Into the Black (7 page)

"Care to fill me in?"

Kismet turned to find Lyse peering over his shoulder.  She looked somewhat ridiculous as she stretched on her tip-toes in the high-heeled shoes.  He noted that she had at least managed to pull a lightweight raincoat over her cocktail dress.  A thought occurred to him. "You said you had trouble parking.  You drove?"

"Mmhhmm. And what a drive. I'm famished."

"Fine. You go get something to eat. I need to borrow your car."

"What? Not a chance. We may be old friends, but you're too old, and we're not that friendly."

Kismet frowned.  "I need to follow that man."

Lyse stared back, her face uncharacteristically serious. "Is it really important?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Okay. I'll drive you. I owe you one."

"You owe me plenty. But thanks."

The black Towne Car pulled into the moderately light traffic moving along Central Park West, and then signaled for a turn onto 81st
Street.  Lyse led Kismet back along the north side of the museum, across the lawn toward Columbus Avenue.  Traffic was heavier there, but they crossed against the light and jogged down West 81st until Kismet spied an all too familiar shape.

"Oh, God.  Not the Bug."

Lyse affected a hurt expression. "Nick, I thought you loved the Bug."

"Jesus, Lyse. That car's older than I am. And it's not exactly inconspicuous."

The last point was difficult to argue.  Though he knew from experience that Lyse always kept the candy-apple red 1965 Volkswagen Super Beetle in superb condition, it was nevertheless something of a modern relic.

"Beggars can't be choosers, Nick.  Would you'd rather try following him on foot?"

Kismet growled, but conceded her point and squirmed into the cramped interior.  With any luck, the scattered snow showers would afford them a degree of concealment as they tailed Harcourt to his next destination.  Lyse turned the key and the Volkswagen engine rattled to life.  Kismet reconsidered walking, but as Harcourt's Lincoln turned left onto Columbus Avenue only a block away, Kismet knew their window of opportunity would not stay open for long. "Try not to lose them."

"Please Nick," she said, sounding wounded.  "It's me."

The Super Beetle slipped easily from its parking space and puttered toward the intersection.  Lyse executed a rolling stop, and then darted across two lanes, to the annoyance of a Yellow Cab that had to fan its brakes imperceptibly to let her in.  Kismet scanned the road ahead, spying the ornate taillights of Harcourt's car about a hundred yards ahead.

"There he is," observed Lyse, easing back on the accelerator to maintain the distance. "He's staying to the inside.  I'd say they're heading downtown.  So who is this guy?"

Kismet rubbed his eyes as if he had a headache. Harcourt’s bombshell was still ringing in his ears.  There seemed but one explanation: the mysterious Prometheus group had resurfaced.  But he was not about to trust Lyse with that supposition.  Instead, he answered her query with a simple, if incomplete statement of fact.  "Sir Andrew Harcourt.  He's an archaeologist from London."

"Yeah?  From your tone, I take it he didn't get a Christmas card from you this year?"

"We butted heads a couple years back.  Harcourt is a sensationalist.  Most archaeologists focus on a particular area of study and pretty much devote their career to it.  Harcourt is one of those guys who likes to develop flashy theories and make a big production out of his digs; live television coverage and so forth.

"About three years ago, he stumbled onto what looked like a Norse burial mound upstate.  He excavated it and evidently found some impressive stuff; it looked good on camera at least.  As I recall, he tried to link the burial mound with the legend of Beowulf; an epic poem, written in old English, a fairy tale, about a brave warrior who went on a quest, slew a dragon and got killed for his trouble."

"Saw the movie.  Kind of a downer."

Kismet continued with a nod.  "Harcourt tried to draw on similarities between the legend and his discovery, suggesting that the poem might have been the story of an ancient warrior who actually traveled to America centuries before Columbus.  I don't know if he actually believed that he had found the burial place of the real Beowulf, but when they edited the footage for the Discovery Channel, it sure sounded that way."

"Where's the crime in that?"

"Pop science is great for getting kids interested, but when you try to build on a foundation of mythology—folk tales and superstition—you just cloud the issue."

She threw him a sidelong glance.  "Why?  I mean, sometimes those legends are based on real events, right?"

