Into the Black

ONE

Wispy clouds tugged at the lofty peaks of the distant Atlas Mountains as they arched across North Africa. Shadows played upon their slopes, darkening as the sun sank into the west. Framed by the arched window opening, this view was the first thing that Nick Kismet saw as he peered through the veil of beads that separated the room from the corridor in which he stood. A young servant tugged at his elbow, encouraging him to enter the chamber beyond, but he ignored the boy, choosing instead to continue his reconnaissance. Old habits were hard to break.

In many ways, he was still the same young soldier that had been blooded in the Arabian Desert so many years before. His appearance had hardly changed at all. He still kept his dark brown hair clipped short, now for the sake of utility rather than regulations; he had of late noticed a sprinkling of gray whenever it got a little too long. While he was still physically fit, this had more to do with regular visits to a health club than any regimen of military calisthenics. His shoulders were broader and his face was a little more weathered; he'd been told that he was handsome in a rough way, but no one would ever describe him as boyishly good-looking.

He moved with an abrupt economy of motion, striding deliberately, without swaggering, from one destination to the next, and always remained observant, aware of the potential for hidden dangers that might lurk around the next corner. He was all the more cautious here in the heart of old Marrakech, preparing to take audience with a notorious racketeer.

Just to the right of the window, an enormous Caucasian man lounged on a divan that sagged beneath his bulk, noisily slurping some unidentifiable delicacy. Known locally as 'The Fat Man,' he was a Swiss expatriate who had done quite well for himself in the North African desert. He certainly hadn't missed any meals; the Fat Man's bulk filled to the point of bursting his stained robes. Wavy blond curls strayed from beneath the red fez perched comically atop his porcine head. Kismet felt suddenly as if he was staring at an attraction in a freak show: the world's only four hundred pound infant.

He shook his head to clear the image and looked to the left of the window, where a considerably smaller figure stood facing away from the doorway speaking in a low voice to the Fat Man. Although he could not see the person's face or hear the exchange between the two, he instantly knew who the second person was. Making no attempt to hide his chagrin, he stepped forward through the beaded strings.

"Howdy, stranger."

Every head in the room turned toward Kismet, including two that he had not previously noticed. The latter — big men with swarthy Moorish features — reflexively reached toward the weapons hidden beneath the breast pockets of their oversized suit jackets. Kismet was taken aback by the sudden reaction but managed to keep his composure. The smaller figure jumped in front of them, a woman he had not seen in more years than he could remember: Lysette Lyon.

"Nick!" She smiled. Kismet hadn't forgotten that smile. It was the kind of smile that could easily get a guy in trouble. She turned to the Fat Man. "It's all right. This is my friend."

"Shame on you Monsieur Kismet," clucked the Fat Man in a deeply accented singsong tone. "Sneaking up on people isn't nice." With a shooing gesture he dismissed the boy who had been escorting Kismet, his gaze lingering on the departing figure with unabashed lasciviousness, and then he nodded to his bodyguards. The larger of the two men, marked with a permanent scowl and a long scar that ran the length of his jaw, eased his hand away from the concealed weapon and moved to frisk the new arrival.

Kismet grunted as the search got a little too personal, but kept his eyes fixed on the only thing in the room worth looking at. She was as lovely as ever. Tiny — the top of her head rose barely to the center of his chest — she had always carried herself with an easy grace. Her natural blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she didn't have any make-up on, but she wore her blue jeans and a pastel T-shirt as if they were the latest Paris fashions.

Still a knockout, thought Kismet. Too bad that it takes more than looks to make it work.

Indeed, if physical attraction was the element critical to success in a relationship, he and Lysette Lyon would have long ago become a happily married suburban couple. Of course he was as much to blame for that failure as she.

Thinking back, he found he could not recall the details of their parting. Had it been amicable? He couldn't actually remember when they had ceased to be in love. He had gone off in search of answers to a mystery begun during a hellish mission into Iraq during Operation Desert Shield and somehow everything else had gotten lost along the way. Had he even tried to look her up upon returning to the United States, several months later? His memory was especially hazy on that point; he'd had so many other things on his mind back then. He had no idea what vocation she had followed after finishing college, but had difficulty believing that the intelligent and motivated young woman from those days had somehow gotten involved in international intrigue and fallen in with the likes of the Fat Man. Nor could he fathom why, in her hour of need, she had summoned him with a cryptic text message that hinted of peril and promised great reward if he hastened to a rendezvous in Morocco. There had to be more to the situation than what appeared at first glance. He decided to play his cards close to the vest.

"You picked a hell of a place for a reunion, Lyse, but it's good to see you again." He decided not to let her know how good; no sense in giving her that much leverage. "So, I'm here. What's this all about?"

Before she could answer, the Fat Man spoke. "Your lady friend owes me money, monsieur. A great deal of money."

The search turned up nothing; no weapons were concealed in the deep cargo pockets of his olive drab military surplus trousers or beneath the roomy fabric of his Ex Oficio photojournalist-style work shirt. Kismet fixed Lyse with an accusing stare. "Want to tell me about it?"

"I had some bad luck," she replied evasively. She tried to evince anxiety with her facial expression but her body language was confident. She was far more in control of the situation than she wanted Kismet to believe.

"Your friend begged for me to allow her to send for you, Monsieur Kismet. I would have been content to simply sell her to some friends of mine who provide — ah, shall we say special entertainment services? — in order to recoup my losses, but she insists you can help." The Fat Man smiled and wiped his fingers on the front of his robe. "I trust you can?"

Kismet did not break eye contact with her. "What do you have in mind?"

Lyse was still grimacing from the Fat Man's threat, but she looked back hopefully at Kismet. "I've got something you'll want."

She motioned for him to follow her to a table against one wall. The Fat Man struggled to his feet and joined them. Lyse pulled back a covering piece of fabric to reveal a small statue, about a foot long and a hand's breadth high. Kismet reached for it and examined it more closely.

"Know what it is?"

"Golden calf," Kismet muttered, mostly to himself. "Agricultural deity. Designed along the lines of an Egyptian Apis bull. Disk of Amon Ra, the sun god, between the horns."

He rubbed a finger along the surface of the disk, feeling a faint indentation, then held the statuette up to the light and peered intently at the inscription on the disk. Four characters of Semitic script were engraved on the soft metal, the four consonants which represented the name of God. Kismet frowned, then turned the statue over and examined its underside.

"On a hunch, I'd say this is a replica of the golden calf, described in the Bible account of the exodus from Egypt. Possibly used by the Hebrews in calf worship ceremonies in Samaria, circa — oh, say 800 BCE." He hefted it, trying to judge the content of gold. "Not very heavy, probably acacia wood, overlaid with gold. Where did you pick it up?"

"That is unimportant," interjected the Fat Man. "It belongs to your friend; it is her only remaining possession. My sources tell me I can get twenty thousand Euro on the open market. Mademoiselle Lyon's debt to me is more than twice that amount. She says that she can convince you to pay fifty thousand Euro. If you do not, I will sell it to a private collector for whatever I can get—" He glanced over at Lyse, a gleeful look of mayhem dancing in his squinty eyes— "and deal with the mademoiselle accordingly."

Lyse swallowed, a touch too dramatically. "Come on, Nick. You know this thing is priceless. Help me out here."

Kismet turned the statue over once more. "Fifty thousand?" In his head, he juggled the current rate of exchange, converting the figure into an approximate value in American dollars. It remained a large sum in any denomination.

