back into the other man’s eyes. “Pardon, monsieur, but what is your name?”
“My name?” The tourist seemed rightly surprised by the question, but answered nonetheless. “I’m Nick Kismet.”
“Kismet?” Chiron savored the word. “That’s an unusual name. You are not French?”
“I’m an American.”
“But the name is something else; Arabic, if I’m not mistaken.” He gazed at the young, masculine face, astonished at the similarity of features. “But you do not appear to be an Arab.”
“Right on both counts.” The young man remained aloof, evidently suspicious of the stranger who shared a car with a gunshot victim and now seemed so interested in his name. “It’s a long story.”
“I imagine so. Still, it is a unique name. A powerful word. I believe it means luck or destiny. Or fate.”
It was convenient…an act of fate.
Kismet nodded hesitantly, but said nothing.
Chiron managed a thin smile. “Well, I hope you will count this meeting an instance of good luck. My name is Pierre Chiron, and I am the director of the Global Heritage Commission of the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization. If there’s anything I can do to assist you during your stay in my country, please do not hesitate to ask. I have a feeling I can be of great assistance to you.”
He knew by the sudden gleam in the young man’s eyes that he would have to make good on his offer in ways he could scarcely imagine.
***
Six days shy of four months from the occasion of Collette Chiron’s annual pilgrimage to the Grotto of Lourdes, a small borehole in the basalt gut rock of the Mururoa atoll vomited forth an eruption of force and fire. Though modest by the standards of modern destructive power, equivalent only to about eight thousand metric tons of TNT, the explosion nevertheless rocked that remote corner of the world.
Twenty-four thousand miles away, Pierre Chiron stood at the foot of the structure he now thought of as “ le observatorie ”. He had arrived ninety minutes ahead of the projected time for the test and lingered for three hours beyond that pivotal moment. Yet he saw no indication of activity, nothing to suggest that an experiment was being monitored in the observatory, nor any sign that the atomic test in the South Pacific had exerted an influence here, on the other side of the globe. At last admitting defeat, Chiron left, pausing only long enough to take a picture for a tourist couple posing gaily in front of the monument, blissfully unaware of its dual purpose.
In the four months since the incident in the Haute-Pyrenees, Chiron had received no further contact from the woman or any of her agents. He had however developed a close friendship with the young man with the unusual name, fulfilling the second of two promises made that fateful day. Now, with the underground detonation of an atomic device at Mururoa, both pledges had been satisfied. He remained curious to see what fruit each of those disparate branches would bear.
The second test, an airburst over Fangataufa on the second of October, was judged a success by both the military scientists overseeing the project and the nationalist politicians intent on flexing the French military muscle in the face of NATO and the United States. Because he was paying attention on a different level, Chiron’s observations were less sanguine.
Almost immediately following the Fangataufa test, Mount St. Helens, an active volcano in the Pacific Northwest region of the United States, began to resonate with tremors. In New Zealand, Mount Puapehu entered into a period of intense eruptive activity, as did Mount Merapi in Java. One week after the test, Mount Hosshu, dormant for over 250 years, rumbled to life in Japan.
Over the next few months, Chiron saw fingers of force reaching out from the test sites to distant locations around the world, a series of unprecedented volcanic and seismic events coinciding with the atomic detonations.
“My name?” The tourist seemed rightly surprised by the question, but answered nonetheless. “I’m Nick Kismet.”
“Kismet?” Chiron savored the word. “That’s an unusual name. You are not French?”
“I’m an American.”
“But the name is something else; Arabic, if I’m not mistaken.” He gazed at the young, masculine face, astonished at the similarity of features. “But you do not appear to be an Arab.”
“Right on both counts.” The young man remained aloof, evidently suspicious of the stranger who shared a car with a gunshot victim and now seemed so interested in his name. “It’s a long story.”
“I imagine so. Still, it is a unique name. A powerful word. I believe it means luck or destiny. Or fate.”
It was convenient…an act of fate.
Kismet nodded hesitantly, but said nothing.
Chiron managed a thin smile. “Well, I hope you will count this meeting an instance of good luck. My name is Pierre Chiron, and I am the director of the Global Heritage Commission of the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization. If there’s anything I can do to assist you during your stay in my country, please do not hesitate to ask. I have a feeling I can be of great assistance to you.”
He knew by the sudden gleam in the young man’s eyes that he would have to make good on his offer in ways he could scarcely imagine.
***
Six days shy of four months from the occasion of Collette Chiron’s annual pilgrimage to the Grotto of Lourdes, a small borehole in the basalt gut rock of the Mururoa atoll vomited forth an eruption of force and fire. Though modest by the standards of modern destructive power, equivalent only to about eight thousand metric tons of TNT, the explosion nevertheless rocked that remote corner of the world.
Twenty-four thousand miles away, Pierre Chiron stood at the foot of the structure he now thought of as “ le observatorie ”. He had arrived ninety minutes ahead of the projected time for the test and lingered for three hours beyond that pivotal moment. Yet he saw no indication of activity, nothing to suggest that an experiment was being monitored in the observatory, nor any sign that the atomic test in the South Pacific had exerted an influence here, on the other side of the globe. At last admitting defeat, Chiron left, pausing only long enough to take a picture for a tourist couple posing gaily in front of the monument, blissfully unaware of its dual purpose.
In the four months since the incident in the Haute-Pyrenees, Chiron had received no further contact from the woman or any of her agents. He had however developed a close friendship with the young man with the unusual name, fulfilling the second of two promises made that fateful day. Now, with the underground detonation of an atomic device at Mururoa, both pledges had been satisfied. He remained curious to see what fruit each of those disparate branches would bear.
The second test, an airburst over Fangataufa on the second of October, was judged a success by both the military scientists overseeing the project and the nationalist politicians intent on flexing the French military muscle in the face of NATO and the United States. Because he was paying attention on a different level, Chiron’s observations were less sanguine.
Almost immediately following the Fangataufa test, Mount St. Helens, an active volcano in the Pacific Northwest region of the United States, began to resonate with tremors. In New Zealand, Mount Puapehu entered into a period of intense eruptive activity, as did Mount Merapi in Java. One week after the test, Mount Hosshu, dormant for over 250 years, rumbled to life in Japan.
Over the next few months, Chiron saw fingers of force reaching out from the test sites to distant locations around the world, a series of unprecedented volcanic and seismic events coinciding with the atomic detonations.
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