"Harcourt's methods tend to blur the distinction.  When you try that hard to reconcile fairy tales with established historical facts, you only obscure the truth.  Just imagine if I came forward and claimed to have discovered the golden coffin of Snow White.  I might get a lot of attention, but the truth of the matter is, Snow White is just a fairy tale. It didn't really happen. So even if I really had found an empty golden coffin, by saying that it belonged to a character from a fairy tale, I would be misdirecting people away from the facts about whose coffin it really was."

Lyse looked unconvinced but Kismet didn't know how to illustrate the problem more simply. "Well anyway, there's more to the story. In addition to the Norse artifacts there were quite a few Native American pieces at the site.  Naturally it turned into a pissing contest, and because his theories were so wild, Harcourt ended up getting pushed out.  I'm afraid that was mostly my doing."

"Ah, so that's why you two are best pals." 

Before he could answer, the black car ahead of them angled left onto Broadway.  Lyse peered intently through the drizzle, then downshifted for a surge of power.  The Volkswagen shot forward and rapidly closed the gap between the two cars. "They're heading downtown, all right.  I'm going to pass them."

"What?  I don't want them to see me."

"They're a lot less likely to realize that we are following them if we're ahead of them. Just look away as we go by."

Before he could argue, Lyse swung the Super Beetle into the left lane and drew alongside the Lincoln. Kismet hastily folded himself over, pressing his torso against his knees below the level of the window.  He gave her a scorching glance as she looked over to the other driver and smiled mischievously.

"Damn it, Lyse!"

She laughed and floored the accelerator pedal. The rear-mounted engine whined in protest as the smaller car pulled ahead of the considerably more powerful Lincoln. When they had pulled back into the right lane, Kismet sat up and risked a look through the back window. The Towne Car's headlights were twin spots of brilliance, perhaps a hundred yards behind them.  "Don't worry.  In a few minutes I'll let them pass us again.  They'll never figure it out."

Kismet sighed.  It was probably a good plan; he was just irked that she hadn't consulted him first. 
Typical Lyse
.

"I hate to bring this up," she continued. "But I came to see you for a reason."

"I know, I know. That fake statue. You'll get it tonight. I promise."

She seemed satisfied with his assurance.  "Good enough. Now, finish the story.  You got him kicked off the dig.  Then what?"

Kismet shrugged.  "I lost track of him.  It’s not like it was some kind of grudge match.  Anyway, he's got a new pet project: he just walked into my office claiming to have found an historical link to the legendary Golden Fleece."

"Another fairy tale?"

"Exactly. In fact, the legend of Jason and the Argonauts is just about the original fairy tale."

"I've heard of it."

Kismet nodded.  "The legend tells of an adventurer named Jason who was sent on a quest to find the hide of a golden ram."

"Real gold?  It was worth a lot then?"

"Maybe. Some versions of the legend ascribe various supernatural powers to the Golden Fleece; control over the elements, healing, and so forth.  In the legend, Jason got together a crew of heroes, including Hercules, to sail a ship called the Argo to the land of Colchis.  They had the usual adventures along the way, monsters and so forth.  When they reached Colchis, Jason tried to negotiate for the Fleece, but ended up stealing it with the help of the king's daughter Medea.  She was a priestess of the temple where the Fleece was kept and used her witchcraft to help Jason defeat the Fleece's guardians.  They left Colchis with the prize and returned to Jason's homeland, Iolcos, where he eventually became king."

"And they all lived happily ever after?"

"Hardly.  Jason divorced Medea and married someone else.  Medea murdered Jason's new wife, her own children, and just about everyone else he loved.  He died a bitter failure.  He was resting in the shadow of the Argo when a loose beam collapsed on him and shattered his skull."  Kismet sighed thoughtfully, gazing out at the passing buildings.  "It's the sort of ironic end that comes to people who spend their whole lives searching for treasure and glory."

"And the Golden Fleece? Harcourt is looking for it, and you want to beat him to it?"

Kismet looked over with a stern expression. "The Golden Fleece is just a fairy tale."

"Then why are we following him?"

"Because he knows something," replied Kismet gravely. "Something that no one is supposed to know."

