Fortune Favors

ONE

In the deepening twilight, the becalmed surface of the South China Sea resembled an expanse of black velvet, stretching in every direction almost as far as the eye could see. The only landmass visible to the occupants of the Bell JetRanger 203 helicopter, beating the air high above the inky waters, was the eastern tip of the Malaysian island of Borneo, rising out of the sea to the south.

Nick Kismet gazed through the Lexan viewport, watching as even that last remaining link to terra firma dissolved in the distance, and then swung his gaze forward. He shifted uncomfortably in the cramped rear seat. The headset he wore over his close-cropped dark hair allowed him to converse both with the other passengers and the flight crew, but its primary function was to muffle the noise of the rotor blades as they hacked through the air, giving lift and speed to the craft. He knew from experience that the sound was almost deafening; even muted by the foam earpieces, it was still loud enough to destroy the illusion of floating peacefully above the darkened sea.

His fellow traveling companions were strangers, though he knew two of them by reputation. One of the female passengers had made a furtive effort at introductions, but no one else had manifested a desire to converse once the helicopter was airborne. The crossing would be brief and there would be plenty of time to socialize once they reached the ship.

The vessel to which they were bound was a mid-sized cruise ship, based out of Hong Kong. It was presently flying the flag of the Sultanate of Muara, from where it had just commenced a historic voyage that would, if all went according to plan, last nearly two years and take the ship to every corner of the globe. By arrangement with the shipping line, the craft had been renamed The Star of Muara and would be operating both as a fully-staffed maritime luxury resort and a museum of priceless antiquities for the next twenty-two months.

Unlike his fellow passengers, Kismet was neither enjoying the thrill of a helicopter ride, nor particularly looking forward to a week of being pampered aboard the cruise ship. With respect to the former, he’d had more than had his fill of helicopters during his brief time in the US military; even a sleek JetRanger held no more excitement than a drive to the corner store. As far as his stay aboard The Star of Muara was concerned — well, that would be work.

At the time of his death a few years earlier, the man who had ruled as Sultan of Muara for nearly thirty years had achieved an undreamed of level of wealth. Although ranked only as the forty-seventh wealthiest man in the world, his riches were unique in several respects. He was not an entertainer or athletic god, nor was he a politically elected figure; his affluence did not depend upon his popularity among a fickle public. Neither was he a hedge fund manager, or the chairman of a board of executives, entrusted with the responsibility of making money for others, and therefore beholden to his shareholders. The Sultanate of Muara, a sovereign nation nearly three hundred years old and occupying a few thousand square miles of the island of Borneo, guarded one of the largest petroleum reserves of any nation outside of OPEC. As the supreme ruler of its simple monarchy, the Sultan had been its sole protector and beneficiary.

Despite his wealth, the late Sultan had been a man of moderate habits. Although he had certainly made his share of impulse purchases and lavish gifts for his wife and son, he had been a careful manager of the royal treasury. Under his guidance, Muara’s oil industry, and subsequently its economy, had thrived. So, in turn, had the royal family.

For all his frugality, the Sultan had succumbed to a single expensive vice: he was a collector. For nearly twenty years, he had set his heart upon accumulating art treasures and priceless historical relics, slowly building what was rumored to be the most impressive collection of antiquities anywhere. It was a difficult claim to verify since the international trade in such properties was highly restricted and most of the pieces in his private storehouse had been traded illegally many times over the centuries. During the Sultan’s lifetime, only a few discreet visitors had the privilege of viewing the treasures of Muara. Because the relics were illicitly obtained, they were not reckoned as part of the Sultan’s net worth, and inasmuch as many of the pieces were unarguably priceless, the Sultan of Muara would rightly have earned a place much higher on the list of the world’s wealthiest men; perhaps at its very top.

And then he had died.

The heir to the wealth of Muara, the royal prince, had often demonstrated that he lacked his father’s fiscal discretion but the state-run oil industry was virtually self-perpetuating, so there seemed to be no reason for alarm. The former Sultan had hired the best business managers and paid them well, and they in turn had created a sustainable pipeline of wealth for the small country. The new Sultan, now approaching his thirtieth year of life, needed only to sit back with his American movie star wife, and enjoy the good life for the rest of his years.

Somehow, the young Sultan had done the impossible: he had squandered his father’s legacy. Five years after the death of the old Sultan, the royal house of Muara was bankrupt.

The oil had continued to flow unchecked from the earth’s veins, but the wealth of Muara had hemorrhaged even faster, financing the Sultan’s outrageous parties, expensive hobbies and extravagant gifts to friends and mistresses. It was rumored that guests to the royal residence could have their choice of carnal pleasures, including cocaine and heroine of such purity that doses were regulated and administered by a registered nurse.

The approaching storm had not gone unnoticed; several members of the household staff had openly warned the heir that the wealth of his father was not an unlimited resource. Rather than heeding the message, the Sultan had followed the time-honored tradition of killing the messenger. The staff was relieved of their duties and replaced; the business and financial advisors were dismissed and their jobs given to several of the new Sultan’s friends. Silencing the voices of dissent however could not change the inevitable outcome, and a mere sixty months after his ascension to the throne of Muara, the checks began bouncing.

His newfound friends may not have offered the Sultan worthwhile advice, but they certainly had the wherewithal to get out before the collapse of the kingdom. Stunned at the disappearance of both his riches and his associates, the Sultan had at last turned to the advisors trusted by his father, begging for their help in saving the kingdom. Because they were men of conscience, and recognized that there was more at stake than merely the Sultan’s standard of living, the advisors resumed their duties, laboring feverishly to salvage the wreck of Muara.

It was determined that the oil revenues would be sufficient to bring the Sultanate back into solvency in less than a decade, but that did not take into account the day to day operations of the kingdom. Nor did it address a growing threat from Muara’s neighbor, and chief debtor, Malaysia. The government in Kuala Lumpur was already making overtures to bring the sovereign nation permanently into its fold. If Muara did not allow annexation and could not pay its debts, the Malaysian government would place a lien against any profits from the sale of petroleum in order to pay the interest on the Sultan’s loans, keeping the country indefinitely in the red. What was needed, the financial ministers decided, was a rapid infusion of cash.

The old Sultan’s collection of antiquities had not completely survived the appetites of his heir and the latter’s friends. Several baubles of precious metals and jewels had been gifted to young ladies in exchange for a few hours of entertainment, and several other smaller curiosities of indeterminate value had likewise disappeared. Nevertheless, the bulk of the collection remained intact, an assemblage of artifacts each deservingly appraised as priceless. Yet the Sultan could not sell a single piece.

Although his father had been discreet in acquiring the antiquities, the existence of his private museum was nonetheless well known by those who enforced the laws governing the international art trade. As long as the treasures remained on the soil of a sovereign nation, no one could touch them. But a potential buyer had to face the very real possibility that law enforcement agents from any of a number of national and international bodies would be waiting to seize the relics should they leave the country, and perhaps arrest the purchaser as well.

At last, one of the Sultan’s advisors had hit upon a solution that satisfied not only the letter of the law, but also guaranteed the future of Muara. The treasures of the kingdom would be put on display, touring the world on a floating museum, during which time every nation with a reasonable claim to individual artifacts would be able to make their case for rightful ownership. At the end of a two-year circumnavigation, the collection would be broken and distributed accordingly. Not only would Muara receive a modest finder’s fee, but a percentage of profits from the tour and merchandising would also pour into the emptied treasury. It was a gamble to be sure, but for the young Sultan facing the dissolution of his kingdom, it was the only option.

The oversight of the world tour and the legal proceedings that would determine ownership of the relics fell to the only body capable of maintaining a semblance of objectivity: the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural, Organization’s Global Heritage Commission. Each member nation sent their representatives to begin the tedious process, commencing immediately after the gala opening of the exhibit which was housed aboard The Star of Muara. As the Global Heritage Commission liaison to the United States of America, Nick Kismet was the lucky winner of an all-expenses paid cruise in the South China Sea.

The ship was easily distinguishable in the descending darkness. Its decks were strung with lights, causing it to resemble nothing less than an enormous funeral pyre in the middle of the ocean. Kismet cringed as that image sprang unbidden into his imagination; he tried to think of the lights in a more festive setting and failing that, he simply looked away, which was harder than it seemed. The eye was naturally drawn to the overwhelming light source as a moth to a flame. He turned his head away, deliberately gazing out into the darkest part of the sea.

Kismet’s interest in the relics of ancient history was relatively new. Although he had studied world history extensively during his college education, his personal agenda had very little to do with solving the mysteries of another age. Kismet was interested in solving more contemporary enigma.

Many years earlier, a much younger Kismet had gone into the desert and everything about his life had changed. A junior officer with Army Intelligence, on the eve of Desert Storm, he had been sent on a mission which he believed to be simply the rescue of a defector who wanted to escape from Iraq. Instead, he had witnessed the curtain being thrown back on a conspiracy that seemed inextricably linked with the legendary treasures of the ancient world, and more importantly with his own life. After escaping the desert crucible, he had finished his education in international law and taken a job with UNESCO’s Global Heritage Commission, from which vantage point, he had been able to maintain a vigil on the world of antiquities, watching and waiting for the conspiracy to reveal itself once more. Although he had found nothing conclusive, it had certainly proven to be an interesting career choice.

The dark water offered little insight into these ruminations, but was a welcome change from the gaudy shipboard lights. Kismet’s dread of the days that lay ahead was returning. He didn’t have the patience for a life of leisure; the thought of sipping cocktails poolside filled him with dread…

His brow creased as he caught a glimpse of something moving in the distance. He squinted, trying to bring the object into focus, but the ambient light in the interior of the helicopter confounded the attempt. All he could make out was a series of white streaks on the surface of the distant sea; half a dozen parallel white lines clawing across the velvet darkness. He blinked away the mild headache of eyestrain, and returned his gaze to the front of the aircraft. They were nearly there.

Up close, the lights of The Star of Muara seemed more benign. As the JetRanger flared above the helipad just aft of the towering smokestack, a score of party-goers on a nearby deck welcomed its arrival with pointing fingers and curious stares, doubtless wondering what celebrity was about to grace their presence, but Kismet also saw two other men dressed in dark suits, who did not gawk drunkenly at the approaching aircraft. Instead, their eyes roved methodically back and forth, constantly scanning the decks and passengers, with no trace of awe. Kismet figured them for security guards.

The pilot rattled off instructions for safe egress as the rotor blades began to slow; the operators of the air charter service weren’t about to take any chances with their high-profile guests. Kismet sat patiently and waited his turn. From his brightly lit vantage, the sea was all but invisible. There was no sign of the white lines he had glimpsed from the air.

Including the crew, there were over five hundred people aboard The Star of Muara. A handful, like Kismet, were there for official purposes, but most were celebrity guests, taking advantage of the high-profile exhibit to keep their faces fresh in the minds of the adoring public. In turn, their presence elevated the notoriety of the traveling exhibit, drawing the interest of people who otherwise would not think of setting foot in a museum. It was a symbiotic relationship, based ultimately on the fickle values of the masses. It also greatly increased the threat level.

Immediately after leaving the aircraft, Kismet separated himself from the throng and made his way along the deck toward the stern of the pleasure craft. The superstructure of the cruise ship rode high above the sea, and its hull that was practically a sheer vertical wall all the way down to the waterline. Kismet estimated a four-story plunge awaited anyone unlucky enough to fall from her lowest open deck; boarding the craft from a smaller vessel would be virtually impossible. Nevertheless, Kismet found his unease growing. He was certain that the parallel lines he had witnessed from the air were caused by high-speed watercraft closing in on the cruise liner; boats that were running without any lights.

He scoured the dark horizon for any sign of the approaching armada, but could distinguish nothing. He cupped his hand over one ear, listening for the whine of what he knew must be powerful outboard motors, but heard only sounds of merriment.

“Jumping at shadows,” he murmured, turning away from the railing. Even so, he decided a visit to the ship’s bridge was in order. He had only taken a few steps toward his goal when the noise of the party was suddenly punctuated by the distinctive crack of gunfire.

The sound was muted by the layers of steel comprising the deck plates and bulkheads of the cruise liner. It might have been easy to mistake the noise for fireworks but for the sudden shrieks of terrified passengers. But the noise was repeated a moment later, and Kismet knew his first guess was correct.

He ducked instinctively, trying to present as small a target as possible, even while scanning the deck for some sign of a hostile presence. Seeing no one, friend or foe, he crept silently ahead.

When traveling, Kismet always brought his personal sidearm, a Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol, and the kukri knife he had carried since that fateful night in the desert when the Gurkha blade had been his weapon of last resort. This venture was no exception to that basic rule of preparedness, but he had made the error of assuming nothing dire would occur in the minutes following his arrival aboard the ocean liner. His weapons were safely tucked inside a suitcase, which was probably en route from the helicopter to his cabin. His sole remaining means of defense — or attack — was his Benchmade 53 Marlowe Bali-Song knife. The Bali-Song butterfly knife design was different than an ordinary pocket knife where the blade folded into the side of hand grip. The Bali-Song handle was split lengthwise, and the blade rotated on two pivot points out of the grooved channels on either side. In skilled hands, it could be deployed almost as quickly as a switchblade. Kismet could hold his own with the Bali-Song, but he was also a believer in the axiom of not bringing a knife to a gunfight. Nevertheless, he held the unopened folding knife in his right fist, and continued forward stealthily.

He felt a faint tremor pass through the deck, and recognized that the ship was no longer surging ahead at a steady twenty-five knots. In fact, just over the barely audible thrum of the engines, Kismet could hear the rushing sound of water being agitated at the stern — someone had reversed the engines, slowing The Star of Muara’s forward progress.

It seemed inconceivable that in just the short time since Kismet’s arrival, the small flotilla of watercraft he had witnessed closing in on the cruise ship had managed to come alongside, putting a crew of raiders aboard to overrun the decks and seize either the bridge or the engine room. In fact, he realized, it was impossible. Those boats could not have been fast enough to execute such a takeover, leaving only one unarguable conclusion: the impending assault on The Star of Muara was being aided by someone already on board.

Kismet heard a loud clanking noise behind his position, and turned to find what looked like a small ship’s anchor hooked over the deck railing and trailing a thick rope down into the sea. The noise was repeated as several more grappling hooks arced over the rail, falling into place along the metal barrier.

He crept forward and peeked over the edge at the boarding party. Two shapes were visible in the water directly below — fast-hulled jet boats, commonly known as cigarettes — matching the speed of the larger vessel as its mass carried it forward despite the reversal of her screws. In addition to the pilot helming each cigarette boat, there were ten armed men, five per boat, now attempting to make the four story ascent to the deck. Despite the awkwardness of the rope scaling ladders attached to the grappling hooks, the intruders were making nimble progress. Kismet was going to have company in a matter of seconds.

He resisted an impulse to cut nearest line. Doing so would only have served to attract the attention of the men below, and Kismet doubted even the razor sharp edge of the Bali-Song could slice through all the thick ropes in time. Instead, he melted back into the darkness, waiting for a better opportunity.

The armed boarding party swarmed over the railing, expecting no opposition and meeting none. They carried AK-47s or possibly a regionally produced variant; the sturdy assault rifle was easily obtainable from a number of different sources. The men, a scattering of Chinese among a majority of Indonesians, wore ragged jeans, cast-off military fatigues and t-shirts with English and Chinese language advertising logos. Despite their unprofessional appearance, Kismet recognized that they were trained combatants, not formally trained perhaps, but men who had honed their survival skills in an arena far more exacting than any military school. They fanned out as if they had intimate knowledge of the cruise vessel and her decks. Kismet didn’t doubt that such was the case; the seizure of The Star of Muara had not been merely a spur of the moment attack on a target of opportunity.

