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cryptic reference to Prometheus, a figure from Greek mythology, to explain his actions.
    It might have ended right there.  Stranded behind enemy lines as the air war commenced, Kismet and the contingent of Gurkhas were hunted relentlessly by Republican Guard forces, and ultimately captured.  In the end, only Kismet and one other soldier, a Gurkha from New Zealand named Alex Higgins, made it back.
    Scar tissue eventually covered the battle wounds, but the events of that night continued to hemorrhage his soul's essence.  Who was Hauser, and what was his connection to Kismet's mother?  How had Samir known to request him specifically by name, and why?  And who or what was Prometheus?
    There was of course, one other clue that he could not overlook: the relic.  He had not actually seen it, but had inferred much about it from his brief conversation with Samir; it was the holiest of holy relics.  Hauser had also hinted that Prometheus' mission was to keep such icons and artifacts safely locked away, and so Kismet had begun his quest by embarking on a greater understanding of the world of art and antiquities.  If the conspirators he had faced that night in the desert sought ancient relics, then perhaps in the ancient places of the world, he would find their figurative footprints.  His quest led to Paris where, despite finding no answers, he cultivated a friendship with the director of the Global Heritage Commission and was ultimately offered a job as GHC liaison to the United States.  Reasoning the position would afford him opportunity to investigate the mystery of his life, he had accepted.  For years thereafter he had kept his ear to the ground, listening for any whispers that might shed light on what had happened that night in the ruins of Tall al Muqayyar.
    He had not even considered what he had lost in his single-minded quests to unmask Prometheus; not until the curious summons had brought him once more in contact with Lysette Lyon.  He turned to his desktop where Lyse's latest email continued to shine from the computer monitor:
     
    Nick, thanks so much for bailing me out the other day.  I'll be in the city for New Year's Eve.  Maybe I can swing by the office. We can settle our business and after that, who knows?  I still remember how to say 'thanks' properly.  Luv ya, Lyse .
     
    His eagerness to rendezvous with Lyse had nothing to do with her overt promises; things were different now, evidently for both of them, and he was going to exact the price of his favor in information and nothing else.  During the days since his escape from Morocco he had mulled over the situation and decided that if Lyse wanted her trinket back—and Kismet knew it was not any sort of rare artifact—she was going to have to make a full confession.
    He rose from his desk and paced around the office, then checked his watch again.  It was nearly five-thirty and she had yet to show.  She was going to have to spring for dinner too, he decided.
    The sound of a door opening in the hallway alerted Kismet to the arrival of a guest. He idly ran a hand through his short cropped hair and settled into his chair, then propped his feet up on an open drawer and tried his best to look nonchalant. The figure beyond the frosted pane of the door that bore his name paused then tried the doorknob.
    "Mr. Kismet?"
    It was not Lyse. He immediately dropped his feet to the floor and sat up. "Yes. Please come in."
    The door swung open, revealing a tall man about the same age as Kismet.  He was well dressed, bundled against the chill air, and carried himself with the effete manner of a sophisticate. Kismet felt a glimmer of recognition looking at the man's handsome features, wavy blonde hair and thin mustache, but he could not put a name to the face. The man approached his desk, extending a hand, which Kismet accepted, standing to greet the newcomer.
    "It's good to see you again," the man offered.  
    The British accent was maddeningly familiar and his