Into the Black (14 page)

"You do know something.  I heard what that man Grimes said to you.  Those men weren’t just after me.  They wanted you too.  You're involved in this..." Her eyes widened in sudden comprehension.  "You know where they're taking my father, don't you?"

"That's where you're wrong.  If anyone knows where your father is going, it's you."

Kismet turned to leave the room, but she raced after him.  "Just what is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"It means that those men took your father because he knows where to find what they want.  I was just supposed to be the hired help."

"But I don't know what it is they want to find."

His expression hardened and he took a step closer, staring into her eyes, as if attempting to discern there the sincerity of her statement.  "Grimes and Harcourt are looking for the Golden Fleece."

"Oh."

* * *

Irene's monosyllabic answer spoke volumes.  Kismet held her gaze even as she attempted to look away.  "Then your father does know where it is."

She took a step backwards, looked around then sank slowly onto the bed.  "It's not that," she sighed.  "If that's really what they are after, then it means that they'll be taking him back to where his enemies are.  If they find him there..." She did not complete the sentence, nor did she need to.

Kismet shook his head.  "If it exists at all, the Fleece surely wouldn't be in Russia."

"Not Russia.  The Republic of Georgia.  When I was a girl—when we left—Georgia was simply one more state in the Soviet Union.  My father did most of his work in the Caucasus, the mountain range that is the natural border between Russia and Georgia. I didn't understand what that man Grimes wanted from my father, even when he mentioned something about Greek antiquities.  But now it makes sense."

"Georgia might as well be in Russia; it certainly tops the list of old Soviet satellites that Moscow wants to return to the fold.  Russian troops invaded Georgia recently and there's still a significant military presence in some areas."  Kismet rubbed his forehead ruefully.  "Why do these ancient treasures always wind up in the middle of war zones?"

"You‘re not suggesting the Golden Fleece is real?"

"The Black Sea coast of Georgia has always been accepted as the most likely location for Colchis, the legendary home of the Golden Fleece.  If he found those artifacts in the mountains, it would provide evidence of an ancient Greek presence in Georgia.  From there it would only be a short step to believing that those Greek explorers were searching for the Golden Fleece.

"Still," he continued.  "Georgia is a long way from the Kremlin.  I wouldn't think the reach of your father's enemies would extend that far."

"We were in Georgia when my father decided to flee." 

Kismet couldn't tell how much of her concern was based on real experience and how much was paranoia.  Either way, it would do little to alter the situation.  "Listen, Irene.  I just need to know one thing.  If we went over there, to the Caucasus, could you find the place where your father discovered those artifacts?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Then we don't have any time to waste. Go get cleaned up; there's time for a quick shower if you want."

"I don't understand. We are going to go over there? We are going to rescue my father?"

"Not if we don't start moving." He stepped away from the doorframe, a reassuring grin breaking across his face. "The shower is in there."

She stood up quickly and moved as if to follow his direction, but when she drew even with where he stood, she stepped close, placing her hand on his arm.

Her sudden action surprised and unsettled him; the former only because he was not expecting it, the latter because he had been secretly hoping for such intimate contact.  Her dark eyes looked up into his.  "We are going to rescue my father," she repeated, but it was no longer a question.

He nodded, not speaking, and pulled her close.  She did not resist, but instead let her arms enfold his torso and tilted her head up to face him, her lips drawn invitingly apart.  He lowered his mouth to hers, and a warm sweet euphoria swirled over his tongue like vapors of brandy. 

The kiss lasted only a moment, then he heard her whisper: "Thank you,"

He opened his eyes, feasting on her innocent beauty. "No.  Thank you."

"Nick," she giggled. "I mean, thank you for deciding to help me find my father."

For some reason he couldn't define, the bloom of passion wilted and he released her with unintended abruptness.  "Sure," he replied, gazing past her.  "No problem.  Better hurry up with your shower."

Irene seemed to sense as well that something had gone awry.  She nodded and moved away.  Kismet stepped back and watched as she crossed the hall into the bathroom and pulled the door closed.  A few seconds later, he heard the sound of the shower spigot running.

