Into the Black (28 page)

"I'm entrusting you and your father into the care of my friend Lyse.  She works for the--"

Lyse quickly cut him off.  "Ah-ah, Nick." She then addressed Irene.  "We're just some concerned folks, looking out for our fellow citizens abroad."

"Right.  Anyway Irene, I want you and your father to stay with Lyse while I go after the Fleece."

"My father should go with you," Irene agreed, addressing Lyse.  "He's suffering from fatigue, and God only knows what else those bastards did to him.  Is one of you a medic?"

"I'll get him some medical attention," promised Lyse.

Irene nodded.  "However, Nick, I am staying with you."

"Absolutely not."

"Think about it.  Everyone knows we're together.  You said you were afraid that someone in the village might be an informant.  You're bound to raise suspicions if you show up without me."

"She makes a valid point," Lyse intoned.

"Stay out of this."  He turned to Irene, but she was already forestalling him.  "Face it, Nick. As long as we're together, no one will be any wiser."

His retort fell silent.  He knew that her logic was sound, yet the thought of exposing her to further risk filled him with dread.  "All right," he relented.  "It will only be for a couple days.  Lyse, we'll be back here in exactly forty-eight hours.  If all goes as planned, we'll have the Golden Fleece.  Then you can get us all out of here."

"I think it would probably be better for you to plan on exfiltrating through normal channels," Lyse opined.  "You've got the documentation.  If you two vanished from here then popped up back in the States, people would notice and it might cause an embarrassing situation."

"I would personally find it a lot more embarrassing if I got killed trying to smuggle the Fleece across the border."

"I thought you were in the business of protecting sovereign claims to these relics?"

Her question was rhetorical, but still gave him a pang.  It was true; he was doing the very thing he sought to prevent as part of the UN Global Heritage Commission.  It had been easy enough to justify, at least to his own conscience; the Fleece wasn't simply a valuable relic, it was potentially very dangerous.  It might also be just the thing he needed to gain the upper hand on the Prometheus group.

Lyse did not wait for him to answer.  "All I'm saying is you should plan on leaving through the front door, whether or not you find the Fleece."

"I'll find it."

"Fine.  When you do, we'll go from there.  Deal?"

Kismet narrowed his eyes, suddenly suspicious.  "You're up to something, Lyse.  I can tell."

She raised her hands in a gesture of innocence.  "
Moi
?"

Kismet nodded, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Lyse didn't disappoint.

"Well, there is one thing, but it's nothing you're not already aware of."

"Go on."

"It's just that things are heating up here, Nick.  Even you'd agree that you're working under somewhat dangerous conditions."

"I've had a busy couple of days," he said equivocally.

"It might be a good idea for you to tell me what you did with the information from the statue, right now.  If anything were to happen to you, that data might be lost forever."

Although he had been expecting the request, it triggered an unexpected realization that caught him by surprise.  "I don't believe it," he whispered hoarsely, more to himself than to the CIA operative.  "You're giving up on me."

"Nick, please.  We need that information.  There is a new kind of arms race heating up, and we need to know what the other side is up to."

Kismet barely heard her.  "You don't think I'll find it," he accused, then amended:  "Your people—CIA, or whoever you work for—they don't believe me.  You're just humoring me until you get the information.  Then what?  Leave me out here on my own?  Or just turn me over to the Russians and let them quietly dispose of me?"

Lyse started to protest, but closed her mouth without speaking.  She glanced at Irene and her father who looked on, uncomprehending, then looked back at her two accomplices who waited apprehensively by the raft.  "Walk with me."

They stepped a few paces away from their companions.  Lyse then moved close to Kismet and began speaking in an urgent whisper that was barely audible over the lapping of the sea.  "Damn it Nick, this has gone far enough.  I've jumped through too many hoops for you.  What you're doing by withholding that information is treason."

"Treason," he echoed, loud enough for the others to hear.  "You don't get it, do you?  If you let Grimes get the Golden Fleece by not helping me, you're the one who will have sold out our country."

"You said it yourself.  The Fleece is a fairy tale."

"Grimes doesn't think so."

