Into the Black (3 page)

"We need to talk," he said in a low voice.

"No talk," declared the Fat Man.  "Buy the statue now or she dies.  That is a promise, Kismet.  And might I add that it would also be to your own advantage to act quickly."

Kismet glanced from Lyse to the Fat Man, then back again, trying to read the intent on their faces.  Someone was trying to con him, but who was the mastermind: the Fat Man or Lyse?  There had been times during the course of their relationship when she had delighted in pranks, twisting him around her little finger, but nothing like this.

He was sure of one thing.  The Fat Man was not going to let them just walk away.  It was time to take the initiative.  Hefting the statue casually, he faced their corpulent host.  "Well, I don't actually have that much cash with me.  Do you take American Express?"

The Fat Man gazed back, incredulous.  Kismet grinned, and then burst into motion.  Turning on his heel, he swung the statue like a club, catching the bodyguard Tariq in the jaw.  The big Moor collapsed backward, dazed but not unconscious.

"Nick, what are you doing?" shrieked Lyse.

As the remaining guard reached for his gun, Kismet hurled the statue at him.  The artifact caught the man in the elbow, and his pistol tumbled from his grasp.  Kismet leapt across the room, laying the stunned man out with a haymaker punch.  Now nothing stood between him and the exit.

Lyse seemed to be frozen to the spot where she stood.  Her eyes flashed around the room, glancing rapidly at the Fat Man and the bodyguards, but then her gaze settled upon the golden statue where it lay.

"Are you coming?" growled Kismet.

The Fat Man suddenly began crying out for help, but did not move to hinder either of them.  Lyse overcame her shock and dashed across the room, pausing only to scoop up the fallen relic.

"Lyse, that statue—" He was unable to finish the sentence as Tariq got to his feet and charged.  Lyse's small form darted through the beaded curtain, leaving him to face the wrath of the bodyguards alone.  Rather than attempt to match the big man in hand-to-hand combat, he simply stepped aside at the last minute, sweeping out with his foot out to hook Tariq's ankle.  The big man plunged headlong into the wall, and Kismet vaulted over him in pursuit of his old flame.

He caught up to her at the front entrance where she was panting to catch her breath.  A dark shape rested on a table beside the door; his waist pack waiting right where he had left it after entering the Fat Man's lair.  He looped the buckled strap over his head so that it hung from his shoulder like a satchel, then took hold of Lyse's arm and dragged her out into the street.

"Which way?" she asked, her breathing almost normal again.

Kismet shrugged then chose to follow the street to the right, toward the fading glow of the sunset.  The main
suuq
, the
Djemaa el-Fna
, lay in that direction.  The crowded marketplace would provide ample opportunity to blend in and escape spying eyes.  A moment later Tariq and his companion burst from the house and gave chase.

The streets were narrow, the two and three story buildings seeming to fold over on top of them like a subterranean passageway.  He knew that these streets, like some of the forgotten places he had explored in his search for answers about the strange mystery of his life, formed a daunting maze full of dead ends and unpleasant surprises.

As they rounded a corner, Kismet saw that the street ahead was partially blocked; a forest-green Range Rover was parked at an angle to effectively limit access to the avenue.  A Caucasian man leaned against the front fender of the vehicle, idly smoking a cigarette and shooing off beggars and children as thought they were flies, with a dismissive smoky wave.  When he caught sight of Kismet and Lyse running toward him the half-finished butt fell from his fingers.

A commotion erupted behind them as Tariq, his companion and several other men—undoubtedly the Fat Man's domestic staff—burst out onto the street, shouting angrily and scanning in all directions to locate the fleeing duo. Kismet glanced at them then returned his gaze forward, focused on darting past the parked vehicle.  He almost failed to notice the bystander withdrawing a handgun from a concealed holster.

"Jesus," he gasped, whirling in mid-step and all but tackling Lyse in his haste to seek cover.  He knew the gesture was futile.  At less than ten paces, the man with the pistol could cut them to ribbons.  As Lyse went down, barely aware of the new threat, the golden statue tumbled from her grasp.  The relic clanked loudly on the brick surface of the street and rolled a few feet away.  In his peripheral vision, Kismet saw her struggling to retrieve it.