He figured there were probably more groups like this boarding the vessel elsewhere. Additionally, there was an unknown number of pirates who had patiently waited, perhaps performing duties as members of the ship’s crew, until the signal to strike was given. Though it was impossible to verify, Kismet estimated a force of at least fifty men were now swarming over The Star of Muara. There seemed to be little he could hope to accomplish against such overwhelming odds, but he couldn’t bear to simply hide out in the shadows.

He moved toward the rail again and peered over the side at the boats below. The two jet boats were already pulling away, leaving the scaling ropes to dangle purposelessly against the side of the ship. Another vessel however, hove into view, slowly navigating toward the ocean liner. This craft appeared to be a Chinese junk, drawing motive power from a large diesel engine, rather than the sails which hung limply from the mast. Even with the modern power source, the craft would never have been able to match the cruise ship’s speed. Here at least was an answer to the question of why the pirates’ first objective had been to reverse the cruise ship’s engines. The mystery of why were the attackers utilizing such a slow boat when they had so much speed at their command, both from the cigarettes and the cruise ship itself, continued to gnaw at him.

They’re not staying, he realized. This is a simple heist; take what they can grab and run like hell. And if the pirates intended to use the junk to haul away their booty, they evidently had no intention of keeping the massive cruise ship as a prize.

Kismet didn’t stop to think about what he was doing; under the circumstances it seemed like the right thing to do. Clipping his butterfly knife to his belt, he drew one of the grapnels from off the rail and carefully coiled the scaling rope over his shoulder.

The junk drew nearer to The Star of Muara, close enough for Kismet to see the figures moving about her deck. A moment later, its hull scraped against the larger craft as it pulled in parallel beside her. Kismet leaned out a little further, risking discovery, in order to observe the crew of the junk in action. The Indonesian men were using long strips of adhesive tape to affix something to the hull of the cruise ship.

Shaped charges, Kismet thought. Probably detcord. Once ignited, the substance could burn through steel in a heartbeat, even underwater. But the pirates were not placing their charges below the water line. Instead, they had marked off a section as big as a garage door that was roughly level with the deck of their own craft. Despite the immediate risk of discovery, Kismet was fascinated by what he was witnessing.

One of the pirates shouted something in Chinese, and the rest of the group sought cover. Without waiting for an all clear, the leader of the group activated the fuse. There was a resounding boom from near the water line as the ship’s hull became instantaneously hot enough for the metal to actually begin burning. The pirates were ready for this however. Two men stepped forward with pressurized carbon dioxide fire extinguishers to rapidly cool the molten steel, after which a third used a pry bar to pop the excised portion of the hull loose, allowing it to slip into the depths.

A few minutes later, the process was repeated on the cruise vessel’s secondary hull, breaching her completely and leaving a gaping wound in The Star of Muara. The gap was significant enough that even a modest rogue wave might inundate the ship, sending her to the bottom. The pirates evidently cared little for the ultimate fate of the captured ship or her passengers. The hole served only one purpose: it was a doorway through which they might bring whatever treasures they could seize. A dozen more armed men crossed over from the junk, entering the bowels of the ship and leaving their own vessel evidently unmanned.

Kismet saw his opportunity. He quickly repositioned one of the grappling hooks so that the rope trailed down above the junk’s stern, then unhesitatingly climbed over the rail and rappelled down. Only as he slid down the thick line did it occur to him how ridiculous he must appear in his tux and shiny black shoes; he had dressed for the wrong party.

Although he was abandoning the cruise ship, his primary concern was the safety of her passengers and crew. He had not heard any more gunfire since the initial moments of the assault, but he did not take this as a sign of the pirates’ goodwill. Doubtless, they knew that once they started killing people, the fear of certain death might push some of the hostages to attempt a counter-attack. It was much more likely that the intruders would first concentrate on seizing the Sultan’s treasures, and then simply scuttle the ship, sending all the witnesses to their crime to the bottom of the South China Sea. Kismet reckoned the best chance the hostages had lay with his finding the junk’s radio and sending a distress call to the mainland. Hopefully, rescue boats would arrive in time to pluck the survivors from the water.

He dropped stealthily to the deck of the junk and darted once more into the shadows. With the folding knife again in hand, he crept around to the opposite side of the boat, hoping to place its superstructure between himself and any lookout posted on the cruise ship. He then stole forward, cautiously exploring the unfamiliar vessel to locate its radio room. It was impossible to know where to turn next. No two junks were alike and most were haphazardly thrown together in response to the needs of the moment.

As he rounded the superstructure, he got his first look at the demolition work carried out by the pirate crew. The detcord had carved through the ship’s hull with surgical neatness, opening her to the despoilers. The bottom cut of the rectangular hole was almost perfectly level with the deck inside; the intruders had chosen their point of entry carefully, further evidence that their actions had been directed by someone among the crew. The pirates would be able to come and go with relative ease. Kismet knew he didn’t have much time.

The sound of approaching footsteps sent him hastening once more for cover. A young Chinese man with an AK-47 slung over one shoulder, strolled by his hiding place a few moments later. Kismet breathed a sigh of relief that his presence apparently remained unnoticed, but then he heard something that caused his heart to freeze in his chest. It was the electronically reproduced melody of a cellular telephone ringtone.

Kismet’s hands flew to his pockets, desperate to silence the phone’s trilling, even though he knew it was already too late. The young pirate could not possibly have failed to hear the sound. His worst fears were confirmed as he saw the man stop in his tracks. Kismet’s hand tightened on the twin handle halves of the Balisong, squeezing just enough to release the spring-loaded latch.

The pirate took his cell phone from his front trouser pocket and pushed a button to receive the call, silencing the ring tone.

The sudden adrenaline dump made Kismet feel like throwing up. His personal cell phone was in his luggage along with everything else that would have been useful right then, but in the grip of panic he had forgotten that detail. As the pirate commenced chatting with a distant, unseen party, Kismet sagged in relief, biding his time in his place of concealment.

His grasp of the dialect spoken by the young man was insufficient for him to follow the conversation, but it seemed like a fairly casual exchange; a curious relative or girlfriend perhaps. It took Kismet a few moments to grasp the real significance of the phone call.

They’ve got coverage out here!

He had caught a glimpse of the pirate’s phone. It was a regular digital unit, almost small enough to disappear inside a closed fist, not a satellite phone receiver, which despite advances in miniaturization technology, would have been considerably larger. It seemed impossible that phone service existed in the middle of the South China Sea. Nevertheless, the young man carried on his conversation as naturally as if he were on a street corner in Singapore.

Kismet realized the cruise line must have established a satellite link for their passengers, allowing them to use their personal phones as they pleased — probably passing along a hefty surcharge for the privilege — which in turn had created a cell through which the pirate’s call had been routed. The particulars of the arrangement didn’t concern him; all he cared about was getting his hands on that phone.

The young Chinese man continued his conversation animatedly, speaking at seemingly random intervals as he leaned against the junk’s starboard railing. The exchange lasted an interminable sixty seconds before the pirate eventually pulled the receiver from his ear and hit the ‘end’ button. He contemplated the bright blue backlit display for a moment, and then moved to return the device to his pocket.

Kismet leapt forward, wrapping his left arm around the young man’s throat as he seized his right hand in order to prevent the loss of the phone. The pirate struggled in Kismet’s choke hold, but the latter had the advantage of surprise and superior physical strength. After a moment of struggle, the pirate went limp in Kismet’s grasp.

He quickly dragged his captive back to the niche where he had been concealed only a moment before. The young man was still breathing but had blacked out from the temporary disruption of the blood flowing to his brain through the carotid artery. Kismet hastily relieved the pirate of his weapon, and bound the man’s hands behind his back, using the cummerbund from his tuxedo as an impromptu rope. As an afterthought, he tugged his black bow-tie free and stuffed it into the captive’s mouth. Only then did he pluck the phone from the man’s slack grasp. He still had no idea whom to call.

He contemplated the numeric keypad a moment longer, then hit the zero key, making the universal summons for an operator. As soon as the connection was made, he spoke a single word: “English.”

The reply was incomprehensible, but a few moments later another voice came on the line, “May I help you, sir?”

“I need to make an international call from this phone, but I don’t know the country code for this network.”

“What country?”

“The United States.”

“Sir, the country code is ‘one.’ Simply dial one, and then enter the number you wish to call.”

Kismet thumbed the ‘end’ button then hastily entered the eleven digits that would connect him with the one person who would not only believe his wild tale of piracy on the high seas, but might actually be able to help. There was a long silence as his summons went out into the ether, then the ring tones sounded through a haze of scratchy static. After three trills, a voice from the other side of the world spoke: “This is Christian Garral. How may I help you?”

Kismet grinned at the familiar voice. “Hey, Dad. It’s Nick. I need a big favor.”

TWO

The Star of Muara was still afloat when Kismet lost sight of her. If it was indeed the intention of the pirates to sink her once their business aboard was complete, they did not remain to witness that outcome. Kismet hoped he was wrong about that prediction.

The raiders had returned to the junk and their various speedboats shortly after Kismet completed his call. He dared not look out from his place of concealment to observe them, but got the impression that they had taken only what could be easily carried; small relics, paintings, precious stones and so forth. Doubtless they had helped themselves to the cash and valuables of the passengers as well. Like all good opportunists, the pirates knew that the larger relics from the old Sultan’s collection would be far too difficult to move — both literally and with respects to resale — to make their theft worthwhile despite their extraordinary value. The costume jewelry worn by the women at the party would represent a pittance alongside those ancient wonders, but a smart thief only took what he could fence.

Still, it seemed like an awful lot of trouble for such a modest score. Why hit the collection at all if they planned to leave most of it behind?

Kismet did not know what would result from his hasty distress call. He only had time to relate the particulars of the crisis to his father and make a few suggestions as to who might best be summoned to rescue the passengers and crew of The Star of Muara, and bring the pirates to justice. Christian Garral was more of a world traveler than his adopted son could ever aspire to be; no doubt he would know exactly whom to contact in that part of the world in order to yield the quickest and most satisfactory resolution.

The junk had moved off, flanked by several of the cigarettes. The smaller jet boats languished under the burden of diminished speed, champing at the bit like thoroughbreds forced to trot alongside a pack mule. Kismet didn’t know what port the junk finally put into, but at a top speed of about twelve knots, it had proved to be a long journey over a short distance. Fortunately, it appeared that no one had missed the young man Kismet had waylaid.

As he had expected, the cell phone signal had failed when the ocean liner dropped below the horizon. The junk had motored almost due east, correcting marginally as the destination came into view.

The pirate base was located on a small jungle island, a partially overgrown pillar of igneous rock sprouting from the South China Sea. The cigarette boats broke off their escort duty and surfed over the reef into the sheltered lagoon. The junk plotted a more cautious course, but eventually threaded the coral and basalt gauntlet, mooring at a long wooden dock which extended like a pointing finger into the lagoon. Kismet removed his shoes and slipped over the side before the offloading commenced, treading water near the stern of the boat, careful to keep the AK-47 he’d appropriated from the Chinese pirate high and dry. The black fabric of his tuxedo provided adequate camouflage in the inky darkness and no one noticed him.

The towering promontory glistened in the perfect water, outlined by a sliver of moonlight. There was a structure atop the rock mass, a walled fortress from Malaysia’s colonial era, from which the silhouette of a roaming watchman was visible. Kismet took a deep breath and dove beneath the surface of the lagoon, stroking toward the wooden pier where he could rise without being spotted.

The scene above was a patchwork of modern technology and the traditional art of piracy. The crewmen streaming from the junk with crates of booty in their hands would have been right at home in the seventeenth century, but the four-wheeled all-terrain vehicles towing utility carts onto the rickety pier ruined the image. In minutes, the captured treasures were heaped onto the wagons and towed back toward the beach. A group of pirates followed on foot, barely visible to Kismet in his hiding place, but one figure stood out distinctly from the others.

The scarlet fabric of her evening gown served to accentuate rather than conceal the woman’s figure and the mane of blonde ringlets that cascaded to the middle of her back revealed not only her gender, but also her identity. The woman being escorted from the pirate ship was none other than Elisabeth Neuell, former A-list movie star and currently the Sultana of Muara.

What Kismet knew about the actress’ career and her marriage into one of the richest families in Southeast Asia, was solely the product of half-glimpsed supermarket tabloid headlines. He had seen her in one or two film roles — just enough to agree with the general complaint of critics that her talent was mostly underutilized by directors — but aside from that, he knew only that she was a lovely woman who had run away from one fairy tale kingdom — Hollywood — and into another, marrying her prince charming. There had been inevitable comparisons to the life of Grace Kelly, and indeed, in another age, Elisabeth Neuell might easily have launched her career as one of Alfred Hitchcock’s blonde bombshells. In any event, once she had taken the hand of the young Sultan, her interest in making movies had waned, this in spite of the rumored infidelities of both she and her husband. Her questionable moral character did not presently concern Kismet. She was a hostage, a captive of the pirate raiders, and as such demanded his attention.

Her captors were either guilty of very poor judgment, or had effectively trumped a military response; Kismet couldn’t decide which. Either the Sultan would move heaven and earth to recover his bride, or he would leave the pirates alone for fear that harm might come to the Sultana. Kismet decided to remove that wild card from the table.

There was no hesitation on his part. Attempting to rescue the hostage was a natural extension of the same immediacy of response that had prompted him to leave the cruise ship behind in the first place. That she was a beautiful woman did not matter one bit to Kismet; he would have done the same for anyone held captive by the pirates.

He caught a last glimpse of her crossing the beach toward the narrow jungle trail, of her shapely figure and blonde curls limned in moonlight.

Well, maybe it matters a little.

The tropical sea was a warm soup that sapped his energy as he lingered beneath the pier. He waited until all activity on the junk ceased and the last flicker of light from the shore party disappeared into the jungle before crawling stealthily onto the beach.

Despite its imposing shadow, the cliff reaching up to the fortress was not sheer. Foliage clung to its steep slopes, highlighting the protrusions of rock that formed a veritable stairway up the face. Moving with a confidence born of urgency, Kismet deftly picked his way up the cliff, slowing his pace only when the upper reaches of his climb were in sight. He paused just below the lip, listening for the telltale sounds of conversation or footsteps but heard only the noise of the breakers, rushing softly over the reef beyond the lagoon.

The last part of the climb required a dynamic exertion; Kismet could touch the lip of the precipice with his outstretched fingers, but in order to complete his ascent he had to simultaneously jump and heave himself up onto the edge in a single movement. If the sentinels of the fortress' night watch were looking his way when he did, things would get ugly. He exhaled softly as he immediately dropped low and rolled away from the edge, seeking cover.

The walls of the fortress were precariously near to the edge. Kismet cleared the distance to the base of the stone barrier in a few steps, and flattened himself there, trying to pick out the sentries on the battlement above. For thirty seconds he watched, fighting to keep his breathing soft and shallow despite the exertion of climbing in the thick tropical humidity. Then he saw it, the faint glow of a cigarette ember high above, to his left.

The smoldering red point of light hovered motionless for a long time, then flared brightly. A moment later, it soared out over Kismet's head and vanished into the jungle carpet. A barely audible thumping noise indicated that the sentry had resumed a walking tour of the battlement. Kismet counted twenty footsteps before going to work.

He stripped out of his tuxedo jacket and the dress shirt underneath. The latter garment he wrapped tightly around the hooks of the grapnel he had seized before departing the cruise ship. He played out two arm lengths of rope and began whirling the hook and line in a broad circle. When the hook had achieved sufficient momentum, he released it, stepping away as he did, lest it fall back on his unprotected skull.

It did not. The hook sailed over the parapet and landed with a muted thud. The thin layer of fabric wrapped around the metal prongs had effectively muffled the noise of impact. He pulled in the line until the hook caught, giving it a final tug to make sure it was set, then wrapped the line around his body. Almost as an afterthought, he donned the jacket over his naked torso.