It was not Nick Kismet's job to roam the world purchasing art treasures in order to rescue damsels in distress. In fact, for more than a decade he had been dedicated to the prospect of stamping out the black market trade of cultural art, as part of the UNESCO Global Heritage Commission. Men like the Fat Man, and evidently women like his former college flame Lysette Lyon, were the enemy in that struggle. The idea of paying the Fat Man-negotiating a ransom price-for something that belonged in a national museum was repugnant.

He did however, have the money.

"This thing is right out of the Bible," continued Lyse, as if the assertion would somehow lend gravity to her plea. "It proves that they really did worship calves."

"It would really help if I knew where you got it," Kismet countered as he continued his examination. He carefully pressed a thumbnail against the soft yellow metal. It was gold all right, and too pure to be an electroplated fake. Nevertheless, something about the statue nagged at him; something about it was not right.

"Enough discussion," roared the Fat Man, his bulk jiggling as he gestured emphatically. "Will you pay, monsieur? Is fifty thousand too much? How about thirty thousand, and I let Tariq have some fun with Mme. Lyon for our viewing pleasure."

Kismet ignored the man's tirade, but one of the bodyguards — the man with the scar — moved closer, as if eager to indulge the proposition. Lyse continued pleading for him to buy the statue, but he tuned her out, focusing on the sun disk. He stared at the inscription for several seconds before realizing what it was about the statue that had been bothering him. He kicked himself for having failed to note the discrepancy in his initial inspection, then lowered the calf and turned to Lyse.

"We need to talk," he said in a low voice.

"No talk," declared the Fat Man. "Buy the statue now or she dies. That is a promise, Kismet. And might I add that it would also be to your own advantage to act quickly."

Kismet glanced from Lyse to the Fat Man, then back again, trying to read the intent on their faces. Someone was trying to con him, but who was the mastermind: the Fat Man or Lyse? There had been times during the course of their relationship when she had delighted in pranks, twisting him around her little finger, but nothing like this.

He was sure of one thing. The Fat Man was not going to let them just walk away. It was time to take the initiative. Hefting the statue casually, he faced their corpulent host. "Well, I don't actually have that much cash with me. Do you take American Express?"

The Fat Man gazed back, incredulous. Kismet grinned, and then burst into motion. Turning on his heel, he swung the statue like a club, catching the bodyguard Tariq in the jaw. The big Moor collapsed backward, dazed but not unconscious.

"Nick, what are you doing?" shrieked Lyse.

As the remaining guard reached for his gun, Kismet hurled the statue at him. The artifact caught the man in the elbow, and his pistol tumbled from his grasp. Kismet leapt across the room, laying the stunned man out with a haymaker punch. Now nothing stood between him and the exit.

Lyse seemed to be frozen to the spot where she stood. Her eyes flashed around the room, glancing rapidly at the Fat Man and the bodyguards, but then her gaze settled upon the golden statue where it lay.

"Are you coming?" growled Kismet.

The Fat Man suddenly began crying out for help, but did not move to hinder either of them. Lyse overcame her shock and dashed across the room, pausing only to scoop up the fallen relic.

"Lyse, that statue—" He was unable to finish the sentence as Tariq got to his feet and charged. Lyse's small form darted through the beaded curtain, leaving him to face the wrath of the bodyguards alone. Rather than attempt to match the big man in hand-to-hand combat, he simply stepped aside at the last minute, sweeping out with his foot out to hook Tariq's ankle. The big man plunged headlong into the wall, and Kismet vaulted over him in pursuit of his old flame.

He caught up to her at the front entrance where she was panting to catch her breath. A dark shape rested on a table beside the door; his waist pack waiting right where he had left it after entering the Fat Man's lair. He looped the buckled strap over his head so that it hung from his shoulder like a satchel, then took hold of Lyse's arm and dragged her out into the street.

"Which way?" she asked, her breathing almost normal again.

Kismet shrugged then chose to follow the street to the right, toward the fading glow of the sunset. The main suuq, the Djemaa el-Fna, lay in that direction. The crowded marketplace would provide ample opportunity to blend in and escape spying eyes. A moment later Tariq and his companion burst from the house and gave chase.

The streets were narrow, the two and three story buildings seeming to fold over on top of them like a subterranean passageway. He knew that these streets, like some of the forgotten places he had explored in his search for answers about the strange mystery of his life, formed a daunting maze full of dead ends and unpleasant surprises.

As they rounded a corner, Kismet saw that the street ahead was partially blocked; a forest-green Range Rover was parked at an angle to effectively limit access to the avenue. A Caucasian man leaned against the front fender of the vehicle, idly smoking a cigarette and shooing off beggars and children as thought they were flies, with a dismissive smoky wave. When he caught sight of Kismet and Lyse running toward him the half-finished butt fell from his fingers.

A commotion erupted behind them as Tariq, his companion and several other men — undoubtedly the Fat Man's domestic staff — burst out onto the street, shouting angrily and scanning in all directions to locate the fleeing duo. Kismet glanced at them then returned his gaze forward, focused on darting past the parked vehicle. He almost failed to notice the bystander withdrawing a handgun from a concealed holster.

"Jesus," he gasped, whirling in mid-step and all but tackling Lyse in his haste to seek cover. He knew the gesture was futile. At less than ten paces, the man with the pistol could cut them to ribbons. As Lyse went down, barely aware of the new threat, the golden statue tumbled from her grasp. The relic clanked loudly on the brick surface of the street and rolled a few feet away. In his peripheral vision, Kismet saw her struggling to retrieve it.

"Lyse, that thing is—"

The gun spoke. Loud explosions echoed in the narrow confines of the street as the forty-five-caliber pistol discharged several times into the air over their heads. The man continued to pump bullets, not at the hapless pair on the ground, but into the crowd of men pursuing them. Several of the shots found their mark; Kismet heard cries of pain and cursing as the mob scattered, seeking the cover of doorways and debris. He knew it would not be long before Tariq and his cohorts returned fire, with himself and Lyse caught in the middle.

Why the motorist had come to their assistance, Kismet could not fathom, but when he looked up, he found the man gesturing for them to get in the Range Rover. Kismet nodded, and tried to crawl toward the vehicle, but his left ankle seemed rooted in place. He looked back and found Lyse clutching his foot.

"No, Nick. This way." She jumped up, the golden calf tucked under her arm, and began running back the way they had come.

"Lyse! What the hell-?" Kismet gaped in amazement as she threaded the gauntlet seemingly unnoticed by the Fat Man's mob, which apparently had more pressing concerns. He turned back to the pistol-wielding motorist, and found that the man's expression was no longer that of an eager rescuer. A muscle in the gunman's face had begun to twitch with rising ire, leading Kismet to believe that perhaps Lyse had made the correct decision after all. "Oh," he muttered, then took off running.

As he darted through the huddled group of men that had now given up pursuit, he heard the motorist barking orders in German. He risked a rearward glance and found that the fellow had not come to the street alone. Several men wearing casual Western attire materialized from the rear of the vehicle and took up the chase. Kismet swung his eyes forward, straining to catch a glimpse of Lyse, and poured on a burst of speed. Behind him the concussions of pistol fire resumed, but now the shooting was from both parties; a small war had begun in the street outside the Fat Man's house. Sparks danced on the walls to either side telling Kismet that although he was no longer the primary target, he was still in grave danger of catching a stray bullet. Lysette was nowhere to be seen.

"Ni-i-ick!"

The cry for help came from up ahead and to the left. Kismet spied an intersecting street and darted down it, leaving the firefight behind. When he turned the corner, he skidded to a halt.