"Lyse, that thing is—"

The gun spoke.  Loud explosions echoed in the narrow confines of the street as the forty-five-caliber pistol discharged several times into the air over their heads.  The man continued to pump bullets, not at the hapless pair on the ground, but into the crowd of men pursuing them.  Several of the shots found their mark; Kismet heard cries of pain and cursing as the mob scattered, seeking the cover of doorways and debris.  He knew it would not be long before Tariq and his cohorts returned fire, with himself and Lyse caught in the middle.

Why the motorist had come to their assistance, Kismet could not fathom, but when he looked up, he found the man gesturing for them to get in the Range Rover.  Kismet nodded, and tried to crawl toward the vehicle, but his left ankle seemed rooted in place.  He looked back and found Lyse clutching his foot.

"No, Nick.  This way."  She jumped up, the golden calf tucked under her arm, and began running back the way they had come.

"Lyse!  What the hell--?"  Kismet gaped in amazement as she threaded the gauntlet seemingly unnoticed by the Fat Man's mob, which apparently had more pressing concerns.  He turned back to the pistol-wielding motorist, and found that the man's expression was no longer that of an eager rescuer. A muscle in the gunman's face had begun to twitch with rising ire, leading Kismet to believe that perhaps Lyse had made the correct decision after all.  "Oh," he muttered, then took off running.

As he darted through the huddled group of men that had now given up pursuit, he heard the motorist barking orders in German.  He risked a rearward glance and found that the fellow had not come to the street alone.  Several men wearing casual Western attire materialized from the rear of the vehicle and took up the chase.  Kismet swung his eyes forward, straining to catch a glimpse of Lyse, and poured on a burst of speed.  Behind him the concussions of pistol fire resumed, but now the shooting was from both parties; a small war had begun in the street outside the Fat Man's house.  Sparks danced on the walls to either side telling Kismet that although he was no longer the primary target, he was still in grave danger of catching a stray bullet.  Lysette was nowhere to be seen.

"Ni-i-ick!"

The cry for help came from up ahead and to the left. Kismet spied an intersecting street and darted down it, leaving the firefight behind.  When he turned the corner, he skidded to a halt.

An old beggar, eyes staring blankly in apparent blindness, sat with his back to one wall, oblivious to the violence a block away.  He held a long rod in his fingers, and a straw basket lay before him, its lid resting against his knee.

Lyse was not looking at the beggar, but at his pet, an Egyptian Cobra which hovered in the center of the street, swaying dangerously from left to right, signaling its clear intent that no one would pass unmolested.  The toothless mendicant cackled beside them, mocking their fear as he waved the oblong rod toward them.  It was a flute, a snake charmer's horn.  If they were to pass by, they would have to give alms and wait for him to play his tune.

"Lyse," muttered Kismet  from the corner of his mouth. "Pay the nice man."

"Me?  I don't have any money.  You pay him."

"Oh, for crying out loud." He fumbled for his waist pack, but the intensity of the cobra's stare was hypnotic, depriving him of volition.

On the avenue they had left behind, an ominous silence settled.  The shooting had ceased; the battle was over.  The victorious party, whichever it was, would soon remember the original purpose for venturing into the streets of the old city.  Kismet knew that time was running out.  Biting his lip, he tried to force his eyelids down in order to break visual contact with the viper, but they conspired against him; his fear of what the cobra might do if he looked away nearly overpowered his will to even blink.  At last succeeding, he turned his head toward Lyse.

She too was transfixed by the cobra's stare.  Kismet kept his gaze focused, refusing to believe the hysterical delusions and visual tricks that were being played in the corner of his eye.  His rational mind knew that the cobra was not slithering closer even though every nerve in his body screamed that it was.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached out for Lyse's arm and plucked the golden statue from her grasp.  Before she could protest, Kismet whirled and tossed the relic into the beggar's basket.  The old fellow nodded his head appreciatively and raised the flute to his lips.

"Nick, no!"  Lyse leaped into motion. She crossed in front of him and reached for the basket.

"Lyse, it's a—" Kismet fell silent as he saw the snake move.  He knew that this time what he saw was no hallucination.

