Fortune Favors

SIX

“What are you doing here?” repeated Higgins, a hint of anger creeping into his tone.

The girl straddling Kismet fixed him with a disdainful look, then gracefully dismounted and faced him with her hands on her hips. “Good to see you too, Dad.”

Higgins extended a hand to Kismet and helped him up. “I see you’ve met my daughter.”

“I’m afraid we skipped past the introduction and went right to ground-fighting.” He turned to the girl and sized her up.

She looked to be in her mid-twenties. Taller than he had first realized, her willowy frame — thin, but more like a marathon runner rather than a fashion model — was clad in designer blue jeans and a long-sleeved striped t-shirt. Her short dark hair — the same color as Higgins’—was pulled back in a stub of a pony-tail. She wore soft pink lipstick, but no other makeup that Kismet could see; Higgins’ daughter was obviously a tomboy. He extended a hand. “Nick Kismet.”

“Yes, I know.” There was no mistaking the twang of her New Zealand accent.

Realization dawned and he pulled his hand back abruptly. “You never answered his question. What the hell are you doing in my room? Why did you attack me?”

“As I recall, you attacked me.” A defiant smile curled the corners of her mouth, and then she stuck out her own hand. “The name’s Annie, by the way. Annie Crane.”

Higgins pushed between them. “Damn it, girl. I told you to get your arse back to Auckland.”

“Don’t have a hissy fit, dad. The Sultan called off his dogs. He’s already got more bad publicity than he can handle right now.”

Kismet threw a questioning look at Higgins, and the latter rubbed the bridge of his nose as if he was getting a headache. “Annie is my…call her my administrative assistant.”

The girl laughed, but did not interrupt.

“She was at my office in the palace when the shite hit the fan. I told her to get out quick. Obviously, she listens to me about as well as her mother ever did.”

Kismet turned to Annie again. “So why are you here? In my room?”

“Dad told me he was going to be working with you. He’s mentioned you a time or two over the years. Always figured you’d look younger somehow.” The smile again, eyes full of mischief. “Anyway, I thought I’d come see what all the fuss was about.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Kismet replied stonily.

“Who says you did?” she retorted, but Kismet had already returned his attention to Higgins.

“Look, if you have to deal with this, and can’t help me out, I’ll understand.”

The former Gurkha’s brow furrowed. “Actually, I think I may have some new information about our—” He glanced at Annie—“Our project. I ran into Elisabeth. She’s hooked up with someone who I think may be looking for it as well.”

Kismet’s breath caught in his throat. “Dr. Leeds?”

“Figured you might know about him. Anyway, she invited me to dinner tonight…to meet this bloke. I thought you might want to tag along.”

“Dinner?” chirped Annie. “Fabulous. I’ll need to buy a dress though.”

Kismet sighed. Elisabeth Neuell and Dr. Leeds together. Wonderful. But his curiosity was more powerful than his disdain. “I suppose I’ll have to go shopping as well. I need a new tux.”

Despite his apprehension about what the evening would bring, Kismet felt a little more centered as the appointed hour drew near. Part of that was due to Annie’s revelation that the storm originating from the Sultan’s palace had more or less blown out. The knowledge that the death mark had been rescinded relieved him of one source of stress; he just hoped the surviving assassin lurking somewhere on the ship had gotten the message.

The main dining hall of The Star of Muara was resplendent, and as Kismet entered he realized that it was the first time he was experiencing what most of the passengers had come for in the first place. Formal dining wasn’t something he typically went out of his way for, but at just that moment, he understood the appeal. He turned to Annie, who was bookended between him and her father, and smiled.

The tomboy was gone, or at the very least, sublimated. Higgins’ daughter looked extraordinary in an oriental-style gown of jade green silk. Her rather plain hairstyle had been transformed into a crown of wavy curls, laying bare her finely sculpted neck, adorned with a string of pearls. She bore little resemblance to the waif that had sneaked into Kismet’s stateroom and nearly gotten herself killed.

Kismet had learned quite a bit about the girl over the course of the afternoon. Although she was the offspring of a relationship that had never quite gotten off the ground, Higgins doted on his daughter, and she in turn was fascinated by his world of travel and adventure. When he had called her his “administrative assistant,” he had been downplaying her role. Higgins had taught her everything about his trade, and while her own education supplied her with the skills to manage his business affairs, she had also done a fair amount of hands-on work. She proved as much when she had tracked down Kismet’s location on the ship and thwarted the electronic lock on his stateroom. She also evidently knew a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat.

Though he carried his dazzling daughter on his right arm, Higgins could not have looked more uncomfortable in his formal wear. The ship's tailor had gotten his proportions exactly right, but Higgins acted as if the suit were choking the life from him. Kismet resolved to get a drink into his friend before dinner, and asked the maître-d' to send two Macallans to their table. Annie asked for a cosmopolitan. The man nodded, and then gestured to the seats they were to have for the night. Kismet’s smile fell when he saw who was waiting at the table.

Elisabeth looked stunning. During the course of their time together, Kismet had not exactly seen her at her best, but tonight she looked ready for an Academy Awards red carpet walk. A strapless evening gown of black velvet clung to her enticing figure, accentuating every curve and displaying every asset. Her long blonde hair cascaded in waves down her bare shoulders and back. Her full lips were seductively painted and her smile was, as ever, hypnotic. And yet, while her beauty was almost enough to make him forget about her mercurial nature, it was not sufficient to distract him from the other person seated at the table.

Kismet almost did a double take. Unlike nearly every other man in the room, Leeds had disdained formal attire, and was instead wearing what looked to Kismet like the black cassock of a Catholic priest, though instead of a clerical collar, the garment continued up, almost to the underside of his jaw. Stranger still was the black skullcap that completely hid his steely gray hair.

Leeds did not rise to greet them, but held Kismet’s gaze contemplatively as the latter held a chair for Annie. Kismet matched the stare, but did not comment until he and Higgins were seated as well. “I didn’t realize this was a costume party. Let me guess: Nostradamus?”

If Leeds took offense, he did not let it show. He simply folded his hands on the table in front of him. “This is my professional attire.”

Kismet was tempted to continue testing the other man’s implacability, but the glint of a gem encrusted ring on Leeds’ right hand distracted him.

“Dr. Leeds is going to conduct a séance after the meal,” intoned Elisabeth. “It promises to be very exciting.”

“No doubt,” remarked Annie, disdainfully appraising the other woman.

Elisabeth flashed a perfect smile that somehow lowered the temperature in the room. “My goodness, if it isn’t Annie. You certainly cleaned up well. Has Nick told you all about our adventures together?”

Annie matched her smile. “Why no, he didn’t. It must have slipped his mind. Perhaps it didn’t make that much of an impression.”

“A séance?” Kismet interjected, trying to steer the conversation away from his indiscretions. He focused on Leeds. “That sounds a bit lurid for such a highly-regarded religious scholar.”

“I am a student of the mysteries of the human mind and spirit,” Leeds replied. He shifted his hands again, steepling his index fingers together in front of his chin. “There is only so much that can be learned from books. Precious little, in fact.”

Kismet tried to match Leeds’ stare, but his eyes were drawn to the ring. He now saw that, the precious stones were set in distinctive pattern which he recognized as an Ouroboros — a snake devouring its own tail — an ancient symbol of immortality. “Whereas the dead have all the answers?”

“For thousands of years, wise men have inquired of the spirits of the dead. More than three-quarters of people living today believe that the soul lives on after death, and if it indeed does, then certainly the departed would have insights into matters beyond our comprehension. Contacting them, of course, has never been a simple matter.”

The waiter arrived with the drinks they had ordered. Kismet gulped down the contents and nodded for another. He had once again made the mistake of getting Leeds started, but as before his curiosity got the better of him. “And who will you be contacting tonight?”

“Why, Hernando Fontaneda, of course.”

“And he will lead us to the Fountain of Youth!” chimed Elisabeth. “Isn't it marvelous?”

Kismet could not imagine why Leeds had taken Elisabeth into his confidence; he had not expected the man to be so open about his intentions. “The Fountain of Youth? So you think it’s real? Just on the basis of that old letter?”

Leeds continued turning the ring so that, in the prismatic depths of the gemstones, the light seemed to dance. It gave the illusion that the Ouroboros was alive and writhing on his finger. “It seems imprudent not to make the effort.”

Kismet wanted to answer him, wanted to accuse him of being foolish, but the words would not come. He was entranced by the undulating snake on Leeds’ ring and stared deeper into the image, as if doing so might reveal some secret truth to him.

“The Fountain of Youth?” Annie looked around at her dining companions. “Are you off your nut?”

Leeds smiled without turning to look at her. “Miss—?”

“Crane. Annie Crane.”

“Miss Crane, consider this. If you heard a rumor that a buried treasure was concealed in your back yard, would you fear to dig it up because the rumor might prove false?”

“Of course not. But a fountain that can make someone young again?”

“If it does exist then it is certainly worth discovering. Mr. Kismet and I discussed this at some length. Isn't that right?”

Kismet nodded slowly, unable to tear himself away from the light show of Leeds’ ring.

Leeds continued. “I would have thought he would have shared the particulars with you. There are countless tales of men who have received the gift of extreme longevity. Dozens of men in the Bible lived for many centuries.”

“The Bible?” Annie did not attempt to conceal her disbelief. “What does that have to do with the Fountain of Youth?”

“Oh, a great deal. It would require a source of, dare I say, divine power to turn ordinary water into Waters of Life. That source is a Seed of the original Tree of Life, described in Genesis.

“After the Great Flood, the priests of the Serpent cult captured the Seed and fled their home in Mesopotamia. They escaped across the oceans, perhaps traveling across a bridge of ice from what is now Russia, to the North American continent. They took their prize as far as they could, and placed it at the bottom of a pool, transforming the waters into a Fountain of Youth.”

Kismet heard every word Leeds uttered, but his attention kept returning to the twisting image on Leeds’ finger. Serpent, he thought. Serpent cult. Immortality.

“Is it any surprise that snake worship, in one form or another, is so ubiquitous in ancient American cultures?” asked Leeds, as if sensing Kismet’s fascination with the Ouroboros. “They would most certainly be the descendants of those original Serpent priests. The ancient Maya and Aztec worshipped snake gods — Quetzalcoatl, or Kukulcan — with human sacrifices, hearts cut out of still living victims.”