An old beggar, eyes staring blankly in apparent blindness, sat with his back to one wall, oblivious to the violence a block away. He held a long rod in his fingers, and a straw basket lay before him, its lid resting against his knee.

Lyse was not looking at the beggar, but at his pet, an Egyptian Cobra which hovered in the center of the street, swaying dangerously from left to right, signaling its clear intent that no one would pass unmolested. The toothless mendicant cackled beside them, mocking their fear as he waved the oblong rod toward them. It was a flute, a snake charmer's horn. If they were to pass by, they would have to give alms and wait for him to play his tune.

"Lyse," muttered Kismet from the corner of his mouth. "Pay the nice man."

"Me? I don't have any money. You pay him."

"Oh, for crying out loud." He fumbled for his waist pack, but the intensity of the cobra's stare was hypnotic, depriving him of volition.

On the avenue they had left behind, an ominous silence settled. The shooting had ceased; the battle was over. The victorious party, whichever it was, would soon remember the original purpose for venturing into the streets of the old city. Kismet knew that time was running out. Biting his lip, he tried to force his eyelids down in order to break visual contact with the viper, but they conspired against him; his fear of what the cobra might do if he looked away nearly overpowered his will to even blink. At last succeeding, he turned his head toward Lyse.

She too was transfixed by the cobra's stare. Kismet kept his gaze focused, refusing to believe the hysterical delusions and visual tricks that were being played in the corner of his eye. His rational mind knew that the cobra was not slithering closer even though every nerve in his body screamed that it was.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached out for Lyse's arm and plucked the golden statue from her grasp. Before she could protest, Kismet whirled and tossed the relic into the beggar's basket. The old fellow nodded his head appreciatively and raised the flute to his lips.

"Nick, no!" Lyse leaped into motion. She crossed in front of him and reached for the basket.

"Lyse, it's a—" Kismet fell silent as he saw the snake move. He knew that this time what he saw was no hallucination.

The cobra knew its responsibility to its master. Once something went into the basket, it became the old man's property. Theft was to be punished. With the swiftness of a lightning strike, its fangs bared and oozing venom, the snake darted for her outstretched arm.

Kismet was faster. He instinctively stabbed out his right hand and plucked the animal out of the air, arresting its deadly strike, and suddenly found himself gripping the business end of a six foot length of squirming reptile.

He squeezed the serpent just behind the curl of its jaw, clenching his teeth in frustration as the snake writhed and coiled about him, hissing angrily. When the viper finally succumbed to captivity, Kismet turned slowly toward the old man and with a weak pitch tossed the cobra away.

Lyse was stunned by the sequence of events, all of which had transpired in the space of a heartbeat. With a more subdued manner, she retrieved the statue. "Let's get out of here."

Armed men appeared in the vacant space behind them, communicating with each other in Teutonic barks. Lyse grabbed his arm, breaking the spell, and they took off running. If the cobra had any sort of ego to bruise, it recovered quickly and slithered back into the street to waylay the next group of passers-by.

At the end of the street, Lyse ran to the right with Kismet on her heels. She continued to chart a haphazard course through the labyrinth, leading them into a more heavily populated area — one of the many suuqs, or covered marketplaces that dotted the city. Kismet was completely turned around now and the growing darkness added to his anxiety. He knew they needed to slow down, get their bearings, but the unknown pursuers were relentless. By fair means or foul, they had quickly dealt with the snake charmer and remained never more than half a block away. One wrong turn into a cul-de-sac might prove fatal. There would be no second chances.

Lyse dashed into a narrow recess, and when Kismet followed, he found himself in near total darkness. He heard strange noises in the pitch black ahead, and sensed that something disastrous had befallen his companion.

"Lyse?"

"Nick." The response was weak, sounding almost distant. It seemed to come from ground level, only a few steps away, but was muffled, as though from a tomb. Kismet advanced cautiously.

His right foot came down on nothing and without warning he plunged forward. His shoulders struck rotted wood as he plummeted into an unseen abyss, and an instant later he was laying face down in something hot and moist. He sat up, shaking his head to clear the sense of dislocation. Then the stench hit him.

"Ohhhh…shit." Fighting back the urge to inhale, he began wiping the streaks of offending matter away from his mouth and nose.

"Nick, is that you? I think we fell into a sewer tunnel."

"You noticed that?" he replied irritably. His only pleasure was in the secret knowledge that if he found the situation — euphemistically speaking — unpleasant, then Lyse, whom he had known to refuse to even enter public restrooms, must have thought she'd died and gone to hell.

Somewhere high above them an opening had been made in the street, guarded only by a simple wooden barricade, affording access to one of the sewer tunnels, which, despite being a relic of another age, still serviced the city above. In any other circumstances he might have found this turn of events amusing, but sitting in rotting human waste soured his sense of humor.

Kismet opened his pack and began sorting through its contents with his fingertips. He could feel the broad outline of his kukri knife, sheathed in a traditional scabbard of wood and leather that was integrated into the custom-made bag. He then encountered the solid composite frame of his Glock 17 automatic pistol, but pushed past it as well. His fingers settled momentarily on an envelope, thick with a bundle of paper — nearly one hundred thousand dollars in American Express travelers checques, which he had brought along in the event that Lyse's artifact had proved worth purchasing. At last he found the object of his search, the long black metal tube of a MagLite LED flashlight. He took it out and pressed the sealed rubber button that protected the switch.

A beam of light pierced the steamy atmosphere, picking out a random spot on the curved sewer walls. Kismet swung the beam around until he located his companion. She seemed less beautiful in that moment, up to her elbows in the muck, searching for something.

"For God's sake, Lyse. That statue is a—"

Another shaft of illumination stabbed down into the shadows between them. Kismet swung his own light up and found the hole through which he and Lyse had fallen, fifteen feet overhead, now ringed by hard looking faces. Two of the men held high-intensity flashlights similar to his own. Another, the motorist with the pistol, pointed down at Kismet and barked a command in German. The men looked back hesitantly, but Kismet knew that eventually he and Lyse would have the pleasure of their company in the reeking passage.

Lyse did not relent in her search. "Just help me find it, will you?"

Growling, Kismet plunged his right hand into the slurry and stirred around until he encountered something hard and heavy. He closed his fist around the object, silently praying that it was the statue, and drew it out. Dark matter fell away to reveal gleaming gold. She snatched it from his hand and jumped erect. The sewage came up to her knees, hampering her steps, but she nevertheless started splashing through the tunnel.

Kismet frowned and shined the light across the surface of the effluent. He detected a faint movement, a gradual flow of the sewage in the direction opposite that she had chosen. "Lyse! Wrong way. Get back here." He flashed the light down the passage and located her; she had turned around and was returning to the spot where they had entered.

One of the armed men dropped between them, losing his balance as he landed. Kismet swung the MagLite like a cudgel, connecting solidly with the side of the man's head. Dazed, the stranger fell back into the sewage with a splash.

The heavy-duty light did not even flicker with the impact, but Kismet berated himself for having used their only source of illumination as a weapon. He glanced up and saw another man dangling into the hole, about to drop, and knew that it was time to be moving on. He and Lyse charged into the depths of the tunnel as their foes dropped down to pursue.

If the streets of the city had been a cunning maze, then the underworld below was doubly so. New branches appeared at irregular intervals. Sloping conduits dripping with fecal matter and wastewater increased the volume of the muck though which they struggled. Occasional movements, barely captured in the beam of the flashlight, revealed that other creatures called this dark place home.

