Fortune Favors (3 page)

And then he had died.

The heir to the wealth of Muara, the royal prince, had often demonstrated that he lacked his father’s fiscal discretion but the state-run oil industry was virtually self-perpetuating, so there seemed to be no reason for alarm. The former Sultan had hired the best business managers and paid them well, and they in turn had created a sustainable pipeline of wealth for the small country. The new Sultan, now approaching his thirtieth year of life, needed only to sit back with his American movie star wife, and enjoy the good life for the rest of his years.

Somehow, the young Sultan had done the impossible: he had squandered his father’s legacy. Five years after the death of the old Sultan, the royal house of Muara was bankrupt.

The oil had continued to flow unchecked from the earth’s veins, but the wealth of Muara had hemorrhaged even faster, financing the Sultan’s outrageous parties, expensive hobbies and extravagant gifts to friends and mistresses. It was rumored that guests to the royal residence could have their choice of carnal pleasures, including cocaine and heroine of such purity that doses were regulated and administered by a registered nurse.

The approaching storm had not gone unnoticed; several members of the household staff had openly warned the heir that the wealth of his father was not an unlimited resource. Rather than heeding the message, the Sultan had followed the time-honored tradition of killing the messenger. The staff was relieved of their duties and replaced; the business and financial advisors were dismissed and their jobs given to several of the new Sultan’s friends. Silencing the voices of dissent however could not change the inevitable outcome, and a mere sixty months after his ascension to the throne of Muara, the checks began bouncing.

His newfound friends may not have offered the Sultan worthwhile advice, but they certainly had the wherewithal to get out before the collapse of the kingdom. Stunned at the disappearance of both his riches and his associates, the Sultan had at last turned to the advisors trusted by his father, begging for their help in saving the kingdom. Because they were men of conscience, and recognized that there was more at stake than merely the Sultan’s standard of living, the advisors resumed their duties, laboring feverishly to salvage the wreck of Muara.

It was determined that the oil revenues would be sufficient to bring the Sultanate back into solvency in less than a decade, but that did not take into account the day to day operations of the kingdom. Nor did it address a growing threat from Muara’s neighbor, and chief debtor, Malaysia. The government in Kuala Lumpur was already making overtures to bring the sovereign nation permanently into its fold. If Muara did not allow annexation and could not pay its debts, the Malaysian government would place a lien against any profits from the sale of petroleum in order to pay the interest on the Sultan’s loans, keeping the country indefinitely in the red. What was needed, the financial ministers decided, was a rapid infusion of cash.

The old Sultan’s collection of antiquities had not completely survived the appetites of his heir and the latter’s friends. Several baubles of precious metals and jewels had been gifted to young ladies in exchange for a few hours of entertainment, and several other smaller curiosities of indeterminate value had likewise disappeared. Nevertheless, the bulk of the collection remained intact, an assemblage of artifacts each deservingly appraised as priceless. Yet the Sultan could not sell a single piece.

Although his father had been discreet in acquiring the antiquities, the existence of his private museum was nonetheless well known by those who enforced the laws governing the international art trade. As long as the treasures remained on the soil of a sovereign nation, no one could touch them. But a potential buyer had to face the very real possibility that law enforcement agents from any of a number of national and international bodies would be waiting to seize the relics should they leave the country, and perhaps arrest the purchaser as well.

At last, one of the Sultan’s advisors had hit upon a solution that satisfied not only the letter of the law, but also guaranteed the future of Muara. The treasures of the kingdom would be put on display, touring the world on a floating museum, during which time every nation with a reasonable claim to individual artifacts would be able to make their case for rightful ownership. At the end of a two-year circumnavigation, the collection would be broken and distributed accordingly. Not only would Muara receive a modest finder’s fee, but a percentage of profits from the tour and merchandising would also pour into the emptied treasury. It was a gamble to be sure, but for the young Sultan facing the dissolution of his kingdom, it was the only option.