Annie mouthed: Eew! Gross!

“So this Seed,” intoned Higgins. “And the Fountain of Youth, are probably in Mexico?”

“Not at all. Those cultures arose thousands of years after the theft of the Seed. The object of my quest might be anywhere in the Americas. However, the next clue in our search is the legend of the Fountain of Youth itself. Those natives who instructed Ponce de Leon sent him to the north of Cuba. And Hernando Fontaneda, one of his contemporaries, may have actually found it. You know something about that don’t you, Mr. Kismet?”

Distracted by the serpent's dance in Leeds’ ring, Kismet did not even hear himself answer. “Fortune talked about a cave. But he's dead now.”

“Dead?” Leeds asked the question sharply, and for a moment, the turning of the jewel stopped. Kismet blinked and started to look away, but the rhythmic motion commenced anew. “Well, perhaps it could happen. But he did make contact? He wrote you? Mentioned the cavern?”

Leeds’ voice seemed to cushion him, enabling him to float on the ether as he returned to the fugue, descending deeper into the kaleidoscopic labyrinth. “He took his secret to the grave.”

“Who told you that?”

Kismet opened his mouth to answer, but a sudden sharp pain in his thigh, like the sting of a wasp, distracted him. He closed his mouth and tried to swat the imaginary insect away.

“Who told you of Fontaneda's death?” prompted Leeds again.

In his mind's eye, Kismet saw his hand, brushing at the invisible pest that stung at his thigh. But his hand did not move, and no effort of his will could make it comply. He tried to ignore the sting, but it persisted, growing into a throbbing ache. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as the irritation blossomed into unbearable pain.

“What was his name? You told me, but I can't seem to remember.”

“King,” whispered Kismet. Perspiration trickled into his eyes, stinging them. He wanted to blink, but found himself deprived of even that small act of voluntary movement.

“Of course,” replied Leeds, his voice soothing. “Now I remember. And he wrote from…Where was it again?”

As Kismet opened his mouth to speak, the pain in his leg redoubled. He gasped, and the intensity of the sensation broke his concentration. As the spell gave way, so did his ability to tolerate the pain. His hand flew to the place on his leg where the sensation was most intense, encountering not an insect, but a hard, unyielding object. He looked down to identify the source of his agony.

Annie was staring at him, her eyes wide in disbelief. Her fingers were gripping a dinner fork, the tines of which were buried in the fabric of Kismet's trousers, piercing through to his skin. With an abrupt movement, he wrapped his hand around hers and extricated the fork from the meat of his thigh. He half expected to see blood dripping from the prongs; it felt like she had penetrated through to muscle.

When their eyes met, she relaxed her grip, allowing the fork to fall the floor. He also relaxed, suddenly realizing why she had acted as she had.

“Kismet?”

Kismet turned to look at Leeds again. The other man continued to turn ring with his thumb. At his side, Elisabeth looked on hungrily. Kismet locked his gaze on Leeds’ eyes, refusing to be sucked in again. “I'm sorry. Suddenly I'm not feeling very well.”

Leeds’ visage was hard as ice, and did not crack with disappointment. “How unfortunate. We shall have to conclude our discussion at another time.”

Kismet pushed away from the table, rising to his feet. He did not have to exaggerate his motions; nausea clenched at his stomach. Annie quickly rose, wrapping a protective arm around his waist. “I'll help you to your stateroom.”

Higgins also rose, looking uncertainly from Kismet to Elisabeth. The actress was on her feet instantly, darting around to take Higgins’ arm. “Oh, Alex, you simply must stay. You don't want to miss the séance.”

Kismet nodded weakly. “I'll be fine.”

As soon as Annie helped him away from the table, Kismet began feeling better. He said nothing however until they were outside the noisy dining hall. “What the hell was that all about?”

“I was going to ask you? I think that nutter Leeds hypnotized you.”

Kismet shook his head. “Impossible.”

“He was asking you all these questions about some man who found the Fountain of Youth—”

“Fontaneda?”

“That's it. Only you kept saying ‘Fortune.’ You told him Fortune was dead. Then he asked you about another man. I think you said it was the king.”

Kismet nodded slowly. “Joseph King. He wrote the second letter, telling us that Henry Fortune, who also might have been Fontaneda, was dead. But why on earth would I tell Leeds about him?”

“Well, you did. When I figured out what was happening, I knew I had to break the spell somehow.”

Kismet stopped walking, and fixed her with an accusing stare. “You stabbed me in the leg. With a fork.”

“Good thing I did, too. Who knows what else Leeds would have gotten out of you.”

“You're right,” sighed Kismet. “I can’t believe I let him do that. I owe you one.”

“Yes, you do.” She smiled, then took his arm again and pulled him along. “Come on. Let's get back to your stateroom and see how much damage I did to your leg.”

He laughed. “It takes more than a fork in the leg to slow me down.”

“Is that a fact? Well, I will have to try harder next time.”

Kismet found that he liked the feel of her hand on his arm. It had been a long time since he felt that way. He didn’t have the best track record in affairs of the heart. His single-minded pursuit of the Prometheus group always seemed to get in the way. His last relationship, with a young woman that had accompanied him on an expedition to the Black Sea, had ended almost as soon as it had begun. His attraction to Elisabeth had been more of a primal thing; animal magnetism at work. He had taken little comfort in their time together, and got no joy from the memory of her touch. What she had done wasn’t that much different than Leeds’ attempt to violate him hypnotically. The thought caused him to start, like an electric shock.

Annie could not help but notice his reaction. “What's wrong?”

“Al,” he said after a long pause. “We left him alone back there. What if Leeds tries to pump him for information?”

“I think he has more to worry about from that tramp Elisabeth.” Her reaction brought back his smile. “However, I think you should give Dad some credit. After all, you were the one who let yourself be hypnotized.”

He grinned ruefully. “Even so, I don't like the idea of leaving him alone in there. I don't trust Leeds for a second. Or Elisabeth.”

“Really? I got the impression you two were sort of chummy.” There was no mistaking the acid in her tone.

Kismet's grin became a grimace. “Ancient history. She almost got me killed. Twice — No, make that three times. It's kind of hard to define our relationship.”

Annie laughed aloud, and the intensity of her expression melted away. “I think I understand. As I recall, you tried to kill me.”

“And I see you won't be letting me forget that, either.” Kismet paused as they rounded the end of the corridor, leading to their stateroom. “That's peculiar.”

“What?”

He led her forward a few steps to the stateroom door; it stood slightly ajar. Kismet reached out and gently pushed the door, swinging it wide open. Beyond it, he saw a man wearing what looked like a crewman’s uniform hunched over the computer on the desktop.

Not sure why they even bother with the key cards around here, he thought, and turned to Annie. “Friend of yours?”

Though his tone was half-joking, he steeled himself for a confrontation with the intruder. He noticed Annie similarly tensing at his side

“I'm afraid not.”

The stranger stopped moving, aware he had been caught. Though Kismet could only see the man's back, he judged him to be perhaps six inches taller than himself, broadly built like a football lineman. Kismet pushed forward ahead of Annie and entered the room. “I suppose you're going to tell me that there's a perfectly good reason you’re here.”

The man remained motionless for a second then sprang into action. His first act was to clasp his hands together and bring them down like a hammer on the keyboard of the laptop computer. There was a sickening crunch of plastic breaking, and several of the keys flew away like pieces of shrapnel. Then the intruder whirled to face them. Kismet's estimate of the man's size was right on the mark, but the fellow apparently did not wish to rely on the advantage of his larger physique. Kismet saw his own pistol locked in the man's grip and point directly at his chest.

Kismet's eyes drew into narrow, defensive slits. “I guess not.”

The intruder smiled, revealing crookedly spaced, yellowed teeth, with a single peg of silver replacing a lower incisor. The man’s face and head were clean-shaven, but dark stubble clung to his rough features like a permanent stain. His face, craggy and leathery from exposure to sun and wind, looked vaguely familiar to Kismet, probably someone he had passed by earlier in the cruise. The man thrust the gun forward, as if doing so might intimidate the people who had caught him.

Kismet was not intimidated. He crossed the room in two leaping steps, brandishing his fists as he closed on the intruder. The other man's grin fell as his opponent, flying in the face of reason, ran headlong toward the Glock. He tried to pull the trigger, but Kismet was there first.

He struck the man's wrist with the edge of his left hand, knocking the gun away. In the same motion, he lashed forward aiming his right fist at the intruders jaw.

The man reacted faster than Kismet expected, reflexively raising his right knee and driving it into Kismet's solar plexus. Kismet's fist glanced off of the intruder's jaw, doing little more than annoying the big man. With the wind knocked from his lungs, Kismet staggered backward.

Kismet fell back against the wall as the intruder dashed past him, intent on fleeing the stateroom. He tried to will his feet to chase after the man, but the message got no further than his bruised diaphragm.

As the escaping intruder passed through the doorway, his head suddenly snapped to the side. The force of the unseen blow drove him against the bulkhead, but he recovered quickly, shrugging off the effects. He swatted at the source of the blow with the back of his hand, as if at an irritating fly, and then took off running.

Kismet’s breath returned in a sudden gasp, and he lurched into motion, running after the man. He found Annie, laid out on the carpeted floor of the hallway. She sat up, massaging the knuckles of her right hand. Kismet knelt for a second beside her, confirming that she had suffered no injury more serious than bruised pride, and then resumed the pursuit.

“Stay here,” he shouted over his shoulder.

Annie struggled to her feet. “Not a chance.”

Kismet quickly closed the distance to his quarry. He caught sight of the man at the far end of hallway, looking back over his shoulder to see if he was in the clear. When he spied Kismet, he put on a fresh burst of speed. The intruder darted to a stairway and ascended quickly. Kismet reached the foot of the stairs as the other man reached the top.

Kismet's foot left the final step in time to see the intruder pulling the large double doors to the dining rooms shut behind him. Kismet charged the door, bursting through without stopping. The man had not lingered to keep him out, but was already crossing the busy dining room. As Kismet stumbled headlong, trying to regain his balance after crashing through the doors, the big intruder glanced backward.