Kismet led them true, following the gradual decline of the city's sewers to its eventual destination. After several minutes of desperate wading and running, he and his companion burst out of their underground prison and into the open night. The sewer pipe exited from a steep embankment with the city walls high above. Below the opening however, a drop of several yards, ended in a vast cesspool. Lyse gazed warily down at the murk, then looked to him.

"Now what?"

Kismet was already beginning to climb along the face of the cliff. Lyse attempted to follow, but discovered that the statue she had risked life and limb to safeguard now encumbered her movements.

"Just leave it!" shouted Kismet.

She shook her head, then grasped the front of her T-shirt and untucked it from her jeans. She placed the statue in the makeshift sling of fabric and pulled the hem of the garment up until she could hold it between clenched teeth. Only then did she begin looking around the edge of the tunnel in search of a handhold. Her delay was costly. She had only reached the perimeter of the cesspool when their pursuers appeared at the opening of the sewer pipe. Sliding down the steep face, she dropped at Kismet's side. The weight of golden statue had stretched her shirt so that it almost covered her otherwise bare midriff. Kismet shook his head in mock despair then silently led their flight out across the desert sands.

The beams of their pursuers' lights danced like glowing bats in the darkness behind them. He was amazed at the relentless effort put forth to run them down, but why they were being chased by these foreigners, he could not imagine.

He chose to stay within sight of the old city's walls. Even at the dawn of a new millennium, people resided in the wilderness outside the city as they had for thousands of years before, living in tents and joining together in small ad hoc communities. A column of smoke rising against the twilit sky revealed some manner of civilization directly ahead. Kismet switched the MagLite off, hoping camouflage among the shadows would conceal them, and guided Lyse forward.

A chaotic barrier of wind-sculpted boulders blocked the way to the source of the smoke. As he threaded through he spied a cluster of tents, arranged around a large fire in a clearing not far ahead. A score of camels were tethered to a stake driven into the ground near the edge of the camp. Kismet grinned triumphantly; this was their ticket out of trouble. He grabbed hold of Lyse's elbow and dragged her into the clearing.

The camp belonged to nomadic Tuaregs, a tribe of Berber wanderers who for thousands of years had roamed the ancient caravan routes in robes dyed with indigo. Kismet knew that they were formidable adversaries when threatened and proceeded with due caution.

A few dark figures moved between the tents, but none seemed to take note of the foul smelling pair that crept toward the camp. Although he and Lyse were upwind, Kismet figured that the nomads had already grown accustomed to the stink of the nearby cesspool, and thus would not detect the stench they emitted.

A sentinel had been stationed near the camels; a young man Kismet presumed, though his alasho, the traditional swath of indigo fabric that served as both a turban and a veil for male Tuaregs, concealed anything that might have given his age away. The unsuspecting youth was huddled against the cold of the desert night.

Reasoning that the scarf limited the sentinel's field of view, Kismet gestured for Lyse to stay hidden then set out to flank the watch-post. The camels began snorting as he approached, and he immediately dropped flat on the sand. The young man noted the behavior of the herd, but could not comprehend the reason for their agitation. He nervously glanced around, fearful of an intruder, but was unable to distinguish Kismet's dark, earth-colored clothing. Moving slowly and stealthily, Kismet crept behind the guard. He reached out and tapped him on the shoulder, and as the veiled head turned to look, Kismet struck.

The blow stunned the young man for only a moment, but it was enough for Kismet to leap forward and seize hold of his alasho. A yank on the fabric loosened the wrap, and before he knew what was happening, the sentinel was hog-tied with his own turban. The young man writhed and moaned on the ground, but the blue cloth between his teeth muffled his cries for help. Kismet rose warily and advanced on the herd.

Lyse stepped from her hiding place and jogged over to join him. "Nick, they cut off body parts when people steal camels around here."

"Have you got a better idea?"

She shrugged.

"I didn't think so," he continued. "But if it will make you feel better, leave that statue behind as payment."

"Absolutely not."

Kismet sighed, then delved into his satchel and extracted a handful of traveler's checques. He wondered if the nomads would understand the value of the currency vouchers, but nevertheless scribbled his signature on several of the documents and stuffed them into the folds of the sentinel's garment. "Better?"

Lyse nodded.

"Then let's get out of here. Can you ride one of these things?"

"Is it anything like a bicycle?"

He shook his head in despair. "Not remotely."

"Good, 'cause I never learned how to ride a bicycle." She kept a straight face for a moment, and then cracked a grin — that winning smile that swept away all resistance. "I'm kidding, okay? Yeah, I can ride a camel. I don't like them, but I can do it."

She walked over to the camels, picked a smaller one out of the group and stroked its nose. After a few seconds it knelt, allowing her to step on its knee that she might ascend to the saddle high above its humps. With unexpected ease, she swung into riding position as the beast rose to full height.

Kismet laughed in spite of himself and went to join her. After selecting a mount for himself he untethered both of their rides and walked his chosen camel away from the campsite. A warm sirocco had picked up since the fall of evening, blowing a haze of dust in its vanguard. "We should rig some kind of safety line so that we don't get separated."

She glanced back hesitantly. "Then what?"

"We ride for the coast. Then we catch a flight back to the States."

Lyse inhaled deeply and let her breath out slowly. "I can't go yet, Nick. I still have things to do here."

"Lyse, if we go back, we're dead. If those guys — Germans, or whatever — don't get us, the Fat Man will."

"I have to go alone. I need you to take the statue back and keep it safe for me. It's important, Nick."

"You're going to have to do better than that if you want my help."

"I'm sorry, but I can't tell you any more than I already have. I'm sworn to secrecy." She winced, as if embarrassed by the declaration. "Look, just take the statue back to the States. Put it somewhere safe until I can catch up with you. I'll pay for all your expenses." She unrolled the relic from her disfigured shirt and tossed it to Kismet.

He caught the statue with his left hand. He knew from experience that if she was intent on returning to the city, further discussion would be futile. He stowed the artifact in his bag, taking something out at the same time.

"Hey Lyse." He held up his Glock. "You might need this."

Her face broke into a smile of sincere gratitude. She slid a hand down the inside of her left thigh, separating the fabric with a rasping noise that could only be the halves of a Velcro closure. A compact automatic pistol-a Glock 26, nearly identical to his only much smaller-appeared in her right hand.

"You had that the whole time?"

"Nick, you know I hate violence. This is for emergencies; a last resort."

Kismet let out a frustrated sigh. "Just be careful, will you?"

"Always." She smiled and turned the camel to ride away.

"Wait a minute. There's something I need to tell you."

She gazed back. "What's that?"

"The statue. There's no way it's an ancient artifact. Whoever made it did an expert job, but the inscription is a style of Hebrew that wasn't used until about three hundred years after the end of calf worship in Samaria. In short, the statue that you refused to leave behind is a fake."

Her reaction left him dumbstruck. Lyse did not protest or question his appraisal, nor did she fly into a rage at having been tricked by a forger. Instead, she simply laughed.

"Nick, I knew that."

She laughed again then urged the camel to a gallop. When the cloud of dust left by her exit had been swept away by the desert winds, Kismet, with a fixed look of disbelief, climbed onto his camel and rode toward the last gleams of sunset.

TWO

It was not the blowing sands of the Sahara that tapped lightly against the windowpanes of Nick Kismet's office, but rather a dusting of grainy, New York City snow. Though it was only five o'clock in the evening, the stormy December sky over Manhattan was already dark. The snowflakes were visible only in the glare of street lamps. Kismet gazed absently out the tiny window a moment longer, and then turned away.