The oversight of the world tour and the legal proceedings that would determine ownership of the relics fell to the only body capable of maintaining a semblance of objectivity: the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural, Organization’s Global Heritage Commission. Each member nation sent their representatives to begin the tedious process, commencing immediately after the gala opening of the exhibit which was housed aboard
The Star of Muara
. As the Global Heritage Commission liaison to the United States of America, Nick Kismet was the lucky winner of an all-expenses paid cruise in the South China Sea.

The ship was easily distinguishable in the descending darkness. Its decks were strung with lights, causing it to resemble nothing less than an enormous funeral pyre in the middle of the ocean. Kismet cringed as that image sprang unbidden into his imagination; he tried to think of the lights in a more festive setting and failing that, he simply looked away, which was harder than it seemed. The eye was naturally drawn to the overwhelming light source as a moth to a flame. He turned his head away, deliberately gazing out into the darkest part of the sea.

Kismet’s interest in the relics of ancient history was relatively new. Although he had studied world history extensively during his college education, his personal agenda had very little to do with solving the mysteries of another age. Kismet was interested in solving  more contemporary enigma.

Many years earlier, a much younger Kismet had gone into the desert and everything about his life had changed. A junior officer with Army Intelligence, on the eve of Desert Storm, he had been sent on a mission which he believed to be simply the rescue of a defector who wanted to escape from Iraq. Instead, he had witnessed the curtain being thrown back on a conspiracy that seemed inextricably linked with the legendary treasures of the ancient world, and more importantly with his own life. After escaping the desert crucible, he had finished his education in international law and taken a job with UNESCO’s Global Heritage Commission, from which vantage point, he had been able to maintain a vigil on the world of antiquities, watching and waiting for the conspiracy to reveal itself once more. Although he had found nothing conclusive, it had certainly proven to be an interesting career choice.

The dark water offered little insight into these ruminations, but was a welcome change from the gaudy shipboard lights. Kismet’s dread of the days that lay ahead was returning. He didn’t have the patience for a life of leisure; the thought of sipping cocktails poolside filled him with dread...

His brow creased as he caught a glimpse of something moving in the distance. He squinted, trying to bring the object into focus, but the ambient light in the interior of the helicopter confounded the attempt. All he could make out was a series of white streaks on the surface of the distant sea; half a dozen parallel white lines clawing across the velvet darkness. He blinked away the mild headache of eyestrain, and returned his gaze to the front of the aircraft. They were nearly there.

Up close, the lights of
The Star of Muara
seemed more benign. As the JetRanger flared above the helipad just aft of the towering smokestack, a score of party-goers on a nearby deck welcomed its arrival with pointing fingers and curious stares, doubtless wondering what celebrity was about to grace their presence, but Kismet also saw two other men dressed in dark suits, who did not gawk drunkenly at the approaching aircraft. Instead, their eyes roved methodically back and forth, constantly scanning the decks and passengers, with no trace of awe. Kismet figured them for security guards.

The pilot rattled off instructions for safe egress as the rotor blades began to slow; the operators of the air charter service weren’t about to take any chances with their high-profile guests. Kismet sat patiently and waited his turn. From his brightly lit vantage, the sea was all but invisible. There was no sign of the white lines he had glimpsed from the air.

Including the crew, there were over five hundred people aboard
The Star of Muara
. A handful, like Kismet, were there for official purposes, but most were celebrity guests, taking advantage of the high-profile exhibit to keep their faces fresh in the minds of the adoring public. In turn, their presence elevated the notoriety of the traveling exhibit, drawing the interest of people who otherwise would not think of setting foot in a museum. It was a symbiotic relationship, based ultimately on the fickle values of the masses. It also greatly increased the threat level.