Lyse shook her head and rubbed her eyes, like a weary parent unable to reason with a wayward son.  "We think this whole affair with the Golden Fleece is a smokescreen designed to distract attention from the real reasons Grimes has defected.  He probably wanted your help to lend more authenticity to the illusion."

"Bullshit."

She ignored him.  "Grimes doesn't care about fairy tales.  He's pissed off at the Pentagon for giving him the boot, not to mention for backing down from Iran and North Korea...Hell, he‘d like to pave all of Asia.  He hates the President with a passion.  And it turns out he's been getting chummy with a German defense contractor, who also happens to be a leading figure in their Nationalist Party.  This is all about money and revenge, Nick."

"Ans I'm just a pawn in some political game?" Kismet accused.  "His pawn and yours.  Believe it or not, that doesn't surprise me.  What I don't get is why you've gone along with me so far.  Why not just arrest me for withholding the information you need?  It would have been a lot easier."

"No kidding.  If you had any idea how much the President has authorized for this little jaunt of ours—well let's just say that if it ever got out, he could kiss his Presidential library good-bye."

"Then I repeat: Why go along with it until now?"

"Because you still have something we need," she explained, her voice growing taut, as if tiring of the argument.  "And you have to give it to me now."

"You would go to all this trouble just to get the information on that memory card?"  Kismet shook his head.  "I find that hard to believe."

"You shouldn't.  People died to get that information out of Germany.  You said you thought it was research for some kind of bomb, right?  Well it is.  It's a formula for a super EMP bomb.  I don't really understand the details, but I know that whoever can make a weapon like that could rule the whole planet.  We, meaning everyone from the President down to me, think that getting it before the Germans, or anyone else, is worth any expense or risk."

Kismet was unimpressed.  "So why not try to buy me off?  Or threaten me?  Hell, you might have appealed to my patriotic fervor; waved the flag and told me I'd be a hero."

"Actually, it was my idea to go along with you," Lyse stated with unexpected sobriety. "I certainly haven't forgotten how you served your country during the first Gulf War; it's what inspired me to talk to a Company recruiter in the first place.  More than that, you know how to keep a secret.  I thought you deserved a little better treatment, especially after I scammed you into helping me get the information back to America."

"You should have been up front with me Lyse," he accused.  "I'd have rather known the score going into this."

"You know how this business works, Nick.  Need to know."

He sighed.  "What about Grimes?"

"That's the other reason for all of this.  My team has another assignment besides babysitting you.  We're going into Germany to grab Grimes and take him back to the States to stand trial."

Kismet chuckled.  "Grimes isn't in Germany.  He's here with an entire company of commandos, trying to recover the Golden Fleece.  Right now, they're camped up in the mountains about thirty miles from here, because they believe that the Golden Fleece is real and that it is worth any effort to recover.  So do I, but apparently I'm the only one on our side who does."

Lyse began shaking her head.  "I don't get it.  It's just a myth, and not a particularly interesting one, at that.  Our researchers looked into it.  The Fleece has no real value as an occult object or weapon; even in the legends it was mostly a curiosity piece."

"Since when did you become an expert?" Kismet snorted derisively.  "Look, as things stand now, Grimes will never find the Fleece.  But I know where it is and I can get it inside of two days.  I just need you to keep the status quo until then."

Lyse pressed her hands together under her chin, deep in thought.  Kismet knew he had failed to convince the intelligence officer of the Fleece's importance, and so he was mildly surprised by her next statement.  "All right.  This is too important to be overlooked.  You can have your two days.  Hell, take a week if you can do it without arousing anyone's suspicion.  No more than that though."

"I won't need it," he replied confidently.  "What's the catch?"

"The catch—and this is not open to debate—is that you will immediately tell me where you hid the information."

"Sure.  And that will be the last time I ever see you."

"You have my promise of support, Nick."

"From Lysette Lyon, my old college crush that would actually be enough.  But from you, now, secret agent and patriot, I just don't know."

"Then you have my word as an American."  Her grin was not insincere.  "How's that?"

"Better.  I would prefer the truth.  Why are you really doing this?  No bullshit."

"Grimes.  I want him, Nick.  If he's as close as you say, we can sneak in and nab him.  It's perfect.  Trying to get him out of Germany would have been tough, but this will be a cakewalk."

