The Shroud of Heaven (20 page)

“I wouldn’t say I started it, exactly. I just sort of happened upon it.”

Chiron laid a fatherly hand on his forearm. “Nick, what really happened? Who did this?”

“I-I’m not quite sure. I have some ideas.” His gaze flashed between Chiron and Marie. “I don’t want to speculate right now.”

The old man seemed to comprehend his subtle body English. “Of course. It would serve no purpose. Besides, I’m sure your doctor wants you to rest. And perhaps eat something. Marie, be a dear and see if you can’t find something for our friend to eat. Something palatable, if at all possible. I will stay with Nick and regale him with my own adventures from this afternoon.”

Kismet could tell by her eyes that Marie was disappointed at being dismissed—and that she knew why—but managed a smile and nodded to Kismet. There was more emotion in her expression than he had previously seen, but to his chagrin, he couldn’t will himself to entertain amorous thoughts as he watched her go.

Chiron waited until the door clicked shut behind her. “Well?”

Kismet gingerly extricated himself from the bath, careful not to dislodge the intravenous line. Despite his headache, he felt a primal need to start moving again. The basin of lukewarm water, which had doubtless been instrumental in lowering his fever and probably saving his life, now seemed merely an annoyance. He wrapped the damp blanket around his torso and faced the other man. “What time is it?”

“After nineteen hundred—7:00 p.m. that is.”

He had slept almost nine hours, yet he did not feel at all rejuvenated. “A whole day lost.”

“Perhaps. But you’ve obviously been through a great deal. Rest is the best thing for you, I imagine.”

“I need to get my bag…get some fresh clothes.” He spied his ragged boots on the floor nearby. He had not thought to bring alternate footwear.

“Yes. Nick, tell me what happened. Do you know who killed Mr. Aziz? Or who it was that wanted him silenced?”

“The answer to both questions is ‘maybe’. I’m going to do some digging with respects to the identity of the killer. As to who’s behind it…” He leaned against a table edge. “As I see it, there are two possibilities. The obvious answer is that Aziz was a black marketeer, dealing in antiquities. Either he was offed by a rival, or somebody in his own organization suspected he was cooperating with us and wanted to keep him from spilling his guts.”

Chiron appeared stunned. “I had not considered that approaching him would present any sort of risk.”

“Relax. If Aziz is everything I think he was, the world is probably a better place without him. However, I said there are two possibilities, and right now I’m leaning toward the alternative.”

“And what is that?”

Kismet glanced at the door, wondering if Marie would return before he had finished explaining himself. “The killer said something to me—something that was very much like what Hauser told me, twelve years ago.”

“And that was?”

“I asked him why he didn’t kill me along with everyone else. He said that if he had killed me, my mother would have his head.”

There was a gasp. “Your mother, Nick? But I thought you never knew her?”

“I didn’t…I don’t.”

“The man that killed Aziz said this to you?”

Kismet shook his head, unintentionally aggravating the throbbing pain there. “No. Hauser said that. The…ah, guy that killed Aziz just said the he could have killed me if he had wanted to.”

Chiron began mentally arranging the puzzle pieces. “So you believe that this man Hauser, or someone like him, murdered Mr. Aziz in order to prevent him from sharing information vital to your ongoing search.”

“That pretty well sums it up. I was so close to finding a link to what happened that night, but someone got there ahead of me.”

“What will you do now?”

“I was hoping you’d know. Was Aziz the only lead you had on these Babylonian discoveries?”

“Yes.” Chiron’s reply was thoughtful and Kismet could tell he wasn’t being entirely forthcoming.

“You’re up to something, Pierre. Tell me.”

“Well, I had always recognized the possibility that Mr. Aziz would not cooperate. From the outset, I believed that we would have to go to Babylon.”

Kismet was incredulous. “What, just head out there with a shovel and start digging?”

“Something like that,” Chiron answered with a grin. “I may have to save that for a surprise, though. We’ll go as soon as you are feeling better.”