In that instant, he collided with a waiter carrying a tray of desserts. Artfully decorated pastries flew into the air in a confectionery cloud. The shock of the impact spread throughout the dining room, shouts and gasps rising into a cacophony. The intruder quickly regained his feet, his clothing streaked with buttercream frosting, and maneuvered through the minefield of broken plates and desserts on the floor.

The collision with the waiter allowed Kismet to close the distance to his prey, but the gain was short lived. Vaulting over the fallen waiter, Kismet's leading foot set down on the remains of a piece of cake, and slid away from beneath him, dropping him on his backside.

Before he could recover from the indignity of his fall, he heard the pitch of the room change from amused confusion to outright chaos. Amid the strident screams of a dozen women, Kismet discovered Annie standing in the doorway of the dining hall, brandishing his Glock.

“I told you to stay put,” he shouted.

He did not belabor the point, but rose to his feet and picked his way through the splattered desserts before she could even attempt to answer. The fleeing intruder had reached the exit doors at the far end of the dining room, and was rapidly increasing his lead. Kismet leapt clear of the dessert wreckage and renewed the chase.

The doors opened onto an exposed deck, and Kismet caught a glimpse of the man's back as he ran sternward. However, when he reached the place where the man had been, there was no sign of him. Kismet stopped running, cocked his head to the side, and listened for the telltale sound of footsteps. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Annie exiting the dining hall, still hefting the gun. He scowled at her but said nothing.

Then his ears caught the staccato beat of footsteps nearby. He took a deliberate step forward, trying to isolate the sound. It was coming from above. In a flash of insight, he realized where the intruder had gone. He darted forward at a full run until he reached a metal staircase ascending to the uppermost deck of the ship. He vaulted the banister landing on the third step and raced up the stairs, taking three at a time.

He emerged onto the ship’s highest observation deck. His quarry stood at the far end of the deck, gripping the railing, gazing out at surface of the ocean twelve stories below. The only way off was the way they’d both come. The intruder was trapped.

Kismet approached at a walking pace, stopping when he was close enough to hear the other man's labored breathing. “Let’s try that again. Who the hell are you, and why you were in my stateroom?”

The man's silver tooth flashed as he grinned. Kismet did not comprehend the reason for his sudden attack of humor until, a moment later when the man reached into the depths of his jacket, and drew out a long knife with an ornate, wavy blade. Kismet recognized it as a kris, an ancient Indonesian ceremonial dagger. It was probably a replica the man had picked up as a souvenir, but that didn’t make it any less dangerous.

One of his army combatives instructors had once told Kismet: “Always rush a gun, but run away from a knife.” The logic behind this was simple; a gun could reach out and hurt you even if you ran away, so your best chance of survival lay in trying get close enough to deflect the barrel or take the gun away. But the closer you got to a knife, the more likely you were to get cut.

The silver-toothed man laughed, weaving the knife back and forth. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to stick this in you.”

Kismet couldn’t quite place the accent. Something from the Commonwealth; it might have been Aussie or it could have been from Liverpool. That didn’t concern him as much as the fact that his assailant seemed to be making this personal. Kismet raised his hands halfway, more as a placating gesture than a sign of surrender. “If you’ve got some problem with me, let’s talk.”

The movement of the blade stopped abruptly, and the man looked back blankly. “Oh, Kismet. You really have no idea. It's almost a pity that you'll die ignorant.”

“I don't think you’re going to kill me.” Kismet's mind raced to figure out the puzzle of who the man was and what he wanted. “You were looking for something in my room, and you obviously didn't find it. If you kill me, there's a chance you'll never find what you are after.”

“Bah! Killing you is something I've wanted for a long time.”

As he edged closer, Kismet heard the sound of another pair of feet ascending the stairs. He knew without turning to look that it was Annie. A few moments later she was running across the deck, hefting the Glock.

In the moment that the knife-wielding intruder saw Annie, Kismet made his move. The big man recovered quickly from the distraction, thrusting with the blade, but Kismet anticipated the attack, and sidestepped. The kris stabbed the air impotently to Kismet's left, and as the man’s momentum carried him forward, Kismet stepped closer, slipping his right arm around the man’s shoulder and hooking a hand behind his neck in a half-nelson. The knife clattered to the deck, but then he wrenched himself free and spun around, lashing out with a foot to sweep Kismet’s legs from under him.

Kismet landed hard on his side. The silver-toothed man dove for his knife, but even as his hand took hold of the ornate haft of the weapon, Annie shouted a warning for him to stop. She didn’t have a clear shot — she was just as likely to hit Kismet as the intruder — but it was enough to give the man pause. He straightened up without recovering the kris, and shook his head sadly. “Gonna shoot me, little girl?”

“She doesn’t have to.” Kismet struck as the man turned to face him, landing a roundhouse that sent the intruder crashing into the waist-high rail that ringed the observation deck. The man flipped over the barrier, but succeeded in wrapping one arm around it to arrest his fall.

“Should have let me shoot him,” Annie remarked, shaking her head.

Kismet ignored her, stalking toward the hanging intruder. “One more time. Tell me who you are.”

The man showed no sign of surrender. Even as he struggled against his own failing grip, Kismet saw the defiance building in his eye. “I don't think so,” was the grated reply.

The man abruptly let go with his right hand. Kismet saw a glint of light, the reflection a familiar emblem engraved on a golden ring standing out from the man's fist, for just a fraction of a second before that fist hammered into his face.

Kismet’s head snapped to the side with the force of the blow. It took a moment for his vision to clear, but when it did, he rolled back to the railing and leaned over, looking for some sign of his assailant.

Annie was at his side an instant later. “My God, are you all right?”

“Where did he go?”

“He must have fallen in.”

Kismet shook his head, instantly regretting it as the pain of the man's parting blow flared anew. He gingerly probed his aching cheek and saw blood on his fingertips. The man's ring had sliced through the skin under his left eye. While it had not been as gaudy as Leeds’ ring, the symbol was the same: an Ouroboros.

He pushed away from the rail and retrieved the kris, testing its edge with a thumb. Annie stepped in front of him. “Nick. Would you please tell me what’s going on?”

“No,” he replied, thinking about the image of the snake devouring itself. “But I think I know who can.”

Alex Higgins tore his gaze away from Elisabeth and watched with a perplexed expression as his daughter left the dining hall with Kismet at her side. Something was wrong; some unspoken tension between Dr. Leeds and Kismet had reached and passed a climax. But Leeds gave no indication of what the problem might be. He merely stared at the table, silently waiting. Several seconds passed before he abruptly stood and nodded to Elisabeth.

“Delightful!” She reached out and took hold of Higgins’ hand. When he felt her touch, every vestige of apprehension melted away. The feel of her skin set his heart pounding and the faint scent of her perfume led him like a ring through his nostrils. “It is time for the séance. This will be tremendously exciting.”

Dr. Leeds made a casual gesture toward some of the other guests in the dining hall. Half a dozen people left their meals unfinished and rose to follow him from the room. In the euphoria of his intimate contact with Elisabeth, Higgins scarcely noticed the route he and the rest of Leeds’ entourage took and was hardly aware as he was guided to a seat at a large round table, draped with a voluminous blue tablecloth. The room was dark except for a score of small votive candles that offered little in the way of illumination but certainly contributed to the mood of the occasion. Elisabeth sat beside him, and in short order, the other guests filled in around the circumference until only one seat remained.

Dr. Leeds seemed to glide into the room; his long cassock hid his feet from view. He smoothly took his seat and gestured to the audience. “Please, link hands.”

Higgins’ felt Elisabeth’s hand in his; he barely even noticed another guest take his other hand.

Leeds spoke again, his tone both hushed and commanding. “We wish to know more of our quest. There are many answers that may not be found on this terrestrial plane, but beyond it, in the spirit realm. Hernando Fontaneda was the keeper of the secret, but he has passed beyond this world. Will you reach out with me, to contact him?”

There was a murmur of ascent and Dr. Leeds seemed satisfied. “He may not remember at first. Your concentration and assistance is crucial. Leave off all doubt now. Close your eyes and focus your thoughts.”

Higgins did as he was told, but found he could not concentrate in the way Dr. Leeds wanted him to. His thoughts were swirling, not around the spirit realm, but the heaven of Elisabeth’s touch. He gripped her hand, as if to squeeze his emotions into her, barely cognizant of Dr. Leeds’ mumbled incantations.

“Alex,” Elisabeth whispered urgently. “Open your eyes. Look!”

He obeyed, looking into her eyes, but she nodded toward the center of the table. Higgins nearly fainted when he saw the figure there, hovering in the mist above the table's surface.

Though it was only a few inches in height, Higgins had no trouble making out the apparition; the details of its face and dress were vivid. He was unquestionably looking at the likeness of a Spanish conquistador. The crescent helmet concealed the face of the specter, but he knew that it must be Hernando Fontaneda.

“¿Quien estoy?” whispered Dr. Leeds, his voice strangely altered. “Diga me. Quiero saber.”

“He is speaking Spanish,” gasped one of the men at the table. “He wants to know who he is?”

No one seemed willing to answer. Realizing that Dr. Leeds was acting as a medium Higgins, in a trembling voice, supplied the name.

“Si. Recuerdo.” whispered Leeds. “A ver, ¿a dónde estoy? Me parece que es bien oscuro.”

“He remembers,” translated the same man. “He wants to know where he is. He says he it is very dark there.”

“You died,” replied Elisabeth. “Don't you remember?”

“No.” The voice issuing from Leeds’ mouth switched to deeply accented English. “How did I die? Do you know?”

No one could give him an answer, not even Higgins.

“Tell me more. I might remember. There was a man…King was his name. I was with him, but I can't remember…” Leeds’ eyes fluttered open and he stared directly at Higgins. “You know,” he said, still speaking in the Spaniard's voice. “Tell me. Where did I die?”

Wide-eyed and trembling, Higgins stared at the apparition. Elisabeth's gentle touch on his arm prompted him and he opened his mouth to answer.

