Fortune Favors (7 page)

The explosions did little to illuminate the dark woods. The canopy of overgrowth quickly eclipsed any ambient light, forcing Kismet to slow the vehicle to a crawl. He debated using the quad’s headlights, but decided that doing so would merely make him a target. Instead, he switched off the engine and let the noise of the jungle settle over him like a blanket.

“Well,” he sighed. “That didn't go too badly.”

His grin faltered as he became aware of several shapes, nothing more than silhouettes, ringing his position. A flashlight blazed in his face, blinding him momentarily, but also revealing the jungle pattern fatigues worn by the group surrounding him. He raised his hands slowly, painfully aware of the fact that the Sultana of Muara was slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“It’s okay, I’m one of the good guys.”

“Lieutenant?”

The voice was familiar, but even more so was the pronunciation of that single word. Kismet hadn’t held military rank in nearly twenty years, but in all the time he had been an officer, he had only once heard the word pronounced as “Lef-tenant.” He blinked in the direction of the voice—the man holding the light.

“Sergeant Higgins?”

Another shape interposed, stepping into the light. Kismet recognized the man from his publicity photos, but in most of those he was smiling.

“Release my wife,” demanded the Sultan. His hand rested on the grip of a holstered pistol.

Kismet eased the semi-conscious woman from her undignified perch, setting her on the rear fender of the ATV. As he did, her eyes fluttered into focus. She looked first at Kismet, and then turned slowly to face her husband. Kismet expected her to launch into some kind of conciliatory plea, but when the former actress spoke, her tone was anything but contrite.

“What are you doing,” she rasped. “He’s one of them.”

Kismet was still trying to make sense of her declaration when the Sultan drew his sidearm, thrusting it toward him. Kismet was taken aback. “Your highness?”

“I will have your head for this,” raged the Sultan.

Kismet gaped, mouthing a reply. Judging by the Sultan's fierce expression, trying to explain the facts would do little to help the situation. He decided to try a different approach.

Although the Sultan’s gun was less than a hand’s breadth from his face, Kismet launched into motion. He wrapped an arm around the Malay prince's neck, and plucked the gun from his unprepared grasp. By the time the soldiers could react, Kismet had the muzzle of the weapon buried in the Sultan's ear. “Lower your guns and move back.”

The commandos did not seem willing to relinquish their control of the situation, and Kismet could sense each man wondering if there was time to make a killing shot before the trigger could be pulled on the royal hostage.

“I mean it,” he grated, screwing the barrel deeper into the Sultan’s skull and eliciting a low cry. “Back off.”

“Do as he says.”

Kismet again recognized the voice and the distinct accent of a New Zealander. Evidently, Sergeant Alexander Higgins remained a figure of authority in whatever army he now served; as one, the commandos lowered their assault rifles until the barrels were pointing at the ground and opened a path of exit.

Kismet did not release the Sultan, but instead manhandled him away from the parked ATV and toward his intended avenue of escape. He did not offer words of thanks to Higgins; the night was still young and there remained ample opportunities for things to go wrong.

Once past the perimeter established by the ring of soldiers, he turned, backing away from them toward the tree line. The commandos hesitantly grouped together, watching him and cautiously easing forward. He took a final backward step, then propelled the Sultan into their midst. As they instinctively moved to assist the royal personage, Kismet bolted into the depths of the jungle.

The night came alive with the tumult of gunfire, and Kismet knew that the bullets zipping through the humid air, shattering bamboo poles and smacking into tree trunks were meant for him. Apparently Higgins’ orders didn’t carry that much weight after all.

He couldn’t tell if the soldiers had elected to pursue him on foot, but after an initially fierce fusillade, their guns fell silent and the sounds of the jungle enveloped him completely.

There was no way he could have heard the barely whispered parting words as he vanished into the night.

“Good luck, mate.”