“In case you haven’t been following the news, I think I’ve pretty much worn out my welcome. Even if Colonel Buttrick doesn’t declare me
persona non grata
, I can’t see him loaning us more vehicles.”

“That won’t be a problem. The UN inspection team left behind a small fleet of Toyota Land Cruisers.”

“I heard the UN headquarters facility was looted.”

“The offices at the Canal Hotel were ransacked, but the UNMOVIC team stored most of their sensitive equipment, along with some vehicles at an industrial complex along the Hillah Road to the south. As far as I know, the location was secret and remote enough that I doubt anyone will have raided it. The only difficulty will be getting there.”

Kismet sighed resignedly, wishing he knew what scheme Chiron was hatching. “Well, I’ll ask Buttrick tomorrow. The worst thing he can say is: ‘Go to hell.’”

***

It had been a long time since Saeed had set foot in the part of the world populated by his own people. After more than a decade spent in self-imposed exile, he had grown quite fond of what some in the Islamic world labeled Western decadence. He had come to believe that nothing would ever pull him back to the hellish desert he so loathed. Nevertheless, here he was.

Damascus had the reputation of being the world’s oldest continuously inhabited city, its recorded existence dating back more than five thousand years. Saeed understood how the Syrian capital might have justified its existence in the days when trade caravans sought refuge from the bleak desert, but could not imagine why anyone would choose to continue to remain there when the need for such an oasis had been obviated by modern technology. Whatever the reason, the city certainly seemed to be showing its age, especially in the slums on the outskirts, where people lived in houses of baked clay as they had for uncounted generations.

Damn my brother for bringing me here
, he thought sourly.

He suspected that Farid was already there, hiding out somewhere to observe him surreptitiously, or perhaps simply to watch him sweat. Although he had purchased a
djellabah
—the traditional overgarment—he felt distinctly out of place. The locals had certainly noticed him A group of children had harassed him for nearly an hour before finally tiring of the game and leaving him alone. It had now grown late, but Saeed remained there sitting in the dust.

“Alms?”

Saeed did not look up. He had spied the bent form of the beggar shuffling down the street earlier and had intentionally crossed to avoid making eye contact. The mendicant had moved on, but now it seemed he had worked his way around for a second try. When he was standing directly behind Saeed, he repeated his request in a low, earnest voice, almost daring him to refuse.

Saeed’s nostrils filled with the beggar’s stench. “Go away, old man!”

Then a different voice issued from the tattered rags covering the wanderer’s head. “What a pity that you could not even find it in your heart to observe this smallest command of the Prophet.”

Saeed looked around suddenly. “Farid? Son of a whore.”

“I see that you continue to disgrace our family both in deed and word.” There was no trace of humor in the familiar voice. The beggar stood straighter, but his disguise remained otherwise intact. He was unrecognizable as Farid Tariq Al-Sharaf, even to his own brother.

Saeed scowled at the complaint. He had heard the substance of the comment too many times to count. “Spare me. I did not travel to this godforsaken place because I missed your berating comments.”

“Indeed?” Farid sat down alongside his brother. “And I had desired never to see you again. Yet at your request, I have made this difficult journey. So tell me, brother, why is it that you have left your palace of pleasure behind to visit me after so many years?”

“A matter of mutual concern has arisen—”

”I do not believe our concerns could possibly be mutual,” Farid interjected disdainfully.

“Hear me out.” Saeed took a deep breath to regain his composure. “Have you been following the news from Baghdad? There was a suicide bomb attack against the US soldiers at the airport yesterday.”

“Yes.” Farid spat in the dirt. “Fedayeen Saddam loyalists. I’m glad they failed.”

Saeed hid his disappointment at the revelation. He had believed other forces responsible for that action. “And early this morning, there was another incident near the Monument to the Unknown Soldier.”

This time he saw the reaction he had hoped for. From behind his beggar’s disguise, Farid’s face drew into a mask of rage. “Yes. One of the American devils blasphemed our holy place and killed several innocents. He then ran like a coward into the arms of the soldiers.”

“The man responsible for that atrocity and the man who thwarted the attack at the airport are the same person.”

“How do you know this?”