The dining area was a shambles from Kismet's pursuit of the knife-wielding intruder. Icing from destroyed pastries seemed to be everywhere. Moreover, some of the passengers acting in blind terror had overturned their tables, spilling plates, silverware and food, and were crouched down behind them. The waiters were conferring with the ship's officers about the cause of the mayhem. One of them spotted Kismet and identified him as one of the perpetrators. The officers moved to question him, but stopped short when they saw the prodigious blade of the serpentine knife held in his right fist.

Kismet dismissed them with an exasperated gesture. “Where are the people who were sitting there?” He pointed to the table where he had left Higgins, in the company of Dr. Leeds and Elisabeth Neuell.

“In the conference room,” replied a waiter, before anyone could think to silence him. “For the séance.”

“Sir,” interjected one of the senior officers, trying to be calm and authoritative. “I must ask you to surrender your weapon.”

Shaking his head, more out of frustration than defiance, he pushed through the group and headed for the exit.

The conference room was dark, lit only by a few candles. The perfect place for an ambush, Kismet decided. He spied Higgins at a table, with Elisabeth and Leeds. The latter was mumbling something, while in the center of the table, projected onto a cloud of mist was the likeness of a gaudy conquistador; a product of amateurish make-up and costume, smoke and mirrors. He stalked over to the table, unnoticed by all except of the architect of the charade himself.

Leeds’ icy gaze defied his stare, but Kismet was unmoved by Leeds’ parlor tricks. Higgins opened his mouth to speak, to reveal the location from which the final correspondence with Henry Fortune had originated, but Kismet cleared his throat, breaking the spell.

The gathering looked up in surprise and Elisabeth breathed a vehement curse. Dr. Leeds folded his arms casually across his chest. “You are disturbing the spirits, Kismet”.

“Perhaps the spirits can answer my questions. I'd like to know why the man that ransacked my room and tried to kill me was wearing a ring with an Ouroboros. Kind of like the one you’re wearing, Dr. Leeds.”

Leeds remained impassive. “You’re imagining things, Kismet.”

“I didn’t imagine this.” Kismet thrust the knife out, over the center of the table, and then stabbed downward, into the heart of the apparition. The blade sliced through the vapors, shattering a mirror concealed underneath, and causing the ghost to dissolve. The gathering dispersed, frightened by the display of violence, but Kismet wasn’t finished. Grabbing hold of the table and shoving it out of the way, he advanced on Leeds.

Leeds did not cower, but instead threw something to the floor, a glass vial that shattered and began spewing thick smoke. A screen of dense fog suddenly rose up around Kismet. He waved his hand to fan away the acrid fumes, and pushed forward undaunted, thrusting his hands out to the place where Leeds was sitting.

His hands closed on empty air. Dr. Leeds and Elisabeth Neuell had vanished.

SEVEN

Unfair though it was, Kismet offered no protest when the captain ordered him off the ship. He was eager to be done with The Star of Muara, eager to put the whole sordid affair behind him, and most of all, eager to take up the search for Henry Fortune’s wondrous cavern.

In the early hours of the morning following the disastrous séance, Kismet, along with Higgins and his daughter, boarded a helicopter for the mainland. A few hours later, they were on a trans-Pacific flight to Los Angeles, and because of a trick of geography, arrived in the United States on the evening of the calendar day before they left. They spent a night in a hotel near LAX, but early the next day were back in the air.

The long flights gave Kismet time to think, but his mind was not occupied with fantasies of discovering the source of immortality. Rather, he kept replaying what the man with the silver tooth had said: You really have no idea. It's almost a pity that you'll die ignorant…Killing you is something I've wanted for a long time.

Kismet knew of one very good possible explanation for the man’s hostility: Dr. Leeds and his thug were part of the Prometheus group. And if Prometheus was after the Fountain of Youth…or the Seed from the Tree of Life or whatever else…then Kismet was determined to beat them there.

But as much as he wanted to believe that Dr. Leeds would somehow lead him to the answers he had been seeking for half his life, he knew that the explanation wasn’t a perfect fit. In his only meaningful encounter with Prometheus, he had been led to believe that he was somehow protected, or at least that Prometheus had no interest in taking direct action against him. He had never been able to fathom the why of it, aside from a cryptic intimation that his mother might somehow be a player in the drama, though even that information was suspect. In any case, his prior knowledge of Prometheus’ goals certainly didn’t square with Leeds’ silver-toothed goon’s lethal grudge. So where did that leave him?

After collecting their luggage from the carousel at La Guardia Airport, Kismet hailed a taxi and the three of them crowded into its rear seat. Little was said as the hired car fought traffic through Queens and across the Williamsburg Bridge; the three had virtually exhausted every avenue of discussion during long hours spent in airport lobbies.

Much of the conversation had focused on Elisabeth Neuell. Higgins, who knew her better than any of them, and was clearly smitten in spite of everything that had happened, was loathe to admit that she might be up to no good, but he was at least willing to allow that Dr. Leeds was not to be trusted.

Then they had turned to the issue of how they would proceed in their search for the cavern. The whole adventure hinged on finding Joseph King, or possibly his heirs, and hoping that he, or they, knew something about Henry Fortune’s — or rather Hernando Fontaneda's — explorations. The rest of the time had been wiled away in an endless and mind-numbing succession of card games and similarly pointless distractions.

Though he was not easily given to sentiment, Kismet felt a wave of relief as the taxi turned on to Central Park West. The familiar foliage of the park, brightly verdant in the summer humidity, was a welcome sight after the disastrous cruise. A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of the American Museum of Natural History, where Kismet’s kept an office.

“I booked you rooms at the Carlyle,” Kismet told the others as he got out. “It’s just on the other side of the park.”

Annie gazed breathlessly out the window. “New York. I never dreamed I’d be here.”

“We can probably squeeze in a couple days of sight-seeing if you like.” He was about to give the cab driver their next destination when Higgins abruptly got out.

“Just across the park, you say?” The former Gurkha nodded toward the verdant urban greenspace just across the street. “If it’s all the same, I think I’d like to stretch my legs a bit.”

Kismet shrugged and with the driver’s assistance, retrieved their luggage from trunk. Higgins and Annie traveled light; one small carry-on bag apiece, containing the bare minimum for an overnight stay. Neither of them had anticipated traveling abroad. Kismet hauled his own duffel bag out as well and paid the driver.

“The hotel is on 76^th and Madison Avenue,” he explained as they shouldered their bags. “If you go up to 81^st—” He pointed to a street intersection a couple blocks north of the museum—“and stay on the Transverse Road that cuts through the park, it will bring you out a couple blocks north of where you want to be. Go east one more block to Madison and head south to 76^th.”

“No worries,” Higgins answered.

“And what will you be doing?” Annie asked.

“I’m going to print up everything we’ve got so far, and hopefully get some contact info on Joseph King.”

The young woman glanced at her father and then at Kismet, and he sensed that she was trying to decide which man to accompany. Kismet put her at ease. “I’ll meet you for dinner in an hour or so at the hotel and get you caught up,” he said. “Enjoy your walk.”

Although they had indeed spent nearly two days sitting in airport lounges and even more uncomfortably, airplane seats, Higgins was not entirely sincere in stating his motives for choosing to walk through Central Park. As the taxi had cruised up Central Park West, he had caught a glimpse of a familiar face near the park entrance opposite the museum, and felt compelled to investigate. He didn’t want to reveal this to Kismet, and was unsure if he even wanted Annie to accompany him. Probably just a look-alike, he told himself, unconvincingly.

But as he and Annie crossed the street, the face he had glimpsed appeared again, looking right at him…beckoning him. Annie saw as well.

“What the—?” She glanced sidelong at her father. “That’s her, isn’t it? How the hell did she get here?”

Less than fifty yards away, Elisabeth Neuell was leaning against the stone half wall that lined the border of a footpath into the park, casually smoking a cigarette. Her extravagant formal wear had been replaced by a yellow mid-thigh length tunic dress. Despite the garment’s simplicity, she made it look glamorous. Higgins was a bit surprised that she had not already been recognized by a passerby; maybe her star had dimmed a bit in the years since leaving her career to become Sultana. As they drew closer, Elisabeth dropped her cigarette and stubbed it out with the toe of her sandal.

He sensed Annie starting to outpace him, perhaps intent on some kind of confrontation, and he quickened his step to head her off. “Beth!” he called, jogging ahead of his daughter. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“You must have hired a Concorde jet to get here ahead of us,” Annie supplied, with a hint of scorn. “But how did you know to find us here?”

The former Sultana gave a tight smile. “That’s not important right now.”

“I think it bloody well is,” Annie retorted, advancing with her fists balled.

Higgins blocked Annie’s way with a restraining arm, but kept his attention on Elisabeth. “It’s a fair question, Beth. Especially after what happened back on the ship.”

“I’ll explain everything, but right now you just need to trust me. Can you do that?”

Higgins glanced at his daughter, reading her answer in the set of her jaw, but then he nodded.

Elisabeth reached out and took his hand and led him into the park. Annie scowled, but followed after them. They didn’t go far however; Elisabeth guided them to one of Central Park’s famous horse drawn carriages, one of several that were parked on the street near the intersection with the footpath.

The driver dismounted as they approached and offered his hand to Elisabeth, helping her step up into the covered Vis-a-Vis style carriage. As Elisabeth took her seat, Higgins saw that the coach was already occupied.

Annie leaned past him and looked inside. “Dr. Leeds. What a surprise.”

Leeds had foregone his elaborate skullcap and cassock in favor of black slacks and a charcoal gray turtleneck shirt. He looked almost ordinary. “Please,” he said, offering a hand. “Ride with me and I will explain everything.”

Annie’s body language made it clear that she didn’t want to get in, but Higgins’ curiosity impelled him forward. “Come on, Annie girl. Won’t hurt to listen to what the man has to say.”

“Wanna bet?” Annie grumbled as she climbed inside, sitting next to Higgins on the rear facing seat.

Leeds folded his hands in his lap and did not speak until the carriage lurched into motion. When he did start talking, it was in a low but faintly pleading voice. “I don’t know quite how to tell you this. Nick Kismet is not who you think he is.”

Annie rolled her eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Especially coming from you.”

Leeds offered an inscrutable smile. “Did Kismet tell you about Prometheus?”

