The hall was empty.
He caught a glimpse of the killer’s loose robes, fluttering through the doorway like a bird taking to flight, and decisively gave chase. After crossing the hall, he vaulted over the still-twitching form of Aziz, and was just in time to see the assassin’s back disappear into a gallery to his right. With the pistol outstretched before him, he gave chase.
The gallery into which he ran seemed to abruptly transition him four millennia into the past. The room was like a darkened chamber in an ancient temple keep. One wall was devoted entirely to a sculpted alabaster relief featuring figures with curly, square-cut beards. Even in the mere seconds in which Kismet had to identify the objects in the gallery, he had no difficulty recognizing the signature of the Akkadian civilization, the second great culture to arise in Mesopotamia.
Yet here too, the hand of war had dealt a blow. Many of the artifacts had been vandalized, smashed by looters with no rational motive. Kismet had read news reports concerning one noteworthy sculpture, a bronze bust of the great Akkadian king Sargon, that had been taken by an opportunist hoping to score a small fortune in the international antiquities trade. Though the head had been recovered, it would be some time before such a valuable relic would again be displayed openly. Hundreds of other pieces — cuneiform tablets dating back to the time of Hammurabi, alabaster lions and gryphons, bronze artworks from the dawn of metallurgy — were now likewise secreted away from public view.
He caught sight of the robed figure dashing through the middle of the gallery, intent on reaching the far exit. He was gaining on the man, his longer strides closing the distance, but the assassin held the advantage of knowing where he was going. If Kismet lost visual contact, even for a moment, the pursuit would be over. He raised the gun, sighting down the barrel on the fleeing killer. “Stop!”
The assassin did not look back, but the shouted warning triggered a spontaneous response. He dove forward, making a fluid transition into a somersault that momentarily removed him from Kismet’s sight picture. As the man came up, he pivoted on his leading foot, turning away from the headlong course toward the far end of the course.
Kismet’s finger tightened on the trigger, but he could not bring himself to fire. The adrenaline surging through his veins was not quite strong enough to override a deep-seated inhibition against causing inadvertent harm to innocents. He knew well the limitation of his ability with the firearm — he was out of practice. Although the basic knowledge of how to shoot was something never quite forgotten, it was a skill that lost its edge over time, and it had been a long time since he had fired the weapon, even on a shooting range. Using the anti-tank rocket the day before had been simple by comparison; the AT-4 was a sledgehammer compared to the nine-millimeter projectiles from the Glock, which would require near surgical precision to be effective. He might have scored a hit on the darting figure, but it seemed just as likely that his round would go astray, striking and further damaging one of the Old Babylonian artifacts, or worse, wounding an unsuspecting museum worker. The escaping assassin, while never realizing that he was not nearly in as much danger as he might have believed, took advantage of Kismet’s internal struggle to widen the gap between them, and slipped out of the Akkadian gallery.
Recognizing that the gun would only be a liability in his chase, he jammed the weapon back into the waist pack as he ran through the hall and put on a burst of speed as soon as it was secure. There had been no hesitation in his decision to chase after the killer; it had been an immediate reaction to what he had witnessed. Yet now, as his brain went into overdrive, he began to see the ultimate goal of his pursuit. The killer had silenced Aziz, locking away whatever knowledge the curator possessed that might have aided Kismet in his search for answers. That pre-emptive strike might forever throw him from the path if he failed to bring the assassin to heel.
Another corner separated the relics of Old Babylonia and Akkad from the earliest civilization in the region, and perhaps the world: Sumeria. With his hands now free and his purpose set, Kismet sprinted through a maze of displays featuring potsherds and clay tablets, restored to their proper place by virtue of being relatively valueless.
The assassin, never once looking back, seemed to hesitate as if uncertain about which route of egress to follow. Only as his pursuer’s footsteps became audible did he think to take evasive action, but the opportunity to escape had already passed. Kismet dove forward, arms extended, and tackled the fleeing killer.
Both men tumbled uncontrollably, caroming between the upright display cases. Kismet folded his arms around the assassin’s legs, immobilizing him, but in the corner of his eye, he saw one of the openly presented relics tremble with the force of impact. A female figurine, arms raised to balance a large water container on her head, wobbled like a bowling pin atop a squarish pylon directly above where the two combatants lay sprawled.
Kismet breathed a curse as he realized what he would have to do. Releasing the grip of his right arm, he thrust his hand up and snatched the sculpture away from the inevitable attraction of gravity. Even as his hand closed protectively around the statue’s legs, the assassin seized the advantage. He flexed his knee, then drove his leg straight out like a piston, solidly connecting with the side of Kismet’s head.
A haze of bright blue momentarily eclipsed his view of the world. He felt the killer squirming out of his weakened grasp and made a belated but vain attempt to redouble his efforts. As gently as possible, he laid the figurine aside and brought his hands up defensively. Kismet knew he could physically overpower the smaller man, but his foe still possessed a gun and had showed no hesitation in dispatching Aziz. His ears were ringing from the first blow and through a haze of stars, he could just make out the other man, rising to his feet, legs spread in a defensive stance.
The killer moved like lightning, spinning on one foot and bringing the other around in a kick aimed at Kismet’s head. A raised arm deflected most of the powerful assault, but Kismet felt a stab of pain just below his elbow. He tried to grab the outstretched leg as it rebounded away, but was too slow. His opponent twisted out of his reach, leaping and rolling like an acrobat.
The evasive maneuver took the lithe killer sideways, away from the center of the room and off course for a hasty exit. Kismet moved to flank the man, forcing him back to the edge of the gallery. The man paused as he realized his mistake, drawing to a stop in front of the balcony wall that overlooked the garden courtyard below. He spun around and his eyes, the only part of his face not covered by the turban and veil, locked for a moment with Kismet’s. There was nothing human in the gaze. Just the cold, tactical stare of a killing machine, surveying a battlefield. In that instant, Kismet realized that if he failed to quickly subdue his opponent, the violence would escalate to a fatal conclusion.
He raised his hands, palms down in a steadying gesture, and took a slow step forward as if attempting to negotiate. The move was a feint. As soon as he sensed that his opponent had taken the bait, Kismet sprang forward again. The assassin was fast, but he had nowhere to go. Kismet’s shoulder plowed into the man’s mid-section, driving him back even as the former’s arms encircled him.