Into the Black (27 page)

The soldier chattered in German, begging for Kismet to simply pull them both to safety, but he ignored the young man.  Irene's safety was the priority; saving the commando would depend upon how charitable he was feeling afterward.

"Irene.  Grab it."

She looked up, into his eyes, and was magically transformed.  Her fear vanished, melted by the revealed glow of his appearance.  Kismet had survived, against all odds, and charged in like the prince in a fairy tale to rescue her from the jaws of the dragon.  Without hesitation she released one of her clinging hands and grasped the strap.  Wrapping the leather around her palm, she hugged it to her breast, and then grabbed hold with the other hand.  As she swung away from the soldier's feet, Kismet began pulling on the line, reeling her in.  With Kerns' help, Irene was drawn to safety in a matter of seconds.

Almost as an afterthought, Kismet reached down and grabbed the soldier by the back of his collar.  "What the hell," he muttered through clenched teeth, pulling the man to safety.  "I'm feeling generous."

Irene appeared in front of him and wrapped her arms around him.  He grimaced involuntarily as her embrace aggravated bruises on his torso too numerous to count, but it was only when the soldier was lying face down in the snow, hands behind his head, that Kismet relaxed and allowed himself a contented sigh of relief.

INTO THE BLACK

Kismet contemplated the burning match in his fingers for a moment then waved it in the air until its flame was extinguished.  Although there were yet a few hours of daylight remaining, the mildewed confines of Anatoly Grishakov's cellar saw none of it, forcing Kismet to once more make use of the old kerosene lamp with the missing chimney.

The lamp was actually the second flame he had lit; the first was in the dusty hearth, where a fire now crackled, warming the exhausted pair, father and daughter, that were stretched out before it on a bed of blankets.

Their journey down the mountain had taken several more hours, and the path they followed had brought them to the coastline a couple miles north of the city.  None of them had really slept in over twenty-four hours, and exhaustion was beginning to take a toll, especially on the Kerns.  Practically sleepwalking, Irene and her father had allowed Kismet to tuck them in front of the fireplace in Irene‘s room.  Kismet too had fought a battle with heavy eyelids and muscle aches for much of the descent, but as they neared the city, his mind came fully awake.  His fatigue evaporated as he began to contemplate the next step in the quest for the Fleece.

He already had a notion of where he would find it; it would fall to Kerns to supply the details that would make searching unnecessary.  He spread one of Kerns' old survey maps out on the tabletop, and studied it in the flickering glow of the lamp.  The paper had gotten damp during the course of their adventure on the mountain, but it was intact and the ink markings had not blurred.

His forefinger moved lightly across the paper, first settling on the site of the mountain camp where Harcourt was conducting his futile search.  He then followed the line identifying the old riverbed that cut a meandering path down to the sea, a couple miles north of the inlet.  There were no further markings along that line, but Kismet didn't need any.  The map showed him where to find the Fleece, as effectively as if Kerns had engraved it with the traditional "X" to mark the spot.

He checked his watch; dusk would soon arrive.  He knew he should force himself to get some sleep, but his mind would not turn off.  His new knowledge had created an entirely different set of problems; getting to the Fleece would require specialized skills that he did not have.  Moreover, the equipment he would have to use was antiquated and there was no guarantee that it would work.  He would literally be staking his life on its reliability.

Because he could not sleep, he chose instead to search for something to eat or drink.  Anatoly and his wife were nowhere to be found, but in their pantry, he found a supply of coffee, and set about brewing a pot.  As he savored the first cup, he became conscious of the darkening sky.  It would soon be time for his rendezvous with Lyse.  Before that, he needed to ask the old man a few questions; tough inquiries of which Irene might disapprove.  He decided not to awaken her as he knelt down and shook the engineer.

Peter Kerns was practically stove-up from the ordeal of his imprisonment and the brutal trip down the mountain.  Kismet nevertheless roused him with a mug full of coffee and planted him at the table in front of the map.  Kerns stopped in mid-sip, suddenly aware of the paper spread before him.  "Ah."