THREE

By the time the Sultan of Muara arrived back at the cruise ship bearing the name and flag of his small country, repairs to her breached hull were well underway. Dead in the water since the sabotage of her computerized systems by pirate agents posing as members of the crew, the ship faced only minimal danger from the gaping wound. As a precaution, the chief engineer had dumped enough ballast to lift the holed section away from the waterline to mitigate the risk of inundation, and it had not been necessary to abandon the vessel. Nevertheless, most of the passengers had elected to depart, at least temporarily, the idea of a long ocean voyage having lost its appeal. The Sultan likewise decided to leave the ship, claiming that the act of piracy and the near-fatal kidnapping of his beloved wife had created a domestic crisis which necessitated his remaining in the Sultanate.

Over the next twenty-four hours however, the situation improved remarkably. The repairs were completed—not simply a patch to cripple the ship into port, but a seaworthy reconstitution of the hull. The only indication of the damage was the flat gray of the primer coat used to protect the welded steel plates from rapid oxidation in the salty air, and even that distinction was scheduled to be addressed by maintenance crews at the next major port of call. The sabotage to the engine room and the ship’s computer were likewise repaired in short order, and the craft was deemed ready for service before the fall of the next evening.

There were many reasons why it was important for
The Star of Muara
to be restored to active status as quickly as possible. Several of the antiquities in the collection were too large or fragile to be moved while the ship remained on the high seas; it was this very fact that had protected them from the greed of the pirates. An overriding concern however was giving the appearance that no crime or act of terrorism could prevent the success of the exhibition. It was an important psychological message to the world; if the cruise could be thwarted, what next? Only by demonstrating that everything was back to normal, that the hijacking had been merely an inconvenience, could the sponsors of the Muara exhibition hope to return a profit. Of course that normalcy would be an illusion. The already impressive security force was tripled, even though at the time no one but the crew remained aboard, and they were all undergoing an intense, if somewhat tardy, vetting process.

The next step in establishing that everything was back on track was to begin returning guests to the ship. Fully two-thirds declined the invitation, despite a number of incentives. But for every current passenger unwilling to return, there were ten thrill-seekers from every part of the world who were eager to book passage on what the news media had begun calling “The Pirate Cruise.”

The last of a long procession of helicopter shuttle flights touched down shortly after midnight. The pilot dutifully opened the rear door for his passengers, urging them to exit cautiously as they passed beneath the still spinning rotor blades, and then set about collecting their luggage. Burdened as he was with a double armful of suitcases and garment bags, he left the cargo door open and he hastened toward a pair of stewards who waited a safe distance from the aircraft. Neither the pilot, nor the stewards saw a dark-clad figure slip from the belly of the helicopter and melt into the shadows. Nevertheless, Nick Kismet’s return to
The Star of Muara
did not go completely unnoticed.

* * *

From the moment he escaped into the jungle, Kismet had operated under the assumption that the Sultan’s pronouncement of his death sentence ought to be taken at face value. As the sovereign ruler of the tiny kingdom, the man quite literally had the authority to call for a summary execution, and no amount of legal posturing would prevent a dutiful palace guard from carrying out the order. It was of course entirely possible that the facts of the matter had come to light but he wasn’t about to risk exposure until he was certain of it.

His decision to return to the ship had been more a matter of convenience than a thoughtfully arrived at strategy. Escaping from Borneo by any other means would have meant days of hardship and fugitive wandering through one of the most untamed places on Earth. In contrast, the cruise ship was a bastion of twenty-first century technology where he would quickly be able to affirm his innocence and arrange asylum should the worst-case scenario play out. It also seemed like the last place anyone would think to look for him.

From the helipad, he made his way into the ship proper, ducking into one of the common rooms where he made a mostly futile attempt to brush away the stains and wrinkles that permanently marred the fabric of his dinner jacket. He considered stuffing the soiled garment in a refuse bin, but unfortunately he had left his shirt at Jin’s fortress, still wrapped around the grappling hook.

