Kismet rested the CAR15 on the seat beside him, shifting the waist pack of his load-bearing vest to avoid sitting on it. That the Army-issue equipment had not been designed for use in the cramped interior of a passenger vehicle was only one factor owing to his choice of the rear seat. Sitting in the back represented an attempt, however insignificant, to take a measure of control over the situation. He was completely at Samir’s mercy. Even if the defector meant him no harm, there would be no effective way for Kismet to respond in the event of a sudden crisis. From the back seat at least, should the worst case scenario play out, he would be able to encourage the Iraqi to heed his suggestions by holding the business end of his sidearm to the base of the other man’s skull.
True to his word, Samir drove the car only a few kilometers along the highway before once more pulling off into the sand. Kismet hastened from the confining interior of the sedan, and began scanning the dunes for any sign of enemy forces. They appeared to be alone in the night. Samir lit another cigarette then motioned for Kismet to follow as he headed into the desert.
The path chosen by the Iraqi defector led north across a section of flat land where bare rock struggled up through the ubiquitous layer of sand. Kismet gradually became aware that they were descending into a low valley sculpted by centuries of wind and, perhaps in a forgotten age, water. In the otherworldly green display of his goggles, he saw clear evidence of previous foot traffic along their course; not simply a scattering of prints, but a line of disruption indicating the passage of several people. He hefted the CAR15, his thumb poised on the fire selector and his finger on the outside of the trigger guard, but resisted the impulse to spin strategies for dealing with a hostile encounter. He would likely be outnumbered and outgunned in such a situation, so there was little to be gained by worrying. Samir, however, seemed to relax, as if each step brought him closer to a place of refuge. Their destination soon became apparent.
From the outside, it did not look like a cave, merely a bruise in the surface of a vertical rock face which might simply have been the product of an ancient boulder collision. Only on closer inspection could Kismet perceive the depth of the cut in the rock and the fact that the stone surface was not stone at all, but weathered bricks of baked clay laid one atop another. It was not a cave, but a structure built by men in the middle of the desert and almost completely hidden beneath the dunes. Samir ducked through the narrow slit without hesitation. An almost blinding flare in the midst of Kismet’s night vision display indicated a light source within. He switched the goggles off and swiveled them out of the way, then crouched down and followed blindly.
The passage beyond was narrow. His shoulders scraped against brick on either side as he descended along a crumbling staircase. The steps, like the structure itself, were clearly the work of human artifice, but their condition suggested centuries of both use and neglect. They were in an ancient place.
At the foot of the stairwell, he saw the source of the light. As his guide stepped forward into a large antechamber, he could clearly make out the flickering of several randomly placed oil lamps. It was not until he moved out from the narrow recess, however, that Kismet realized they were not alone.
Before he could bring his carbine up, or even identify a target, Samir hastened in front of him, arms extended. “No, no, Mr. Kismet. This is my family.”
Kismet exhaled sharply and lowered the weapon. In the undulating lamp-light he made out several human shapes: an elegantly dressed woman, her head covered by a colorful scarf; a teenage boy who seemed a younger, thinner version of Samir; and several more indistinguishable lumps, hidden beneath blankets on the floor. In all, there appeared to be a dozen people camped out in the hidden structure, possibly representing three generations of Samir’s clan.
“Family,” echoed Kismet, the significance of the revelation sinking in. “No one said anything about your family.”
Samir looked shocked. “I could not leave them. When it is learned what I have done, they would be made to suffer. Such is the way with President Hussein.”
Kismet felt a moment of self-loathing for having questioned the matter. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just…well, we didn’t develop a contingency for exfiltrating more than one person. There won’t be room on the helo for all of us.”
Samir’s expression fell, prompting Kismet to hastily augment his statement. “What I mean is, we’ll have to make some changes to the plan.”
The Iraqi seemed pleased at the promise and brightened once more. “Allah is great.”
“Yeah,” muttered Kismet, loosening the chin strap on his helmet as he surveyed the room a second time. “Say, you didn’t all come here in that one car?”
Samir grinned. “No. There is also a truck.”
“Any more surprises?”
“No more surprises.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you wish to see it?”
Kismet sensed the defector was no longer talking about the truck, and that whatever he was referring to would indeed be a surprise, but the only way to know for certain was to play along. “Sure.”
Samir launched into motion again, but did not move toward the stairwell as Kismet expected. Instead, he crossed the antechamber, picked up one of the lamps, and headed toward an arched entryway on the opposite side.
“The truck is here? Inside this — whatever it is?”
“These are the ruins of Tall al Muqayyar. We are very near to what you in the West call Ur of the Chaldees. It was the birthplace of Ibraiim; Abraham, the father of Ismail. Our nation takes its name from this place: Uruk. It is the birthplace of civilization.”
“You don’t say.” He thought Samir sounded like a tour guide. He had studied enough source material about Iraq to recognize the truth of Samir’s words, but ancient ruins held little appeal; he preferred the company of the living. “We are under the ground though?”
“The sands come and go. The ruins have been excavated several times since their discovery almost two centuries ago, but the sand always returns. In this instance, I have used the sand to conceal the main entrance to the ruin.” He gestured with the lamp, throwing a wavering yellow glow into the shroud of darkness. Beyond the antechamber was a larger room, its ultimate width and breadth beyond the scope of Kismet’s unaided eyesight. He resisted the impulse to swivel the goggles down, electing instead to wait for Samir’s lamp to expose the room’s secrets. As the Iraqi strode purposefully forward, his light cut a swath through the darkness in the middle of the chamber. After only a few steps, the bare floor disappeared beneath an increasingly dense accumulation of desert sand.
The lamp’s rays soon revealed a vehicle in the buried chamber — what looked to Kismet like a deuce and a half, or 2.5-ton truck — its rear cargo area covered by a low slung canvas tarpaulin. The truck appeared to be a cast-off military vehicle, broken, repaired and mongrelized to the extent that its origins were unrecognizable. Beyond the truck, the sand rose up in a vast dune, completely blocking what must have served as the main entrance to the ruin. Samir placed his lamp on the rear bumper of the truck, but hesitated there.
Kismet tried to peer into the tent-like enclosure, but saw nothing in the shadows. “Well?”
“Forgive me. I am a coward. President Hussein says it is not the hand of Allah — that it is a Zionist trick — but he does not touch it. No sane man dares touch it.”
“The hand of Allah?” Again Kismet sensed that he was expected to know more than he did. He decided to end the charade. “I’m sorry, Samir, but I have no clue what you’re talking about. I’ve never heard of you and I haven’t the faintest idea why you think I’d care about what’s in that truck.”