His biceps screamed in protest as he began ascending the vertical surface. His stocking-feet slipped uncertainly against the damp upright poles that formed the perimeter of the fortress. Nevertheless, three minutes later, he was atop the palisade, peering up and down the length of the battlement for any sign that he had been noticed.

The only sentry, the man he had spied before, was poised with his back to Kismet on an adjacent wall. His posture suggested that he was urinating out into the jungle canopy. As quietly as he could, Kismet heaved himself over the wall. His landing was light, though to his ears the noise was certainly enough to arouse suspicion. He loosened the hook from where it had bitten into the wood, and drew in the line, coiling it once more over his shoulder.

The pirates had done a great deal of work in order to reclaim the old fort from the jungle, fully restoring several buildings and evidently erecting the three pre-fabricated huts that looked completely out of place in the setting. Kismet nevertheless got the impression that this was a temporary base of operations; a transition point where they could lay low and gradually filter back into the civilized world with their newly acquired wealth.

He moved quickly and quietly, keeping an eye on the less than vigilant sentry who still roamed the battlement, and dropped down into the compound. When he was certain that no eyes would see him, he darted toward one of the nearby structures, taking shelter beneath a large window, covered by a gauzy veil of mosquito netting. There was a light burning from within, but Kismet heard no indication that the room beyond the window was occupied. He cautiously raised his head and peered over the sill.

Elisabeth Neuell sat with her back to the window, gazing into a streaked vanity mirror as she patiently brushed her hair. She now wore only a flimsy negligee, which seemed to be made of the same stuff as the mosquito netting. There was no one else in the room.

Odd attire for a hostage, Kismet thought absently. He savored the role of peeping tom for a brief moment, and then cautiously pulled the veil aside.

“Your Highness,” he whispered.

The Sultana’s eyes found him in the mirror, and her hand froze in mid-stroke, but otherwise she did not react to his presence.

“I'm here to rescue you,” he continued, hefting himself onto the window sill and stepping forward into the room. “Get dressed. We haven't much time.”

She laid the brush aside and pulled on a robe of the same fabric as her chemise. It didn't increase her level of modesty dramatically, but it would have to do. She then looked him over, noting the sodden formal attire and his bare chest underneath. “Who are you?”

“My name is Nick Kismet.” He extended a hand, unsure if that was the correct protocol for greeting royalty. “I got bored at the party and decided to go for a moonlight swim. Now, if you have no objection, I think we should get moving.”

She regarded him warily, but took his hand and followed his lead. He rolled over the windowsill, dropping noiselessly onto the ground below then reached out to help her. She lowered herself into his embrace, intuitively understanding what was required. As her arms tightened around his body, he could not help notice how good she smelled.

He grudgingly relaxed his hold, allowing her to stand on her own. Elisabeth's posture seemed to flaunt her figure; she crossed her arms under her breasts, thrusting them up as if for inspection. In every other way, she seemed cool and detached, as if this were the sort of thing she did every day, and no longer found it even mildly stimulating. “Now what, Nick Kismet?”

Kismet shook his head to break the hypnotic spell cast by her breasts. “Now, we get out of here.”

“Lead on,” she replied, almost indifferently.

Kismet nodded. He glanced around, locating the lone sentry at the far end of the wall, apparently in the midst of another smoke break. He gestured in the opposite direction. “This way.”

“I take it the Sultan sent you.”

“Your husband,” he replied, as if to remind himself. “No, nothing like that. Like I said, I was at the reception on the ship when these guys made their big debut. I snuck onto their boat and hid out while they loaded her up. I didn’t even know they had you until I saw you disembarking here.”

She looked past Kismet, as if distracted. “I don't recognize you. I thought I knew most of his friends, especially the Americans.”

“I've never met him,” Kismet explained, holding out his hand. She regarded it suspiciously than placed her own smooth palm in his.

“But you volunteered to rescue me? Just like that? How very heroic of you.” If she was mocking him, Kismet could not hear it in her tone. She kept her voice kept low as they stole along the inside perimeter of the wall. “I’m lucky you came along. I don't think the Sultan cares enough to try to rescue me. The sapphire maybe—”

“I’m sure your husband is very concerned for your safety.”

She smiled knowingly into the darkness. “You are a very naive man, Mr. Kismet. The Sultan’s chief concern is the preservation of his lifestyle. I am but one of many playthings he has acquired. If he is concerned, it is because he does not like losing his toys.”

Kismet paused at the base of the wall, pulling Elisabeth down as the guard began the return phase of his patrol. “Well, I am concerned for your safety.”

“I’m touched,” she replied, her voice ringing genuine. “But you are also here for the treasures, aren't you? You said you didn’t even know I was onboard. You were following the treasures. I mean, that’s probably why you came on the cruise in the first place.”

It was Kismet's turn to smile unseen. “You have no idea. But I wouldn't trade my life — or anyone else's — for a few dusty relics.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she whispered. “I know where they’re keeping most of it. I’m sure the sapphire is there.”

Her statement, delivered in the same offhand tone that she had used since he stepped into her life, caught him totally off guard. “What?”

“I know where Jin will put it. I can get it, if you'll let me.”

“Jin?” Kismet didn’t recognize the name, but it was safe to assume that Elisabeth had named the leader of the pirates. He did not have to ask about the gemstone she kept referring to. The Zamaron Sapphire was one of the few pieces in the collection to be publicly advertised in advance of the floating exhibition. The prize of the Sultan’s collection, it was in fact the “star” for which the cruise ship had been named. The enormous star sapphire, three hundred and twenty three carats, had originally been found in India a thousand years before Christ, and was reputed to have mystical powers. It had all but fallen out of history, hoarded by a succession of men who, like the recently deceased Sultan, kept such a marvelous and remarkable treasure hidden away for its own safety. Priceless or not, Kismet wasn’t about to risk his safety — or anyone else’s — for the gemstone. “Too dangerous. The Sultan can get it later if it’s that important.”

“Later?”

“After he shows up with the cavalry and levels this place. I’m sure he’s already looking for you.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Never mind. Let's go.”

“Wait.” Her voice carried an urgency that compelled him to stop. “I am not leaving without that stone.”

“Are you nuts?” he hissed. He turned to face her, but she was already moving away. He had to break into a jog to catch her. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

“I’m getting the sapphire,” she replied, her eyes glittering with anticipation. “When you walk out of here, you’re going to get to show me off as your prize. Well, I’m going to have that stone. Trust me. I know exactly where it is. I can get it.”

Kismet scowled, but knew that she was prepared to argue until she got her way, and that precious time would be lost in a futile effort to dissuade her. “All right, but hurry.”

“Follow me.”

As Kismet walked closely behind the actress, he once more found himself confronted with her beauty. Yet it was not only her physical form that alternately aroused and discomfited him. Her casual disinterest seemed to mask a passionate, win-at-all-cost spirit, and he found that almost irresistible.

What in the hell are you thinking, Kismet? She's a married woman.

Elisabeth led him unhesitatingly through the compound. “You seem to know this place awfully well for a hostage.”

“I got the nickel tour when we arrived.” She diverted him back into the compound, to the door of a large building that adjoined to the east wall of the fortress. The rusted iron latch parted with a tortured shriek, causing Kismet to wince, but evidently raised no alarm. “In here.”

The expansive barn-style doors opened into an enormous room that might have passed for a medieval mead hall. The space was dimly lit with oil lamps hanging from wrought iron hooks in each corner, but otherwise unfurnished. A balcony extended out at the second story level, encircling the hall like a mezzanine. Though the floor was littered with straw, and the air reeked of animal odors, the building did not seem to be a barn in the strictest sense. Kismet saw several of the ATVs lined up against one wall, still shackled to utility carts.

“Wait here,” directed Elisabeth, hastening through the interior.

“I’m coming with you.”

She shook her head confidently. “It's better if I go alone.” She blew him a kiss over her shoulder then disappeared into the dimness. “Wait here. I won't be a minute.”

Kismet sighed, leaning against the wall. The sudden inaction frustrated him. He had been constantly moving, constantly doing; now he was just waiting. He paced out a small circle, making three orbits, before he could take it no more.

Elisabeth had surely been caught. He had to help her.

Leaving the relative shelter near the entrance, he ventured out into the open. The four corner lamps threw out semicircles of light through their streaked glass panes, light that fell impotently on the hay-strewn floor without offering any real illumination. Kismet strode the length of the hall, peering into the shadows at the far end for some indication of another exit.

As he stepped past the all-terrain vehicles, he noticed that the wagons they towed were still fully loaded with glass display cases taken from the cruise ship. The pirates had evidently been schooled in the importance of preserving the quality of the delicate artifacts they had seized, taking on the added labor of carrying the large and cumbersome cases, rather than simply smashing out the glass and heaping up the booty.

His curiosity got the better of him momentarily and he made a cursory inspection of the containers. He saw no glint of gold, nor any sparkling gemstones; doubtless the pirate leader knew better than to leave those items lying around in a barn. Nevertheless, what he saw verified all the rumors he had heard about the Sultan’s collection. The raiders had grabbed Mayan idols, carved masks, Inca mummy cases and dozens of other art treasures from cultures long since extinct. Many of the less recognizable pieces appeared to share a unique style, leading Kismet to wonder if the Sultan had perhaps scooped the archaeological institutions by purchasing the entire catalogue of a dig uncovering an unknown civilization.

There was one relic that caught his eye in spite of its apparent ordinariness. He leaned close to the display case peering inside at the artifact, which rested on a bed of red velvet. It was a hexagonal piece of stone, carved extensively with rows of wedge shaped markings. Kismet recognized it as cuneiform writing from ancient Mesopotamia, thought to be the earliest form of written language.

The relic seemed out of place among the collection of art treasures. He did not doubt that it was an artifact of great value, but he had difficulty understanding why the opportunistic pirates would have bothered with it. Why go to the trouble of hauling what looked, at least to the untrained eye, like a big rock?

It was a riddle for another time. Elisabeth had not yet returned. Kismet turned way from the cache of relics and moved toward the far end of the room.

There was something there, something glinting in the darkness.

His hand found the pistol grip of the Kalashnikov rifle he had liberated from the pirate on the junk. He stuffed the wooden stock into the pit of his shoulder and pulled the bolt back an inch in order to verify that a round was already chambered.

The night suddenly seemed less quiet; he could almost hear the timbers of the structure creaking in the wind. Once the Sultana’s escape was noticed, things were going to get a lot noisier, and he didn't want to be in the fortress when that happened. He had to find Elisabeth and get out.

His search for the far end of the hall ended abruptly at a grillwork of iron bars. Like everything else, they had lost any metallic sheen they might once have possessed to the corrosion of humid, salty air. Nevertheless, they remained firm and impassable. He gripped a vertical bar in each hand and attempted in vain to move the barrier. Daunted, he took a step back and tried to discern what lay beyond the bars.

With an ear-splitting squeal, a section of the bars began to rise like a portcullis. Kismet’s gaze riveted on the slowly ascending gate, and he suddenly felt very uneasy. Floating in the darkness beyond were two glowing embers that looked exactly like…

“Eyes. Uh, oh.” He began slowly backing away from the cage.

Gentle laughter abruptly echoed in the great hall. Kismet glanced up quickly, instinctively, then forced his gaze back to the eyes of whatever it was that watched him from the now opened cell. “I should have known better, when you said to trust you.”

“Yes,” replied Elisabeth from somewhere above and to his left. “Are you always such a sucker for a pretty girl, Nick?”

“More often than you'd believe,” he muttered, more to the mocking voice of his conscience, than to the actress. “So let me guess. This pirate, Jin, made you a better offer than the Sultan?”

“Oh, I certainly did,” replied a different voice. Though masculine, the speaker's tone was high, almost flute-like, and his speech was deeply accented. “Lights!”

The hall was suddenly bathed in the glow from more than a dozen electric bulbs, all shining down from the balcony. Kismet did not look away from the eyes, which still seemed to be hiding in shadow, but in the periphery of his view, he saw at least a score of men moving above him. He knew without looking that Elisabeth and Jin, the leader of the pirate gang, were among that number.

“You seem to have trouble with the ladies,” chuckled Jin. “Maybe you will have better luck with my other princess.”

The hovering embers blinked then moved forward out of the darkness. Kismet was not surprised at all when the features surrounding the glowing points coalesced into a feline face, the largest member of the cat family, a tiger. Kismet locked his own eyes with the stare of the stalking cat, backing up slowly.

“Or perhaps not,” concluded Jin.

Without looking away, Kismet fixed the place where Jin's voice seemed to be coming from. He vaguely remembered reading that Bengal tigers liked to attack their human victims from behind, that they would not approach if their prey seemed to be watching. This had prompted the men working in the Indian jungles to wear masks on the back of their heads, so that their “eyes” were always watching out from behind. Kismet had no idea if this was merely jungle lore, or if the tigers on the Malay isles were as gullible as their cousins to the west, but it seemed like a good idea. As the cat padded forward however, he could plainly see that the animal had been starved and abused; doubtless, it would not wait long to attack anyone trapped with it in the pit. With slow, deliberate moves so as not to provoke the tiger, he let go of the AK-47 and slung it across his back, and then removed the coil of rope from his shoulder, hefting the grappling hook.

“Ah,” sighed Jin. “Perhaps this will be more entertaining than I first believed.”

Kismet tight expression cracked in a wide grin. “You don't know how right you are.”

His arm moved in a barely visible arc, the rope uncoiling like a striking serpent as his arm stretched upward. His gaze never faulted. The hook sailed up and struck something just out of view. He immediately pulled with both hands setting the hook and taking in the slack. An instant later, someone pitched over the balcony railing and crashed onto the floor in front of him.

“Nice of you to join us, Jin.”

The pirate winced as he pushed himself to his elbows, dazed by the fall. Kismet gave the rope a shake, loosening the hook from Jin’s clothing where it had snagged. Blood seeped from a ragged wound on the pirate’s back and dripped onto the floor of the hall. Jin stared blearily at Kismet then his eyes opened wide as he whirled around to face his pet. The tiger had already sprung, and at that moment, all hell broke loose.

The entire promontory shuddered as a peal of what sounded like thunder rolled though the structure. The balcony was suddenly filled with chaotic shouting, mostly in Chinese, but Elisabeth's strident shrieking wove in an out of the din. A second tremor followed quickly on the heels of the first, and this time, the electric lights winked out as somewhere in the compound, the generator was knocked out. The fortress was under attack.

Kismet jumped back as the tiger pounced on its fallen master. Loud concussions echoed in the hall as at least one of the pirates on the balcony tried to distract the tiger by shooting at it. Kismet instinctively raised a hand to ward off flying splinters of wood as he rushed through the hall.

The pirates on the balcony were attempting to flee, but in their panic, they were tripping over each other. Elisabeth seemed to be struggling to stay on her feet as the human current changed unpredictably. With a grim smile, Kismet decided to rescue her for the second time that night.

Another mortar round crashed into the compound, causing the ground to heave. One of the doors into the building was blasted open. At least three of the pirates were knocked from the balcony, crashing stunned on the floor below, while others clung to the railing to avoid a similar fate. Kismet felt the debris from the nearby explosion harmlessly pelting him.

The tiger ignored the external attack altogether, gripping Jin's throat in its mouth and throwing the pirate across the floor. It was on him again in a second, swiping its claws across his face.

Scrambling away, Kismet utilized the grappling hook once more, hurling it onto the balcony high above. The line wrapped around a railing, the hook setting securely when he drew in the slack, and he quickly set about scrambling up the wall.