The official presence of the UN's Global Heritage Commission was located not in the legendary United Nations building on 44th Street overlooking the East River, but instead several city blocks away in an inconspicuous corner of the American Museum of Natural History. Its extensive collection of anthropological artifacts had made the AMNH one of two locations considered for the dubious privilege of hosting the GHC, the other being the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Natural History had drawn the short straw and grudgingly made room in the lower level of the massive edifice, giving Kismet a converted supply closet just down the corridor from the school lunchroom. It wasn't much of an office, but for Kismet's purposes it was more than adequate.

The Global Heritage Commission had been created in the early 1980's as part of the UN's effort to remodel UNESCO — the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization. Established in 1946, UNESCO had set forth noble goals for itself — the elimination of illiteracy, the free exchange of scientific ideas, the protection of historical locations and art treasures — but decades of Cold War politics had undermined those lofty intentions. In 1984, the United States of America had withdrawn from membership, removing a cornerstone of financial and political support. Nevertheless, it had taken the United Nations more than fifteen years to address the issues that created the schism in the first place. The Global Heritage Commission had begun as an interim compromise, addressing a narrower band of issues without being subject to the whims of an international governing body. The efforts to repair UNESCO had ultimately paid off, culminating with the official renewal of the United States' membership in 2003.

Despite the reestablishment of its parent organization, the GHC continued to perform a valuable function on the international playing field. Kismet's duties typically involved random inspections of American sponsored archaeological sites, advance negotiations on behalf of pioneering scientists, and acting as a liaison with law enforcement agencies investigating the illicit antiquities trade. In the big picture, it probably wasn't a very important job, and it certainly didn't pay very well, but Kismet found his vocation desirable for one simple reason: answers.

Nick Kismet didn't know a great deal about his own origins. A foundling, he had been raised by Christian Garral, a globetrotting adventurer and a self-made man of means, who had adopted the boy as his own son. His name was itself a relic of his post-natal abandonment — Garral, on one of his adventures, claimed to have encountered a young woman in the throes of child birth and assisted her in extremis. Almost immediately following the birth, the mother had slipped away, leaving only a single word, written in the blood of her womb and in a strange alien script. Garral had eventually deciphered it-the Arabic word: qismat. To Westerners, it transliterated as "kismet." An ancient and powerful word, its earliest meaning was the portion of land given to the firstborn, but later came to be associated with fate and destiny. Taking this as omen, Garral had elected to adopt the boy and ascribed him that distinctive surname. "Nick" was chosen for more prosaic reasons; Garral's own father was named Nicklaus.

Because he had no memory of his strange nativity, Kismet had over the course of the years, regarded the matter with some suspicion; his father was not above spinning a whopper of a tall tale. His uniquely stimulating childhood had kept him from agonizing overmuch about the matter as Garral's adventures took him to exotic environments in every corner of the globe. When at last it became time for him to formalize his education, his affinity for the many places he had visited in his youth led him to pursue the study of international law. In order to help pay for his studies — a matter of personal pride on his own part, for Garral was certainly wealthy enough to foot the bill — he had joined the Army ROTC, and his grasp of several different languages had led him to choose Military Intelligence as his occupational specialty. It had all been academic up until the events of late 1990, when armies from Iraq had invaded Kuwait and seemed poised to attack Saudi Arabia as well. Although he had always recognized the possibility of a deployment, the activation orders had come with the finality of a guillotine. He had said his good-byes and after a brief train-up, shipped out to Riyadh.

After the initial shock of dislocation had faded, he had come to accept his part in the greater mission to liberate Kuwait, but on one fateful night his world had been turned upside down. Seemingly from out of nowhere, he had been given orders for an over the border operation — the rescue of a defector with important military secrets. Compounding the irregularity of the orders was the fact that he would be accompanied only by a squad of Gurkhas. Britain's answer to the French Foreign Legion, the Gurkhas were a regiment of soldiers named for the fierce warrior tribe of Nepal whose signature weapon was a boomerang-shaped chopping knife called a kukri, and like their namesake, the Gurkhas fought heroically wherever they were sent. Half a century after the fact, they were still boasting about the fact the Gurkhas had suffered the highest casualty rates of Allied soldiers during the Second World War. Kismet's escorts had certainly honored the memories of their predecessors that night with a sacrifice of their own blood, but not before Kismet made contact with the defector, a man who identified himself as Samir Al-Azir, an engineer for the Iraqi regime who had, in the course of rebuilding the ancient city of Babylon, discovered a strange and extraordinarily valuable relic dating back to the destruction of Jerusalem by the Babylonian Emperor Nebuchadnezzar. Fearing that the United States might capture the relic and return it to Israel, Saddam Hussein had ordered Samir to destroy it, but the engineer had demurred choosing instead to use the artifact as a bargaining token to secure safe passage for himself and his family.

And that was where it really got strange, for when Samir Al-Azir had contacted a British government official, requesting asylum, he had specifically asked to be met in Tall al Muqayyar — the ruins of ancient Ur, near the modern city of Nasyriah — by an American named Nick Kismet. All of this was revealed to a young and disbelieving Second Lieutenant Kismet in the half-buried remains of a long forgotten nobleman's dwelling, but before Kismet could fully comprehend what he was being told, a group of commandos had stormed the location, and slaughtered Samir and his family. Stranger still, the leader of the assault force, a man who identified himself as Ulrich Hauser, indicated that Kismet's life was to be spared out of deference to his mother. Hauser had then disappeared with the captured relic, leaving only a cryptic reference to Prometheus, a figure from Greek mythology, to explain his actions.

It might have ended right there. Stranded behind enemy lines as the air war commenced, Kismet and the contingent of Gurkhas were hunted relentlessly by Republican Guard forces, and ultimately captured. In the end, only Kismet and one other soldier, a Gurkha from New Zealand named Alex Higgins, made it back.

Scar tissue eventually covered the battle wounds, but the events of that night continued to hemorrhage his soul's essence. Who was Hauser, and what was his connection to Kismet's mother? How had Samir known to request him specifically by name, and why? And who or what was Prometheus?

There was of course, one other clue that he could not overlook: the relic. He had not actually seen it, but had inferred much about it from his brief conversation with Samir; it was the holiest of holy relics. Hauser had also hinted that Prometheus' mission was to keep such icons and artifacts safely locked away, and so Kismet had begun his quest by embarking on a greater understanding of the world of art and antiquities. If the conspirators he had faced that night in the desert sought ancient relics, then perhaps in the ancient places of the world, he would find their figurative footprints. His quest led to Paris where, despite finding no answers, he cultivated a friendship with the director of the Global Heritage Commission and was ultimately offered a job as GHC liaison to the United States. Reasoning the position would afford him opportunity to investigate the mystery of his life, he had accepted. For years thereafter he had kept his ear to the ground, listening for any whispers that might shed light on what had happened that night in the ruins of Tall al Muqayyar.

He had not even considered what he had lost in his single-minded quests to unmask Prometheus; not until the curious summons had brought him once more in contact with Lysette Lyon. He turned to his desktop where Lyse's latest email continued to shine from the computer monitor:

His eagerness to rendezvous with Lyse had nothing to do with her overt promises; things were different now, evidently for both of them, and he was going to exact the price of his favor in information and nothing else. During the days since his escape from Morocco he had mulled over the situation and decided that if Lyse wanted her trinket back — and Kismet knew it was not any sort of rare artifact — she was going to have to make a full confession.

He rose from his desk and paced around the office, then checked his watch again. It was nearly five-thirty and she had yet to show. She was going to have to spring for dinner too, he decided.