Saeed risked a smile. “You forget who I am, brother. I served with distinction in the Mukhabarat for many years. Gathering information is my business.”

His mention of the hated Iraqi Intelligence Service triggered another expression of contempt, but Farid withheld comment on the matter, focusing instead on the issue under consideration. “So who is he?”

“His name is not important. What is important is that I can give him to you.”

The old distrust returned. “And why would you do this? How does our struggle for justice against our enemies benefit you?”

“This man has long been an enemy of all that we regard as holy—”

“Please Saeed.” Farid’s tone and expression were sour. “You regard nothing as holy.”

“An unfortunate choice of words, perhaps. But when I left the home of our parents and strayed from the teachings of the
mullahs
, I did not cease from loving our people or from hating our enemies.”

“Nevertheless, I find it difficult to believe that you would leave your self-indulgent lifestyle behind, simply to take revenge on an enemy of our people.”

Though he was wearying of his brother’s venom, Saeed chose to answer honestly. “The truth of the matter is that this man is a direct threat to my personal interests. For some years now, I have been trading in art treasures recovered from a site near Al Hillah on behalf of our government in order to raise hard currency during the economic embargo.”

“But the embargo has ended, as also has the influence of the dictator and his agents.”

Saeed pretended not to notice the veiled insult. “True, but the demand for these antiquities remains. As you have pointed out, I enjoy my decadent lifestyle and this is how I support it. But the man we have been discussing works for a department of the United Nations dedicated to shutting down my operation. That’s why I want him dead.”

Farid smiled knowingly. “Now at last you have said something I can believe. But if you know his identity, why do you not simply kill him yourself?”

“As events have demonstrated, he is not an easy man to kill. I doubt that I could do it alone and my former comrades in the service have been scattered. I imagine many are dead or imprisoned. Moreover, my information indicates that he may be traveling to Hillah to look for the site near the ruins of Babylon. You could pass there freely with your men, whereas I might draw unwelcome attention from those who dwell there.”

Farid stroked his chin thoughtfully. Saeed now saw that much of what he had mistaken for a disguise was in fact his brother’s true appearance. The Shiite activist and sometimes resistance leader appeared unnaturally aged and haggard. Nevertheless, underneath a crust of desert-parched skin, his younger brother’s eyes burned with the zeal of a true
mujahideen
. After several silent seconds, Farid faced him once more. “Very well. I will do your dirty work, brother. However, I must ask something of you, as well.”

“I expected no less. I would be honored to contribute to your cause—”

”Your evilly acquired profits do not interest me. Rather, I wish to offer you the chance to acquit yourself of the reproach you have heaped upon our family and your own name. I want you to return with me. Stand with the warriors of God as we send this American devil back to Shaitan.”

Saeed shifted nervously. “I would gladly do as you ask, but surely your men would refuse to join company with me.” The argument, while probably true, was not his primary reason for demurring; there was no reason to burden his brother with the details.

Farid however would not be sidetracked. “They will do as I instruct. The question is, will you?”

For a moment, all Saeed could think about was the desert, and the growing certainty that he would die there, in that awful hell to which he had vowed never to return. But if Kismet was not stopped, all that he had built would crumble anyway. When he finally gave his answer, he almost could not believe what he was saying. “I will go with you, my brother. We will fight together. Death to our enemies and the enemies of God!”

***

Another nine hours of sleep, aided by a cocktail of pain relievers and sedatives, wiped away most of the lingering effects of his brush with heat exhaustion, but Kismet reckoned it would be weeks before the bruises faded and the aches subsided. When he arose from his sleeping bag to dress, he found he could barely bend his joints in order to pull on his battered boots.

He made his way through the complex, following the route that had previously led him to Colonel Buttrick’s office, but when he arrived, he found only the unpleasant Major Harp seated at the commander’s desk. The officer regarded him with a look reserved for encounters with animal excrement.

“What do you want?”

“I need to speak with Colonel Buttrick.”

Harp scowled. “He’s not here. In fact, thanks to you, he’s been sent home—relieved of his command.”