For the second time in a week, Kismet awoke with an intravenous needle in his arm and a solution of saline flowing into his veins. The bedside manner of his savior in this instance could not compare to that of the ersatz Dr. Rebecca Gault. Even without opening his eyes, he knew that he was in a vehicle; the noise of the engine and the vibration of the tires jouncing over the rough desert terrain was unmistakable. Suddenly remembering that he was in a war zone, he tried to sit up, but succeeded only in banging his head against an obstruction.
“Easy on, mate.” A reassuring hand gripped his shoulder.
The words were in English, spoken with a British accent, which at least relieved his worst concerns. It was dark in the vehicle’s interior and he could not distinguish the face behind the voice. “Marie?” he croaked.
“The lass is in bad shape, but no worse than you.” There was a chuckle. “The devil must be on your arse, because it’s a sure thing you two escaped from hell.”
“How did you find us?”
A second voice, more sophisticated than the first and with a slightly different inflection, issued from the darkness. “Your message eventually got through to CENTCOM, but that put everyone in a bit of a spot. The Yanks didn’t want to admit that they had just shot down a pair of UN envoys and they dragged their heels organizing a response. I think they were hoping you’d expire out here and save them some embarrassment.”
“Then I guess I’m lucky Her Majesty’s soldiers were a little more decisive.”
An uncomfortable silence followed, as if the unseen conversants were waiting for the comment to be forgotten before moving on. “We knew approximately where you went down, but had a devil of a time finding the site. Eventually we crossed your trail and followed behind until we found you.”
“Well, it hardly seems adequate, but thanks.”
“Anytime, Lieutenant Kismet.”
The word, pronounced “lef-tenant” caught him off guard. “I’m not—”
”Oh, I know you gave up your commission. But you still carry one of our knives, and that makes you one of us.”
“You’re Gurkhas?” Comprehension dawned. There was an old axiom about the loyalty of the Gurkhas; once you earned it, it never failed. Now at least he knew why the soldiers had not been willing to let the awkward situation simply vanish in the desert sands.
“Captain Christopher Sabian-Hyde, formerly of the Sixth Queen Elizabeth’s Own Gurkha Rifles. I was a wet behind the ears ensign — Second Lieutenant — back in ‘92, as I believe you were also. You were leading my platoon out there, Kismet.”
For a fleeting moment, he relived that awful mission. Of the soldiers who had gone into the desert with him that fateful night, only one other man had survived. “It wasn’t my call.”
Sabian-Hyde made a dismissive grunt. “You misunderstand. That was our finest hour since World War II. My only regret is that I wasn’t out there with you.”
“Believe me, I’d have traded places with you in a heartbeat.”
“I imagine so.” He sensed the officer smiling in the darkness. “Water under the bridge. We all get our chance for glory. It seems mine has finally come.”
It was only when they arrived at the British command post outside of Basra that the enormity of Sabian-Hyde’s decision to mount a rescue operation hit home for Kismet. The southern city, nominally pacified by more than a brigade of British soldiers, remained a hotbed of insurgent activity. Dozens of Her Majesty’s fighters had fallen in one of the longest battles of the war, many to battlefield ruses such as faked surrenders or ambulances hiding ambush parties of Fedayeen paramilitaries. The small force of infantrymen that had slipped away to locate the crashed helicopter had been drawn from the ranks of those rotating back from the front lines for a brief respite. These battle-weary veterans had traveled more than three hundred kilometers across the wilderness to find a man who their superiors preferred to simply let perish. Had the unsanctioned venture ended in disaster, the onus would have rested heaviest upon Captain Sabian-Hyde.
The British camp stood in stark contrast to the American operation at the Baghdad airport. Not only had the month of hard fighting to capture and occupy the critical oil export hub taken its toll on men and equipment, but the British Army was notoriously underprovisioned to begin with. It had been counted a major coup when a large cache of combat boots meant for Iraqi regular army units had been seized and distributed to British soldiers whose own standard issue footwear was literally falling apart in the harsh conditions. Unfortunately for Kismet, there was not a spare stitch of clothing in the camp to replace his own tattered and scorched garments.
The former Gurkha officer found them again in the field hospital where a surgeon was bandaging their many wounds and continuing to infuse them with fluids, analgesics and antibiotics. Kismet’s physical condition elicited a sympathetic grimace. “Where will you go now?”
Marie had asked him the same question and unlike the British officer, she was in possession of all the facts. Well, maybe not all the facts, he thought. He wanted to say simply that his next destination was home, but deep down he knew absenting himself from the war would not give him peace from the questions that ate at him like a malaise. The specter of Chiron, standing on the other side of the steel door with his finger on the fail-safe button, haunted him whenever he closed his eyes. There was only one way to exorcize that ghost, only one place where he would find answers. “Paris.”
Sabian-Hyde nodded. “I wish I were going with you. There’s a convoy bound for Kuwait City leaving in an hour. I can get you on it.”
“I appreciate that.”
“From there, you’ll be on your own.” He gave Kismet another appraising glance. “I hope you brought your charge card.”
Because she was the executive assistant to the director of the Global Heritage Commission, Marie was able to access a special discretionary account and arrange a wire transfer at the National Bank of Kuwait. She purchased two one-way first-class fares on a direct flight to Paris the following afternoon, and had enough cash left over for food, accommodations and new clothes. She also acquired some disturbing information. “Pierre is back in Europe,” she announced after leaving the bank manager’s office. “He used the account to charter a helicopter flight from Hillah to Baghdad, then flew to Geneva.”
Kismet did not vocalize the curse that was on his lips. Chiron hadn’t wasted any time getting out of Iraq. “Was he alone?”
“It’s hard to say. All I know is how much he spent and where. I could find out more by contacting the office.”
He shook his head. “Not yet. I don’t know what his game is, but I don’t want to spook him.”
A short taxi ride brought them to the Sheraton Kuwait Hotel and Towers where, despite a dour reception from the concierge, they were able to get clothes, rooms and food, in that order. Kismet purchased a powder-blue cotton summer suit with a subtle silk tie and a pair of lightweight huarache sandals. The airy shoes were a pleasant relief from the boots, which despite protecting him through so many trials, were beyond any hope of recovery. A brief shower, while welcome, was an excruciating reminder of how much punishment he had endured, and when he gazed at his reflection in the mirror, it was a haggard wraith who stared back.
But if his own appearance came as a surprise, then Marie’s transformation was nothing less than miraculous. Her simple red satin cocktail dress accentuated the femininity that Kismet had initially counted a liability. Away from the war zone and its practical necessities, the woman that she was had re-emerged. She had lost weight and her cheeks were ruddy from exposure, but somehow she made it all look good. As they left her room, she gave him an impulsive hug.