Into the Black (16 page)

Had German researchers figured out a way to turn one of the most precious of metals on earth, into one of the most lethal, utilizing it in the core of a proposed new electromagnetic bomb?  If so, what were those plans doing hidden in a bogus statue?  And how had that parcel come into the possession of his old college flame Lysette Lyon?

Slightly annoyed at being ignored, Irene frowned and cleared her throat.  "If you don't mind, I'm going to grab a glass of water."

"No!"  Kismet looked up suddenly.  He saw her jump and instantly regretted the sharpness of his tone.  "I'm sorry.  The kitchen is a mess right now.  Are you hungry?"

"Famished.  I could eat a horse."

He snapped the laptop shut without removing the disc.  "Actually, I was thinking we could go for Italian."

* * *

Despite its reputation as 'the city that never sleeps,' New York does grow quieter as the night deepens.  At twelve thirty a.m. however, half an hour into a new year, the streets of Brooklyn were still wide-awake.  There had been the requisite bursts of noise, fireworks and car horns at the fall of midnight, followed by the exodus of partygoers trundling home.  Kismet kept a solitary vigil, watching the events from the window of Mama Rosa's Italian Ristorante.  Irene, drowsy after consuming a helping of leftover eggplant parmesan and a glass of red table wine, had already succumbed to the refuge of sleep.  She lay in the darkened dining room, a checkered tablecloth pulled around her shoulders and a bundle of cloth napkins beneath her head, while Kismet nursed the remaining drops of wine, struggling to stay awake until Lyse kept the rendezvous.

He had discovered the Italian eatery shortly after moving into the neighborhood, and had quickly been adopted by Sal, the head chef.  Over the years, the relationship had grown close enough that Kismet had been trusted with a key and the alarm code, and was told in no uncertain terms to make himself at home whenever he felt like it, as long as he didn't leave a mess.  It was an arrangement that he confidently believed to be a secret from men such as Halverson Grimes.

Lyse arrived half an hour after Irene fell asleep.  She entered quietly, nodding in affirmation when Kismet raised a finger to his lips, and followed him to the bar.

"Sorry I'm so late," she whispered, easing onto a stool beside the counter. "I've been everywhere tonight."

"No problem," replied Kismet. "Are you hungry?"

"Oh, yeah. I could eat a horse right now."

He grinned. "That's a popular choice tonight. How about a meatball hero?"

"As long as you do all the work."

"Just like old times." Kismet rose and led her into the kitchen. "So, what's the story? Were you able to follow Harcourt?"

"Yeah. How about you? I see you saved the damsel in distress from the clutches of the evil villain."

"All that and more."  He laid a plate in front of her.  Upon it was a split loaf of bread, piled with meatballs and dripping with marinara sauce.  Lyse rubbed her hands together eagerly as he took a seat at the bar beside her.  Given her trim figure, he had always been amazed at her appetite.  As she devoured the meal, Kismet recounted the evening's events up to the point where they escaped from Times Square.  Lyse nodded often, but offered no opinions.  "Now it's your turn," he finished.

She virtually inhaled the remaining bites of her sandwich before answering.  "My evening wasn't quite as wild as yours, but at least you were in better company.  I spent most of the time driving, by myself."

''How sad for you."

"Spare me the sarcasm. Care to guess where your pal Andy went?"

"He left the country."

Lyse nodded.  "He, along with that Russian guy and a couple of the guys in suits that all look alike drove to JFK and got on a flight to Paris. I don't know if that's their last stop."

"It isn't.  My guess is he'll make one more stop in Germany to rendezvous with Grimes before leaving for their final destination.  Grimes is spying for the Germans."

Lyse's mouth fell open.  "That's a pretty serious accusation, Nick.  I know he's up to no good, but a spy?  And for the Germans?  They're our friends."

"I can prove it.  The question is: what are you going to do about it?"

There was an almost imperceptible pause between his statement and her rebuttal.  "Me?  Why should it matter to me?"

Kismet leaned back on his stool and gazed at the ceiling.  "Look Lyse, I understand that you probably aren't able to tell me the truth about what you really do.  But doing what I do...well, let's just say it's a lot like being a detective, and believe me you've left plenty of clues laying around that point to only one conclusion."