He shook his head
,
stalking from the room into the hallway that led to the dining room and kitchen.  He was angry with himself, angry for having kissed her and angrier still at his reaction afterward.  Seeing Lyse again after so long had unexpectedly awakened a part of him that cared nothing for the machinations of secret societies and ancient relics.

"Like kissing my sister," he muttered.  Although he in fact had no siblings, the approximation was nevertheless accurate.  Irene Kerns had come to into his life young and vulnerable.  Of course he had offered to help, that was the right thing to do.  But to take advantage of her emotional state....

Still, there was nothing wrong with her offering herself to him, nor with his accepting.  Intimacy was often based on less substantial foundations.  She was an adult.  And she certainly was desirable.  In frustration he tore off his soiled shirt and tossed it toward the refuse can beside his desk.

Let it go,
he admonished himself.  There was too much at stake to complicate matters by adding an emotional component.  She was just a kid looking for a hero to come and save the day.  Maybe he would be her hero, but she would have to wait for someone else with whom to live happily ever after.  As soon as she was done bathing.…

An image of Irene in his shower sprang unbidden into his mind; her delicate body caressed by the spray, wreathed in veils of steam that could not eclipse the curve of her thighs, but in his mind's eye barely concealed the sculpted contours of her breasts.

He threw a glance over his shoulder toward the hallway leading to the bathroom.  He had not actually heard her throw the privacy bolt; did that qualify as an invitation?

"Hell, she's an adult."  He started back toward the bathroom then stopped in his tracks.

A man stood in the corner of the dining room, beads of precipitation dripping from his hat and overcoat.  The dull metal of his gun however, was bone dry.  "Good evening, Mr. Kismet.  I hope I am not interrupting anything important."

"Damn," Kismet cursed under his breath.  He had underestimated the opposition.  He had known from the outset that Grimes would eventually conclude they had escaped Times Square, but had wagered their safety on the belief that their head start was great enough.  He had also hoped Grimes would judge him too smart to return to his own home, and thus figured it would be the unlikeliest place for their enemies to be laying in wait.  Wrong on both counts, his desire for a brief respite before fleeing the country had led them into a trap.

He turned toward the man, slowly so as not to invite reprisal, and sized him up.  The face was familiar, but the images it evoked had little in common with the pursuit they had just so desperately eluded.  He searched his memory to place the man.

"Ah, you were hoping to entertain the lady and I spoiled your fun.  This is such a nasty business," offered the gunman in mock apology.  "Now if you will just give me the parcel, we can avoid further incident."

"Parcel?" Kismet echoed, not really seeking to comprehend the man's request.

The voice
, he thought.  Something about the voice, a baritone, faintly accented….

German?  One of the Teutonic Knights perhaps?

Suddenly Kismet recognized the intruder.  It was the man he had encountered in the street outside the Fat Man's house in Marrakech—the German motorist who had seemingly offered the assistance of his pistol in frightening off the Fat Man's goons, only to turn and pursue Lyse and himself through the length, breadth and bowels of the city.

The gun was not the same.  Kismet realized after a moment that something had been added to the barrel of the weapon; a suppressor designed to baffle the noise of firing. It was the sort of modification a spy might use.  The pistol was likely a .22 or .25 caliber weapon; quiet, with a subsonic round, but nonetheless lethal at close range.

"Parcel?" he repeated after only a second.  Now he wasn't entirely sure what it was the man was after.  Was he in collusion with Grimes, demanding that Irene be handed back to his portly conspirator?  Or was this visitation entirely coincidental?

"Yes, Kismet.  Quickly, or I shall have to use a more persuasive argument; a threat to your life perhaps.  Or to the health of your…ah, guest?"

"No," Kismet replied, trying to sound casual.  "That won't be necessary.  It's just that I'm not sure what it is you want."

"Do not be obtuse, Kismet.  You are trying my patience."

He was getting nowhere.  It was time to try a different tack.  He snapped his fingers as if experiencing a revelation.  "Hey, I remember you now.  You were in Morocco."