From their vantage half a city block away, Kismet and Lyse watched as the driver of the Towne Car let his passenger out.  Harcourt stood on the wet sidewalk, briefly taking in the architecture of the West Village, and then turned to face the imposing edifice before which they were parked—a nineteenth century Catholic Church.  He conferred with the driver for a moment, and then ascended the steps.

"What do you make of that?" Lyse whispered, unnecessarily.

Kismet shook his head.  "Let's find out."

The procession through downtown had ended here in the West Village. The wet snow had grudgingly given way to sporadic drizzle, but visibility in the dark twilight remained limited.  The street on which they now found themselves was quiet, almost unnaturally so for New York City, with only a few pedestrians braving the unpleasant weather.  Kismet absently wondered if everyone had already gone off to celebrate the New Year.  The only sign of any real activity was a large canister style garbage truck slowly rolling up the street making late pick-ups, evidently extending service on the eve of the holiday so that the following day might be spent with football games and hangover remedies.

Harcourt's driver returned to the black car and drove off, after which Kismet and Lyse approached the front of the church as inconspicuously as possible.  Since Harcourt knew his face, Kismet suggested that Lyse take the lead.  If the archaeologist happened to be waiting just inside the doors of the church, she could wave him off.

She took a step back, hands on her hips.  "I'm not exactly dressed for church here, Nick."

"Come on, you look great.  It's New Year's Eve.  Everyone is dressed up.  Even the nuns."

She shook her head disparagingly, then hopped up the steps to the heavy wooden doors, and peered into the great hall of the church.  "No sign of him.  In fact, I don't see anyone."

Kismet nudged her inside, closing the enormous door behind them.  The nave was gloomy—more like a crypt than a house of worship.  A wall of votive candles flickered nearby, but most were on their last breath.  Kismet walked by the votary, pausing at the border of the colonnade to see if the Englishman was secreted in the pews.

The church seemed deserted.  All but one of the confessionals stood wide open and vacant.  The pews were likewise empty, as was the area around the altar.  A corridor, situated behind the altar, led away from the main auditorium and appeared to be the only means of egress available to Harcourt.  Kismet took a cautious step out from behind the column.

He crossed the distance to the front of the nave quickly, straining to hear some fragment of a voice, or noise of footsteps, alerting him to the approach of trouble.  Nothing.  The church was as quiet as a tomb.

"We've missed something," he muttered.  "Some other way out of here."

Lyse jerked a thumb in the direction of the confessional.  "Maybe he's in there."

"I don't think he's Catholic, so confession?"  He shook his head dismissively.  Nevertheless, he strode toward the stalls and listened for the Englishman's voice just in case.  He heard nothing...nothing at all.  He moved nearer to the closed door and pressed his ear to the thin panel.

Lyse cleared her throat.  "I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to—"

He stepped back and pulled the door open.  Lyse squealed involuntarily as Kismet, to all appearances, violated the sanctity of the confessional.  The little booth however was empty.  He stepped inside, and began probing the screen that separated the penitent from the confessor until it popped loose, swinging on hinges into the emptiness beyond.

"Bless me father for I have sinned," Kismet remarked, observing his handiwork.

"That ain't very damn funny."  Then, as if remembering where she was, Lyse grimaced and, looking heavenward, added: "Oops.  Sorry."

Beyond the hinged screen the similarity to an ordinary confessional ended.  The confessor's bench had been pushed aside to reveal a three foot square opening in the floor, its trapdoor covering carelessly thrown aside.  Kismet climbed through the partition and knelt beside the aperture.  A fixed wooden ladder descended into the darkness below.  Kismet raised a finger to his lips, signaling his companion to keep silent then stuck his head into the opening.

He could hear voices, muted by the distance.  No one seemed to be guarding the base of the ladder, but Kismet felt a growing apprehension.  After so many fruitless years of searching, had he finally happened upon the sanctuary of the mysterious group that had become the object of his own epic quest?   Somehow, secret passages and hidden vaults seemed a little too cliché for the almost faceless enemy he had pursued for almost two decades.  Still, there was only one way to find out.  Gathering his courage, he lowered his feet onto the first step and began climbing down.