As the printer whirred to life, Kismet accessed a commercial people-finder website and typed in “Joseph King Charleston SC.” The response was prodigious; there were a lot of discrete references to Joseph King floating around the Worldwide Web, and no way to really tell which one was the one he needed. It was going to be a tedious process and he wasn’t in the mood for that right now. He sent the search results to the printer as well. He was about to check his email when his eye caught on one of the advertisements at the top of the webpage.

He almost laughed aloud. “Surely it can’t be that easy.”

He logged off the computer and scooped the sheaf of paper from the printer tray, then headed for the exit, eager to share his discovery with Higgins and Annie.

He only got as far as the front steps of the museum when he was stopped dead in his tracks.

Powerful hands seized him in mid-step. Two men flanked him, pinioning his arms and immobilizing him. A third materialized out of the crowd and stood directly before him. It was the man with the silver tooth. Kismet struggled uselessly against his captors. They had lifted him off the ground, and he was unable to find any leverage that might break their hold.

Silver Tooth just grinned.

Kismet saw the blow coming, but could do nothing to protect himself. The man's fist burrowed into the pit of his stomach, and his body curled around the impact like a worm on a fishhook. A wave of nausea racked his body.

“To answer your earlier question, the name’s Ian MacKay.” A second blow hammered into Kismet’s gut, and then he felt the papers torn from his hand. “And this is what I was looking for. Thanks ever so much.”

A third punch took his breath away and brought him to the brink of unconsciousness. When the darkness receded, he found himself lying supine on the steps, surrounded by a throng of people who were only just beginning to wonder why he was writhing in agony.

“Prometheus,” Leeds began, “is quite simply a cabal of intellectuals intent upon remaking the destiny of our planet.”

Annie rolled her eyes again, but their host ignored her open incredulity.

“They took their name, rather hypocritically, from the Titan in Greek mythology — a figure renowned for his wisdom and his love of mankind. It was Prometheus who stole fire from the gods of Olympus and gave it to man, and it was he who made sure that Pandora’s Box also contained hope. But this modern Prometheus obscenity is more like Zeus, intent on locking the mysteries of our world away, hoarding the secret knowledge for their own schemes. And like the gods of Olympus, they delight in playing games with people’s lives, controlling them as a puppet master works the strings of a marionette. They are playing just such a game with your friend Nick Kismet. He is, unknowingly I believe, their greatest experiment.”

“Experiment?” asked Higgins. “What kind of experiment?”

Leeds brought his fingers together in a steeple beneath his chin. “I’m not sure they even know. They unleashed him on the world, and then sat back to see what sort of havoc he would wreak. And they have been protecting him. I believe you have witnessed their interference first hand, Mr. Higgins. How else would you explain your miraculous escape from the Republican Guard in Nasiriyah?”

“This is ridiculous,” scoffed Annie.

“It is the truth,” Leeds answered, unperturbed. “And without his even realizing it, Kismet has become their bloodhound, tracking down the world’s last remaining mysteries — mysteries like the Seed of the Tree of Life — so that Prometheus can hide them away…or perhaps use them for some nefarious purpose.”

Annie leaned close to her father, and sotto voce said: “What’s ‘nefarious’ mean?”

Higgins ignored her. “How do you know all this?”

“I have given my life to searching for the very mysteries Prometheus wishes to conceal. One cannot wade too deep into those waters without hearing whispers of the conspiracy…or of the Nick Kismet experiment.”

Higgins glanced at Elisabeth, who seemed to be hanging on Leeds’ every word. “Why are you telling us? What are we supposed to do about it?”

“Kismet must not be allowed to uncover Hernando Fontaneda’s secret. I do not wish any harm to come to him, but if he finds the Seed, then Prometheus finds it, and they will not share its magnificent power with the world. They most certainly won’t share it with us.”

Leeds smiled again. “So, what I want from you, put simply, is this: join me in my quest. Abandon Kismet, for his own good, and help me find the Seed before Kismet or Prometheus.”

Annie bit back a caustic reply and instead watched her father’s reaction. She felt a surge of disappointment when she realized that he wasn’t going to reject Leeds’ offer out of hand. “He won’t stop looking, you know,” the former Gurkha said, after a long pause.

“No, I don’t imagine he will. That is the very reason that I seek a partnership with you. Time is of the essence. I have resources which can expedite our search, but you…you possess the information that can point me directly to the goal.”

“You already pumped us for that information,” Annie retorted. “What else do you think we know that you didn’t get from that phony séance?”

Leeds inclined his head in a conciliatory gesture. “It may be that you have some crucial piece of knowledge, the importance of which none of us realizes. And it may also be that your contribution to the endeavor will arise, not from what you know, but from what you will do.”

Annie stabbed an angry finger at Leeds. “You know what? You can go fu—“

Higgins cut her off, gripping her knee in his left hand. “I need to discuss this with my daughter. Privately.”

Leeds’ smile returned. “I know just the place.”

Kismet rolled over onto hands and knees. His gut seemed twisted around the bruises forming in his abdomen. Nevertheless, he climbed to his feet and began pushing through the crowd toward the street.

He scanned the boulevard in both directions, and then looked over at the park entrance. The men who had accosted him were gone. He couldn’t fathom how MacKay had managed to reach New York ahead of them in order to lay an ambush, but his aching insides told him that the silver-toothed thug had not made the trip alone.

He charged down the steps, dodging traffic, in a beeline for the 81^st street intersection with the Transverse Road. It hadn’t been five minutes since he parted company with Higgins and Annie, but MacKay and his team had evidently been watching all along, and might have already made a move on his friends.

One of Central Park’s famous carriages — a red and yellow Vis-a-Vis, drawn by a single chestnut gelding — was parked just beyond the entrance. The driver, wearing a formal jacket and an old-fashioned top hat, nodded in his direction as he passed, prompting Kismet to pull up short. “I think my friends may have come through here a few minutes ago; a big guy with dark hair, and a tall, skinny girl with short brown hair.”

The driver nodded. “Saw ‘em. They caught a ride with my buddy, Jack.”

“A ride? A carriage ride?” Kismet frowned. “Just the two of them?”

“Not sure. But I know Jack’s route if you want to follow ‘em.”

“Do it.” Kismet swung into the coach, settling into the front facing seat. “There's a big tip for you if you can catch them.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” answered the driver with a grin and he climbed up onto his seat, perched about the front wheel. He gave the reins a shake, and horse and carriage lurched into motion together.

Kismet drummed his fingers impatiently on the carved wooden sides of the coach. The animal's hooves and the clatter of the metal rimmed wheels on the paving stones started a low tremor, which passed through every molecule in the cab. Kismet gritted his teeth against the annoying sound, absently wondering how the starry-eyed lovers that frequently made use of the carriages could endure the din.

The horse drew the cab along the gradually curving Transverse Avenue. Children played on the edge of the pond off to the left, oblivious to the anxiety he was experiencing. Unable to simply sit idle, Kismet leaned forward, peering over the driver's shoulder to catch a glimpse of the other carriage.

“Can you push it a little,” he shouted over the rumbling, trying not to sound rude.

The driver shrugged and cracked his buggy whip over the horse, urging the gelding into a trot. The clatter of hooves and wheels on the asphalt was like a blaring siren ahead of the carriage, warning pedestrians to get clear. They did so grudgingly, voicing their opinions with characteristic New York politeness.

“Hang on, back there,” the driver shouted over his shoulder. “I know a shortcut.”

Despite the warning, Kismet was jounced violently as the carriage turned sharply to the right, just a few hundred yards past the East Drive underpass. The metal-shod wheels banged over the curb, and then the ride got a lot smoother and a lot quieter as they headed out across a manicured lawn. The hooves and wheels left a pockmarked trail of divots in their wake, but when Kismet glanced around to gauge the reaction of other park visitors, he saw no one. They were moving into the Ramble, the park’s thirty-eight acre manufactured wilderness.

A stand of trees lay directly ahead and Kismet knew the driver would have to slow down in order to go through the wooded area, but to his surprise and dismay, as soon as they reached the tree line, the driver pulled back on the reins, stopping altogether.

“What the hell kind of shortcut—?” Kismet fell silent as he saw the dismounted driver peering into the covered passenger area. He had removed his top hat, but the most conspicuous thing about him was the semi-automatic pistol in his right fist.

“This is where you get out, sir. Don’t worry about that tip. It’s been taken care of.”

In the sudden quiet, Kismet heard the rumble and clank of a piece of machinery emanating from the woods. He stared at the driver, meeting the man’s gaze rather than looking at the gun. There was a hardness there; this man believed he was capable of pulling the trigger. “Tell me something; are you one of Leeds’ true believers, or just hired help?”

The gunman ignored the dig. “Get out.”

Kismet complied, keeping his hands elevated. The driver maintained a standoff distance of about ten yards, enough to ensure that he would have time to pull the trigger if his captive tried anything. He gestured with the gun, pointing toward the tree line. Kismet knew that his odds of surviving this trap would be greatly reduced if he complied, but he there seemed to be little alternative. Without taking his eyes off the gunman, he moved into the trees.

He emerged into a clearing — a secluded meadow ringed by trees — and immediately discovered the source of the machine noise. Parked in the middle of the open area was an enormous gasoline-powered industrial wood chipper. In principle, it was no different than a backyard mulch machine, but this device was designed to chew up entire tree trunks. It was so big it had to be towed by a truck. A six-foot long chute, lined with a series of rollers, led to a pair of spinning wheels which would grab anything that touched them and thrust it into a nest of rotary knives. Another metal chute, like a square-pipe, curved up out of the body of the machine like a snorkel, and was positioned above a pile of woodchips in the back of a small flatbed truck parked alongside the chipper. The gasoline engine was running, and all the wheels and knives were turning, but nothing was being fed into it and nothing was issuing from the output chute.

“You’re so bloody predictable, mate.”

Kismet tore his gaze away from the chipper and turned to the source of the voice. Ian MacKay stood a few feet to his right.

“Oh, I think you’ll find I’m full of surprises,” Kismet said.