Kismet sat across from him.  "You found the Golden Fleece," he stated plainly.  "But it wasn't up in the mountains."

Kerns sighed.  "How did you know?"

"There were too many pieces to the puzzle that didn't fit.  The first was when Harcourt showed me a golden helmet fragment that you had found.  The metal had a trace of salt scale on it.  Of course I really didn't believe there was a Golden Fleece to be found at that point."  He paused to take a sip of his coffee.  "The equipment down in your cellar was another clue, but I still wasn't sure; not until I got a look at the mountain dig site."

"How did that help?"

Kismet smiled patiently.  “Although Harcourt hasn't figured it out yet, I immediately saw what you did all those years ago when you first discovered that old mining camp.  The settlement had been abandoned.  The Greeks, or whoever, had mined the ore until the vein was dry.  Then they packed up everything but the trash and left.  If they found the Golden Fleece, they certainly wouldn't have left it behind."

"No.  I suppose they would not."

Kerns remained evasive, unwilling to be forthcoming with the answers Kismet needed.  Kismet decided not to press him just yet.  "They must have followed the old river down to the coast, loaded their ships, or more likely built a new ship to ferry their wealth back home.  But something terrible happened.  Their treasure ship sank, not too far from the shore, and the Fleece was lost to the ages."

"How do you know that they did not make it safely home?  The Jason legend says that he did return with the Fleece."

"I'm not talking about the legend," Kismet snapped, tiring of Kerns' feigned ignorance.  "I'm talking about reality and we both know it.  So cut the crap and tell me the truth about what you found."

Kerns sagged in defeat.  "I should not tell you.  Better that the secret remains lost.  This world is no place for such powers."

"I understand your concerns.  But the Fleece will be recovered. If not by us, then by Grimes and his gang, or by the Russians.  Who would you prefer possess it?"

"You are right, of course."  He drew in a breath, steeling himself for the confession.  "You are wrong in one respect.  I did not find the Golden Fleece; only a few artifacts scattered on the sea floor.  I dove to retrieve them—"

"SCUBA?"

"No.  All I had available was an old Russian Navy-issue three-bolt rig, with compressed air pumped down from the surface.  I had to install a second petrol tank on the compressor in order to work alone.  I told no one of my discovery; not my daughter, nor my best friend Anatoly."

"I thought we were finished with this little game, Kerns.  You found more than just a few old relics."

The old man sighed, sinking back into his memories.  "It took me weeks of secret diving, in a careful search pattern, to find the pieces.  But when I began discovering fragments of gold and temple stones of marble, it was as if my feet were set upon the path.  As I moved from one discovery to another, I drew closer to something strange.

"I first began to notice the fish.  It was as if they stood guard around a certain place.  I remembered hearing talk
--
superstition really
--
from the fishermen in the village.  They spoke of a place that was haunted, where the ocean glowed with a yellow light during the night.  Nets lowered there would always come up filled, but no one lingered in that place, fearful of tempting whatever powers lurked below.  I, of course, dismissed the stories, trusting the assurance of my intellect that no such haunting was possible.  But as I stood on the ocean floor, surrounded by some increasingly aggressive fish, I became a believer."

"Just because of some fish?"

"Not just the fish.  I saw something else.  A wreck, I think, though I cannot to this day be certain.  It was the axis around which the sentry fish orbited.  Whatever they protected was concealed there.  I know, for the whole place was alive with a golden light."

Despite his willingness to believe, Kismet was momentarily plagued with skepticism.  "You never went any closer?  Why do you believe the Fleece is there?"

"I did not.  In fact, upon returning to the surface, I stored my equipment and never dove again.  I had already taken enough relics to pay for my flight from the USSR.  It did not occur to me that the Golden Fleece might be there until I was captured by those men and interrogated concerning it.  Only then did I realize what it was I had seen."

"But you didn't tell them anything.  And when they pressed you, you led them to the old mountain camp.  You took a hell of a chance with your daughter's life."

