John Sneeden - The Hades Conspiracy

Hamid Aram slipped through the shadows at the base of the building, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. He glanced nervously behind him. Save for a stray dog sniffing through trash, Nasir Street was deserted. American forces had already sliced through Baghdad’s perimeter defenses, sending most of the city’s residents scrambling inside.

Easing forward, he peered around the corner. A stiff wind blew a cloud of sand across the square. Once it passed, the National Museum of Iraq appeared in its wake. The building was majestic, with twin stone towers flanking an arched entryway. Nothing had changed since he was last there several years before.

A burst of gunfire erupted a few blocks away. The fighting drew closer. In an hour or so, the Americans would swarm the area. Bullets and mortars would arrive with them. If he didn’t finish before they got here, all would be lost.

He rose and sprinted across the plaza. The twin towers grew larger as he approached. He darted into the shadow of the arched entryway and stopped. He glanced back toward Nasir Street, but there was no movement save the swaying of a few palms. Someone yelled a block away — a parent scolding a child to come inside.

Hamid reached into his pocket and removed the revolver he’d stolen from his mother’s closet. He pushed out the cylinder and made sure all the bullets were in place. It was a small caliber, but that didn’t matter. Just having a weapon gave him some much-needed confidence.

As he prepared to enter the museum, Hamid thought back on the events that brought him there. It all began two nights ago, when he was summoned to the house of his Uncle Omar, one of the museum’s assistant curators.

When Hamid arrived, he was immediately escorted back to Omar’s bedroom. Omar told his nephew to pull a chair close to the bed. He had something to tell Hamid that wasn’t meant for other ears. After a little small talk, Omar told Hamid he’d recently been diagnosed with cancer. His body was riddled with the foul disease, and the doctors said his life would now be measured in weeks not months. Hamid wept bitterly at the news. Omar had been like a father to him. To hear his beloved uncle was about to pass was unbearable.

Strangely, Omar told him that wasn’t the primary reason he’d been called over with such urgency. Something was even more pressing than the disease. Omar needed Hamid to perform a task, something that had to be done before the American forces took control of Baghdad. Hamid agreed to help even before knowing the details. He would do anything for his dying uncle.

In between slow sips of water, Omar spoke of the looting at the museum. Priceless treasures were being whisked away to line the pockets of the greedy and add to the collections of the wealthy. Sadly, Omar had heard that a few artifacts had even been thrown away. But despite the large-scale theft, all was not lost. The looters didn’t know the objects on display in the building were only a portion of the entire collection. Many more — including some of the most valuable ones — were housed in a secret underground chamber, a place known only to the museum’s curators.

Omar lowered his voice to a whisper. He told Hamid there was a relic that was more important than all the others combined. It was one of the greatest archaeological finds in the history of the world, and yet few knew it even existed.

When Omar spoke of the relic, Hamid saw fear in his uncle’s eyes. Was it because he feared losing it or because he feared the relic itself? Originally, Omar and the other curators had planned to leave the relic where it was. The Americans would thoroughly search the museum, but it was unlikely anyone would discover the entrance to the underground treasury, which was hidden in a way no one could find it.

Soon after the curators made the decision to leave everything hidden in the chamber, Omar had heard whispers that one of his colleagues was no longer on board. He had his own plan for the relics and was determined to carry them out. The rumors may not have been true, but Omar wasn’t about to take any chances. He told Hamid he must go to the museum, retrieve the relic, then bring it back to Omar. Hamid asked why he didn’t just send one of the other curators, and Omar’s response was he didn’t know whom he could trust now.

Throughout their meeting, Hamid sensed there was more to the relic than his uncle was letting on. As he stood to leave, Omar’s final words gave him a hint as to why the task was so important. “This relic has a dark secret. It must be brought back to me, whatever the cost.”

The distant rumble of mortar fire pulled Hamid back to the present. It was time to enter. After a final look behind, he stole down the stone pathway between the towers. The museum’s entrance loomed just ahead. Its steel doors hung open, and debris was scattered along the walkway.

Hamid slipped into the dark entrance hall lit only by a splash of moonlight coming through the domed-glass ceiling. Having memorized the instructions, he turned into the gallery on the right. The darkness was heavier here, so he clicked on his flashlight and shone the beam around the space. Stone reliefs of Assyrian warriors and kings stared down at him in silence. They almost seemed angry at his presence. Hamid shuddered. The place frightened him. Once he was finished, he’d waste no time fleeing back to the streets.

As he continued through the gallery, he visualized the route in his mind. He would turn left at the corner of the building, then proceed…

A noise reached his ears. He froze as the sound grew louder. Someone was running toward him, and in a few seconds, they would come around the corner. His heart thumping, Hamid thumbed off his flashlight and looked for a place to hide. A statue stood near the corner, but he’d never be able to reach it in time. Left with no other choice, he removed his revolver and slipped into the shadows.

He was not a moment too soon. Two figures barreled around the corner. To his shock, they were kids — aged ten or twelve at the most. Now more confident, Hamid stepped into the middle of the hall and raised his gun. Both of the boys came to a halt, their eyes widening in shock.

“What are you doing here?” Hamid asked in Arabic, giving his voice an authoritative tone.

The boys looked at each other, trembling. Finally, the taller one said, “We… we were exploring. Just having fun. No big deal.”

Hamid waved his pistol toward the entrance. “Get out! The Americans are coming, and you’re going to be killed if they find you here!”

The boys needed no further encouragement. They raced past him without looking back. Hamid wasn’t sure if it was the pistol or the threat of the American soldiers, but he knew they wouldn’t return.

After the footsteps died away, Hamid turned on his flashlight again and continued around the corner. Five minutes later, after passing through several dark galleries, he arrived at his destination, a short hallway at the rear of the building. On the right was the storage room door he was looking for. He stepped closer. As his uncle had suspected, it had been pried open. Hamid stepped inside and swept his beam across rows of empty metal shelves. Mops, rags, and bottles of cleaning solution were strewn across the floor. The looters must have been desperate to find anything of value.