The sound of a door opening in the hallway alerted Kismet to the arrival of a guest. He idly ran a hand through his short cropped hair and settled into his chair, then propped his feet up on an open drawer and tried his best to look nonchalant. The figure beyond the frosted pane of the door that bore his name paused then tried the doorknob.

"Mr. Kismet?"

It was not Lyse. He immediately dropped his feet to the floor and sat up. "Yes. Please come in."

The door swung open, revealing a tall man about the same age as Kismet. He was well dressed, bundled against the chill air, and carried himself with the effete manner of a sophisticate. Kismet felt a glimmer of recognition looking at the man's handsome features, wavy blonde hair and thin mustache, but he could not put a name to the face. The man approached his desk, extending a hand, which Kismet accepted, standing to greet the newcomer.

"It's good to see you again," the man offered.

The British accent was maddeningly familiar and his introduction suggested some prior acquaintance, but Kismet once more drew a blank. "What can I do for you?"

The handsome face broke into an odd smile. "You don't remember me?"

"Frankly, I…" All of a sudden, he did remember and the recollection was not pleasant. "Andrew Harcourt."

"Most people call me 'Sir Andrew,' nowadays." Harcourt made no attempt to mask his pride.

"Sir Andrew? Well…congratulations." The pieces continued falling into place, triggering one uncomfortable memory after another, but Kismet nevertheless extended his right hand, accepting Harcourt's quick shake. "Why don't you sit down? You'll be more comfortable."

"Why thank you. I say, were you expecting someone else?"

"I had another appointment, but it seems I've been stood up. No matter though. To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from Her Majesty's favorite archaeologist? Digging on our side of the pond again?"

Harcourt laughed. "Not exactly, but I am in the planning stages of an endeavor which should prove quite…um, earthshaking. Actually, that's what brings me here today. I wish to prevail upon you to join me."

Kismet stared back at the archaeologist. He rarely made judgments about the academics he frequently encountered, but his one brush with Harcourt had been unpleasant enough that a bad taste lingered. He tried to conceal his surprise. "I'm touched, but why me?"

"Given our history, I think it only makes sense for me to bring someone along from the Commission to avoid the perception of impropriety."

The explanation seemed a little shaky but Kismet decided to play along. "Why don't you tell me what you have in mind?"

"I'd rather show you." Harcourt held up a leather attaché case, which he set down on Kismet's desk and opened. He removed a cloth wrapped parcel and laid it on the desk for Kismet to inspect. In the center of the cloth was a fragment of metal, broken it appeared from an ancient war helmet of Greek design. The piece seemed to have been, at one time, the right forward quarter of the helmet. Kismet took note of the straight edges, which ran along the bottom and leading sides, curving into an eyehole, and then dropped down to shield the bridge of the nose. The breaking points were jagged, as though the helmet had been cut or torn apart, rather than decaying from corrosion. The metal was scored and dented in several places, suggesting that it had seen use in combat, but the minor defects had since been covered by a thin veneer of bright, flawless metal: gold.

Kismet reached for it. "May I?"

"Please do."

The helmet fragment was not solid gold; it was much too lightweight. He felt a faint residue on the surface and noticed a white concentration in some of the cracks, but the artifact had not tarnished at all. A probing finger wiped the substance away, and when he touched it to his lips, there was only a salty flavor, not the expected tang of copper. He flipped it over and looked inside the helmet. A tiny patch of gold had been scraped away, revealing darker metal beneath — tarnished bronze. "You did this?" Kismet asked, pointing to the defect.

Harcourt nodded.

"And the overlay is gold?"

Harcourt pursed his lips. "It's not exactly an overlay. The metallurgists I've showed it to say it's as if the outer surface of the bronze were transmuted."

Kismet raised an eyebrow, but did not pursue the matter; he remembered Harcourt's penchant for blending pseudo-science and mysticism with the facts in order to paint a dramatic, if not entirely authentic picture of the past. He placed the fragment against his face, trying to imagine how it would have looked on the ancient warrior to whom it originally belonged. "What do you think?"

"Very becoming."

The helmet had been fashioned for someone with a smaller head, probably a youth. "Where did you find this?"

"Unfortunately I didn't find it, but rather purchased it. If I knew where it had been found, my quest would be far simpler."

"So it could be from almost any site, anywhere. What makes you think this will lead to an undiscovered site?"

"That piece is like nothing that has ever been uncovered. It is unique in many ways, not the least of which is the gold covering."

"That could have been done later. The Greeks pioneered the technique of electroplating thousands of years ago, but you know as well as I that the ancients didn't waste their gold decorating war helmets. Maybe the person who sold it to you was trying to increase its value."

"Perhaps there is another explanation." Harcourt's Cheshire cat grin suggested he was about to elaborate.

"I'm listening."

Harcourt reached into the case and drew out a large manila envelope, which he casually tossed over to Kismet. The envelope contained five 8"X10" photographs. They were all images of a single piece of white stone viewed from different aspects. Kismet spread them out and began examining from left to right.

The subject of the photos was unquestionably an artifact, a product of some intelligence rather than a random occurrence of nature. Like the helmet, the white stone had been damaged at some point in its long history, destroying its intended symmetry. One of the photographs showed it lying alongside a measuring tape, helping Kismet to understand why Harcourt had not simply brought the piece itself.

The stone was a block, a foot in depth and width, and about two feet to the long point of where it had been broken. The fracture had cleaved a forty-five degree angle through length, more or less leaving the other dimensions unaltered. The fourth picture was a close-up of one facet, and the photographer had adjusted his angle to highlight in shadow a series of carved letters.

"Can you read what it says?"

Kismet shrugged. "Ancient Greek really isn't my field."

"Ah, of course. But you are proficient in its modern equivalent, are you not? There are differences of course, but the letters are similar. Give it a try."

Kismet frowned, but returned his gaze to the photograph. "The first word is partly damaged, but I would imagine that this is an altar stone, so I would infer that it says 'bomos,' or 'altar of offerings.'"

"I knew you were only being modest. And the second word?"

"'Medea.' Offerings to Medea?"

Harcourt sat back smugly. "What do you think of that?"

Kismet's reply was guarded. "What am I supposed to think?"

"Oh, don't be so coy, Nick. You know as well as I who Medea was; the witch-queen from the legend of Jason and the Argonauts, daughter of the king of Colchis, the land where the Golden Fleece was hidden."

Kismet frowned, recalling the old adage about a little knowledge being dangerous. "Medea was never worshiped by the ancient Greeks. She was merely a character in a story that was a myth even to them."

"I would suggest that the altar stone you see in the photograph proves that someone did worship her.”

"Perhaps the stone was a theatrical prop. The legend of the Argonauts was a favorite of Greek dramatists." Kismet knew the argument was weak, but he saw where Harcourt was leading and felt compelled to head him off.

"Then the set designer was rather over-eager, don't you think? That's white marble, a rather expensive choice for use as a decoration."

"Touché." Kismet sighed, staring once more at the words on the photograph. "All right, someone worshiped somebody named Medea. If it was the same person as the one in the legend, what does that prove? There are thousands of altars, temples and shrines to dozens of gods, nymphs and oracles. Those temples in no way prove that such persons or creatures existed."

"You've gotten ahead of me, Nick. I merely present this to you as evidence of an aspect of ancient culture with which we are unfamiliar."

"And you think there's more to be discovered?"

"I am certain of it." Harcourt sat back and pressed his fingers together. "However, let me return to the subject of Medea as an historic figure. Since history does not record the worship of her, and yet we see proof that she was worshiped by someone, what does that suggest?”