MacKay just laughed, his hands resting on his hips. Kismet did a slow sweep and found another man positioned to his left. This fellow, one of the pair that had grabbed him on the front steps of the museum, held a long metal pole topped with a vicious-looking pruning saw. The ersatz carriage driver brought up the rear, still wielding his pistol.

“You really went to a lot of trouble,” Kismet remarked. “I’m touched. What did you do with the work crew? Kill them?”

“Naw. Just gave ‘em the afternoon off with pay, so to speak.” MacKay’s eyes took on a hard edge. “I don’t suppose you’d save us all a lot of trouble and just jump in. Won’t hurt for more than a second or two I reckon.”

“Where are my friends? If you’ve hurt them…” He didn’t complete the threat; he knew how hollow it sounded.

“Least of your worries, mate.” MacKay nodded to his cohorts, and the man to his left immediately thrust the pole-saw at him.

Kismet hurled himself out of the way, diving into a shoulder roll that took him to the middle of the clearing. As he came back to his feet, he spun around to face the trio of attackers. He now saw that the carriage driver had put his gun away, and now held a small gas-powered chain saw, which he triggered menacingly as he advanced. MacKay just stood with his hands, balled into fists, resting on his hips.

Kismet didn’t know why they hadn’t simply shot him. Maybe they were afraid of leaving telltale forensic evidence or had it in their heads that they could somehow make his death look like an accident. He wasn’t about to ask.

The three men spread out, trying to establish a perimeter and prevent him from escaping. As noisy and intimidating as the chainsaw was, Kismet was more concerned about the man with the pole-saw. If he was going to survive this, he was going to have to take the initiative, and quickly.

He took a step sideways, closer to the rumbling chipper. Then, as his assailants moved to take the ground he had ceded, he lunged toward the man with the pole-saw. It was a feint only; he caught himself before putting his weight on his outstretched foot, but it was enough. The man reacted instinctively, stabbing the saw blade at him again, and this time Kismet was ready. Turning just enough to avoid the thrust, he wrapped an arm around the sturdy aluminum pole and yanked it forward. The saw wielder was pulled forward, off balance and his impromptu weapon twisted out of his grip as he slid face down across the grass.

Kismet spun around and whipped the pole toward the man with the chainsaw. The man parried, triggering the chain reflexively, and the cutting tool met the pole in a shower of sparks. The vibration traveled through the hollow metal rod like an electric shock and Kismet felt it slipping from his grip before he could even think about trying to hang on tighter. His opponent immediately advanced, raising the chainsaw overhead as he did, and slashed down with all his might.

Kismet stumbled backward and the whirring teeth on the chain sliced through the air where he had been. The saw narrowly missed him and plunged into the soft ground, throwing up a spray of dirt and grass. Kismet barely saw any of this though; his foot struck the man from whom he’d taken the saw, still supine on the ground and struggling to rise, and he tripped backward, flattening the man a second time.

It felt like it took an eternity for him to fall, an obscenely bloated moment in which he flailed his arms, unsuccessfully trying to restore his balance. Yet, even as he fell, his mind was turning over possible courses of action. He twisted, trying to land on his side, so as to grapple with the fallen assailant. Doing so would give MacKay and the other man time to advance, but it would reduce the odds that were stacked against him by a third.

Before he could act on his plan something slammed into the back of his head and a curtain of darkness fell. He was still conscious, but for a few seconds could do nothing but lay motionless in a daze. Except he wasn’t on the ground and he wasn’t motionless. Strong hands had reached under his arms and hauled him more or less erect. His heels dragged across the ground for a few yards and then he felt himself being lifted into the air. As his vision cleared, he caught a glimpse of Ian MacKay’s silver toothed grin of delight, and then there was another burst of pain as he was slammed down on the chipper’s feed chute. The roller wheels offered no resistance as MacKay gave him a shove and he began sliding headfirst toward the machine’s gaping maw.

Annie leaned against the stone battlement, gazing out from the mildly crowded observation deck of Belvedere Castle, across the landscaped expanse of Central Park and the city skyline beyond, but her brain registered none of it. Her thoughts were consumed by the gravity of Leeds’ revelation, and even more so by the fact that her father was evidently contemplating the requested alliance. While it was certainly true that she barely knew Nick Kismet, and had no particular obligation to him, the simple fact of being asked to be disloyal a friend galled her. That her father would consider, even for a second, betraying the man that, by his own admission had once saved his life, was even more disturbing, and she told him as much.

“Annie,” Higgins sighed. “You don’t understand. What he said…”

“About some diabolical secret society? Puppet masters pulling our strings? It’s complete bollocks and you know it.”

“Annie, I was there that night. I know what he’s talking about.”

“Yes, you were there. You know that Nick isn’t part of some conspiracy.”

“For twenty years, I’ve tried to understand what happened. None of it ever made any sense until today. As crazy as it sounds, what Leeds said…it fits. Why we were there, why we got captured, and how we escaped. We were in…” Higgins’ breath seemed to catch in his throat, and when he tried to continue, he had to force the words past clenched teeth. “In the goddamned Republican Guard torture chamber, and Kismet just walked us right out; like Daniel in the lion’s den.”

Annie’s retort died on her lips as she saw the pain of reliving the memory twist her father’s features. When she spoke again, it was in a more subdued tone. “Nick wasn’t responsible, dad. Even if everything Leeds said is true, he’s not a bad man.”

“I know, Annie girl.”

“So, we’re going to tell Leeds to sod off, right?”

Higgins stared at her for several seconds before slowly nodding an affirmative.

Almost a hundred yards away, Dr. John Leeds listened intently to the exchange. He couldn’t make out all the nuances — the tripod-mounted Detect Ear parabolic microphone wasn’t that discriminating — but the amplified audio feed, in conjunction with his visual observations, courtesy of a pair of Minox 10X44 binoculars, was sufficient to tell the tale. For just a few moments, he thought perhaps he had succeeded in winning the father over, but it seemed the daughter’s passionate defense of Kismet was going to prove insurmountable. Perhaps with more time and persuasion, he might be able to…

He lowered the binoculars as one of his hirelings approached. The man was a mercenary, some acquaintance of MacKay’s; Leeds found the whole arrangement rather distasteful. He didn’t trust people whose loyalties could be bought or traded. Still, hirelings had their uses.

The man proffered a bundle of papers. “Ian told me to bring this to you.”

Leeds took it without comment and began thumbing through the pages. He committed the words of the letters — the first from Henry Fortune himself, and the second from Joseph King — to memory. Then he saw that the remaining papers were phone and address listings for every Joseph King in the greater Charleston area. Leeds breathed an ancient Sumerian curse.

“There’s nothing here we didn’t already know.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been so quick to get rid of Kismet,” observed Elisabeth. The actress stood a few steps away, smoking a cigarette.

Leeds cast a baleful glance in her direction, but did not comment. The mercenary stared back at him, expressionless.

Leeds sighed. “I believe we may safely assume that Kismet doesn’t, or I should say didn’t, know anything more than this. Which reminds me…” He unclipped a Motorola Talkabout from his belt and keyed the send button. “Ian, report.”

There was a long silence at the other end, and then finally a burst of squelch, followed by a terse: “It’s done.”

Leeds smiled and keyed the walkie-talkie. “Excellent. I’m sending two more your way.”

Kismet turned his feet outward and managed to hook his toes on the chute’s angled side-guards. His death-slide stopped mere inches from the spinning feeder wheel; he thought he could feel the molded steel teeth tickling his hair.

MacKay’s grin fell a notch when he saw that Kismet had stopped moving. His puzzlement lasted only a moment, but it was enough. As the big man grabbed Kismet’s ankles, preparing to shake him loose, Kismet levered his torso forward, sitting up, and thrust his arms out as far as he could reach. His hamstrings screamed as he folded his body almost in half, but he fought through the agony and found something to hang onto: MacKay’s ears.

The silver-toothed killer howled in agony as Kismet’s nails dug into his flesh. As MacKay tried to bat his hands away, Kismet wrenched his body sideways, rolling up and over the side-guard.

As he hit the ground alongside the chipper, he caught a glimpse of movement and instinctively rolled away, under the chute, narrowly avoiding a swipe from the chainsaw. He kept rolling, and for a fleeting moment, was hidden from view. It was an opportunity he dared not waste.

The chipper was mounted on a dual-wheeled trailer rig, and Kismet made good use of the twin tires as a stepladder. He scrambled onto the top of the chipper engine cowling, and hurled himself, feet first, at the man with the chainsaw.

His feet connected squarely with the man, one to the jaw and one squarely in the chest, catching him completely unaware. The idling chainsaw fell from his grasp as the double-kick knocked him senseless. Kismet pushed off from the stricken man, tucking and rolling to soften the blow of his own landing, and was on his feet again, dodging behind the chipper before MacKay and his remaining comrade knew what was happening. He paused there to catch his breath, and then ducked his head around the corner to see where the next attack would come from.

He didn’t see the gun in the hand of the phony driver until the man triggered a shot. He jumped back, startled, and collided with MacKay. Even though the big man had been intent on flanking him, Kismet’s abrupt retreat caught him off guard, and for a moment, both men simply regarded each other without moving. Then MacKay threw a wild punch that missed Kismet and connected instead with the chipper’s housing. Kismet seized the advantage and planted a foot in MacKay’s chest, but his foe stood firm. Instead of sending MacKay reeling backward, it was Kismet himself that rebounded back, landing on his back, out in the open. Reasoning that he stood a better chance against MacKay than against a bullet, he scrambled for cover behind the chipper once more, and right into MacKay’s grasp.

The big man got one hand around Kismet’s throat, and suddenly that was the only thing that mattered. Even as he fought the chokehold, Kismet felt MacKay dragging him again toward the chute.

“Put that damn thing away,” MacKay bellowed. “And give me a hand.”

Darkness was falling over Kismet’s eyes. He tried tearing MacKay’s hand from his throat, tried also kicking at the man who was choking the life out him, but couldn’t tell if he was making contact. His extremities no longer felt connected to his body.

What seemed like only an instant later, he felt the stranglehold loosen just a little, and in that moment felt the hard rollers of the chipper chute beneath him. Frantic, he blindly thrust arms and legs out, hooking them awkwardly over the side-guard, knowing full well that he was mere inches from being ground into sausage.