She tried to flash her notorious smile, but couldn't quite pull it off.  "What conclusion is that?"

"Do I need to spell it out?  It's just three letters: CIA.  You don't have to confirm what I say.  But if you want to nod or something, that would be helpful."

"I don't have the slightest idea what you are talking about."

"I should have realized it in Morocco," he continued, unmoved by her denial.  "The whole situation was just too strange to be taken at face value.  What, did you set things up with the Fat Man, so that I would have to help you out?  I don't appreciate being used as your mule, Lyse.  Especially without knowing what the stakes were. If you'd done your research on that particular piece, you might have actually fooled me, but I spotted the fake and threw a monkey wrench into your plan.

"Even at that, there was nothing to make me suspect that this was about anything besides some elaborate con job you were running.  That German who chased us through the streets of Marrakech—there could have been a logical explanation for that—at least until he showed up at my place tonight, waving a silenced twenty-two and demanding I hand over the statue."

Lyse jumped out of her chair and stood bolt upright.  "You didn't give it to him, did you?"

Kismet grinned.  He drew out the wrapped parcel containing the idol and passed it to her.  "If you tell your superiors, or whomever, they might be able to arrest the guy before his buddies come looking for him.  He's in my refrigerator."

Lyse paused in her hasty unwrapping of the golden calf long enough to raise an eyebrow at Kismet's last statement.  "I take it that this German told you that Grimes is spying for them?"

"Not in so many words.  Perhaps your people can persuade him to talk more freely."

"My people?" echoed Lyse.  "So you persist in believing that I am some kind of secret agent."

"Your denials are wasting valuable time, my dear.  I'm handing you that German and Halverson Grimes on a silver platter.  If you don't act quickly, it will be your own loss.  I have more important matters to take care of."

Lyse set the idol down on the counter, gazing at it as if it were a trophy she had earned.  "Okay, Nick, you're right.  I can't tell you anything about what I do, but you've hit pretty close to the mark.  And let me just say that Hal Grimes has been the subject of scrutiny for a long time.  But he's a very powerful man, with a lot of friends."

"I noticed."

"What doesn't make any sense is his involvement with Harcourt. He's risking exposure without any real gain."

"That's where you're wrong. There's everything to gain if he finds the Golden Fleece."

"That? I thought you said it was a fairy tale."

"I'm revising my opinion.  Like you said, it doesn't make sense for him to risk this, unless the Fleece is real.  And I suspect that its value may be more than just historic."

"Like what?  Magic or something?"

"Maybe."  He hadn't worked out all the details, but just now thought better of trusting Lyse—and the people she was worked for—with details about the substance Harcourt had called 'ubergold.'  "Whatever the case, Grimes must not find it.  I'm going to get it before he does.  And hopefully rescue Peter Kerns too."

"Really?" She tried the smile again, and this time pulled it off successfully. "Well, good luck."

"I'm going to need more than just luck, Lyse. I'm going to need your help."

"My help as in my help? Or as in the Company?"

Kismet sighed. "The latter, I'm afraid."

She toyed with her fork for a moment before answering.  "I can see where our interests might coincide.  What have you got in mind?"

"The first part is easy.  I need discreet transportation for Irene and myself to anywhere in southern Europe.  Greece would be fine.  Or Turkey.  Our ultimate destination is the Republic of Georgia."

"Georgia?" Lyse breathed a rare curse.  "Things have been pretty volatile there of late.  Are the Russians involved in this?"

Kismet shook his head.  "I don’t think so.  But that's why I'm going to need something else from you."

Lyse listened as Kismet briefly outlined his plan, a growing look of incredulity clouding her features.  "Absolutely not," she declared when he finished.  "Even if I could do that, it's sheer lunacy.  With the situation there right now, we could start a war.  A real war against a nation with a real military."

"You don't have a choice Lyse."

"Don't have a choice?"

"Grimes must not get the Fleece.  That ought to be reason enough for you to help me, but if it isn't, then I'll go one better.  I'll trade you for your help."

Lyse stopped fuming long enough to inquire.  "Trade what?"

