The Shroud of Heaven Read Free

load-bearing vest to avoid sitting on it. That the Army-issue equipment had not been designed for use in the cramped interior of a passenger vehicle was only one factor owing to his choice of the rear seat. Sitting in the back represented an attempt, however insignificant, to take a measure of control over the situation. He was completely at Samir’s mercy. Even if the defector meant him no harm, there would be no effective way for Kismet to respond in the event of a sudden crisis. From the back seat at least, should the worst case scenario play out, he would be able to encourage the Iraqi to heed his suggestions by holding the business end of his sidearm to the base of the other man’s skull.
    True to his word, Samir drove the car only a few kilometers along the highway before once more pulling off into the sand. Kismet hastened from the confining interior of the sedan, and began scanning the dunes for any sign of enemy forces. They appeared to be alone in the night. Samir lit another cigarette then motioned for Kismet to follow as he headed into the desert.
    The path chosen by the Iraqi defector led north across a section of flat land where bare rock struggled up through the ubiquitous layer of sand. Kismet gradually became aware that they were descending into a low valley sculpted by centuries of wind and, perhaps in a forgotten age, water. In the otherworldly green display of his goggles, he saw clear evidence of previous foot traffic along their course; not simply a scattering of prints, but a line of disruption indicating the passage of several people. He hefted the CAR15, his thumb poised on the fire selector and his finger on the outside of the trigger guard, but resisted the impulse to spin strategies for dealing with a hostile encounter. He would likely be outnumbered and outgunned in such a situation, so there was little to be gained by worrying. Samir, however, seemed to relax, as if each step brought him closer to a place of refuge. Their destination soon became apparent.
    From the outside, it did not look like a cave, merely a bruise in the surface of a vertical rock face which might simply have been the product of an ancient boulder collision. Only on closer inspection could Kismet perceive the depth of the cut in the rock and the fact that the stone surface was not stone at all, but weathered bricks of baked clay laid one atop another. It was not a cave, but a structure built by men in the middle of the desert and almost completely hidden beneath the dunes. Samir ducked through the narrow slit without hesitation. An almost blinding flare in the midst of Kismet’s night vision display indicated a light source within. He switched the goggles off and swiveled them out of the way, then crouched down and followed blindly.
    The passage beyond was narrow. His shoulders scraped against brick on either side as he descended along a crumbling staircase. The steps, like the structure itself, were clearly the work of human artifice, but their condition suggested centuries of both use and neglect. They were in an ancient place.
    At the foot of the stairwell, he saw the source of the light. As his guide stepped forward into a large antechamber, he could clearly make out the flickering of several randomly placed oil lamps. It was not until he moved out from the narrow recess, however, that Kismet realized they were not alone.
    Before he could bring his carbine up, or even identify a target, Samir hastened in front of him, arms extended. “No, no, Mr. Kismet. This is my family.”
    Kismet exhaled sharply and lowered the weapon. In the undulating lamp-light he made out several human shapes: an elegantly dressed woman, her head covered by a colorful scarf; a teenage boy who seemed a younger, thinner version of Samir; and several more indistinguishable lumps, hidden beneath blankets on the floor. In all, there appeared to be a dozen people camped out in the hidden structure, possibly representing three generations of Samir’s