"Medea literally means 'a witch' or 'one who is cunning.' There's nothing to indicate that a woman named Medea really existed. If the character in legend was based on an actual person, it is doubtful that her name was Medea, and even less likely that her worshipers would have memorialized her with that derogatory term."

"The word may have been coined because of her."

Kismet found his recall of both his Greek language lessons and Bullfinch's mythology shifting into overdrive. "No. In fact, it is a Greek word, while the Medea of legend was not a Greek. And use of the word certainly pre-dates the theoretical place in history when the journey of the Argo would have occurred.”

"Except for that," snapped Harcourt, seeming to lose his cool. He stabbed his finger at the photo. "An altar to Medea."

"Calm down," soothed Kismet. "You're right. This would seem to support what you're suggesting."

Harcourt stared back, unsure of what to make of Kismet's apparent reversal. "I hope you're not patronizing me, Nick." He waited a moment longer, before continuing. "I believe that this altar stone is one end of a thread that will lead us through the labyrinth of legend to the truth about Medea, Jason, the Argonauts and the Golden Fleece itself.

"To begin with, the legend states that Jason and his companions successfully completed their quest, capturing the Golden Fleece. He also took Medea for a bride, and returned to win back the kingdom to which he was the rightful heir. Some versions even speak of him using the Fleece as a talisman to control the weather or heal a blight upon the land. In any event, the Fleece was certainly a great treasure. Yet, following the end of the tale, there is no further mention of it in the mythology of the Greeks.

"What if there really was a Golden Fleece? What if it was a symbol of powerful magic? What if Medea took the Fleece from her husband, and used it to create a cult of her own worshipers? Do you see where this leads? If we can locate the temple of Medea from which this altar stone was taken, we may find also one of the most spectacular artifacts in history: the original quest, the Golden Fleece."

"I counted at least three ‘what ifs' Andrew. You are basing your entire investigative process on folk tales."

"And why is that such a crime? Heinrich Schliemann proved that the mythology of Homer was a suitable guide book when he discovered the ruins of ancient Troy."

Kismet dredged up what he knew about the famous German archaeologist who had plundered gold from a site in Turkey near the turn of the twentieth century. Schliemann’s wife and partner had reportedly helped him smuggle the artifacts from the site and ultimately back to their homeland by concealing them under her skirt. Those treasures, revered by the German National Socialist party prior to World War II had disappeared following the sack of Berlin, probably taken as booty by Russian soldiers and secreted away in the halls of the Hermitage. It was just the sort of incident the Global Heritage Commission sought to prevent by keeping historical discoveries in their country of origin. Harcourt, like Heinrich Schliemann, was a 'pop' scientist, who liked to make sensational claims that grabbed headlines, and Kismet had no qualms about voicing that accusation.

"Schliemann found a ruin and used the Iliad to fill in the blank spaces. That kind of circular logic might impress royalty and make you famous, but it does little to advance the true cause of science. You of all people should realize that Andrew. Or didn't you learn your lesson with the Beowulf debacle?"

"Schliemann's detractors are now my own, but what does that prove? Merely that the institution of archaeology is governed by narrow-minded men; men without vision. But I assure you I am not doing this to add to my acclaim. The Fleece is a very important, possibly very powerful artifact."

Harcourt's rising passion had already validated Kismet's reticence, but with that last assertion the British archaeologist had crossed a line. "Powerful?"

"Think of the helmet shard. You said yourself that the Greeks would not have wasted gold to overlay a war helmet. But the legend tells how Medea used a magical salve to make Jason invincible, a balm that she spread on both his body and his armor. I contend that the balm she used was derived from the power latent in the Golden Fleece."

Kismet found he was curious in spite of himself. "How do you make that connection?"

"First, the Fleece was in the possession of her father, the king of Colchis. One version of the myth suggests that it was kept in a temple guarded by an enormous serpent, and that Medea herself had access to both the temple and its guardian. The serpent motif is found extensively throughout ruins along the Black Sea coastline."

"And in just about every other culture in the world."

Harcourt conceded the point with a nod, but resumed his argument without missing a beat. "Moreover, she was a witch. She would have believed that the Fleece had magical properties and would have sought to use it."

"Witchcraft and shamanism are also a part of most cultures, both historic and contemporary. That doesn't mean those superstitions are real."

Harcourt smiled cryptically. "A demonstration then." He centered the helmet shard on Kismet's desk, turned so the outward curve faced the ceiling. It looked almost as if a face was pushing through the desktop. "Do you have a letter opener?"

Kismet dug into his pocket and took out an oblong olive-drab colored object: his pocket knife, a Benchmade 53 Marlowe Balisong knife. The Balisong butterfly knife design, which had originated in the Philippines, was different than an ordinary pocket knife where the blade folded into the side of handle. The Balisong handle was split lengthwise, and the blade rotated on two pivot points out of the grooved channels on either side. Kismet squeezed the handle halves together just enough to allow the spring-loaded latch to pop open, then whipped his wrist around. One half of the hinged handle fell away and suddenly three inches of gleaming steel flashed into view. Kismet caught the loose handle half before it could strike the back of his hand, and with the handle halves together once more, the knife was ready for use. He surreptitiously thumbed the latch shut, securing the handle so that the blade would not collapse, then held it out for Harcourt's inspection. "Will this work?"

Harcourt blanched a little. The Balisong was a tricky knife to master-more than a few first-time users had the scars on their fingers to prove it-but in skilled hands, the blade and handle halves flashing through the air could prove downright intimidating. Kismet didn't normally like to show-off, but if it meant making Harcourt nervous, he was willing to make an exception.

"I should say so." Harcourt took a step back. "Now, if you please, I want you to stab at the helmet shard. Don't hold back; you can't damage it."

Kismet raised an eyebrow. He wasn't as protective about the relics as some of the bone-diggers, but he drew the line at wanton vandalism. Still, what harm would one more nick or dent matter to a piece of combat gear? He raised the knife over his head, drew a mental crosshair on the helmet piece, and hammered down with his fist.

What happened next was difficult to follow. The blade seemed to skitter along the surface of the helmet shard, redirecting away to the right. The tip gouged a deep furrow in the wood desktop. At the same time, the violence of the blow was reflected in the reaction; the helmet piece shot away, banging against the wall before crashing noisily to the floor. Kismet released his hold on the knife, leaving it upright where it had impaled the desk. "Okay, what did that prove?"

Harcourt raised a forbearing hand as he retrieved the shard and presented it for inspection. The soft gold showed no evidence of having been scored by the hardened steel blade. The relic was undamaged.

"It's not what you think," Harcourt offered in the absence of a comment from Kismet. "Your blade never touched it."

"What do you mean?"

"The metal which you take to be gold on that shard has a rather unusual attribute. From a metallurgical standpoint it is indeed gold, but unlike ordinary gold, this substance can store a transient electrical charge, stealing electrons from the environment. When an oppositely charged item — your knife blade — is directed toward it at high speed, an electrostatic field is created. The helmet shard literally repelled your knife blade, pushing it away as it came close. I had it analyzed by a top European research firm; it is a stable anion of gold — they dubbed it 'ubergold.' It rather reminds me of orichalcum, the divine metal Plato associated with Atlantis. Whether it is a naturally occurring substance is anyone's guess, but they all agree that nothing like it has ever been discovered."

