The wolfish man leaned close again, thrusting something against his jaw. The object was frigid but yielding — an instant cold compress. “I told him he is lucky he didn’t kill you,” the man volunteered in English.
Kismet couldn’t fathom why. He thought about Samir’s words. “Israelis?” he croaked.
The man chuckled, again without a trace of humor. “Do you think you can stand?”
“Not without help,” he replied, honestly.
Grasping the front straps of Kismet’s combat harness, the man shifted his weight backward, lifting him from his supine position. Pain radiated from Kismet's bruised jaw and stabbed through his head. Bright sparks of light swam in his field of vision and for a moment, Kismet feared he would lose consciousness again. The man continued to hold him erect as his legs buckled, his head swooning, until the fog gradually receded. The ice pack slipped away from his cheek, but remained tucked in the space between his neck and the stiff collar of his flak jacket.
He saw that he was once more in the antechamber where he had first encountered Samir’s family. They were all there, including the defector himself, lined up against one wall of the room in a classic hostage pose: kneeling with fingers laced together behind their heads. Some of them, mostly the children, were weeping and ululating. Half a dozen men in desert-pattern uniforms were spread throughout the room, each wielding a small submachine gun. Kismet easily recognized their arsenaclass="underline" Heckler & Koch MP5Ks, the first choice of hostage rescue and commando teams worldwide. Unlike the man who held his load straps however, the rest of the combat force wore camouflage mesh screens over their heads, obscuring their faces, and soft boonie hats that matched their fatigues. One of the men also had Kismet’s carbine slung over a shoulder.
He returned his gaze to the man before him. “You didn’t answer my question.”
His captor, judging that Kismet now stood on his own, relaxed his grip on the LBE straps. He maintained his silence a moment longer, reaching out to grasp the hilt of the Ka-Bar knife which hung from an inverted sheath on the front of Kismet’s harness. As he drew the blade, Kismet shifted his eyes downward, surreptitiously checking the rest of his equipment. He immediately saw that, in addition to the knife, his other defensive weapon, the M9 Beretta pistol, had been removed from its holster. There was no sign of his helmet or night vision goggles, but every other piece of gear he carried seemed to have been left alone.
“Since I have no doubt that you and I will eventually meet again, and since it will not benefit you in any way, I will give you my name.” He spoke with a faint accent that Kismet couldn’t pin down.
The man circled behind him, deftly cutting through the zip-tie with the razor-sharp combat blade. As Kismet’s hands broke free, the man resumed talking. “I am Ulrich Hauser. And lest you take the wrong impression, I am not a member of the Bundeswehr, or any other recognized army. I am not, I might add, an Israeli. Be thankful for that.”
Kismet did not question why this distinction was important, but took note of it; Samir had made a similar statement. He turned his head, following as Hauser continued his orbit, but resisted the impulse to massage his wrists, letting his hands hang loosely at his hips. “Should I take from your comments that you’re not going to kill us?”
Hauser returned to his starting point directly in front of Kismet. He held the Ka-Bar contemplatively between them for a moment, then slipped the naked blade into his own belt. At that instant, for no apparent reason, Kismet felt raw adrenaline dumping into his bloodstream, a premonition of something terrible about to happen, perhaps already beginning.
Hauser took the CAR15 from his accomplice and turned toward the line of hostages. It seemed to Kismet that he was moving in slow motion, but that was simply a trick of hyper-awareness. He didn’t even have time to open his mouth in protest.
The carbine erupted in a spray of fire and noise. Hauser moved it from side to side, hosing Samir and his family with an unceasing torrent of 5.56 millimeter ammunition. Kismet felt hot bile flash into his throat and he involuntarily jerked toward Hauser, hands reaching for the gun even though he knew it was too late. Three of Hauser’s men intercepted him, locking their fists around his biceps. He knew the air must be filled with the screams of the dying but all he could hear was the endless roar of gunfire. A chaotic pattern of gore and pocked brick now decorated the wall of the chamber, a carpet of corpses spread out beneath, yet Hauser did not relent until the last round was fired. Only when the final brass cartridge was ejected, landing with an inaudible tinkling sound in the eerie silence of the aftermath, did Hauser raise the barrel of the weapon.
Kismet’s mouth worked, trying to form words, but there was only rage and futility in his throat. Hauser faced him now, his lips drawn back in a fierce grimace, his eyes dancing hungrily. Without warning, he thrust the gun sideways at Kismet, who reflexively caught it, his left hand grabbing the stock while his right fingers wrapped around the shortened barrel of the carbine. He felt the sting of hot metal scorching his skin but did not release the now-impotent weapon.
“Why?” he whispered, finding at least that single word. It seemed inadequate, but it was all he could manage.
Before Hauser could reply, if he intended to at all, a voice called out from the far end of the antechamber where it passed into the main area. The words were in the same unrecognizable language, but the commando leader understood. Nodding, he fired back a quick response in the same tongue, then addressed his sole remaining captive.
“This prize is not for you, Kismet. Not now.”
The short declaration was not at all what Kismet was expecting. “What the hell are you talking about? You did all this for…for that thing?” He gestured toward the main chamber where he had last seen the truck and its mysterious, ancient cargo.
“One day, you will understand what we have done, and why it had to be done.” Despite his earlier, almost gleeful reaction to his act of violence, Hauser now seemed more subdued. He turned without another word and began striding toward the exit. His men followed, keeping wary eyes on the one man who did not belong to their number.
Kismet glanced down at the CAR15 in his hands, feeling the throb of pain in his right palm. Blue smoke continued to waft from the barrel and the air was heavy with the smell of burned cordite. He knew without looking that Hauser had shot off every round in the magazine, rendering the weapon temporarily useless, but there was something Hauser either did not know or had forgotten about. In two clip-on pouches, one on either side of his combat belt, Kismet carried spare magazines. He tried to estimate exactly how long it would take him to eject the spent clip, tear open the clasp on the ammo pocket, extract a spare and jam it into the magazine well. Two seconds?
Time enough for the cautious commandos to take preemptive measures; their weapons were already loaded.
As he weighed his options, the last of the men exited the antechamber, leaving him alone with the dead. He moved toward the passageway, walking slowly enough that he did not alarm the gunmen.
The commandos had made short work of the sand barrier Samir had used to cover the main entrance. The far end of the ruin was exposed to the chilly desert night, illuminated now only by the stars. Their work finished, the assault team began climbing into the rear of the truck. Hauser lingered behind them, catching his eye once more. “Do not fear, Kismet. It will be kept safe until the world is ready.”
“Safe?” he echoed hollowly. “With you? You’re a fucking psychopath.”
Hauser hopped onto the rear bumper and pulled himself half inside the truck. He then turned to Kismet and grinned, shifting his head back slightly, like a werewolf ready to howl. Kismet shook his head to clear the image. “Who are you?”