Kismet scratched his head.  "I don't know.  There are an awful lot of them up there.  If you try anything, it might bring them down, and that will make my job harder."

"I've got reinforcements of my own.  Don't worry.  By the time you have the Fleece, you won't have to worry about Halverson Grimes."

"So why can't you wait the extra two days for the information?"

"I said no arguments, Nick.  If you want my help, cough it up now."

Kismet grinned, ready at last to spring his own mean surprise.  "Actually, you already have it.  I emailed it to you."

Lyse stopped moving and began speaking very slowly.  "You did what?"

"I compressed the file, and uploaded it to the UN server.  And then I sent you a link.  I guess you haven't checked your email in a while."

"Oh, my God.  I can't believe you did that.  Do you realize how irresponsible that was?"

"About as irresponsible as the stunt you pulled in Morocco.  No, strike that.  What I did was a lot safer and smarter.  The servers are as secure as anything the CIA has, and the file is encrypted and booby-trapped.  Any attempt to access it without the link I sent you will not only erase the file but seek out the person who tried to hack in."

Lyse did not seem greatly relieved by his assurance. "And the original?"

"Like I told you before.  It's with a trusted friend.  Don't worry.  You will get the original as soon as we get back.  And you've already got the information, so if something happens to me, you're covered that way, too.  Take it or leave it."

She ground her palms into her eyes as if the exchange had given her a headache.  Kismet knew he had won.  "Okay," she relented.  "That will have to do for now, but you will give me that original copy as soon as this is over."

He nodded, but then she did something unexpected.  He looked down to find her gripping the lapels of his jacket and staring up into his eyes.  "Nick, I mean it.  You will give it to me personally.  That means you'd better not get yourself dead."

"Understood," he replied solemnly, feeling suddenly very uncomfortable.

Lyse stepped back and faced the shore party.  "Gentlemen, let's get out of here."

As the two men made ready to shove the raft back into the surf, Irene and her father exchanged a tearful but brief farewell.  Then Peter Kerns climbed into the rubber boat and vanished into the sea.

Kismet placed a consoling arm around Irene.  Tears had left their tracks on her cheeks, but her emotional state seemed otherwise healthy.  "We'll be with him again before you know it," he promised.

Irene nodded, but said nothing.  Kismet could sense her fatigue; she was nearly asleep on her feet.  With gentle firmness he maneuvered her away from the water's edge and assisted her up the trail to where the horses were tethered.  He helped her to mount one, and then led both animals on foot back toward town.

The safe delivery of Peter Kerns left Kismet with a feeling of accomplishment.  He had rescued an innocent man from Grimes' machinations and prevented the traitor from capturing the prize.  Yet he was anxious about the remainder of mission.  Despite his confident poise while verbally sparring with Lyse, there remained untold potential for things to go dreadfully wrong; knowing that Irene would share the risk added to his fears.  Grudgingly, he acknowledged that he was going to have to extend a degree of trust toward someone he instinctively doubted in order to ensure success.

They arrived back at their host's residence about forty minutes later. Kismet led Irene through the darkened house to the second floor guest bedroom.  He tucked her into bed and as he turned from her closed door, found himself facing the burly, scowling form of Anatoly Grishakov.

Kismet took a step back, bumping into the wall.  "Uh, sorry.  Did I wake you?"

Anatoly's hard edge suddenly vanished as his bearded face was split by an enormous smile.  "Of course you did!" he roared.  "Never mind.  Come to the table and we will have something to drink."

Kismet breathed a sigh of relief and followed the big man through the house.  Anatoly left the electric lights off, using a kerosene lamp for illumination.  He placed it at the center of the table, but the perimeter of the room remained cloaked in shadows.  "Sit," he beckoned.  "My wife sleeps, so we will not sing too loudly."

Kismet smiled in spite of himself and went to take a seat.  As he passed the Russian, he found the man staring at his shoulders.  Looking down, he realized that the AK 47 he had confiscated on the mountainside was still slung diagonally across his back.  He had taken it along for the seaside rendezvous and gradually forgotten about it.