Although it was nominally a party-ship, the atmosphere aboard was restrained. Where only a day before, wealthy debutantes had wandered the decks with cocktails in hand, this night found the ship seemingly deserted. As if observing an informal curfew, the passengers had retired early, leaving only a scattering of crewmembers roaming the decks. With the aid of a convenient fire-escape route map, Kismet plotted a course to a nearby lounge, intent on quieting the ravenous beast in his belly and soothing his strained nerves with a drink. Upon entering the salon however, he stopped dead in his tracks.

The small dining area was adjacent to one of the antiquities exhibits, and the lounge looked like the headquarters of a paramilitary operation. No less than a dozen men in navy blue fatigues and black berets, openly wearing holstered automatic pistols, were scattered throughout the room. Almost as one, their eyes swung to greet this latecomer.

His hesitation was only momentary, but when he started into motion again, he felt their scrutiny slice through him like laser beams. He fought the impulse to turn and flee, and instead strode to the bar. If he was indeed on some kind of watch list, then it was already too late; no sense in wasting the opportunity for a final drink before being hauled off in irons. But a second glance as he slid into one of the swiveling chairs revealed that the security guards had lost interest in him. Kismet breathed a sigh of relief and nodded to the bartender. “Macallan, neat. Better make it a double.”

The server quickly decanted a large portion of Scotch Whisky into a tumbler and set it before him with a knowing smile. Kismet savored a mouthful of the peaty spirits then decided to press his luck a bit further. “This is kind of embarrassing, but I seem to have misplaced my key, and I can’t remember what my room number is.”

“No problem, sir.” He picked up a telephone and punched a three-digit code. “Name?”

Kismet tried to sound casual as he supplied the information, then took another sip of his drink while the bartender relayed the information. After a moment, he hung up and turned back to Kismet. “Good news. The purser will bring a replacement key card for you, straightaway.”

Kismet weighed the response and decided it concealed nothing sinister. “Thanks. Now, what are my chances of getting something to eat?”

* * *

Rather than wait at the bar for the purser’s arrival, Kismet took up his Scotch and wandered toward the entrance to the exhibit. If his fugitive crisis was indeed over, he was going to have to turn his attention back to the matter that had brought him here in the first place. Oddly enough, he found comfort in the thought, as if in so doing he might somehow delete the events of the past day from memory.

Yet something about the incident nagged at him, like a tiny sliver of metal lodged in the skin of his subconscious. He could still see it in his mind’s eye; a stone prism etched with tiny lines of cuneiform. Why had Jin’s pirates chosen that piece?

The prism was almost certainly one of the pieces looted from Iraq in the days leading up to the 2003 invasion that had ousted the regime of Saddam Hussein. Shortly thereafter, Kismet, in concert with French authorities, had raided the operation of a former Iraqi intelligence officer who had opened a pipeline of looted antiquities during the 1990’s to establish an alternate source of revenue to offset the crippling economic sanctions imposed by Western nations. The evidence gathered at the man’s villa in Nice indicated that more than a few items had found their way into the Sultan’s collection.

There was no denying that the piece had a reliable pedigree. The circumstances surrounding its removal from its country of origin might even have added to its value as a curiosity, but it remained just that: a curiosity. Kismet could not fathom why the pirates had elected to liberate it along with the other relics; had it simply been a target of opportunity?

The artifacts had been grouped according to country of origin, and as he neared the section which housed the art of Mesopotamia, he was dismayed to find that he was not alone in seeking out the prism.

The man was tall, and would have seemed gaunt if not for the luxurious silver mane that framed his angular face—a countenance that appeared too youthful for a man gone completely gray. His clothing was nondescript; the dark trousers and a blousy black shirt might have been the attire of an off duty waiter. His left hand held a notebook in which he was painstakingly copying lines from the prism, and the middle finger of his right, which held the pen, was adorned with a gaudy, gem-encrusted ring. Impulsively, Kismet tried to get a better look at the ring, and in so doing, drew attention to his presence. The tall man inclined his head in a polite nod, revealing eyes the color of gypsum, then returned to his labor.