“Damn it,” MacKay muttered. He still held Kismet by the throat, but the grip was tentative, as if fearful that he might get pulled in along with his victim.

A small engine revved off to his right, obscured by the hovering darkness and he heard the carriage driver shout: “I’ll cut him up.”

Kismet reacted instantly, instinctively. He threw his weight to the left, rolling up and over the side-guard. He felt MacKay’s grip tighten, but the big man was too slow by a fraction of a second. Kismet hung on the edge of the slanted steel guard, his mass pulling him one way and only the hand around his throat held him back from a fall.

Suddenly MacKay’s grip grew impossibly strong and Kismet felt himself being pulled toward the machine. He struggled to find something to stop his plunge but MacKay’s hold was irresistible.

Then he heard a scream. It lasted only a second before being drowned out by an even more terrible sound.

The chipper engine changed pitch as something entered the maw and the blades made contact. The stranglehold abruptly relented, and through the dark haze, Kismet caught a glimpse of the hand that had held him vanishing beneath the chipper’s feeder roller. A spray of red erupted from the outflow chute and sprayed the pile of woodchips. The machine continued grinding a few seconds longer, and then returned to a quiet idle.

The man with chainsaw seemed paralyzed by the horror of what he had just witnessed. Kismet could only surmise that when he had made his desperate bid to escape, his captor had inadvertently been caught by the feeder wheel and pulled inside, but the phony carriage driver had witnessed everything. Kismet seized the opportunity and hurtled himself over the feeder chute, flattening the stunned man with two-footed kick. He pitched the chainsaw out of reach and then relieved the unconscious man of his pistol.

As the adrenaline surge began to recede, it was all he could do to keep from throwing up. He rocked back on his haunches with his head down, and tried to make sense of what had just happened. After a few seconds, he remembered that Higgins and Annie had probably been taken, but before his could even think about his next move, he heard a disembodied voice say: “Ian, report.”

It took him few seconds to find the walkie-talkie; its now-deceased owner had stashed it next to a tree. Despite the fact that he had heard only two slightly distorted words, Kismet had no trouble identifying the speaker. He considered taunting Leeds, but then thought of a better use for the radio. He keyed the talk button and did his best to mimic MacKay’s gravely brogue. “It’s done.”

EIGHT

Annie felt strangely disappointed by Dr. Leeds’ reaction to their decision. He had merely inclined his head, as if in surrender. “That is unfortunate.” He gestured to the carriage. “The driver will convey you to whatever destination you desire.”

And with that, the silver-haired occult expert had turned away. Elisabeth, who had remained just out of earshot, followed in his wake, but glanced over meaningfully over her shoulder. Annie didn’t know what to make of that. She shook her head and turned to her father. “What now? Should we go back to the museum and tell Nick what happened?”

Higgins expression was unreadable. “He’s probably already on his way to the hotel. We should get there as well.”

Annie noted that her father had not answered the second part of her question. She climbed into the carriage with him, but before she could repeat her inquiry, another man got in as well. Judging by his athletic build and short haircut, Annie immediately pegged the man as someone with military experience, but it was the way he held the pistol that really gave it away.

He kept the gun was low so as to be inconspicuous to passersby, but the barrel did not waver in the man’s grip; it was aimed at Annie’s abdomen. The man’s eyes however were locked on her father.

“Let’s not make a fuss,” the man said in a low voice.

The coach lurched into motion and by the time Annie was able to tear her eyes away from the gun, they were on the Transverse Road and heading east. Annie searched the faces of pedestrians walking along the roadside, hoping to spy a police officer, but their captor quickly divined her intent.

“Don’t even think about it. I’d prefer not shoot you, but I will if I have to.”

Annie swung her gaze back the man, matching his stare. “I think you’re planning to kill us anyway. Why should we make it easy for you?”

The man regarded her for a moment, as if sorting through possible replies, but then just snarled, “Shut the hell up.”

Higgins remained silent, but Annie knew her father was anything but paralyzed with fear. The former Gurkha had survived scrapes worse than this and she had no doubt he was just biding his time and waiting for the right opportunity to make his move.

They abruptly left the road and headed out across the manicured lawn at the edge of a large wooded area. There was no one around to witness the evident breach of park rules, no one to report the strange action to the authorities and perhaps summon help. After only about a minute, Annie saw a second carriage, waiting idle and evidently abandoned, on the edge of the woods. Their driver steered directly for the second coach and pulled up alongside it.

“Here’s how this is going to work.” The gunman gestured meaningfully with the gun, his eyes never leaving Higgins. “She’s going to get out first. You stay put until I tell you to move. We’re all alone out here, so I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger if you try something. You might get the jump on me, but not before she goes down. Got it?”

“I hear you.” Higgins voice was flat, betraying no emotion.

“Good.” The man’s gaze finally moved to Annie. “Now, out.”

It was the moment she had been waiting for, the moment when the man’s attention would have to leave Higgins. She felt certain that her father would act decisively as soon as she became the focus of their captor’s scrutiny. She turned in the bench seat, confident that salvation was only a heartbeat away, and extended her feet onto the step that extended from the underside of the carriage.

Higgins might have been planning something like what she imagined, but when salvation came, it wasn’t at her father’s instigation. There was a blur of motion in front of her as someone—Kismet! — darted out from behind the second carriage and leaped into theirs, pouncing on the gunman.

Despite the man’s stated readiness to kill Annie, his reflexes were too slow. Kismet went for the gun hand first, thrusting it up and out of the way so that, when the man squeezed the trigger, the pistol discharged harmlessly into the canopy. With his free hand, Kismet punched directly at his opponents jaw, instantly rendering him unconscious.

Higgins was jolted into action. He pushed Annie back into her seat with one hand, while the other wrapped around the senseless gunman’s fist to prevent him from pulling the trigger again. Before he could attempt to wrest control of the firearm however, everything went wrong.

Kismet’s decisive attack had removed the immediate threat, but the element of surprise had been his only advantage, and that was spent. Before he could do or say anything, the driver reached down from his perch and grabbed Kismet by the shoulders. With a single mighty heave, he hauled Kismet through the opening in the canopy and pitched him out ahead of the carriage. The driver then thrust a stubby object through the aperture; Annie recognized it immediately as a sawed-off double-barrel shot gun. “Sit down,” he snarled. “I don’t have to even aim this to splatter you to both to Kingdom Come.”

Higgins released his hold on the pistol and let the man’s hand drop to the floor of the carriage. The driver kept the shotgun trained in their general direction, but half-turned forward and coaxed the horse into motion.

Kismet hit the ground hard. His wind was knocked from him and for a moment, he could only writhe in agony. The violent throw had left him disoriented, unable for a moment to tell which way was up, but as the turmoil in his inner ear subsided and the world stopped spinning, he realized that he was face to face with one of the coach’s metal-shod wheels.

And then it started to move.

His brain immediately calculated that it would tread across his body, crushing him if he didn't get out of the way. That realization broke the barrier between thought and action. He threw himself sharply to the right, rolling underneath the wagon as it advanced. He reached up and wrapped his right arm around the axle of the rear wheel and was immediately dragged along as the carriage picked up speed.

Although the grass beneath him was relatively soft, the burn of friction quickly reached a feverish intensity. Kismet got his free hand around the axle and hugged it to his chest so that only his feet were in contact with the ground. His boots offered considerably more protection than the fabric of his cargo pants, but the tradeoff was the intense exertion of holding himself up. He struggled simply to remain there for a few seconds longer, gathering his energy for what he knew had to come next.

A glance forward, past the front axle and the flashing hooves, revealed that the driver was making for the Transverse Road. Kismet knew he had only a few seconds left before the discomfort of being scoured by grassy earth turned into something much less pleasant. He let go with his right hand and began probing the underside of the carriage for handholds. His fingers found a metal frame, part of the leaf-spring suspension, and as soon as his grip was secure, he unwrapped his left arm and shifted it to the frame as well.

His situation was only marginally better; he was now a few inches further away from the ground — nowhere near where he needed to be — and his arms were burning with the exertion. From his new position though, he was able to get a better idea of what to do next. Directly above him was a small step, designed to hold bags and other cargo. Gritting his teeth in anticipation, he slowly relaxed his arms, allowing his body to drag once more on the ground, in order to bring the step within reach.

Kismet was dimly aware that, as he made contact once more with the ground, the pistol stashed in his waistband was jarred loose and went skittering away, but he couldn’t worry about that. He twisted around, taking the punishment on his knees, and managed to get his feet under him. He estimated that the carriage wasn’t moving faster than about fifteen miles an hour — maybe less — considerably faster than a walking pace, but not beyond the realm of possibility for a flat out sprint. As soon as the soles of his boots made contact, he started running.

He needed only a few steps to gather his momentum, and for that brief time, he was actually running faster than the horse that pulled the carriage. Yet what he saw in that brief instant as he ran forced him to revise his strategy. He only caught a glimpse of the driver and the shotgun he held trained on the captives in the coach’s front facing seat, but that was enough for him to realize that just climbing onto the step wasn’t going to be good enough.

Kismet ducked down again before the driver could glance back and spy him. He needn’t have worried; the man’s attention was momentarily focused on making the transition from the grassy ground of the Ramble to the hard macadam of the Transverse Drive. He slowed the carriage to a crawl as he neared the concrete curb, and Kismet knew that once on the paved road, his ability to keep pace with the horse would quickly evaporate.

He had noted that the driver was sitting sideways on this elevated bench seat, turned to the right so that he could keep the shotgun trained on the passengers while maintaining a view of the road ahead. As the horse stepped down onto the pavement, Kismet dashed along the left side of the coach, in the driver’s blind spot, and vaulted up onto the driver’s perch.

There was a great deal of risk to his friends — a reflexive trigger squeeze would shred the father and daughter in the back seat, but Kismet was counting on the man to react by trying to bring the gun around to meet the new threat. He was half right.