The cobra knew its responsibility to its master.  Once something went into the basket, it became the old man's property.  Theft was to be punished.  With the swiftness of a lightning strike, its fangs bared and oozing venom, the snake darted for her outstretched arm.

Kismet was faster.  He instinctively stabbed out his right hand and plucked the animal out of the air, arresting its deadly strike, and suddenly found himself gripping the business end of a six foot length of squirming reptile.

He squeezed the serpent just behind the curl of its jaw, clenching his teeth in frustration as the snake writhed and coiled about him, hissing angrily.  When the viper finally succumbed to captivity, Kismet turned slowly toward the old man and with a weak pitch tossed the cobra away.

Lyse was stunned by the sequence of events, all of which had transpired in the space of a heartbeat.  With a more subdued manner, she retrieved the statue.  "Let's get out of here."

Armed men appeared in the vacant space behind them, communicating with each other in Teutonic barks.  Lyse grabbed his arm, breaking the spell, and they took off running.  If the cobra had any sort of ego to bruise, it recovered quickly and slithered back into the street to waylay the next group of passers-by.

At the end of the street, Lyse ran to the right with Kismet on her heels.  She continued to chart a haphazard course through the labyrinth, leading them into a more heavily populated area—one of the many
suuqs
, or covered marketplaces that dotted the city.  Kismet was completely turned around now and the growing darkness added to his anxiety.  He knew they needed to slow down, get their bearings, but the unknown pursuers were relentless.  By fair means or foul, they had quickly dealt with the snake charmer and remained never more than half a block away.  One wrong turn into a cul-de-sac might prove fatal.  There would be no second chances.

Lyse dashed into a narrow recess, and when Kismet followed, he found himself in near total darkness.  He heard strange noises in the pitch black ahead, and sensed that something disastrous had befallen his companion.

"Lyse?"

"Nick."  The response was weak, sounding almost distant.  It seemed to come from ground level, only a few steps away, but was muffled, as though from a tomb.  Kismet advanced cautiously.

His right foot came down on nothing and without warning he plunged forward.  His shoulders struck rotted wood as he plummeted into an unseen abyss, and an instant later he was laying face down in something hot and moist.  He sat up, shaking his head to clear the sense of dislocation.  Then the stench hit him.

"Ohhhh...shit." Fighting back the urge to inhale, he began wiping the streaks of offending matter away from his mouth and nose.

"Nick, is that you?  I think we fell into a sewer tunnel."

"You noticed that?" he replied irritably.  His only pleasure was in the secret knowledge that if he found the situation—euphemistically speaking—unpleasant, then Lyse, whom he had known to refuse to even enter public restrooms, must have thought she'd died and gone to hell.

Somewhere high above them an opening had been made in the street, guarded only by a simple wooden barricade, affording access to one of the sewer tunnels, which, despite being a relic of another age, still serviced the city above.  In any other circumstances he might have found this turn of events amusing, but sitting in rotting human waste soured his sense of humor.

Kismet opened his pack and began sorting through its contents with his fingertips.  He could feel the broad outline of his
kukri
knife, sheathed in a traditional scabbard of wood and leather that was integrated into the custom-made bag.  He then encountered the solid composite frame of his Glock 17 automatic pistol, but pushed past it as well. His fingers settled momentarily on an envelope, thick with a bundle of paper—nearly one hundred thousand dollars in American Express travelers checques, which he had brought along in the event that Lyse's artifact had proved worth purchasing. At last he found the object of his search, the long black metal tube of a MagLite LED flashlight.  He took it out and pressed the sealed rubber button that protected the switch.

A beam of light pierced the steamy atmosphere, picking out a random spot on the curved sewer walls.  Kismet swung the beam around until he located his companion.  She seemed less beautiful in that moment, up to her elbows in the muck, searching for something.

"For God's sake, Lyse.  That statue is a—"

Another shaft of illumination stabbed down into the shadows between them.  Kismet swung his own light up and found the hole through which he and Lyse had fallen, fifteen feet overhead, now ringed by hard looking faces.  Two of the men held high-intensity flashlights similar to his own.  Another, the motorist with the pistol, pointed down at Kismet and barked a command in German.  The men looked back hesitantly, but Kismet knew that eventually he and Lyse would have the pleasure of their company in the reeking passage.