His arms screamed in agony. All of the exertions of the night seemed to return in a single burst of pain. Gritting his teeth, he planted his feet against one of the support pillars and tried again. Somehow, with his biceps quivering on the verge of total fatigue, he reached the level of the balcony floor. Swinging his body like a pendulum, he got one of his legs up, then the other, and managed to roll his torso onto the edge. Frantic pirates stumbled blindly over him as they fought with each other in order to escape. Only when he stood up in their midst did they identify him as a foe and turn their destructive attention toward him.

Kismet dodged the thrust of an old-fashioned cutlass, hearing the unmistakable sound of the blade piercing flesh behind him and the groan as a wounded pirate went down. His fist, still clenching the rope, hammered into the sword's wielder, and as the man staggered against the railing, Kismet guided him over. He plucked the heavy blade from the man's grasp as he went, and wrenched it free of the body of the unfortunate soul who had inadvertently been on the receiving end of the misguided thrust. Discarding the rope, he took the sword in his right hand and charged the pirate ranks, scattering them.

Elisabeth stood a head taller than most of the men on the balcony, and Kismet saw her hair flashing only a few feet away. With wild slashes, he mowed a path toward her. When she saw him, a tortured look crossed her beautiful face. “Damn you!”

“Did you get the sapphire, princess?”

Her eyes blazed as she raised her hand toward him, a small pistol locked in her grip.

Kismet lashed out with the cutlass. The tip struck the barrel of the gun and knocked her arm upward as the firing pin struck the shell. The muzzle flashed in his face, but the round impotently struck the ceiling. He quickly moved in closer, snatching the gun away with his left hand.

The wayward Sultana raised a fist, as if to strike him, but he was faster. Stabbing the cutlass into the floorboards, he delivered a roundhouse to her jaw that spun her around. Before she could fall, he snatched her up and threw her over his shoulder. He shoved the gun into the waistband of his tuxedo trousers and then worked the cutlass loose.

“Well this has been fun, Your Highness. But it's time to take you back to your husband.”

If Elisabeth heard him, she did not reply.

Kismet fought his way through several more pirates, and found a staircase leading back down to the ground floor. He crossed the rubble strewn area, mindful of the tiger which continued to feast on its former master, and headed for the ATV quads. It took him only a moment to loosen the tow bar attachment and free one of the small motorized vehicles from its treasure wagon. He started it up and climbed aboard. Elisabeth still had not stirred.

The sounds of the shelling now filled the night. Much of the fortress was in flames, and the wall on the ocean side was breached in three places. On the threshold of the barn-like storehouse, Kismet had an unobstructed view of the assault.

Three helicopters — judging by their silhouettes, Kismet reckoned they were reliable old UH-1 “Hueys,” repurposed after the Vietnam war — beat the air high above the pirate compound. Several thick lines dropped from the hovering aircraft like spider-silk, and human figures began abseiling into the midst of the compound, protected by covering fire from their comrades still aboard. In a matter of seconds, a dozen camouflaged warriors had fast-roped down and were spreading out to engage the confused pirates. Kismet surmised that the commando squad was there in response to his own summons, but the fortress was presently a free-fire zone; the only salvation lay in physically removing himself from the battlefield. He revved the throttle on the ATV and charged into the midst of the skirmish.

The pirates were attempting to muster a response to the overwhelming attack, but their numbers were already severely diminished and their arsenal of poorly maintained rifles and handguns was no match for the concussion grenades and assault rifles wielded by the attacking force. Most of the pirates simply threw down their weapons and fled into the jungle. Reasoning that the refugees would know the best way out of the fortress, Kismet swerved the quad in their direction, plunging into the darkness beyond.

The explosions did little to illuminate the dark woods. The canopy of overgrowth quickly eclipsed any ambient light, forcing Kismet to slow the vehicle to a crawl. He debated using the quad’s headlights, but decided that doing so would merely make him a target. Instead, he switched off the engine and let the noise of the jungle settle over him like a blanket.

“Well,” he sighed. “That didn't go too badly.”

His grin faltered as he became aware of several shapes, nothing more than silhouettes, ringing his position. A flashlight blazed in his face, blinding him momentarily, but also revealing the jungle pattern fatigues worn by the group surrounding him. He raised his hands slowly, painfully aware of the fact that the Sultana of Muara was slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“It’s okay, I’m one of the good guys.”

“Lieutenant?”

The voice was familiar, but even more so was the pronunciation of that single word. Kismet hadn’t held military rank in nearly twenty years, but in all the time he had been an officer, he had only once heard the word pronounced as “Lef-tenant.” He blinked in the direction of the voice — the man holding the light.

“Sergeant Higgins?”

Another shape interposed, stepping into the light. Kismet recognized the man from his publicity photos, but in most of those he was smiling.

“Release my wife,” demanded the Sultan. His hand rested on the grip of a holstered pistol.

Kismet eased the semi-conscious woman from her undignified perch, setting her on the rear fender of the ATV. As he did, her eyes fluttered into focus. She looked first at Kismet, and then turned slowly to face her husband. Kismet expected her to launch into some kind of conciliatory plea, but when the former actress spoke, her tone was anything but contrite.

“What are you doing,” she rasped. “He’s one of them.”

Kismet was still trying to make sense of her declaration when the Sultan drew his sidearm, thrusting it toward him. Kismet was taken aback. “Your highness?”

“I will have your head for this,” raged the Sultan.

Kismet gaped, mouthing a reply. Judging by the Sultan's fierce expression, trying to explain the facts would do little to help the situation. He decided to try a different approach.

Although the Sultan’s gun was less than a hand’s breadth from his face, Kismet launched into motion. He wrapped an arm around the Malay prince's neck, and plucked the gun from his unprepared grasp. By the time the soldiers could react, Kismet had the muzzle of the weapon buried in the Sultan's ear. “Lower your guns and move back.”

The commandos did not seem willing to relinquish their control of the situation, and Kismet could sense each man wondering if there was time to make a killing shot before the trigger could be pulled on the royal hostage.

“I mean it,” he grated, screwing the barrel deeper into the Sultan’s skull and eliciting a low cry. “Back off.”

“Do as he says.”

Kismet again recognized the voice and the distinct accent of a New Zealander. Evidently, Sergeant Alexander Higgins remained a figure of authority in whatever army he now served; as one, the commandos lowered their assault rifles until the barrels were pointing at the ground and opened a path of exit.

Kismet did not release the Sultan, but instead manhandled him away from the parked ATV and toward his intended avenue of escape. He did not offer words of thanks to Higgins; the night was still young and there remained ample opportunities for things to go wrong.

Once past the perimeter established by the ring of soldiers, he turned, backing away from them toward the tree line. The commandos hesitantly grouped together, watching him and cautiously easing forward. He took a final backward step, then propelled the Sultan into their midst. As they instinctively moved to assist the royal personage, Kismet bolted into the depths of the jungle.

The night came alive with the tumult of gunfire, and Kismet knew that the bullets zipping through the humid air, shattering bamboo poles and smacking into tree trunks were meant for him. Apparently Higgins’ orders didn’t carry that much weight after all.

He couldn’t tell if the soldiers had elected to pursue him on foot, but after an initially fierce fusillade, their guns fell silent and the sounds of the jungle enveloped him completely.

There was no way he could have heard the barely whispered parting words as he vanished into the night.

“Good luck, mate.”

THREE

By the time the Sultan of Muara arrived back at the cruise ship bearing the name and flag of his small country, repairs to her breached hull were well underway. Dead in the water since the sabotage of her computerized systems by pirate agents posing as members of the crew, the ship faced only minimal danger from the gaping wound. As a precaution, the chief engineer had dumped enough ballast to lift the holed section away from the waterline to mitigate the risk of inundation, and it had not been necessary to abandon the vessel. Nevertheless, most of the passengers had elected to depart, at least temporarily, the idea of a long ocean voyage having lost its appeal. The Sultan likewise decided to leave the ship, claiming that the act of piracy and the near-fatal kidnapping of his beloved wife had created a domestic crisis which necessitated his remaining in the Sultanate.

Over the next twenty-four hours however, the situation improved remarkably. The repairs were completed — not simply a patch to cripple the ship into port, but a seaworthy reconstitution of the hull. The only indication of the damage was the flat gray of the primer coat used to protect the welded steel plates from rapid oxidation in the salty air, and even that distinction was scheduled to be addressed by maintenance crews at the next major port of call. The sabotage to the engine room and the ship’s computer were likewise repaired in short order, and the craft was deemed ready for service before the fall of the next evening.

There were many reasons why it was important for The Star of Muara to be restored to active status as quickly as possible. Several of the antiquities in the collection were too large or fragile to be moved while the ship remained on the high seas; it was this very fact that had protected them from the greed of the pirates. An overriding concern however was giving the appearance that no crime or act of terrorism could prevent the success of the exhibition. It was an important psychological message to the world; if the cruise could be thwarted, what next? Only by demonstrating that everything was back to normal, that the hijacking had been merely an inconvenience, could the sponsors of the Muara exhibition hope to return a profit. Of course that normalcy would be an illusion. The already impressive security force was tripled, even though at the time no one but the crew remained aboard, and they were all undergoing an intense, if somewhat tardy, vetting process.

The next step in establishing that everything was back on track was to begin returning guests to the ship. Fully two-thirds declined the invitation, despite a number of incentives. But for every current passenger unwilling to return, there were ten thrill-seekers from every part of the world who were eager to book passage on what the news media had begun calling “The Pirate Cruise.”

The last of a long procession of helicopter shuttle flights touched down shortly after midnight. The pilot dutifully opened the rear door for his passengers, urging them to exit cautiously as they passed beneath the still spinning rotor blades, and then set about collecting their luggage. Burdened as he was with a double armful of suitcases and garment bags, he left the cargo door open and he hastened toward a pair of stewards who waited a safe distance from the aircraft. Neither the pilot, nor the stewards saw a dark-clad figure slip from the belly of the helicopter and melt into the shadows. Nevertheless, Nick Kismet’s return to The Star of Muara did not go completely unnoticed.

From the moment he escaped into the jungle, Kismet had operated under the assumption that the Sultan’s pronouncement of his death sentence ought to be taken at face value. As the sovereign ruler of the tiny kingdom, the man quite literally had the authority to call for a summary execution, and no amount of legal posturing would prevent a dutiful palace guard from carrying out the order. It was of course entirely possible that the facts of the matter had come to light but he wasn’t about to risk exposure until he was certain of it.

His decision to return to the ship had been more a matter of convenience than a thoughtfully arrived at strategy. Escaping from Borneo by any other means would have meant days of hardship and fugitive wandering through one of the most untamed places on Earth. In contrast, the cruise ship was a bastion of twenty-first century technology where he would quickly be able to affirm his innocence and arrange asylum should the worst-case scenario play out. It also seemed like the last place anyone would think to look for him.

From the helipad, he made his way into the ship proper, ducking into one of the common rooms where he made a mostly futile attempt to brush away the stains and wrinkles that permanently marred the fabric of his dinner jacket. He considered stuffing the soiled garment in a refuse bin, but unfortunately he had left his shirt at Jin’s fortress, still wrapped around the grappling hook.

Although it was nominally a party-ship, the atmosphere aboard was restrained. Where only a day before, wealthy debutantes had wandered the decks with cocktails in hand, this night found the ship seemingly deserted. As if observing an informal curfew, the passengers had retired early, leaving only a scattering of crewmembers roaming the decks. With the aid of a convenient fire-escape route map, Kismet plotted a course to a nearby lounge, intent on quieting the ravenous beast in his belly and soothing his strained nerves with a drink. Upon entering the salon however, he stopped dead in his tracks.

The small dining area was adjacent to one of the antiquities exhibits, and the lounge looked like the headquarters of a paramilitary operation. No less than a dozen men in navy blue fatigues and black berets, openly wearing holstered automatic pistols, were scattered throughout the room. Almost as one, their eyes swung to greet this latecomer.

His hesitation was only momentary, but when he started into motion again, he felt their scrutiny slice through him like laser beams. He fought the impulse to turn and flee, and instead strode to the bar. If he was indeed on some kind of watch list, then it was already too late; no sense in wasting the opportunity for a final drink before being hauled off in irons. But a second glance as he slid into one of the swiveling chairs revealed that the security guards had lost interest in him. Kismet breathed a sigh of relief and nodded to the bartender. “Macallan, neat. Better make it a double.”

The server quickly decanted a large portion of Scotch Whisky into a tumbler and set it before him with a knowing smile. Kismet savored a mouthful of the peaty spirits then decided to press his luck a bit further. “This is kind of embarrassing, but I seem to have misplaced my key, and I can’t remember what my room number is.”

“No problem, sir.” He picked up a telephone and punched a three-digit code. “Name?”

Kismet tried to sound casual as he supplied the information, then took another sip of his drink while the bartender relayed the information. After a moment, he hung up and turned back to Kismet. “Good news. The purser will bring a replacement key card for you, straightaway.”

Kismet weighed the response and decided it concealed nothing sinister. “Thanks. Now, what are my chances of getting something to eat?”

Rather than wait at the bar for the purser’s arrival, Kismet took up his Scotch and wandered toward the entrance to the exhibit. If his fugitive crisis was indeed over, he was going to have to turn his attention back to the matter that had brought him here in the first place. Oddly enough, he found comfort in the thought, as if in so doing he might somehow delete the events of the past day from memory.

Yet something about the incident nagged at him, like a tiny sliver of metal lodged in the skin of his subconscious. He could still see it in his mind’s eye; a stone prism etched with tiny lines of cuneiform. Why had Jin’s pirates chosen that piece?

The prism was almost certainly one of the pieces looted from Iraq in the days leading up to the 2003 invasion that had ousted the regime of Saddam Hussein. Shortly thereafter, Kismet, in concert with French authorities, had raided the operation of a former Iraqi intelligence officer who had opened a pipeline of looted antiquities during the 1990’s to establish an alternate source of revenue to offset the crippling economic sanctions imposed by Western nations. The evidence gathered at the man’s villa in Nice indicated that more than a few items had found their way into the Sultan’s collection.

There was no denying that the piece had a reliable pedigree. The circumstances surrounding its removal from its country of origin might even have added to its value as a curiosity, but it remained just that: a curiosity. Kismet could not fathom why the pirates had elected to liberate it along with the other relics; had it simply been a target of opportunity?

The artifacts had been grouped according to country of origin, and as he neared the section which housed the art of Mesopotamia, he was dismayed to find that he was not alone in seeking out the prism.

The man was tall, and would have seemed gaunt if not for the luxurious silver mane that framed his angular face — a countenance that appeared too youthful for a man gone completely gray. His clothing was nondescript; the dark trousers and a blousy black shirt might have been the attire of an off duty waiter. His left hand held a notebook in which he was painstakingly copying lines from the prism, and the middle finger of his right, which held the pen, was adorned with a gaudy, gem-encrusted ring. Impulsively, Kismet tried to get a better look at the ring, and in so doing, drew attention to his presence. The tall man inclined his head in a polite nod, revealing eyes the color of gypsum, then returned to his labor.

“What’s it say?”

The scribe looked up, a faintly perturbed expression flickering across his features. Kismet smiled, hoping to put the man at ease, but saw no change in the gray eyes. He risked extending a hand to the man. “I’m Nick Kismet.”

The man's expression softened just a little, but he disdained the handclasp. When he spoke, his enunciation was precise, with just a hint of superciliousness but no discernible accent. “Dr. John Leeds, at your service.”

In the corner of his eye, Kismet saw a man wearing the common uniform of a ship’s steward enter the lounge. He felt an inexplicable compulsion to remain with the strange scholar, but the hunger and fatigue in his body argued that he should take his leave. “A pleasure making your acquaintance, doctor. Enjoy the cruise.”

“It is the Epic of Gilgamesh.”

The quiet voice froze Kismet in mid-step. He turned back. “I take it you’re not a physician, Dr. Leeds.”

The statement elicited a faint smile. “No. My field is comparative theology. I am also — if I may be so bold as to say it — an expert on mythology and the occult.”

