Read Online Fortune Favors by Sean Ellis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sean Ellis
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Fiction & Literature, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Action Suspense
Ads: Link
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 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
Similar Books