Kerns returned his gaze with an earnest expression.  "I believe you would have done the same thing, Mr. Kismet.  We both know that one life here or there is of little consequence against something as potentially dangerous as that Fleece.  Power like that could reshape the world.

"However, my efforts to mislead them might have proved successful.  The site is genuine.  Harcourt verified that from the beginning.  They would have searched for a while and, finding nothing, given up, believing that I had cooperated fully.  It was the only thing I could think of doing."

Kismet sat back, unconsciously stroking the stubble on his chin.  "You probably made the right decision.  Your cooperation would not have made a difference though.  Grimes ordered Irene's death the minute they had you out the door."

"I feared as much.  Still, I had hoped they would honor their word."

"All of which leaves us with the question of how to proceed.  Despite our escape, I believe Harcourt will continue to dig up there, at least for a while.  I want you to do two things for me.  First, show me on the chart exactly where you found the wreck.  And second, teach me how to use the diving equipment."

Kerns hesitated only a moment then stabbed at the map with a finger.  He was pointing to a shelf, roughly twenty fathoms below the surface, after which the sea floor dropped dramatically.  Anything lost beyond that point would be gone forever from the world of mankind; sunk to depths where the pressure would crush any diver or submarine.  Kismet studied the location carefully, committing it to memory.  He had no intention of leaving a paper trail for his foes to follow.

"My equipment ought to function, despite the years," Kerns offered.  "But it will take me a while to show you how it works."

Kismet checked his watch.  "You've got three hours."

* * *

Three hours and fifteen minutes later, Nick Kismet swung down from the broad back of the draft horse and scanned the inky waters of the Black Sea for signs of motion.  He saw nothing, but the moon was still low in the sky and the sea revealed little about itself.  Still, he was where he was supposed to be, and even a few minutes early.  He dug into his waist pack, took out his MagLite and removed the red lens cover.  After a quick compass reading, he positioned himself facing due west, after which he flashed the naked light three times out across the black water.  A moment later three pulses of light, like echoes of his own signal, flickered in the distant darkness.

"This is it," he declared, offering his hand to Irene.  With some difficulty, due to fatigue and soreness, she and her father dismounted from the other horse.

They waited in silence for fifteen minutes.  Before that time had passed, Kismet was sure that he heard the distinct whine of an outboard motor, but the noise ended abruptly before his eyes could distinguish the source.  Shortly thereafter, he glimpsed a shadowy spot that didn't reflect starlight.  The form drew closer, but it wasn't until the small craft was drawn onto the beach that Kismet and the others could correctly identify it as a large inflatable rubber boat.

Two large men dressed entirely in black, with faces stained by dark greasepaint, stowed their oars in the raft, then jumped out into the gentle surf and pulled the boat onto dry ground.  A third person, smaller than the others, but similarly decked out, remained seated in the craft until it was secure.  Kismet went down to meet them.

"Hey, Lyse."

The smallest member of the shore party looked up, her grin a white crescent in an otherwise darkened face.  "Nick.  Son of a gun, you're still alive."

Eschewing what he expected to be the protocol of clandestine meetings, Lysette Lyon threw her arms around him. Somewhere behind him, he thought he heard Irene clearing her throat.

"You sound surprised."

She withdrew after a moment.  "Pleasantly so.  We've been monitoring all kinds of radio traffic.  You've definitely stirred up a hornet's nest or two."

"I was only aware of one.  Germans."

"The Russians are talking about you too, both military and something else.  A code we haven't been able to break yet.  Face it; everyone knows you're here.  The sooner we get out of here, the better."  She gazed past Kismet at Irene and her father as they moved to join the reunion.  "I see you got what you came for."

"Not quite.  But I'll have the Golden Fleece in two days.  What I need right now is for you to get them—" He jerked a thumb casually in the direction of his companions, speaking softly so that they would not overhear—"somewhere out of the way until I can get it."

"What's going on, Nick?"  Irene touched him on the shoulder as she came to a standstill beside him.  Kismet couldn't tell if she was harboring jealousy toward Lyse's unexpected presence or merely curious.