When Kismet saw the device moderating Chiron’s bomb, his heart fell. It was nothing more complex than a kitchen timer, affixed to the metal body of the detonator with two strips of black tape, but its humble origin was deceptive. Sprouting from the back of the cheap timer were no fewer than eight wires which disappeared into the larger device and gave an implicit warning: cut the wrong wire and everything goes away. But even more shocking was the innocuous black display which methodically counted down the remaining minutes until detonation.
5:48…5:47…5:46
“Pierre, we have to stop this thing. Tell me what to do.”
Chiron shook his head without looking. “You cannot. I knew that someone might try to prevent me, so I made it impossible to disarm. Stop the timer or cut any of the wires, and it will detonate.”
“Damn it.” His oath was barely a whisper. If the bomb could not be turned off, what did that leave? He glanced down at the illuminated park lawn below where the aerodynamic fuselage of the Panther lay like a slumbering wasp. It was conceivable that the pilot could have the helicopter airborne in less than a minute, but then what? He could not hope to remove the bomb to an area remote enough to minimize loss of life in the very few seconds that would be left.
5:18…5:17…5:16….
A plain gray box lay next to the oblong cube-shaped bomb. On an impulse, Kismet flipped it open and found inside a variety of electrician’s tools and a small rechargeable drill-driver. “What about the nuclear core, Pierre? Can I remove it without triggering a detonation?”
Because of the precise engineering requirements of such a device, even a partial disturbance of the titanium sphere surrounding the plutonium fuel would prevent it from going nuclear. It would still explode, right on time, conceivably bringing down the tower and certainly killing anyone in close proximity, but millions of lives would be saved.
Chiron did not immediately answer, so Kismet chose to recognize his silence as an implicit affirmative. If he was wrong… well, that would only hasten the inevitable by a mere five minutes.
5:00…4:59….
He took up the handheld drill and selected a five-millimeter socket head. It was a perfect fit with the machine screws that secured the cowling over the guts of the bomb. Fixing it into the chuck of the drill, he commenced unscrewing the cover. He was so focused on the task at hand that he failed to register the significance of the declaration that broke the stillness, until in a more strident tone, the speaker repeated the threat.
“Step away, Kismet!”
4:49…4:48…4:47….
He glanced sidelong at the person who had joined Pierre on the platform below the turret. He wore the coveralls of a Tower maintenance engineer, but his physical appearance gave lie to the façade that he was just another Parisian in the employ of the city. His face was a dark bronze hue that could only be gained through a combination of natural swarthiness and long hours under a desert sun, and looked like distressed leather. Capping the classic Arab countenance was a mane of black hair shot through with streaks of preternatural white, a hint of some unspeakable trauma in the man’s recent past. It was his eyes however that told the tale. The muscles at the corners of each eye were bunched tight, in a perpetual squint, as though he had gazed upon the face of God and been struck blind. Kismet knew the look well. The desert sun had left its brand on his eyes too. He did not have to study the man’s face for signs of familiarity. This was the same man whom he had encountered in the cavern where the Hind had been hangared. The unarmed Iraqi whom he had knocked senseless and left for dead. Kismet had almost remembered the man then, and in the days and hours that had passed, the memory had congealed into recognition. This was the man who had tortured him on that fateful night in the desert twelve years before.
“Colonel Saeed.” The statement was terse, barely escaping through unconsciously clenched teeth. “Pardon me for not being more excited at this little reunion, but I’ve got bigger…”
The gun in Saeed’s hand discharged and the sound of the report was almost simultaneous with the metallic noise of the bullet ricocheting from the side of the turret less than a meter from the opening where Kismet stood.
“I said, ‘Step away.’ I won’t say it again.”
Kismet glanced at the timer. Less than four and a half minutes remained. “I don’t think you understand what’s going on here, Saeed.”
“Oh, I understand.” A cryptic smile creased the Iraqi’s otherwise pained visage. “I’m pleased that you recognize me, Kismet. That makes this easier.”
“Makes what easier? Revenge? Whatever it is you think I’ve done, it doesn’t involve the two million people who will die if you don’t let me finish.”
“No?” He gave a bitter chuckle. “I don’t care about them. But I shall enjoy watching you suffer as that clock ticks down, knowing that you are powerless to save them.”
“You’ll die too.”
“Yes.”
Kismet lowered the drill but did not move away from the bomb. Saeed couldn’t possibly know that only about four minutes remained, and revealing the urgency of the situation might only feed his suicidal resolve. “I have to confess, I didn’t recognize you right away. The truth is, I hadn’t thought about you in years.”
Saeed’s eyes narrowed as he searched the comment for some hint of an insult. “I too would have forgotten the events of that night but for one thing. I never understood why I was ordered to let you escape.”
Kismet’s heart seized for an instant. The unexpected admission had ripped away the stone sealing the abyss of his memories. And yet, he had already glimpsed this truth during his encounter with the masked assassin in Baghdad. He remained silent, hoping that the Iraqi would further tip his hand.
“I should have taken your life that night,” Saeed continued. “No matter the consequences. My brother, in whose shadow I am unworthy to walk, would yet be alive.”
“I didn’t drag him into that cave,” Kismet countered, affecting a surly unrepentant tone. “If anyone killed your brother, it’s you.”
Saeed’s smile twisted into something that was not quite pure hatred. “It is true. And I will repay that debt tonight with the blood of a million souls. And yours.”
“When this goes off, the world will believe only one thing: An Iraqi nuclear weapon fell into the hands of terrorists and was used against innocents. Support for the war will be universal.”
“I do not care.”
Kismet could see the truth of the denial in the other man’s eyes. He had only one card left to play. A glance revealed that another minute had ticked away. There was still time to prevent the nuclear detonation, but the margin would be slim. “Poor Saeed. Even at the end, you’re just a puppet.”
The gun wavered, but the former Mukharabat officer did not answer.
“When I finally remembered you, I did a little investigative work. I learned all about your little art smuggling enterprise. I’ll bet you never even realized you were working for the Israelis.”
Saeed’s mask cracked, revealing an even hotter rage beneath. “What are you saying?”
“That’s right. Your partner in the endeavor — the person who murdered Mr. Aziz and is responsible for the deaths of several American soldiers — is an agent of the Israeli intelligence service Mossad. You’ve been working for your greatest enemy.”
“You are lying.” The gun dropped imperceptibly; Saeed had almost forgotten about it.
Almost, thought Kismet. “Think about it. You controlled the largest known source of artifacts from the dynasty of Nebuchadnezzar, the Babylonian King who sacked Jerusalem and carried off the holy relics of Solomon’s Temple. Who would want that more than the Israelis? They put one of their best deep cover agents in the perfect position to help you smuggle and fence the artifacts, and in so doing, guaranteed themselves first pick. Who knows, maybe you’ve already given them the one holy relic that will rally faithful Jews around the globe for a final assault against their enemies.”