Hussein rattled off the Arabic equivalent, then turned to Kismet before the older man could reply. “Please sir, you must understand. What you are asking… It would be like asking you if you know Joe from New York.”
Kismet’s stare never left Aziz. The other man continued to squirm uncomfortably as he uttered another denial.
“I don’t believe you.” Kismet understood enough that he did not need to wait for an interpretation before pressing his argument. “I think you know exactly who I am talking about, and what he discovered. I think you’ve been illegally selling other artifacts from that same dig. And I think you had better start telling us everything you know about Samir Al-Azir and what he found at Babylon.”
The accusation hung in the air like a static charge as Hussein reluctantly converted the demand into his native language. Before Aziz could reply however, a trilling noise broke the silence. Mildly startled, Kismet turned to Chiron, but the Frenchman only shrugged. It was Aziz who eventually responded to the electronic tone, drawing from his breast pocket a familiar-looking object: a Qualcomm portable telephone handset. He opened the oblong device and began speaking in a low voice. After a brief exchange, he rose and excused himself via Hussein.
As Aziz stepped across the threshold of the conference room, Kismet turned his attention to the young translator. It was evident to Kismet that Aziz was concealing information, but Hussein seemed truly in the dark respecting his superior’s activities. “Where did you learn English?”
After a moment of distrustful incomprehension, the young man smiled. “Oxford. I studied abroad in my youth.”
Kismet smiled at the implication that Hussein had somehow left his immaturity behind during his instructional years. “You speak it very well. How long have you been working with Mr. Aziz?”
“I have been at the museum for three years, but not exclusively with Mr. Aziz. I translate for many among the staff and assist visiting dignitaries, such as your honored selves.”
Kismet nodded slowly. It was doubtful that Hussein would be privy to any dark secrets. Men like Aziz rarely entrusted such matters to their subordinates. He decided to try a different tack. “I wasn’t aware that phone service had been restored.”
Hussein raised an eyebrow, then cast a glance over his shoulder toward the exit where he had last seen Aziz. “It has in some places. But that phone does not require a local connection.”
“It’s a satellite phone, isn’t it?” Kismet already knew the answer. The unusual antenna configuration of the Qualcomm GSP1600 marked it as a device designed to do more than simply interface with the local cellular network. In an age where most cell phones were miniaturized to the point that they might easily be concealed in a closed hand, the bulky handset and long antenna extension had given Aziz’s phone away as a receiver capable of picking up transmissions beamed to the Globalstar satellite network. With a sat-phone, you could take a call from almost anywhere in the world. “That’s a pretty expensive piece of hardware.”
Hussein immediately went on the defensive. “We maintain a large repository of knowledge about the ancient world. Our patrons in Europe want us to be able to share information with universities and scientists around the world. When the threat of war began to loom, they arranged for this technology to be put at our disposal.”
Kismet nodded slowly. “And there’s been a lot of communication since?”
“Many scholars are concerned about the looting and damage to priceless antiquities. They call to express their support for our efforts to restore the collection.”
“Then we are all working toward the same goal,” intoned Chiron.
For once, Kismet was grateful to the older man for his saccharine observation. He had no desire to keep Hussein on guard. If anything, he needed the young translator in a more cooperative frame of mind. “Have you been to any of the major dig sites?”
The young man remained wary. “I have been to all of them.”
“I spent some time in the ruins of Ur, Tall al Muqayyar.”
“Near An Nasiriyah. Yes, I have been there.”
“This is a wonderful country to live in if you are a lover of history,” Chiron remarked. His expression of vague disinterest belied the conviction in his tone, but the sentiment was evidently something the young assistant curator could grasp. Hussein broke into a broad smile.
“It’s all here,” he answered, an enthusiastic boy discovering the world for the first time and eager to share. “The birthplace of civilization, the oldest forms of writing, the oldest laws. The father of all faiths, Ibraim, was born here and his descendants — the twelve tribes of Arabia — remain to this day. Alexander the Great walked here, as did the Christian Saint Peter. History begins here.”
“You’ve barely scratched the surface, my boy. God himself has walked here. In the oldest writings, His presence is felt. The Garden of Eden was here, at the headwaters of the river Euphrates.”
“Yes!” Hussein clapped his hands together emphatically. “And He spoke to Ibraim and called him out of Chaldea. Exactly. No matter what your faith, you cannot escape the fact that God has made His will known in this place.”
Kismet glanced at Chiron, trying to determine if the sudden oration on the religious significance of the region was part of some broader plan to gain the younger man’s trust. If it was, the Frenchman hid it well.
“I wonder what’s keeping Aziz?” he ventured, looking for a way to put the conversation back on track. Hussein started to rise, eager to be of service, but Kismet forestalled him. “No, I’ll go. I wouldn’t mind a chance to stretch my legs. I’ll yell if I get lost.”
He moved past the long table toward the doorway Aziz had exited through. As he turned the knob, he listened for the sound of the man’s voice. “Mr. Aziz?”
The door opened into an office half the size of the conference room. It was difficult to say what purpose the room had served prior to the chaos following the war. Now it was an impromptu storeroom cluttered with paper and boxes. Another doorway on the opposite wall exited the room and Kismet picked his way carefully though the litter, intent on locating their reluctant host.
The next room appeared to be a gallery set aside for seasonal exhibits, but like the storeroom, it now housed only rubble. Piles of broken statuary and brick were heaped in the corner, while empty display cases with smashed-out glass windows lined both long walls. At the far end of the hall, Kismet saw Aziz talking animatedly to a shorter individual dressed in the long garments of a Bedouin. The man’s face was almost completely covered by a swath of fabric from his turban.
Kismet stopped short, mildly embarrassed at the interruption. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were—”
Both men turned abruptly at the sound of his voice. Aziz wore a guilty expression, as if caught in an indiscreet moment, but the robed figure showed no such hesitancy. He thrust a hand into the folds of his garment and whipped out a long, tubular object. In the instant of time it took Kismet to recognize that it was a pistol, outfitted with a sound and flash suppressor, the man aimed and fired.
Aziz took two rounds in the chest at close range before Kismet could raise a hand in protest. The groan that escaped from the curator’s lips as he sank to his knees was far louder than the noise of the fatal shots. Then, a third shot bored a red cavity, no thicker than a pencil, in the center of Aziz’s forehead to silence him forever.
Four
Kismet’s initial shock wore off in the instant the killer administered the coup de grace. He threw himself sideways, ducking behind the solid base of a shattered display case, and thrust a hand into the nylon pack belted around his waist. The small pack was designed around a breakaway holster, secured with Velcro, which contained his Glock 19 semi-automatic handgun. He ripped it free of its stays and balled his fist around the grip as he chambered a round. His finger tightened on the trigger. With his left hand steadying the barrel, he rolled into the open, bringing the gun to bear on the place where he had seen the assassin a moment before, dreading the inevitable return fire.