"The final clue that convinced me that you made a radical career change after we went our separate ways all those years ago.  The real reason you wanted me to smuggle that golden calf into the United States."

For the second time that evening, Lyse's mouth fell open.  She snatched the idol off the counter, felt for the tiny gap in the sun disk, popped it open and looked inside.  The hollow space was empty.

"What was that anyway?" Kismet continued innocently.  "Plans for some kind of electromagnetic pulse bomb?"

"Give it to me Nick.  This goes way beyond our friendship.  People have died for those secrets."

"You can have it when—make that if—I get back from Georgia in one piece.  It would be a shame if I died over there and took the secret of where I hid it to the grave.  Especially if you could have helped me and didn't."

"Nick, this is a matter of national importance."

"So is finding the Fleece.  I'm no physicist, but something tells me that Grimes' interest in the Fleece has more to do with your bomb and less a lingering interest in Classical Greek folklore.  Trust me, when your superiors find out what's at stake, they'll support the idea."

"Damn you."  Lyse leaned back and dropped her hands to the bar.  "Fine, I'll tell them about it.  I'll do whatever it takes.  But you have to give me the information that was in the statue."

"Sorry.  That's my insurance policy.  Your superiors should be told that as well."

Lyse was silent for several moments.  "This isn't my decision.  I'll pass it upstairs and see what I can do."  She sighed in defeat.  "Jesus, Nick.  I hope you know what you're doing."

Kismet opened his mouth to reply, and then thought better of it.  He gazed across the room, toward the seating area where Irene was soundly sleeping, and realized that his motives were not nearly as straightforward as he had led Lyse to believe.  He turned back to her and chose to answer with the truth.  "Actually, I haven't the faintest idea what I'm doing."

HIGHER GROUND

Long before man conquered the vast expanses of open ocean that separate the continents, ancient mariners roamed the interior waterways delineated by the coastlines of Europe, Africa and Asia.  Ancient tales of maritime explorations recorded by poets and historians of the Classical Age tell of epic journeys by god-like heroes along the coastlines of these lesser bodies of water. Geographers of the day recognized "Seven Seas," a catchall phrase to be sure.  For the most part, they are elegantly named.  The Mediterranean, once called simply "the Great Sea," literally translates to the Middle of the World.  Between Africa and the Arabian desert, there is the Red Sea, best known for being the site of the miraculous exodus from  Egypt.  Separating Italy from Greece and Macedonia are the Adriatic and Ionian seas.  Between Greece and Turkey--and the lands claimed by both--there is the legendary Aegean Sea.  And then there is the marine cul de sac, shaped almost like a pair of wings, formed by a recent—recent in geological terms—flood so awesome as to have possibly inspired parts of the Epic of Gilgamesh, which in turn is believed to have been the source of the Biblical story of the Great Flood.  Yet, despite its mythic origin and not inconsiderable size, this unusual body of water carries a rather prosaic name: the Black Sea.

Kismet gripped the stern railing and gazed into the distance.  The wake churned up by the small chartered boat marked a turbulent pathway on the surface of the water; thick and distinct as it bubbled up from the spinning screw beneath the waterline but quickly spreading out until its message was no longer discernible.

Beyond the point where even the ripples of their passage could no longer be seen, the narrow Strait of Bosporus—the passage from the Aegean Sea into the Black—was still ominously visible.  In the legend of Jason and the Argonauts, Kismet recalled, a pair of massive rocks called the Symplegades, had wandered about the sea in pursuit of the swift Argo in an attempt to smash it into timbers.  Although Jason's ship had survived the passage, hundreds of other mariners through the centuries had fallen victim to the treacherous narrows of the Bosporus which, although lacking the power of movement, was nevertheless a mighty anvil upon which the stormy seas might hammer unfortunate vessels.  Kismet was not overly concerned.  The strait was becalmed, with only the merest whisper wind blowing out of the Black Sea.

Irene made her away across the deck and stood beside him.  "I don't like that man," she grumbled.  "It gives me the creeps when he leers at me like that."

Kismet glanced over at her.  They were the only passengers on a small freight hauling vessel owned and captained by a Turk named Achmet. He couldn't fault the boat's skipper for staring.  She really looked that good.