“Thus your interest in one of the world's oldest fairy tales.”

Leeds laughed, but his icy eyes froze away any hint of mirth. “My interest is not purely academic. The quest of Gilgamesh is one that I happen to share.”

“As I recall, Gilgamesh was looking for the secret of immortality.”

“Even so.”

For a moment, Kismet could only stare in mute disbelief at the other man. When he at last found his voice, he averted his eyes, gazing instead at the amber contents of his glass. “Gilgamesh never found it. What makes you think it’s there to be found?”

“Actually, Gilgamesh did find it. In the legend, Uta-Napishtim, the only man to be given the gift of immortality, told Gilgamesh of a plant which could give him eternal life; a plant that grew at the bottom of the sea. Gilgamesh recovered the plant, only to lose it to a hungry serpent.”

“I stand corrected.” For some reason, Kismet got the distinct impression that Leeds didn’t think of the Epic as a fairy tale. “So do you think such a plant really existed?”

“Straight to the point, Mr. Kismet? What if it was that simple; eat the fruit of the Tree of Life, and live forever? Would you not do so in a heartbeat?”

Kismet was already regretting having asked, regretted having even introduced himself to Leeds in the first place, but something about the man — maybe it was his self-confessed quest for immortality, or maybe just the fact that Leeds came off as an arrogant bastard who needed to be taken down a notch — compelled Kismet to stay. “Who wouldn’t? But if such a plant, a Tree of Life, existed, someone would have found it by now.”

“And why do you believe no one has?”

Kismet contemplated the prism for a moment. “So this…the Epic of Gilgamesh is factual?”

Leeds smiled again, a humorless grin that lowered the temperature in the air-conditioned salon by several degrees. “Theologians cannot help but recognize the similarities between characters in the Epic, and those mentioned in the Bible. Gilgamesh is certainly Nimrod, the king who would be a god. Uta-Napishtim the immortal who survived the Great Flood, is Noah. Genesis also speaks of the Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden; doubtless the same plant Gilgamesh sought. Its placement at the bottom of the ocean would be an allusion to Eden being lost to the Flood.”

Kismet stroked his chin thoughtfully. He wasn’t a believer, but he knew enough about both theology and mythology to hold his own in the conversation. “Okay, I'll buy that. Of course, the Bible records Noah’s death, whereas Uta-Napishtim was supposed to be immortal.”

“Noah lived to be nearly a thousand years old; the longest any man lived after the Great Flood. His son Shem apparently possessed a similar gift of longevity. To the rest of the world, they would certainly seem immortal.”

“And it is your contention that they possessed some vestige of the Tree of Life from the Garden of Eden that kept them alive well beyond the limit of an ordinary life span?”

“Contention? Better to call it an hypothesis. I am a scientist Mr. Kismet, studying the religions of the world, ancient and modern, not so much to determine what is true, but to find the commonality that might educate us as to the origin of faith.”

Leeds flipped to the back of his notebook as he spoke, and Kismet realized that the thick leather bound volume was actually a Bible. “In the Western world, it is generally accepted that, if there is a religious truth, it is expressed in the Judeo-Christian belief system. Now, if we are to accept the Holy Scriptures as essentially factual — and that is a leap of faith which many in our modern society are no longer willing to make — then the account of Genesis proves unquestionably that the antediluvians lived to extraordinary ages. Adam, Methuselah and Noah himself, all lived to be nearly a thousand years of age. These accounts were not meant to be taken as allegory, as so many today want to believe; the language is very precise. Those men living before the Great Flood had extraordinarily long life spans. What changed?

“The answer is here. Genesis chapter two: 'And a river went out of Eden to water the garden; and from thence it was parted, and became into four heads.'“

Leeds looked up from the pages and watched for a reaction, but Kismet could only shake his head. “I'm not sure I follow you.”

“The rivers that issued out of Eden, the garden of life, were likely imbued with the properties of the Tree of Life, mentioned here in verse nine: 'the Tree of Life also in the midst of the garden.' Adam and Eve were not permitted to eat of the fruit of that tree. They were expelled from the garden for their transgression and barred from entering by the cherubs and the blade of a flaming sword. Nevertheless, the life-giving properties of the Tree of Life flowed out of Eden in the waters of those rivers; diluted to be sure, but still potent enough to enable those men to live to extraordinary ages.”

“Then the Flood came and washed it all away,” continued Kismet, making no effort to limit the skepticism in his tone. “So how did Noah and Shem manage to live on for so long afterward?”

“One explanation would be that both were born into the antediluvian world; both would have tasted the waters of life. But I postulate a different theory.

“Noah was certainly the favored of God, even as Uta-Napishtim was in the Epic of Gilgamesh. I believe that Noah may have carried pieces of the Tree, perhaps its fruit, plucked from the river waters before the Flood. He would have given these powerful items to his sons Japheth and Shem, though not to Ham, the accursed progenitor of the Negro race.”

Kismet winced at the unexpected diatribe. He was liking Leeds less as the conversation progressed.

“Nimrod,” continued Leeds, “was a descendant of Ham, and likely coveted the gift that Noah had passed to his superior offspring. Perhaps the quest of Gilgamesh is an allegory describing Nimrod's desire to seize that power from the children of his grandfather's brothers.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“There is much more evidence to support my claim.”

Kismet wanted to leave; wanted to be away from the odious Dr. Leeds as much as he wanted to take refuge in his stateroom, but the unequivocal assertion held him rooted in place. “Evidence?”

“Earlier you asked why no one else had ever discovered the secret of immortality. In fact, an eighteenth century French nobleman, the Comte de Saint-Germain, reputedly discovered the secret of immortality in a substance he called ‘the Philosopher's Stone’.”

“I’ve heard the story,” Kismet replied warily. “Various charlatans throughout history have claimed to be Saint-Germain, Cagliostro, the alchemist Nicholas Flamel…snake oil salesmen, one an all.”

“Are you so sure that they were charlatans? If Noah or Methuselah could live to be nine hundred years old, why not these men?”

Kismet shrugged. He silently admonished himself for not having made his escape sooner. What he had first mistaken for charisma was, it seemed, just the persuasive passion of a crank. “Those stories failed to convince me then, and nothing I have heard here convinces me now.”

“Then consider a different tale.” Leeds gestured with the Bible. “Have you ever heard of the Sacred Heart of Jesus Christ?”

“Aside from the fact that hundreds of churches, schools and hospitals are named for it, not really.”

“The Devotion of the Sacred Heart is a liturgy found in the catechism, though it is not explicitly mentioned in scripture. The doctrine itself has more to do with the symbolism of Christ's love for mankind, a love so passionate that it caused his heart to glow visibly in his chest.

“In the subtext of this tale however, I see yet another clue in the puzzle of the quest for immortality. There is a tradition among the Gnostics, who were in fact among the earliest of Christ's followers, and never accepted the pollution of the Roman church, that Jesus was in fact one of the Magi; a class of Rabbis devoted to studying the Kabbalah. During the forty days and nights, which Christ spent in the wilderness, he learned the secret of unlocking the powers hidden in the language of the Torah. I believe that he also found something else.

“Another supposition of scholars is that Shem, the son of Noah, was also Melchizedek, King of Salem, and there is no mention of Melchizedek’s death in the scriptures; in fact, St. Paul alluded to Melchizedek's immortality in the Epistle to the Hebrews. It is my belief that Melchizedek bequeathed his vestige of the Tree of Life to Jesus Christ during the forty days of his meditation, and the Christ in turn used the knowledge of the Magi to incorporate it into his own flesh, making it one with his own heart.”

“That is an interesting way of skewing the scriptures,” remarked Kismet. “But it doesn't really support your idea of eternal life. Jesus didn't exactly survive to a ripe old age.”

“Only because he was slain. And yet death could not hold him, for he rose three days later, as an eternal spirit.” Through his discussion, Leeds’ voice remained calm, never betraying the passions he evidently harbored on the subject. “Notice however the particulars of his crucifixion, mentioned in the Gospel of St. John: 'But one of the soldiers with a spear pierced his side, and forthwith came there out blood and water.' The spear of the centurion Gaius Longinus pierced the heart of Jesus. When that happened, the heavens darkened and the earth shook. The gospel of St. Matthew says that tombs were opened and the dead came to life. Imagine the power that was released when the Sacred Heart was pierced. The spear of the centurion became a powerful talisman, as did the chalice in which Joseph of Arimathea collected the heart-blood of Christ. Longinus himself received the gift of immortal life.”

“I have heard those legends as well; the Spear of Destiny and the Holy Grail. I seem to recall that Longinus viewed his immortality as a curse.”

“Only because of his guilt for having slain the Christ. He doubtless wished to kill himself, even as Judas the betrayer did, but he was denied the release of suicide.”

Kismet shook his head, as if clearing away cobwebs. “Okay, so Jesus’ powers to heal, raise the dead and everything else came from his possession of some magic fruit. We'll sidestep the fact that about every Christian on the planet would view that as blasphemy. How exactly is that going to lead you to the secret of immortality? You said it yourself: the Sacred Heart of Christ was destroyed when he was killed.”

“True, but remember what I said earlier. Noah passed his gift on to Japheth also. There were at least two, and perhaps many more pieces of the Tree of Life. I believe they were seeds that survived the Great Flood. Shem, who later became Melchizedek, had the one which eventually became the possession of Christ and made possible his transcendence of the flesh. Japheth also took possession of one of the seeds, and I believe that this is the one which Nimrod, or Gilgamesh sought and eventually captured.”

Kismet frowned. “You said a serpent devoured it.”

“Indeed. But in this instance, the serpent was actually a metaphor for the priesthood of the cult of serpent worshippers. They seized the seed by violence, perhaps even slaying Nimrod, and fled.”

Kismet nodded slowly. “So that is what you are after: the Seed that belonged to Japheth.”

“The Japhetic Seed is still out there somewhere. There are too many legends of men who have discovered the power of eternal life for me to believe otherwise.”

“Everyone wants to live forever,” Kismet argued. “That’s why the quest for immortality is central to religions and folklore. Some people are desperate enough to try crazy things to find the Garden of Eden, the Philosopher’s Stone, or the Fountain of Youth.”

“Curious you should mention that.” Leeds flipped to the back of the Bible and withdrew a folded sheet of parchment. “The Fountain of Youth is rather a pet hobby of mine. There are in fact several legends of such a place on nearly every continent, though the quest of Ponce de Leon is perhaps the one with which people are most familiar. Did you know that most scholars reject the idea that Juan Ponce de Leon, the first Spanish governor of Puerto Rico, was actually looking for such a fountain?”

“I had a professor who maintained that Ponce de Leon was really looking for a cure for impotence, and not a true source of eternal life. Sixteenth-century Viagra.”

If Leeds even heard him, he gave no indication. “There are of course contemporary accounts that verify his interest in finding a rejuvenatory pool, though in most, we find him looking for an island in the Caribbean. It is only in the memoir of a man named Hernando D’Escalante Fontaneda, written in 1575, that we find mention of Ponce De Leon searching for the Fountain of Youth in Florida. He wrote: ‘Juan Ponz de Leon, giving heed to the tale of the Indians of Cuba and Santo Domingo, went to Florida in search of the River Jordan…that he might become young from bathing in such a stream.’

“Fontaneda was a remarkable man. He was, as a youth, shipwrecked on the Florida coast in the year 1549, and captured by Calusa Indians. The Calusa sacrificed all the other survivors of the wreck, but Fontaneda survived, and lived with them in captivity for nearly twenty years. He was eventually freed, and for several years thereafter, served as a guide and translator for Pedro Menéndez de Avilés, the Spanish governor of Florida. During that time, he spoke often of a great treasure pit in a Calusa village — gold and silver plundered from wrecked Spanish ships. Fontaneda boasted that, with a hundred men, he could seize the wealth of the Calusa leader, but just three years after winning his freedom, he returned to Spain to reclaim his ancestral lands. A few years later, he recorded the account of his time in captivity. On the subject of Ponce De Leon’s River Jordan, he wrote: ‘I can say, that while I was a captive there, I bathed in many streams, but to my misfortune I never came upon the river.’”

Leeds paused and Kismet wondered if that had been his cue to applaud. To fill the uncomfortable silence, he nodded and said, “Interesting.”

“Even more interesting is this letter.” Leeds removed a folded sheet of paper from between the pages of his Bible. “It was written by Andrés Rodríguez de Villegas, the colonial governor of Florida from 1630-32, to King Philip IV of Spain. Evidently, the letter was handed over to the Inquisition and eventually found its way into the Vatican’s secret archives, which given its nature, comes as little surprise.”

Kismet again noted how precisely Leeds spoke, as if reading from a teleprompter. He expected the silver-haired man to start reading the missive aloud, but to his surprise, Leeds proffered the document.

It was obviously a photocopy, printed on a crisp sheet of twenty pound bond paper. Someone had scrawled an English translation under each line of quill pen written Castilian Spanish. Kismet scanned the first few lines verifying that the translator had stayed true to the original text, and then focused his attention on the English translation:

Kismet paused. His eyes flashed over the name that kept repeating. “Henrique Fortunato,” he muttered. “Henry Fortune?”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Kismet?”

He looked at Leeds, jarred out of his reverie. “Sorry.” He looked down the letter reading silently until his eyes caught the place where he had left off.

Kismet glanced back up to the middle of the letter and reread Fortunato’s statements.

“What do you think of that?” inquired Leeds, his icy gaze probing.

Kismet shrugged. “You said that was in the Vatican archives? How’d it end up there?”

“I would surmise that the Church wanted to suppress any mention of the Fountain, for the very reason Rodriguez wrote in the first place. Eternal life, apart from the grace of God, would have been a most egregious sin.”

Kismet handed back the letter. “So what are you doing here, chasing after Gilgamesh?”

“The letter is but one piece of a greater puzzle. I do not know if Fortunato was in fact Hernando Fontaneda kept unnaturally young by some mysterious pool. He may simply have been a drunkard, spinning a tall tale. I cannot stake my search upon a single questionable account. Nor can I entirely dismiss such an account out of hand.

“I do sincerely believe that the first step in my journey lies in understanding what became of the Seed after it was taken from Nimrod. Those who worshipped Nimrod would have pursued the priests of the serpent cult to the ends of the earth. They might have ended up in the Americas, but they could just as easily have taken their prize to Asia or deepest Africa. Serpent gods exist in almost every ancient culture and are universally viewed as a symbol of eternal life, except in the Judeo-Christian mythos, where they are associated with evil.”

Kismet picked up his glass and took a meaningful step backward. “I would say you have a lifetime of searching ahead of you.”

“Perhaps an eternal lifetime,” replied Leeds without a trace of a smile.

“Well good luck to you. Thank you for a stimulating conversation. I hope you find what you seek.”

Leeds inclined his head, and then returned to copying the prism as if the exchange had never occurred. Grateful for the tacit dismissal, Kismet hastened back to lounge where a plate of food and the key card to his room waited. Strangely however, hunger and fatigue had fled away, replaced by a poorly defined memory of a name that was uncomfortably similar to that of the ‘drunken’ braggart in Leeds’ letter.

The taciturn occult scholar watched Kismet go without saying a word, but as the other man departed, a new arrival to the exhibit hall came over to join Leeds. Without preamble that latter spoke: “I just had a conversation with Nick Kismet.”

The man's jaw dropped, revealing a single silver incisor in an uneven row of natural, but yellowed teeth. “Kismet,” he rasped, as though the name were an oath.

“Patience, Ian. I doubt he suspects what we know.” Leeds caught a final glimpse of Kismet collecting his dinner from the bartender. “But he knows something about the Fountain; I’m sure of it. And I think he will lead us to it.”

