accommodating officer had looked upon the request as good public relations. Nevertheless, Kismet wondered if someone like Major Harp would have been as quick to send the request up the chain of command. Afterward, Kismet had headed back to the GHC office to pass along the good news.
He had found Marie sitting silently in the sparsely furnished office, reviewing maps of the city. “Where is Pierre?”
She raised a finger to her meticulously painted lips, then pointed to a dark corner where lay a shapeless cloth mass: a sleeping bag, presumably with Chiron inside. “He was tired,” she whispered.
Kismet could tell she was being diplomatic. Chiron had been inebriated at their parting—too much wine, drunk too fast—and had likely passed out the moment he lay down. For his own part, the Pinot Noir had left him with a mild headache. He nodded deferentially, then went to find some water.
“Monsieur…Nick.”
Mildly surprised that she had initiated communication, he had turned. “Yes?”
She had crossed the room silently and now stood only a step away. Her expression had changed somehow—nothing more than a relaxing of her disdainful jaw line—but the effect was irresistible. “Did you save any wine for me?”
Although he had not, the ice was nonetheless broken. They had stayed up longer than Kismet intended, talking about their respective tasks with the Global Heritage Commission and how they had each met up with Pierre Chiron. The discussion had then turned to a shared concern regarding the older man’s mental status. Marie had not known him prior to Collette’s death and therefore was unaware of the severe change that his unresolved grief had brought about, but his decline even in the brief time she had known him was impossible to ignore.
Eventually, the conversation had faltered. Kismet’s initial reticence had been swept away by her charm, all the more so because he had not anticipated being attracted to her, but there was a limit to what could be accomplished in a single evening. She was curious about his motives, about his personal stake in uncovering the source of the black market artifacts, and that was something he was not prepared to reveal. Even Chiron, the man who had been like a second father to him, barely knew the half. As she probed his defenses, he had begged off, once more citing the cumulative effects of jet lag, and bade her goodnight. Only a dozen paces separated their sleeping areas, and while nothing more was said, he remained acutely aware of her nearness until fatigue finally overcame him.
Reflecting on the pleasantness of the night before was a welcome distraction from the brief journey into the city. The anxiety of the soldiers escorting them was a constant reminder that they were heading into a potentially hostile area. Each of the soldiers carried an M4 carbine along with an assortment of other personal weapons but the Humvee turrets, which were capable of supporting numerous heavy weapon systems, remained sealed. Kismet understood the logic behind this decision. Openly displayed .50 caliber machine guns would have sent the wrong message in a city where the US military was trying to project a benevolent presence. It was a command-level decision, not necessarily supported by the soldiers on the ground, who felt rather like they were being sent into a potentially dangerous situation with one hand tied behind their backs.
Kismet was also armed, though the handgun in his waist pack—a lightweight Glock 19, semi-automatic pistol—was hardly the weapon of choice for a combat zone. In addition to the gun he carried a kukri knife, likewise secured in the small nylon pack he wore around his waist. The heavy chopping knife, with its distinctive boomerang-shaped thirty-centimeter-long blade was a tangible link to the events that had changed his life twelve years previously. The blade had been offered as a token of respect, but before that night had ended, Kismet had been forced to use the
He had found Marie sitting silently in the sparsely furnished office, reviewing maps of the city. “Where is Pierre?”
She raised a finger to her meticulously painted lips, then pointed to a dark corner where lay a shapeless cloth mass: a sleeping bag, presumably with Chiron inside. “He was tired,” she whispered.
Kismet could tell she was being diplomatic. Chiron had been inebriated at their parting—too much wine, drunk too fast—and had likely passed out the moment he lay down. For his own part, the Pinot Noir had left him with a mild headache. He nodded deferentially, then went to find some water.
“Monsieur…Nick.”
Mildly surprised that she had initiated communication, he had turned. “Yes?”
She had crossed the room silently and now stood only a step away. Her expression had changed somehow—nothing more than a relaxing of her disdainful jaw line—but the effect was irresistible. “Did you save any wine for me?”
Although he had not, the ice was nonetheless broken. They had stayed up longer than Kismet intended, talking about their respective tasks with the Global Heritage Commission and how they had each met up with Pierre Chiron. The discussion had then turned to a shared concern regarding the older man’s mental status. Marie had not known him prior to Collette’s death and therefore was unaware of the severe change that his unresolved grief had brought about, but his decline even in the brief time she had known him was impossible to ignore.
Eventually, the conversation had faltered. Kismet’s initial reticence had been swept away by her charm, all the more so because he had not anticipated being attracted to her, but there was a limit to what could be accomplished in a single evening. She was curious about his motives, about his personal stake in uncovering the source of the black market artifacts, and that was something he was not prepared to reveal. Even Chiron, the man who had been like a second father to him, barely knew the half. As she probed his defenses, he had begged off, once more citing the cumulative effects of jet lag, and bade her goodnight. Only a dozen paces separated their sleeping areas, and while nothing more was said, he remained acutely aware of her nearness until fatigue finally overcame him.
Reflecting on the pleasantness of the night before was a welcome distraction from the brief journey into the city. The anxiety of the soldiers escorting them was a constant reminder that they were heading into a potentially hostile area. Each of the soldiers carried an M4 carbine along with an assortment of other personal weapons but the Humvee turrets, which were capable of supporting numerous heavy weapon systems, remained sealed. Kismet understood the logic behind this decision. Openly displayed .50 caliber machine guns would have sent the wrong message in a city where the US military was trying to project a benevolent presence. It was a command-level decision, not necessarily supported by the soldiers on the ground, who felt rather like they were being sent into a potentially dangerous situation with one hand tied behind their backs.
Kismet was also armed, though the handgun in his waist pack—a lightweight Glock 19, semi-automatic pistol—was hardly the weapon of choice for a combat zone. In addition to the gun he carried a kukri knife, likewise secured in the small nylon pack he wore around his waist. The heavy chopping knife, with its distinctive boomerang-shaped thirty-centimeter-long blade was a tangible link to the events that had changed his life twelve years previously. The blade had been offered as a token of respect, but before that night had ended, Kismet had been forced to use the
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