A faint smile tilted the corners of the man's lips. "Yes. And I've come back to finish that business."

Realization dawned. "The calf. You want that statue of the golden calf."

"I do," replied the man. "Please get it for me now."

"You know it's a fake, don't you?"

The man did not reply, not even a flicker of emotion at the statement.  Kismet could not for the life of himself understand what was so important about the statue.  It had no cultural value and not much artistic importance.  Its precious metal content might gain the attention of a petty crook, but would certainly not justify an international retrieval effort, unless there was something else at stake that he had not considered.  He understood only one thing: the German wanted the statue badly, therefore he must not be allowed to have it.  Kismet needed options.  "It's in a safe place," he stated cautiously.

"I would expect so.  You will show me."  The fellow gestured with his gun for emphasis.

Kismet glanced around his apartment.  It was no longer the place where he lived and slept but a battlefield.  His eyes roamed every corner, every stick of furniture, as if he were a field marshal organizing a defense against an overwhelming enemy.  His gaze settled on the refrigerator, and a plan began to take shape.

"It's in there," he revealed, pointing toward the kitchen.  He moved, a little too eagerly, in that direction.  "I'll get it."

"Stop," ordered the German. Kismet halted, allowing the German to push past him. "Where?"

Kismet again moved quickly, kneeling before the sink. "I put it down here."

"Do not open that. Back away, slowly."

Kismet did, trying to appear confused. "I thought you wanted me to get the statue."

"Indeed.  But will I find the statue down here, or perhaps you have a hidden weapon?  I shall be very disappointed if that is what I discover."  The German knelt, his pistol trained on Kismet, and opened the cabinet under the sink with his left hand.

Kismet took a careful step backwards.  He was now standing in front of the refrigerator.  Two more steps in that direction would take him out of that room; closer to his bedroom where the Smith & Wesson revolver he had captured earlier in the evening lay in the pocket of his destroyed suit coat.

A small wastebasket was the first thing the German's searching hand encountered.  He risked a brief look then thrust the can aside, spilling some debris on the tile floor.  He continued to reach and probe with his left hand, but because he was unwilling to lend his eyes to the search, he was limited to a very small area of movement.

"It's farther back," volunteered Kismet, evincing defeat.

The German grunted, trying one last time to reach into the unseen depths of the cupboard.  Finally he eased forward, squatting on his haunches.  He switched the gun to his left hand freeing his right for the search.  "Let me assure you that I am equally capable shooting with either hand."

Kismet suppressed an urge to laugh.  If the man were truly ambidextrous, as he claimed, he would have had no difficulty reaching into the cabinet with his left hand.  He added this fact to the body of his overall scheme.  Now he had only to wait until his trap was sprung.  He gauged his distance to the refrigerator door; he needed to be closer.

"What's the big deal with that statue anyway?" he asked, taking a half step sideways.  The German stiffened to an alert pose, waving the pistol to reaffirm his control of the situation.  Kismet raised his arms submissively then lowered them when the moment of tension had passed.  His left hand came to rest on the handle of the refrigerator door.  He wrapped his fingers around it and waited.

"You are better off not knowing," remarked the German.  "Some things are better left—"

The German yelped suddenly and snatched his hand back as though it had been burned.  Kismet noted with satisfaction that the mousetrap, which he had left set beneath the sink drain, had snapped across the tips of the man's first two fingers.

Kismet pulled on the handle, opening the refrigerator door, and threw himself behind it.  The heavy door swung out, shielding him from the view of the frustrated foreign agent.  The man nevertheless retained the wherewithal to discharge his weapon.  A series of soft coughing noises instantaneously heralded a chaotic pattern of ruptures in the metal skin of the door.  Even as a carton of eggs, a plastic jug of milk and a jar of mustard exploded on one side of the barrier, Kismet felt blows slamming into his chest; sharp hits, like a hammer striking against his body but did not let the wounds slow him.  Grasping the back of the refrigerator with both hands and bracing one foot against the wall, he pulled the top of the appliance toward himself.