Kismet exited the lounge and moved onto an open-air balcony overlooking the starboard flank of the ship. He clutched the deck railing and closed his eyes, as if in the grip of vertigo.

He kicked himself for having visibly reacted to the letter Leeds had showed him; the mention of the cavern had caught him totally by surprise. He racked his brain to remember where he had heard the name Henry Fortune, and if it had been in connection with a cavern featuring some extraordinary natural phenomenon. He couldn’t think of anything specific, but the feeling that there was something more going on persisted.

The deck and number of his stateroom had been handwritten on the paper sleeve which contained his key card, and a consultation of the escape route map helped him navigate to his lodgings where, with a little luck, his luggage would be waiting. Nestled inside one suitcase was a rugged laptop computer with a satellite telephone modem that would enable him to access the GHC archives; if Fortune’s name had appeared in any document received by his agency, it would be revealed through the miracle of modern technology.

He moved through the ship on auto-pilot, his mind still turning over the bizarre encounter with Dr. John Leeds. He instinctively disliked the man; perhaps that was the driving force behind his sudden compulsion to trump Leeds in his search. But beneath that lay a lingering suspicion that Leeds’ admitted obsession with the legend recorded on the cuneiform prism was a little too coincidental when viewed in the light of recent events. The connection was too tenuous to even be considered circumstantial evidence, but it was enough to fuel Kismet’s suspicions. As he slid the key card into the electronic lock and entered the stateroom, he decided he was going to have to do a little research on Dr. Leeds as well.

Abruptly his consciousness was jerked like a yoyo back into the moment. Someone was in the room. A figure shrouded in shadow sat opposite the open door and a haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air between them.

“Pardon me,” he said quickly, retreating backward. “Must have the wrong room.”

He knew better of course; the key cards made such an error virtually impossible. There could be only one explanation: the trap he had feared had finally sprung. The Sultan’s security forces had caught up to him. Before he could escape however, the table lamp near the seated figure flicked on, illuminating the grinning visitor. “Took your sweet time getting here, mate.”

Kismet nearly dropped his untouched dinner plate as he recognized the speaker. He had only gotten a glimpse of the man the night previously, and in the intervening hours had not really considered the possibility of a further reunion. “Sergeant Higgins?”

Then his voice fell as he caught sight of the other person in the room. He worked his mouth, trying to articulate his thoughts, but nothing came out. He gaped a moment longer as Higgins’ companion drew closer.

“Hello again, Nick Kismet.”

“Elisabeth.” It was all he could say. Bile rose in his throat, choking off his utterance. He opened his mouth to speak again, but no curse he could muster seemed adequate to the moment. Failing that, he turned and stalked away.

FOUR

Higgins caught up to him a few steps from the door, leaving the treacherous actress alone in the stateroom. “Wait. You don't understand—”

“What the hell is she doing here?” Kismet rasped. He turned to face the former Gurkha, getting his first real look at the man who had once stood with him in a battle they both thought would be their last. The burly Kiwi was a couple inches taller than he and built like a rugby player. His curly brown mop was longer now than when he had been in the regiment. Kismet saw no gray hairs, but the leathery creases in his countenance betrayed his age. Even under the best of circumstances, he would have avoided this reunion; he had no desire to relive the events of that night with his one time comrade in arms.

“You don't understand. She wasn't trying to betray you. If you would let her—”

“I can't even look at her. She nearly got me killed. Twice.”

“Would you just listen to me?” Higgins grabbed hold of Kismet's shoulders, shaking him as one might a wayward child. Though the Kiwi outweighed him by at least a good thirty pounds, Kismet tensed as if preparing to defend himself. Higgins dropped his hands and took a step back. “Just listen,” he continued, his tone more subdued. “There’s a lot more going on here than you realize. The Sultan believes Elisabeth betrayed him. He’s publicly divorced her — you know how easy that is to do in a Muslim country — and secretly put a price on her head. She’s on the run, mate.”

“Good.”

“Will you let me finish? You don't know what really happened. Not in Jin's fortress and not with the Sultan.”

Kismet leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay. I'm listening, but this had better be good. I've already had a double helping of fantasy tonight.”

“It would be better if you let her tell you.”

“Humor me, Sergeant. And while you’re at it, maybe you’d like to explain how you got mixed up this mess.”

“All right.” He drew in a breath. “I’ll answer the last bit first. And it’s just Al now; I gave up being Sergeant Higgins as soon as my hitch was up. Went into business for myself.”

“You’re a mercenary?”

Higgins shrugged. “We prefer the term ‘independent contractor.’ It’s a dangerous world, especially hereabouts. A wealthy bloke like the Sultan needs a lot of security. It’s been a decent paycheck. I’ve been working for the family for close to six years.”

“And Elisabeth?”

“Among other things, I was her bodyguard.”

“‘Among other things,’ Al? Is that a polite way of saying that you’re screwing her?”

The Gurkha’s intent expression cracked. “Don’t I wish? I’m a bit unrefined for her tastes, but all the same, I’ve been looking out for her for a while now.”

“I’d say you fell down on the job. Those pirates had help from someone on the inside. Come to think of it, Elisabeth looked pretty cozy with their leader.”

“It is true that maybe she wasn’t a hostage in the literal sense of the word, but there’s a lot more to it than that. The Sultan is a cruel bastard. Their marriage hasn’t exactly been ‘happily ever after.’ She wanted out; wanted to leave this whole bloody place behind. When Jin took her captive, she thought she’d fallen into some kind of damned romance novel. And then you showed up.

“She hoped to convince you to rescue her from both Jin and the Sultan, and thought that sapphire might help her start over. But after she left you, Jin's guards caught her, and she had no choice but to give the appearance of helping him.”

“You actually believe all this?” Kismet could not control his ire. “You weren't there.”

“No I wasn't. But ask yourself this; what does she have to gain by trying to earn your trust?”

“I don't know, but I'm sure I'll find out.” Kismet ran a hand through his hair. “So what is she doing here? The Sultan came to his senses and threw her out. Why are you with her? What’s your stake in this?”

A guilty flush darkened Higgins’ already ruddy features. “He wants her dead. God help me, but I’ve been protecting her so long, I just can’t stand the thought of her getting hurt. But I can’t do it; I’d attract too much attention. That’s why I thought of you.”

“You knew I’d come here?”

Higgins grinned ruefully. “I figured you’d reckon this was the safest place to be. But to tell the truth, I had my…I’ve had one of my people following you from the moment you escaped.”

Kismet shook his head in weary disbelief. “Listen, Al. I'm sorry this has got me so upset. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I haven't slept in a bed in God only knows how long. This is just a bit much right now.”

“So you won’t help?” The Kiwi made no effort to hide his disappointment.

“Just leave me alone for now.” He tried to punctuate his request with an emphatic gesture, and only then realized that he was still holding the covered plate with his dinner. “Look, she’s welcome to use my stateroom. I’ll sleep in a deckchair or something. We can sort this out tomorrow.”

Higgins nodded slowly, the defeated expression still in evidence. “Right, then. I’ll let her know what you’ve decided.”

“Damn it,” Kismet muttered as he watched the big Kiwi disappear back down the companionway. “I was really looking forward to that bed.”

Dr. Leeds was gone, as was the steward in charge of the bar, but the contingent of security guards seemed to be a permanent fixture in the adjoining gallery. Kismet did not venture beyond the salon, but instead settled at a table near the exit and commenced his long overdue repast. The food was lukewarm and flavorless, but he barely noticed.

He struggled to get Elisabeth out of his thoughts. His anger was already yielding to the arguments Higgins had presented in her defense. He knew better, of course. Higgins had not been there in the tiger pit; had not heard her mocking laughter…

He shoveled another forkful of food into his mouth, chewing vigorously as if to shake the memory loose. “So Dr. Leeds thinks he can find the secret of immortality,” he wondered aloud, hoping that by articulating the thought, he might force his mind to switch tracks.

To some extent, it worked.

What intrigued him was the scope of Leeds’ search. In one short conversation, the man had incorporated a mosaic of Judaism, Christianity, Gnosticism, and an obscure Mesopotamian myth, into a seemingly coherent philosophy. Despite his superior manner, Leeds expressed himself with a certainty that made a person feel foolish for doubting.

Kismet searched his memory for details of the Epic of Gilgamesh. Elisabeth’s untimely intrusion had side-tracked him from his original plan to research the legend, but he still remembered his college course on mythology, where he had read translations of the tablets of Shin-eqi-unninni, largely considered to be the most complete account of the Epic. The tablets, recovered from the same library in the ruins of Nineveh as the prism Leeds was studying, had been tentatively dated to 2000 BCE, making them the closest thing to a contemporary account. Gilgamesh was generally accepted as an actual historic figure, king of Uruk, a city in Babylonia, though Kismet could not recall if he had ever been linked to the Nimrod of the Genesis account.

Leeds had focused on the latter third of the Epic, the final three tablets describing Gilgamesh's search for the secret of immortality. The character of Uta-Napishtim indeed bore a close resemblance to the biblical Noah; survivor of a global flood, preserving alive all species of animal life in a great boat, even right down to the detail of his sending forth birds to see if the waters had receded.

Gilgamesh himself was anything but heroic. He began the story as an oppressive king and demi-god, demanding, among other things, the right to share the bed of every virgin bride before her husband. The people of his kingdom called out to the gods for someone to deliver them from the oppressor, and their prayer was answered in the form of Enkidu, a shaggy wild man who lived in the forest and could talk to animals. At first, Enkidu and Gilgamesh fought, but soon they became fast friends. Together, they challenged and slew Humbaba, demon of the cedar forest, and in the process offended the goddess Ishtar. Humbaba's dying curse was fulfilled when Ishtar smote Enkidu with a fatal illness.

Following the death of his friend, Gilgamesh troubled by his own mortality, began the search for the immortal Uta-Napishtim and the secret of eternal life. Along the way, he was repeatedly advised to abandon his quest; even Uta-Napishtim tried to reason with Gilgamesh that human death was the will of the gods and the search for eternal life could only end in futility. The outcome of the tale, with Gilgamesh losing the plant that possessed the secret of immortality, seemed underscore this eventuality.

The story was told from Gilgamesh's point of view, a retrospect on his life, inscribed on the lapis lazuli stone foundations of his city. Gilgamesh's transformation from an oppressive jerk into Enkidu's fast friend and mourner seemed like the stuff of heroic fiction, not history. The kings of ancient times never recorded their own failings, or allowed their scribes to show them in less than favorable light.

Leeds’ premise seemed to turn on the connection between Gilgamesh and Nimrod. If the two men were one and the same, it would seem to indicate that an epic quest for a life giving plant, what Leeds thought was a Seed of the Tree of Life, really did occur. Of course, that assumed the Bible account about Nimrod — and for that matter Noah, and the Great Flood — was historically accurate, despite very little supportive evidence.

Kismet pushed his plate away and asked the bartender if there was a place where he could get computer access. A few minutes later in the ships cybercafé, he accessed an online edition of the Authorized Version of 1611, better known as the King James Version of the Holy Bible. He clicked on ‘Genesis’ and began skimming through the lines of text until he reached the first mention of Nimrod. There were only three short verses:

“And Cush begat Nimrod: he began to be a mighty one in the earth. He was a mighty hunter before the LORD: wherefore it is said, Even as Nimrod the mighty hunter before the LORD. And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel, and Erech, and Accad, and Calneh, in the land of Shinar.”

He set the book down thoughtfully. Erech was easily Uruk — the ancient name for Iraq — the city-state built and ruled by Gilgamesh in the parallel legend. In fact, both men were described as city builders and kings. It was a tenuous link, but a link nevertheless.

Still, a great distance separated Gilgamesh from the Fountain of Youth. He would have dismissed the matter as a crackpot scheme on Leeds’ part if not for one thing. Though his recall remained faint, he kept coming back to the name Henry Fortune; and something about a cave where ‘fire danced on the water.’

It had been almost exactly the same language as that used by a Spanish colonial three hundred and fifty years earlier, a man whose name curiously enough, translated into Henry Fortune. He felt certain that he had first encountered that pairing while perusing the archives of GHC and UNESCO correspondence.

Over the course of its seventy year history, the United Nations’ cultural organization had received thousands of letters, often formal request from governments and preservation societies requesting that certain historically important places receive World Heritage Site status, but interspersed among them were inquiries from private citizens. Gaining access to that prodigious database had been Kismet’s primary motivation for taking the job as Global Heritage Commission liaison; he was convinced that somewhere in those files, he would find a clue that would lead to the mysterious Prometheus organization, and answers about the mystery that had dominated his life.

Prometheus.

While the quest for Prometheus was never far from his thoughts, seeing Sergeant Higgins again had brought it all back to the surface. That night in the desert, so long ago now, had been his first and only real encounter with Prometheus. He had surmised that they were some kind of secret society devoted to scooping up sacred relics — he could only guess about what else they had their hands in — but could not fathom their interest in him personally. He still remembered the words of the Prometheus team leader, a man who had identified himself as Ulrich Hauser:

Kismet, if I killed you, your mother would have my head.

Two decades later, that remained the extent of his knowledge.

“The Fountain of Youth.” It seemed ludicrous on the surface, but if, by some miracle, it really did exist, it was exactly the sort of thing Prometheus would want to control.

The information he wanted was only a few keystrokes away, but he didn’t dare access the GHC database from an unsecure computer. That would have to wait until he could get his laptop from his stateroom. Still…

He typed the words he had just muttered into a search window.

“Nick?”

Kismet jumped when he felt the soft touch on his arm. He spun around to face the person that had startled him, recognizing her voice at the same instant he saw her face. Elisabeth's hand remained on his arm, her touch strangely appealing. Almost guiltily, he closed the Internet browser, even as the screen filled up with websites promising answers to his inquiry, and then stood, putting Elisabeth at arm’s length.

He knew he ought to rage at her, but some instinctive need held him back. He was attracted to her…aroused by her. He managed to keep the conflicting emotions out of his voice, addressing her in a flat tone. “What do you want from me?”

She smiled, fixing his gaze with her own. “I think you know.”

He forced his eyes away from hers. There was a purple discoloration on her cheek, just above the jaw, that her make-up could not quite conceal. He’d done that, but then she’d been point a gun at him moments before. He reached out with a finger, caressing the bruise gently. “You almost got me killed. Twice.”

“Believe it or not, you almost got me killed twice, too.”

“Is that supposed to make me trust you?” He could not entirely mask the bitterness in his tone. “You betrayed me to Jin.”

“He caught me as I was taking the sapphire. Nick, I had to play along and hope for the best. If he had suspected that I was trying to escape, he would have killed me on the spot.”

“It didn't look that way from where I was standing…in the tiger pit.”

“I'm an actress, Nick. It's what I do.”

“You were awfully convincing.” He sighed, his eyes flashing back to meet hers. “You’re pretty convincing right now. Is this just an act?”

She took a step forward, close enough that he could almost feel her body heat radiating against his skin. “Am I convincing enough?”

Kismet felt her hand take his. He drew back as if her touch was venomous, but her eyes did not waver. “Alex told me that I took your stateroom. I’m willing to share.”

“What the hell do you want from me?” he repeated, his voice a dry rasp.

She extended a finger, caressing his cheek as he had hers a few moments before. Her eyes held his, their intensity forcing him to look away. “Can't you believe that this is what I want?”

Her mouth drew close to his, and though every fiber of his conscience screamed that this was wrong, when her lips touched his, he yielded. The kiss filled his mouth with a flavor of sweet tobacco; a lusty fragrance that he drank greedily. His hands moved involuntarily to pull her close, against his body.

“I'll probably regret this tomorrow,” he whispered, his voice husky with rising passion.

“Only if you refuse.”

From the end of the corridor, Alex Higgins watched as Elisabeth and Kismet entered the stateroom, arm in arm. The expression on his face was unreadable, but his eyes remained fixed on the closed portal for a long time. After several minutes, he turned away, entered his own stateroom, and firmly closed the door.