As soon as the driver realized he had company, he did indeed start to turn, but before he could, Higgins pounced forward, grabbing the short barrel of the gun and thrusting it up into the overhead canopy. The gun thundered in the semi-enclosed space, and a load of double-ought buckshot tore through the fabric. Higgins’ hand went instantly numb from the eruption and the gun barrel slipped from his grasp, but he did not let it slow him down. Even as Kismet drew back to deliver a cross-body punch, Higgins reached through the narrow opening and planted the heel of his left hand in the small of the driver’s back. The blow, delivered at almost exactly the same instant that the front wheels of the carriage dropped down from the curb, pitched the man from his seat. He rebounded off the horse’s hindquarters and bounced like a pinball from the rigging, before crashing onto the pavement. The carriage lurched twice as first the left front wheel and then the rear wheel were lifted a few inches off the pavement. The driverless horse continued out to the shoulder lane and veered to the right, heading east.

Kismet didn’t look back. His attention was focused on gathering in the reins, which the driver had taken with him in his fall, in order to get control of the carriage. He clambered over the raised footboard and cautiously reached a foot down onto the rigging. With his left hand gripping the carriage, he extended his reach as far as possible and managed to snare the trailing strap. A few seconds later, he settled back onto the driver’s seat and pulled back on the reins, bringing the coach to a halt.

He turned and peered into the passenger area. “Are you guys okay?”

“What?” Annie shouted, evidently deafened by the close proximity of the shotgun blast, but Higgins, who was cradling his right hand, just nodded.

Kismet took a deep breath and allowed his mind to process everything that had happened. About fifty yards behind them, the motionless form of the fallen driver was starting to attract the attention of motorists traveling through the park on the Transverse Road. They had to keep moving, but even as Kismet turned to relay this decision to his friends, he saw Annie brace herself against the backrest of her seat and then with both feet, shove the unconscious form of the man who had earlier held them at gunpoint out of the carriage. The gunman crashed unceremoniously onto the pavement, hidden from the view of traffic by the carriage itself. As soon as they moved, he too would become a spectacle, drawing more unwanted attention.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Annie shouted, still unable to gauge an appropriate volume level.

Kismet rolled his eyes at her impulsive action. They needed to abandon the conspicuous carriage and exit the park on foot. But before he could put this decision into words, he heard the hissing sound of a car slamming on its brakes and skidding to a halt beside them. It was a non-descript sedan, marked with a sticker identifying it as a rental car. It might have been just another curious rubbernecker, aghast at the sight of what appeared to be a dead body laying in the road, but somehow Kismet knew they weren’t that lucky. The windows reflected the scenery, denying him a look at the occupants, but he didn’t need to see inside to know that trouble had arrived.

“Leeds!” he rasped, as if the name was a curse. “Hang on!” He snapped the reins, urging the horse once more into motion even as the doors of the sedan popped open.

The car immediately began rolling forward again, but one of its passengers disembarked and began sprinting after the carriage on foot. Kismet glanced over his shoulder, saw that the runner was cut from the same cloth as the man that had been waiting with MacKay in the Ramble—mercenaries, he thought, unable to keep his face from contorting into a snarl — and then saw Higgins brusquely plant a foot in the man’s face as the latter caught up to the coach. That dealt with the immediate threat, but the sedan represented a problem on a different order of magnitude. Kismet shook the reins again, shouting for the horse to move faster. Grudgingly, it did.

Speed alone, however, would not suffice to save them. Another backward glance showed the sedan charging forward, angling to pull alongside them. Kismet reacted immediately by swerving the carriage toward the center of the road. Traffic flowing the opposite direction was starting to back up, but as soon as Kismet saw a break in the stack, he cut the carriage across the lane. Leeds’ driver did not hesitate to follow but the sedan was not quite as agile as the carriage and in the time it took him to force his way through the gap, the carriage picked up some momentum and stretched their lead by more than a hundred yards.

Still not enough, Kismet thought.

A tunnel loomed ahead. Although the crest of the hill through which it passed was shrouded in trees, Kismet recognized it as the East Drive crossing, part of the great park loop that was inaccessible from the Transverse Road. Or rather, inaccessible to automobiles.

Kismet hauled on the left rein, steering the horse onto the grassy embankment. The gentle slope passed through a scattering of trees, and then opened onto a sidewalk that ran parallel to the road. Behind him, Leeds’ driver did not hesitate to follow. As the carriage completed its ascent, the sedan jumped the curb and started up the hill behind them.

Kismet got a brief glimpse of the sedan sloughing back and forth across the embankment as its tires tore up turf in an effort to find purchase, but then he turned his full attention to driving the carriage. He steered right, pulling into the bike lane on the right hand side of the road, and headed south.

Leeds’ car crested the rise less than a minute later, a minute in which Kismet was able to coax the horse to a fast trot and put almost three hundred yards between them and their pursuer. But the horse was not bred or trained for speed and the bike lane was not exactly carriage friendly. Cyclists and skaters had to be shouted out of the way and most did not go without protest. Although the carriage was probably little more than a speck in the distance to Leeds and his men, the disruption left little question about which way Kismet and the others had gone.

“Bugger!” Higgins stuck his head through the opening. “There’s two of ‘em now. Looks like Leeds got himself an army.”

Although he didn’t doubt the former Gurkha’s word, Kismet looked back to verify that a second sedan had climbed the embankment and joined the chase. Vehicle traffic on East Drive was one-way in the opposite direction, but that didn’t seem to bother the drivers. Both cars pulled onto the bike lane and charged after the fleeing carriage.

“We’ve got to get off the road!” Kismet wasn’t sure if he was shouting to inform his passengers, or to help him decide what to do next, but it was sound advice. Traffic and laws notwithstanding, Leeds’ cars would be able to close in on them in a matter of seconds. The only way to outdistance their pursuers was to find an escape route where the cars could not follow. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. Dense stands of trees lined either side of the road, denying passage not only to automobiles but also to the carriage, and Leeds’ men were too close for them to abandon the horse-drawn vehicle and make a run for it.

The road ahead curved gently to the left and then in a few hundred feet arched back to the right. Just past that vertex of the curve, on the far side of the road, Kismet spied a break in the trees. “That might work,” he muttered.

He cautiously steered the horse into oncoming traffic. Because the speed limit for cars on East Drive was only 25 mph, there was little risk of a collision, but the carriage nevertheless cut a swath of chaos across the road, with cars skidding to a halt, turning sideways or veering into the bike lane. Then, just that quickly, they were through.

Kismet slowed the horse to a walk and guided it toward the gap in the tree line, and then the forest enfolded them, falling like a curtain on the mayhem behind them.

The carriage emerged from the stand of trees at a point directly opposite the famed Alice in Wonderland statues on the edge of the Conservatory Water. Kismet turned the horse onto the footpath that ran along the edge of the reservoir, once again heading south. He glanced over his shoulder again, half-expecting to see one of the sedans emerge from the trees, and gave a relieved sigh when that did not happen.

Higgins clambered around the frame of the damaged canopy to join him. “I think we lost them. Now what?”

“No pun intended, but I don’t think we’re out of the woods yet. Leeds might just have the resources to watch every exit from the park. I’ll breath easier when we’re out of the park…hell, when we’re out of the city.”

Higgins nodded but said nothing more. Kismet followed to the trail south until it curved toward an intersection with a paved road — Terrace Drive, which exited the park and turned into East 72^nd street. Kismet approached the road cautiously, but there was no sign of Leeds’ sedans. He continued east to the junction with Fifth Avenue, and then halted just inside the park’s boundaries. They left the carriage there, the gelding tethered to the wrought iron fence and in plain view, and trekked out to the main thoroughfare. Kismet allowed a few taxis to pass by before hailing one at random. As they got in, he told the driver their destination.

“Rockefeller Center.”

The driver cocked his head sideways, probably wondering who would hire a cab to reach a destination that was within easy walking distance, but then dropped the flag and waited for his chance to pull into traffic. Higgins could just make out the distant shriek of sirens as police cars from all over the surrounding area closed in on the park.

“It’s only a few blocks away,” Kismet explained. “But it’s always busy. We can get lost in the crowd until we figure out what to do next.”

As expected, the ride was short. After Kismet paid the driver, he led his companions through the crowd of tourists milling in the artificial canyon between the glass and concrete towers where the corporate and media empires shaped the future of the world. They drew to a halt on the balcony overlooking an ice skating rink, but Higgins’ gaze was drawn to an enormous statue — a gilded bronze figure in repose.

He hadn’t exactly received a classical education in the Regiment, but Alexander Higgins recognized this image.

Kismet sank wearily onto a vacant bench. “Okay,” he said finally. “Spill it. What in the hell happened back there?”

“They were waiting for us,” Annie said quickly, almost too quickly.

“Yeah, I kind of figured that part out. It’s the ‘how’ that’s still a bit murky. They just abducted you off a crowded New York City sidewalk?”

Higgins felt his daughter’s stare burning into him, but couldn’t seem to tear his own gaze away from the statue. Prometheus, bringing fire to mankind. Coincidence? Not bloody likely.

“He said he just wanted to talk,” she said, after a long pause. “He wanted us to work with him to find…well, you know. It all sounds a bit daft, really.”

“Except he seems to think it’s worth killing for.” Kismet glanced at the still silent Higgins for a moment. “It’s pretty obvious what Leeds is up to: divide and conquer. He must think I’ve told you something. The joke’s on him, since right now, he knows just as much as I do.”

Higgins nodded slowly, but Leeds’ words echoed in his head. How else would you explain your miraculous escape…? He finally met Kismet’s stare. “Right. We told him to bugger off. Of course, I hope you do know a bit more, or otherwise we might as well all just go home now.”

A wry smile curled the corners of Kismet’s mouth. “It’s not so much what I know as what I think I know. Joseph King said that Fontaneda — Fortune, rather—‘took the secret with him to the grave.’ He used those specific words. I think that’s a clue, and I think I know what it means.” He briefly outlined what he had discovered in his Internet search for Joseph King. “Unfortunately, if Leeds is half as clever as I think he is, he’ll pick up on this, too.”

“So you’re saying the clock is ticking,” Annie ventured.

Kismet nodded.

Higgins brought his palms down on his thighs with a slap. “Then what are we sitting here for?”

He even managed to smile. But as he followed Kismet and Annie out of the crowded plaza and back toward the street, his mind was six thousand miles away…

And more than twenty years in the past.