Immediately after leaving the aircraft, Kismet separated himself from the throng and made his way along the deck toward the stern of the pleasure craft. The superstructure of the cruise ship rode high above the sea, and its hull that was practically a sheer vertical wall all the way down to the waterline. Kismet estimated a four-story plunge awaited anyone unlucky enough to fall from her lowest open deck; boarding the craft from a smaller vessel would be virtually impossible. Nevertheless, Kismet found his unease growing. He was certain that the parallel lines he had witnessed from the air were caused by high-speed watercraft closing in on the cruise liner; boats that were running without any lights.

He scoured the dark horizon for any sign of the approaching armada, but could distinguish nothing. He cupped his hand over one ear, listening for the whine of what he knew must be powerful outboard motors, but heard only sounds of merriment.

“Jumping at shadows,” he murmured, turning away from the railing. Even so, he decided a visit to the ship’s bridge was in order. He had only taken a few steps toward his goal when the noise of the party was suddenly punctuated by the distinctive crack of gunfire.

The sound was muted by the layers of steel comprising the deck plates and bulkheads of the cruise liner. It might have been easy to mistake the noise for fireworks but for the sudden shrieks of terrified passengers. But the noise was repeated a moment later, and Kismet knew his first guess was correct.

He ducked instinctively, trying to present as small a target as possible, even while scanning the deck for some sign of a hostile presence. Seeing no one, friend or foe, he crept silently ahead.

When traveling, Kismet always brought his personal sidearm, a Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol, and the
kukri
knife he had carried since that fateful night in the desert when the Gurkha blade had been his weapon of last resort. This venture was no exception to that basic rule of preparedness, but he had made the error of assuming nothing dire would occur in the minutes following his arrival aboard the ocean liner. His weapons were safely tucked inside a suitcase, which was probably en route from the helicopter to his cabin. His sole remaining means of defense—or attack—was his Benchmade 53 Marlowe Bali-Song knife. The Bali-Song butterfly knife design was different than an ordinary pocket knife where the blade folded into the side of hand grip. The Bali-Song handle was split lengthwise, and the blade rotated on two pivot points out of the grooved channels on either side. In skilled hands, it could be deployed almost as quickly as a switchblade. Kismet could hold his own with the Bali-Song, but he was also a believer in the axiom of not bringing a knife to a gunfight. Nevertheless, he held the unopened folding knife in his right fist, and continued forward stealthily.

He felt a faint tremor pass through the deck, and recognized that the ship was no longer surging ahead at a steady twenty-five knots. In fact, just over the barely audible thrum of the engines, Kismet could hear the rushing sound of water being agitated at the stern—someone had reversed the engines, slowing
The Star of Muara
’s forward progress.

It seemed inconceivable that in just the short time since Kismet’s arrival, the small flotilla of watercraft he had witnessed closing in on the cruise ship had managed to come alongside, putting a crew of raiders aboard to overrun the decks and seize either the bridge or the engine room. In fact, he realized, it was impossible. Those boats could not have been fast enough to execute such a takeover, leaving only one unarguable conclusion: the impending assault on
The Star of Muara
was being aided by someone already on board.

Kismet heard a loud clanking noise behind his position, and turned to find what looked like a small ship’s anchor hooked over the deck railing and trailing a thick rope down into the sea. The noise was repeated as several more grappling hooks arced over the rail, falling into place along the metal barrier.

He crept forward and peeked over the edge at the boarding party. Two shapes were visible in the water directly below—fast-hulled jet boats, commonly known as cigarettes—matching the speed of the larger vessel as its mass carried it forward despite the reversal of her screws. In addition to the pilot helming each cigarette boat, there were ten armed men, five per boat, now attempting to make the four story ascent to the deck. Despite the awkwardness of the rope scaling ladders attached to the grappling hooks, the intruders were making nimble progress. Kismet was going to have company in a matter of seconds.

He resisted an impulse to cut nearest line. Doing so would only have served to attract the attention of the men below, and Kismet doubted even the razor sharp edge of the Bali-Song could slice through all the thick ropes in time. Instead, he melted back into the darkness, waiting for a better opportunity.