A second pair of eyes, unseen by Higgins was also watching; watching Kismet and Elisabeth lost in a strange animal passion for each other, and watching Higgins wage a conflict of friendship and jealousy. A faint smile crossed the face of the watcher, the seed of a plan, beginning to germinate.

Their lovemaking was frenzied; as if, by the ferocity of their passion, they might exorcise the demons that had haunted them from the moment he had appeared in Elisabeth's window. Their fire for each other burned hot, a vain attempt to cauterize the open wound of their mutual distrust; each struggling to give the other a fulfillment that neither really desired. In the end, their mutual volcanic release satisfied a physical craving, but only exacerbated the deeper emotional hurts.

In the aftermath, Kismet held her in his arms; afraid to pull away, but feeling acutely the discomfort of having taken something he neither deserved nor wanted. As he gazed at Elisabeth's beautiful face, he couldn’t help but feel pity for her. At the same time, he could not quell the deep-seated embers of loathing that smoldered just beneath the surface.

His inner turmoil quickly subsided as he watched the gentle rise and fall of her breasts; in repose, she seemed so innocent that he felt a pang of self-recrimination. There was so much he felt he needed to say to her, yet he could not articulate a single syllable.

After a long while, her eyelids fluttered open. She was barely visible in the silvery moonlight that flooded through the porthole. Her smile surprised him; it seemed so genuine that he found himself wanting to apologize for having ever doubted her. He gazed into her eyes, and for a long silent moment they seemed to be daring each other to speak.

Kismet's lips parted, the beginning of a thought taking shape on his tongue. Then, he saw something that caused him to hesitate.

Something like the shadow of a hidden agenda flickered across her eyes. The heady fragrance of their lovemaking that had lingered in his nostrils was now overpowered by a vile, unclean odor.

Kismet's body reacted to the premonition faster than his mind could. He rolled over, throwing his hand up in time to arrest the downward plunge of the scimitar-shaped dagger. Its curved blade quivered a mere inch from his sternum. In that moment, as adrenaline began coursing through his body, his mind caught up.

The silent attacker, a leering man with Asian features ravaged by disease, bore down on the long knife, trying with all his might to impale Kismet. The assassin was not as strong as he, but it was all Kismet could do to hold the blade away from his heart. Refusing to accept the stalemate, the attacker rose up on his toes, trying to force the blade down.

Kismet heard Elisabeth scream beside him, and his gaze flickered toward her. A second figure was moving toward them, a second curved blade reflecting silver light. Above him, the sour-breathed laughter of the assassin beat at his face like a physical assault.

Unable to force back the knife-wielder, Kismet changed tactics. He contorted his body in order to get a leg up around the man's neck. Catching the killer's throat in the crook of his knee, he drew back, pulling the attacker into a scissors hold. As his left leg came up, trapping the surprised assailant behind the shoulders, Kismet heard the dreadful sound of snapping vertebrae and knew instantly that he had broken the man's neck.

The curved knife fell from the man's lifeless fingers and dropped directly toward Kismet’s heart. He twisted, trying to avoid its downward plunge, and felt the sharp tip score his flesh before falling away.

There was an intense flare of pain, but Kismet ignored it, kicking the limp corpse away, even as he reached out to deflect the attack of the fallen man's accomplice. He grasped the second man's wrists, arresting his double-fisted stab, and redirected the man’s momentum so that he fell forward, onto the bed and atop its occupants. Kismet drove his right elbow into the man's face, and twisted his wrists, forcing him to drop his knife.

The assassin fell from the bed, rolling onto the floor and howling in pain as he cradled his injured forearms. Kismet sprang over Elisabeth and launched himself at the man who looked up in time to see Kismet looming over him. He rolled away and Kismet fell flat on the floor.

The attacker was up in an instant, racing for the doorway. Kismet rose to hands and knees, but immediately realized that the assailant was beyond his grasp. He grabbed the wooden chair tucked under the writing desk, and pitched it across the room to strike the retreating assassin legs. The man fell backward, his weight snapping the chair like matchwood. Kismet leapt after him, intent on catching the man — maybe for questioning, maybe not; he hadn’t decided yet — but the man recovered too quickly, extracting himself from the wreckage of the chair and throwing the door open. Light from the corridor spilled into the room, momentarily blinding Kismet, and in that split second, the intruder escaped.

Kismet took a step out the door, but went no further. He stood in the corridor, stark naked, feeling vaguely foolish. There was no sign of the attacker.

As he stepped back inside the stateroom, Kismet flipped on the overhead light. Elisabeth was sitting up in bed, the sheet pulled up around her breasts. She seemed to have regained her composure and was taking a cigarette from a metal case. Kismet walked around the bed to where the body of the first assassin lay. He knelt beside the fallen man and began searching the body for some clue as to what precipitated the attack.

“How did they get in?” asked Elisabeth, exhaling a stream of smoke.

“They must have been in here before we came in. Probably hiding under the bed.”

“You mean they were here while we—” She didn't have to finish the question, or wait for his reply before grimacing.

“I thought I had managed to sneak on board without anyone noticing,” continued Kismet, rolling the body onto its side to examine the man's back pockets. The search proved fruitless. He leaned back on his haunches and sighed. Then, his expression darkened as a new thought occurred to him. “Unless they weren't after me.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Elisabeth took another drag on the cigarette. For the first time, Kismet wondered how much of her cool demeanor was merely the result of her professional skills.

“Think about it.” Before she could defend herself from the oblique accusation, Kismet rose and dug a fresh ExOficio shirt and a pair of cargo pants from his duffel bag. He also took out his Glock, loaded a magazine and chambered a round, and tucked it into his waistband at the small of back.

“Going somewhere?” asked Elisabeth.

“Our friend here is getting off before the next port.” He lifted the assassin's corpse, looping the man's stiffening arm across his shoulders. As an afterthought, he picked up the curved daggers the attackers had wielded. A cursory inspection revealed them to be crudely made and not worth keeping. He tucked them both into the dead man's belt. The body hung awkwardly against him, sagging dead weight, but Kismet managed to shuffle him toward the door. As he did, he felt a flare of pain in his chest. Blood was welling up from the stab wound, and though it was barely larger than a pinprick, an area the size of his fist was aching just to the right of his heart. He didn’t want to think about what sort of germs might be starting to colonize there, but disinfecting the cut would have to wait until he got back. “Be sure to lock the door.”

Elisabeth watched him leave without saying a word. When he was gone she lowered her head to her knees and began shaking uncontrollably, but managed to pull herself together a few moments later, and finished the cigarette.

Nevertheless, she almost screamed when an unexpected knock came at the door.

As Kismet dragged the lifeless form through the halls, careful to avoid attracting attention, he wrestled with the puzzle of the attack. He knew that, at least throughout Southeast Asia, he was probably a wanted man, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to the situation. If the two assassins had followed him, why had they waited so long to show themselves? Had they simply been waiting aboard the ship, expecting him to reunite with Higgins? If that was the case, they would also have known that Elisabeth was using his stateroom. The more he pondered it, the more convinced he was that Elisabeth herself was the target of the attack. Remembering that a second assassin still roamed the decks lent urgency to his errand.

His feelings for Elisabeth remained problematic. The unquestionable physical attraction he felt for her was undiminished, yet he was certain that she was once again using him, or worse, setting him up for another betrayal.

He felt a pang of concern also for Higgins. Perhaps in helping the actress escape, his old comrade in arms had also earned a death mark. He had no doubt the big Kiwi could take care of himself in a fight, but the assassins had struck from out of nowhere. Kismet recognized that he owed his own escape, more than anything else, to sheer luck; if he had not glimpsed the movement of shadow in the stateroom, both he and Elisabeth would now be as dead as the man whom he was dragging toward the aft deck.

Leaning the assassin's body against the railing, he made a careful visual sweep of the deck and the portholes of the next deck up. No one seemed to be up and about on the ship. Kismet casually removed the chains that blocked the disembarkation gate and helped the assassin on the next step of his journey. The limp shaped was instantly swallowed by the dark water.

When he got back to the stateroom, he knocked, hoping that Elisabeth had followed his parting advice to lock the door. When she did not reply, he tried the latch. The portal swung open, revealing a vacant room.

Wisps of smoke hung in the air, drifting from a nearly extinguished cigarette in an ashtray on the nightstand beside the bed. The sheets curled around the memory of a female body, still warm from her presence, but Elisabeth was gone.

Despite his vigilance, Kismet’s labors had not gone completely unnoticed. The second assassin, still gingerly holding his broken wrist, watched with growing anger as his brother’s lifeless body was unceremoniously dropped into the sea.

He had no idea who the man — the former Sultana’s lover — was. He and his brother had only been interested in collecting the bounty on Elisabeth Neuell, but right now the blood price was the last thing on his mind. Revenge was the first.

Injured and disarmed, he knew that a frontal assault was out of the question. His new target had already demonstrated unusual skill in hand-to-hand combat. No, he would have to take the man completely by surprise.

With his good hand, he removed his belt and fashioned a slipknot. He would drop the loop over the man’s head and then pull the noose tight. Strangling was one of the easiest ways to kill an opponent with superior size and skill, provided of course the loop could be tightened before the victim had time to react. Once the garrote was set, he would just hold on for about thirty seconds until unconsciousness claimed his victim. He knew this from experience; he had killed this way before.

He shrank back into the shadows as his brother’s killer passed by, and waited a few seconds more, gathering his courage, before emerging from his hiding place. With the garrote in his good hand, he took a deep breath and started forward.

Suddenly, everything in his world spun around crazily. Instead of his target’s retreating back, he found himself almost nose to nose with another man — a man who now tightly held the assassin’s head between his hands. It took a moment for his eyes to focus, a moment in which his head was filled with a sound like pieces of glass being crushed underfoot. Darkness began to swell at the periphery of his vision, eclipsing the features of the man who held him…the man who had twisted his head completely around, snapping his neck at the third cervical vertebrae.

“Sorry, chum.” The killer’s whispered voice was as harsh as the sound of breaking bones. “That one’s mine.”

If the assassin recognized his killer in that last fleeting second, the knowledge died with him. Less than a minute later, he joined his brother in an unmarked watery grave.

FIVE

Kismet awoke to an insistent knocking. His chest was still smarting from the stab wound, but only a crust of dried blood remained to mark the spot. It took him a few moments to recall where he was or how that injury had occurred, but he rolled out of the bed, slipped into his trousers and stood up. All the while, the knocking did not abate.

With his gun in his right hand behind his back, he opened the door.

Alex Higgins stood at the threshold. His eyes registered only the slightest flicker of surprise upon seeing someone other than the woman he believed to be occupying the stateroom. “Morning, mate.”

“Al.” Kismet covertly tucked the gun into his waistband. “Come in.”

Higgins stepped inside and looked around. Kismet saw him staring at the ashtray on the nightstand. Red lipstick painted the end of a single cigarette remnant. “Where’s she gone off to?”

Kismet was awake enough to realize that Higgins must have had some clue as to what had transpired. Nevertheless, he could not tell from the former Gurkha’s demeanor, just how he felt about it.

“She's gone. I don't know where she went.”

“What did you…what did you say to her?” Higgins's voice was suddenly hard, with a bitter accusatory edge.

“It was nothing like that.” Kismet picked his shirt off the floor and slipped it on. “We actually…Well, I'll just say that we came to an understanding. Then things got interesting.” He briefly related the details of the attack, along with his suspicions about the motive behind it. “When I got back she was gone. There was no sign of a struggle. Her clothes and all her luggage were gone, too. If I had to guess, I'd say she left voluntarily.”

“Why would she do that?” complained Higgins. “Especially if these bastards are after her. Doesn't she know we can protect her?”

Kismet shrugged. “I guess she got what she wanted from us.”

“Why are you so quick to judge her?”

Kismet mentally threw up his hands. Higgins had a blind spot for the actress and couldn’t see reason. Admittedly, Kismet too had been enticed by her charms, but the difference was that he had never quite been able to let go of his suspicions about the actress, and so had little difficulty getting over how she had used him. “It doesn't matter now. She's made her choice. And you know as well as I do, that she knows how to take care of herself.”

Higgins frowned but said nothing.

Kismet pulled on his shoes. “Is it too late to get some breakfast?”

Higgins surprised him by chuckling. “Finally, something we can agree on.”

Kismet had not slept well. He had spent nearly an hour looking for Elisabeth, fearing the worst. Only later did he recognize all the signs that pointed to her leaving on her own. After that, he had tried to sleep, but was haunted by the echo of her presence. He could still smell her on the sheets, and the arousing scent triggered vivid, disquieting memories of their lovemaking, and the brutal aftermath. Eventually, overcome by sheer exhaustion, he had succumbed to sleep. Now, all he really wanted was to leave the Malaysian misadventure behind and get started on the new endeavor which occupied his thoughts, something he intended to do just as soon as the beast in his belly was quieted.

After his third trip to the breakfast buffet, Kismet's mood improved dramatically. The Star of Muara hired only the best classically trained chefs, and the coffee, grown in Indonesia, was fabulous. Kismet downed several mugs full, savoring the full-bodied, faintly sweet flavor. With the caffeine coursing through his veins, he felt ready to tackle his new project. He opened his laptop computer and enabled a secure connection to the GHC server.

“Checking with your stock broker?” Higgins quipped.

Kismet smiled and gave a vague nod, but said nothing as he typed the words “Henry Fortune” into the search engine. A few seconds later, he had his answer.

Higgins voice intruded again. “Seriously, mate, what are you looking at? Internet porn?”

Kismet realized that almost ten minutes had passed. “Sorry, it’s a work thing.”

“You’re here because of all these relics, right?”

“Right. I work for the UN. We’re trying to help get everything back where it belongs.” He knew, even as he said it, that his answer sounded evasive. Worse, he felt a pang of guilt at deceiving the man who had once faced certain death at his side. Maybe it was time for a leap of faith. “This is something different though. Sometime in the 1960’s a man named Henry Fortune reported the discovery of a new cave system somewhere in the southern United States. His letter attributed some unique properties to the cavern; in his words: ‘Flames dance on the surface of the water’ of a ‘pool possessed of magnificent properties.’”

“Was it true?”

“I don’t know. As near as I can tell, no one ever looked into it.”

“That’s fifty years ago. What’s changed? What made you decide to go looking for a cave in America, while sitting here on a cruise ship in the South China Sea?”

Kismet drew a breath. The more he talked about it, the more he wondered about that himself. Earlier, in the privacy of his own thoughts, the idea of beating Dr. Leeds to the prize, or maybe finding something that might draw Prometheus out of the shadows seemed so much more desirable. But really, what was he looking for? The secret of eternal life? Yet, as preposterous as that sounded, there was no denying the eerie similarity between the cavern Fortunato had described to Rodriguez, and the one Henry Fortune had written of more than 300 years later.

The letter was addressed with an anonymous:

Kismet read the letter aloud and finished with the signature. “‘With deepest regards, Henry Fortune.’”

“Sounds like something for the bloody X-Files,” scoffed Higgins. “What do you suppose he was on about?”

“What he described might be something as commonplace as luminescent lichens or methane discharges. Still, the chance to find and map a previously unknown cave would be enough to make any spelunker salivate.”

It was then that he realized his search had returned two results. He didn’t remember a second letter, but according to the database, someone had attempted to follow up on the report. He clicked on the file and gazed at the second scanned document. Though it shared the same return address, general delivery to a postal office in Charleston, South Carolina, the handwriting was very different.

“This is interesting. Listen: ‘It is with great sadness that I must inform you of the death of Mr. Henry Fontaine. He took his secret to the grave. With regrets, Joseph King.’” Kismet reread the letter, noticing the different spelling for Fortune's last name. It seemed to accentuate the link between Fortune and Hernando Fontaneda.

