name. He paused long enough for Hussein to make the translation, but it was evident that he had understood the question. The Iraqi curator barely concealed a frown as he replied.
“This name means nothing,” explained Hussein. Kismet could not tell if the young man was translating Aziz’s words or elucidating at his own discretion.
Samir Al-Azir; the name given to Kismet by the defector he had met in the desert during the fateful mission in the hours prior to the war known as Desert Storm. Kismet knew that there must be more to the man’s name — the defector had supplied a proper name and a family designation, yet had withheld his surname — but there was nothing else to go on. Samir Al-Azir was the end of the thread Chiron had mentioned. If he failed to pick it up here, a singular opportunity to unriddle the maze of his life might be lost.
“He was an engineer working for the government twelve years ago. He was working on the restoration of Babylon.”
“The restoration of that ancient city has been going on for more than twenty years. Thousands of men have been involved. You can’t expect me to remember one particular man.”
“Don’t you?” Kismet’s voice held a tone of accusation. He was trying to regain control of the situation by putting the curator back on the defensive. “He uncovered a wealth of artifacts from the Babylonian dynasty. I can’t believe such an important discovery would have gone unnoticed.”