“Well, that’s that,” sighed Higgins. “Another one for the blokes who write books about unsolved mysteries. But, you never answered my question: why are you interested, now after all these years?”

Kismet stared back at the burly Kiwi. “There was something in the Sultan’s collection that made me think this might be important. It’s a complicated story and if I tried to explain it, you’d think I was crazy, but I am starting to believe that I need to find this cave.”

“Important? How important?”

Kismet spread his hands. “Maybe a matter of life and death. Maybe even bigger than that.”

“That’s how it always is for us, isn’t it?” A smile flickered across the big man’s hard face. “Listen, I did some caving as a lad, and I know a thing or two about caves. The southern United States is honeycombed with karst — interconnected limestone caverns, most of them underwater. You could spend a lifetime — ten lifetimes — splashing around and not find a damned thing.”

“An eternal lifetime,” Kismet murmured, thinking about Leeds’ words from the previous evening. “What if Mr. Joseph King of Charleston knows more than he's telling?”

“That was fifty years ago. What are the chances he’s still alive?”

Kismet knew the Kiwi was probably right, but it was his only lead. “I’m going there. The sooner I get off this tub, the better. I’ll leave from our next port, whatever that is.”

“Macao.”

“Good enough. I’ll start making the arrangements now.” He looked at Higgins again, thoughtfully. “What about you?”

“I’m for the unemployment line, I suppose. I doubt His Royal Highness would take me back, and I can’t say I’m terribly interested in working for him anyway. And Elisabeth…” He let the sentence trail off.

“How would you feel about working for me?”

“You serious, mate?”

“You said you’d done some caving. I could use your expertise.”

“My expertise is in killing people, Nick. Cave exploration was something I did at summer camp one year.” But something about Kismet’s offer softened him after a moment. “Oh, what the hell? I could use a change of pace.”

Kismet was heartened by the Kiwi’s enthusiasm, but deep down, he knew the reason he had made the offer to the former Gurkha had nothing at all to do with his ability as a spelunker. He took another deep breath. “Listen, there's something you need to know about.

It’s possible that some people — some very bad people — might think there’s a connection between this cavern and the Fountain of Youth—”

Higgins registered a blank expression. “Fountain of Youth?”

“In the year 1512, a Spanish explorer named Juan Ponce de Leon was told by natives in the West Indies about a pool of water capable of rejuvenating the old; literally, restoring their youth. The natives told him that the Fountain could be found on island called Bimini, somewhere to the north of what is now Cuba. Ponce de Leon got permission from the king of Spain to go looking for this Fountain.”

“There’s a legend like that in the South Pacific, too. Captain Cook searched for it. I take it this de Leon bloke never found it?”

“Since he is no longer with us,” remarked Kismet, “I would say that’s a safe bet.”

“Do you think such a thing could really exist?” Higgins seemed alternately skeptical and intrigued. “I mean, if it did, wouldn’t everyone know of it by now?”

Kismet nodded. “Most historians believe what Ponce de Leon was really after was the gold of the New World, which makes more sense. It’s doubtful that Spain, in the grip of the Inquisition, would have sanctioned any kind of a search for eternal life. The very thought of it would run contrary to the dogma of the Church — no salvation except through Christ. Whatever his reasons, he did explore the Caribbean, found Florida and established the first permanent Spanish settlement in what would become the United States.”

Higgins leaned back in his chair. “So you think that the 'fire on the water' described by Henry Fortune has something to do with this Fountain of Youth?”

“Ordinarily, I would call that a wild leap of deduction. But last night I read a letter written almost four hundred years ago, describing the exact same thing, in almost exactly the same words, dictated by a man named Henrique Fortunato.”

“Fortunato sounds an awful bloody lot like Fortune. But this letter from Joseph King says that Fortune died. Would that be possible if he had access to a Fountain of Youth?”

“I don't know. It's a place to start.” Kismet leaned forward to catch Higgins’ eye. “But that’s not why I want you along. I don’t know if this cavern really exists, and the odds of it actually being the site of the legendary Fountain of Youth…” He shrugged. “But there are people who believe things like that are real, and worth killing to protect.”

The light dawned in former Gurkha’s eyes.

“I see. Once more into the breach.” Higgins raised his mug to toast the venture. “Just like old times.”

“God I hope not.”

The tiny speaker in the earpiece of the cell phone trilled as the call was sent. It rang three times before the person on the other end initiated the connection without speaking. The person making the call spoke immediately.

“We are the chains of God. ID number 145211212.” The voice, sent electronically through the ether was in no way recognizable, thanks to the small auto-tuning device that had been affixed to the mouthpiece. The device randomly altered the pitch and cadence of the speaker, making any kind of positive identification impossible.

The call would most certainly be monitored by the American National Security Agency’s Echelon program — their computers eavesdropped on every phone call in the world, listening for keywords that might hint at some possible terrorist plot or act of espionage — but the caller wasn’t worried. Nothing would be said to raise an alarm, and even if something did cause the call to be flagged, there would be no evidence left behind. In a few minutes, the phone — a throwaway purchased months earlier but not activated until this very call — would be sitting at the bottom of the ocean.

After a brief pause, the person at the other end, his voice similarly disguised, spoke again. “Was your mission successful?”

“Not exactly, but there’s been an important development.”

“Go ahead.”

“Nick Kismet. He’s here.”

Another pause and a strange noise that might have been a sigh. “That’s very interesting.”

“There’s more. Guess what he’s looking for.”

The person on the other end listened in rapt silence as the information was relayed. When the caller finished, he asked, “Do you think he will find it?”

“If it really exists. He may have information that we don’t.”

“This could lead to the Source. We cannot risk letting him get too close. Find out what he knows, and then dissuade him from the search. I leave the question of ‘how’ to your discretion.”

“Does that mean the first order has been revoked?”

The man at the other end laughed. “Are you asking for my permission to kill him?”

“Well, yes.”

The man at the other end thought for a moment, then in a voice that, despite the effects of the modulator, was still icy and grim, said, “Do what you have to.”

Alex Higgins had a lot on his mind.

He stood on the forward observation deck, staring out at the sun-dappled water, trying to make sense of everything that had happened in the last few days.

Nothing was ever certain in a soldier’s life, and despite the fact that he had been retired from the military for more than a decade, he was still very much a soldier. Recent events had, like a well-placed explosive device, completely obliterated everything familiar, but it was a soldier’s duty to regroup and get the fight. The only problem was, he didn’t know what to fight for.

His mind turned over Kismet’s proposal. It had seemed simple enough when he had agreed to it. Tramp around for a while in the United States, looking for a cave that probably wouldn’t ever be found, and some crazy Fountain of Youth that certainly didn’t exist. As he had intimated to Kismet, it might even be fun. He wasn’t that concerned about the project itself. No, the thing was eating at him, like a grain of sand embedded under his skin, was being with Kismet himself.

Seeing the American again had opened an old wound, and he was only now starting to feel it. They had fought together, been captured by the Republican Guard and brutally interrogated, and by some miracle that he had never really comprehended, Kismet had gotten free, rescued him, and hauled his ass across the desert to safety. He owed Nick Kismet his life.

And maybe that was the problem. The life debt was something he could never repay. When you owe someone a debt that can’t be repaid, you feel like their slave.

It didn’t help that Kismet had shagged Elisabeth.

He couldn’t very well blame Kismet for that. Higgins was a believer in the notion that “all's fair in love and war.” If Elisabeth fancied Kismet over him, then so be it. But it was so bloody obvious there was no chemistry there. Kismet could barely conceal his contempt for the former Sultana, while Elisabeth was plainly just using the American for…comfort? Sex? Who knew what she really wanted, but whatever it was, Higgins would have willingly…eagerly given it to her.

Why didn’t anyone care how he felt?

“Bitch,” he muttered, and then instantly regretted it as he spied the source of his turmoil leaving the observation deck in the company of a silver-haired man dressed entirely in black. Higgins had almost missed her.

“Beth!” When he had been her bodyguard, she had insisted that he call her that, at least in private.

Elisabeth Neuell stopped and slowly turned to face him. A quick smile greeted him. “Alex!”

The black clad figure at her side continued moving, never looking back. Higgins felt an almost overwhelming curiosity about the man’s identity, but Elisabeth commanded his full attention. He rushed forward, as if to embrace her, but stopped short an arm's length away. She however did not hold back. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling his head down to hers and quickly kissed him on the cheek. It seemed an innocent enough gesture, a token of affection between two friends, but Higgins felt the blood rushing to his face.

“What happened to you?” He finally managed to say. “You just disappeared.”

Elisabeth's smile slipped a notch. “Oh, Alex. I behaved so awfully. I realized that I was using you, and Nick, to protect me. When I saw that clearly, I knew I had to stand on my own.”

“But we — I was so worried. I wish you had told me.”

She smiled again, and Higgins felt his volition melt. “Alex, I can take care of myself. In fact, I realized that I had to. You risked so much for me. I do appreciate it, too.” She reached out, looping her arm through his, and tugged him into motion.

“The truth of the matter is,” she continued, in a less serious tone. “I met the most extraordinary man…no, it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“I don't understand. You met someone? When?”

“Right after Nick and I were attacked. You do know about that, don't you?”

“Yes. But—”

“His name is Dr. Leeds. He’s a fascinating man.” Something almost like embarrassment tinged her cheeks. “I know this will sound silly, but he’s a…well, he has these special abilities. Psychic abilities. I didn’t believe it myself at first, but then he proved it.”

Higgins gaped, struggling to process what he was hearing.

Elisabeth seemed not to notice. “Dr. Leeds is looking for something unbelievable, and he has asked me to be a part of it.”

Higgins recalled that Kismet had mentioned that other people might be looking for the cavern — looking for the Fountain of Youth. Was this who he had been talking about? This psychic?

“You must hear all about it. It is wonderful. It could change the world.” She loosened her hold on his arm. “I have to go now, but I will arrange for you to join us tonight for dinner.”

“Beth, I—” Before Higgins could even begin to articulate what he was thinking, the actress slipped away. He watched her until she turned a corner and disappeared from view.

Her presence was too much to digest. After losing her once, he could not believe his good fortune at finding her once again. But had anything really changed?

As Higgins reached the door of Kismet’s stateroom, he tried to figure out how he would broach the subject of his encounter with Elisabeth, and her apparent alliance with the psychic Dr. Leeds. His instincts told him that Kismet would not be pleased by the news, and Higgins wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He was about to knock when he saw that the door was slightly ajar.

A loud thump and the sound of a struggle issued from inside, and his troubled thoughts evaporated in a flash of adrenaline. He burst through the door, ready to join whatever battle was being fought within.

It hadn’t taken long for Kismet to exhaust all legitimate avenues of research. There was plenty of information available about the Fountain of Youth legend, but all of it was either from a historical perspective, written with a view to debunking even the notion that Ponce de Leon had been looking for it in the first place, or so ridiculously fantastic as to further underscore the foolishness of the quest. His thoughts had eventually turned to Dr. Leeds.

He had been surprised to learn that Leeds was almost as much of a celebrity as Elisabeth. He came from old money in the American South and was by all reports comfortably wealthy, though not perhaps beyond dreams of avarice. From a very young age, he had been interested in the supernatural. Eschewing a place in the family business, he apprenticed to a well-known stage magician, and soon was a headlining performer. While best known for mind-reading and hypnotism acts, he was quite adept at illusions on a grand scale.

Unlike many of his peers, Leeds seemed to honestly believe in paranormal phenomena, and even as he played psychic adviser to movie stars and politicians, he formalized his studies of comparative religion and the occult, earning a PhD and his preferential title.

But the reviews and biographical articles didn’t tell the whole story. Leeds had enemies, and in the darker corners of the Internet, Kismet found accounts of the man’s involvement in black magic, renegade Masonic rites, and devil worship. Some of the conspiratorial rumors were laughable, but Kismet saw a grain of truth in many of them, particularly those which characterized the occult scholar as a rabid white supremacist, and possible a neo-Nazi. Some reports linked him to unexplained acts of violence, even the unsolved murders of some of Leeds’ rivals and harshest critics.

If even half of what was said about the man was true, Leeds was not someone to be trifled with.

By late afternoon, the long hours of physical idleness had left him feeling drowsy. He considered heading to the salon for a drink, but then decided instead to have a sip from his personal supply which he kept in a stainless steel hip flask. The container, adorned with a distinctive red star, was a memento from his recent trip to the former Soviet Republic of Georgia. After freeing some Russian sailors from captivity, one of them had given him the container as a gesture of gratitude.

He hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but looking back, it was a hell of a lot more useful than flowers and a Hallmark Card, especially since he’d replaced the flavorless vodka with some smooth, 127 proof Booker’s Bourbon whiskey.

The spirits compounded his drowsiness and he was just starting to nod off when he felt an unexpected draft on his cheek.

Through the veil of his barely parted eyelashes, he saw someone creeping through the doorway. The figure was indistinct; he could not hope to see the person clearly without opening his eyes and turning to face the intruder. He intuited that it was not Higgins. He did not believe the big man could move as stealthily as the person now closing the door and moving toward him.

Was this another wave of bounty hunting assassins, taking revenge for his part in Elisabeth Neuell's defection from her husband? Was it Dr. Leeds taking preemptive action against a rival Fountain hunter?

Kismet resisted the impulse to hold his breath. The only way to turn the tables on the intruder was to lull him into believing that his entry had gone unnoticed. He measured the person's footsteps with his inhalations. Each breath seemed to bring the intruder closer.

The approaching steps halted right beside him. In his mind's eye, Kismet could see the shadowy form hovering above him, a knife or cudgel gripped loosely in one hand. He concentrated on the barely audible sounds of the person moving, trying to anticipate when the unseen weapon would be raised for use, all the while keeping a steady rhythm of breathing. Inhale…Exhale…Inhale…

Kismet blew out his breath in a burst of motion. Twisting his body, he propelled himself off the bed, striking the intruder in the abdomen. His right hand flew to the nightstand, fingers brushing but failing to grip the butt of the Glock resting there, while his left sought the other person’s throat.

Both Kismet and the intruder hit the floor together an instant later. Kismet heard the breath driven from the other's lungs as his full weight came down. He tried to identify the face, looking for some similarity to the syphilitic assassins that had attacked the previous night, but a stream of fiery light from the afternoon sun struck his sensitive pupils, momentarily blinding him.

He felt the intruder's hands, first trying to pry loose Kismet’s choke hold, then beating ineffectively against Kismet's chest. The blows gave no evidence of superior physical strength, but their determination made up for the lack of raw power. Kismet added his right hand to the stranglehold. “You lose.”

“What the hell?”

Kismet heard the exclamation from behind him — Higgins’ voice — and turned to look. His eyes, still flashing with burned-in retinal fireworks, gradually focused on the big Kiwi, standing in the doorway of the stateroom. Kismet did not relax as his grip one bit as he spoke, “Looks like we've got an unexpected visitor.”

Higgins seemed to ignore him, focusing instead on the intruder. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Kismet looked down for a moment, and then felt the figure beneath him shift. Suddenly, his left arm gave out as the other person struck directly at a pressure point in his elbow. Kismet toppled forward, and the intruder squirmed from beneath him, flipping him over, and straddling his chest.

Instinctively, Kismet fought back. The weight on his torso was hardly enough to pin him down; it was as if the intruder was a mere child. He drew back a fist, ready to pound his attacker senseless. Then his burning eyes focused on the stranger's face, and he understood why Higgins had reacted as he had.

The face of the intruder staring down at him belonged to a young woman. Her short hair and elfin features could not hide the obvious family resemblance. Kismet’s assailant looked enough like Higgins to be his—

“Daughter?”

The waif grinned down at him. “Want to try for best two out of three?”