Kismet stared at the British archaeologist, weighing the arguments the other man had presented. The possibility that some kind of magnetic gold might have imbued an object with extraordinary abilities was intriguing, but merely as a curiosity. It would take a lot more for Kismet to want to get on board with Sir Andrew Harcourt. "Well, that is interesting, but I don't see how it supports your broader theory. You still have nothing more to offer than conjecture based primarily on myths and legends."

"I admit that it is a rough beginning, but the goal will be worth the effort if we succeed."

"I still am unclear as to why you want me along. Why not contact England's liaison to the Commission? I imagine he would jump at the chance to accompany the Queen's favorite archaeologist on his latest quest."

"As you might well imagine, celebrity brings with it the jealousy of one's peers. To be honest, I suspect that you are the only one of my colleagues likely to assist me in this endeavor. Oh yes, I do think of you as a colleague; I sense that you are genuinely interested in the pursuit of truth, unlike most of the bureaucrats in UNESCO. And you have a reputation for delivering the goods."

Kismet was unmoved. "I shouldn't have to remind you of your obligation to remain objective, Andrew. We can't let myths and legends affect our perspective. Archaeology is about uncovering the past; reading history in the ruins and bones of ancient civilizations. It's not about proving pet theories, and it certainly isn't about chasing after magical talismans."

Harcourt suddenly broke into a grin, as if he had landed a sucker punch in their verbal sparring match. He stood abruptly, retrieved the helmet shard and returned it to his case. He left photographs on Kismet's desk. "I'm surprised you can say that after having looked upon the Ark of the Covenant."

Kismet felt as though he had been hit broadside. "I think you've got me confused with someone else," he replied slowly, straining to control his expression.

"Oh, really? My mistake." He picked up the case and strolled toward the door. "Consider my offer, Nick. You have a chance to be a part of history. Be seeing you."

Kismet did not move, struggling to keep his balance; the inside of his head was roaring with the sudden rush of adrenaline. He strove to remain imperturbable as Harcourt exited, but the moment he heard the Englishman's footsteps in the hall, he jumped up, retrieved his knife and ran to the door. He opened it a crack and peered after his departing guest.

Harcourt strode purposefully for the exit. A moment later, someone else appeared and headed down the vacant hallway toward him; a shapely feminine figure in a remarkable strapless black cocktail dress that seemed, like Harcourt's helmet shard, to defy the laws of physics.

Kismet groaned; beautiful as she was, at just this moment Lysette Lyon was the last person on earth he wanted to see. As the taller man passed by, Lyse paused and looked over her shoulder at him. Kismet waited until Harcourt turned the corner leading to the elevator foyer before bursting into the corridor.

"Nick." She flashed her lethal smile. "Sorry I'm late, but this weather has slowed things down and parking was a nightmare."

Kismet pushed past her. He could hear the sound of the elevator in the shaft. If Harcourt was taking it up from the lower level, it stood to reason that he would be leaving through the front entrance facing Central Park.

"Bad timing, Lyse. I'm sorry, but our night on the town will have to wait." As soon as the elevator doors thumped shut, Kismet sprinted past the foyer and down the hallway to a flight of stairs at north end of the building. He could hear Lyse's heels tapping a quick staccato rhythm in his wake.

Rounding the banister, Kismet flashed a wave to the guard posted at the seldom-used 81st Street entrance and pushed through the door. He hastened along the perimeter of the castle-like structure, ducking low alongside the massive stone walls, and paused at the corner where he could surreptitiously observe the stairs that faced the park. Harcourt was descending the stone steps, moving purposefully toward an idling black Lincoln Towne Car. As he approached, the driver of the vehicle got out and opened the back door.

"Care to fill me in?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah, I think so."

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

"You owe me plenty. But thanks."

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

"Oh, God. Not the Bug."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Saw the movie. Kind of a downer."

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

"Where's the crime in that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What? I don't want them to see me."

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

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

"Damn it, Lyse!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Another fairy tale?"

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

"I've heard of it."

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

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

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

"And they all lived happily ever after?"

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

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

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

"Then why are we following him?"

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

THREE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he had descended to the point where his entire body was below the opening he paused to look around. The floor was further down than he expected. The room into which he was lowering himself was a vast hall, greater in dimension than the church auditorium above. From floor to ceiling there was easily thirty feet of space, the uppermost third given to a framework of exposed wooden rafters. Three long beams ran the length of the hall, a distance that Kismet had yet to determine, while crossbeams and braces spanned every ten or so feet of its width.

The floor was bare stone, devoid of any chairs or fixtures, but the rough wood and stone of the walls were adorned with tapestries and banners, many bearing heraldic crests from various European monarchies, most of which were no longer in existence.

"Well?" prompted Lyse, her voice a stage whisper.

Kismet looked up through the aperture. "I think there's another old church down here. Or maybe a meeting hall, probably for a Hibernian order."

"A who?"

Kismet shook off the inquiry. "Never mind. If you're coming down, try to keep quiet."

She nodded, then slipped out of her pumps and began her descent. Kismet took another step down; his feet were now level with the rafters. The nearest long beam, the one running down the center, was a little more than three feet away. He reached out to it with his foot, then released his grip on the ladder and transferred his weight onto the outstretched extremity.

The beam was wide enough to stand on, but he nearly lost his balance as he stepped across. Though both feet were planted, he had to flail his arms until regaining his balance. He remained there for a moment, arms outstretched like a tightrope walker.

"You've got to be kidding," whispered Lyse.

"It's not that hard," he lied, grinning. "I'll give you a hand."

"I'll give you a hand," she muttered, balling her right into a fist and shaking it at him. She nevertheless reached out and gripped the ladder with her left hand. With the mid-thigh length cocktail dress eased up just a little higher in order to facilitate movement, she extended her right foot toward the beam. Her short legs had more difficulty bridging the expanse, but she succeeded, only to find herself in a situation more precarious than she had first imagined. An instant later, Kismet's steadying hand wrapped around her wrist.

"Slowly," he admonished. "I'll help you over, but if you move too fast, we'll both fall off."

She nodded. "Here I come."

He began exerting a steady pull on her arm. Lyse eased forward, shifting her weight onto her extended right foot while lifting her left from the ladder step. Only his grip held her back from a thirty-foot drop. As Kismet drew her toward him, he turned on the beam, trying to compensate for the change in his center of gravity. Sensing that success was imminent, Lyse brought her feet together too quickly, causing him to teeter over empty space. Realizing her error, she tried to adjust, pulling him closer. For a moment, it was as if they were engaged in a ritualistic dance high above the ground. After what seemed an eternity of wobbling and flailing, their equilibrium stabilized. Lyse spied a crossbeam two steps away and released her grip on Kismet's hand. She hastened toward the upright post and desperately wrapped her arms around the angled braces which ran from the ceiling to the beam.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

She threw him a withering glare. "And just how in the hell are we supposed to get off this thing?"

Kismet ignored her question. "Come on."

He eased along the broad rail, exhibiting more confidence about his footing than he actually felt. The sound of the voices below grew louder. After traversing three of the crossbeams, he could make out the conversation at the distant end of the hall, and realized that he was the subject of the discussion.

"How did he react?"

Harcourt tittered obnoxiously. "I could have knocked him over with a feather."

"The question is, will he help us?" Kismet did not recognize the voice, but heard the unmistakable tone of authority it commanded. He was close enough to see the group, which meant he might be visible to them. Hunkering down behind a crosspiece, he eased out just far enough to spy on the discussion below.

There were eight people gathered at the back end of the hall. Four men, dressed and postured like bodyguards, flanked Harcourt and the man to whom he spoke. Three of them wore generic black suits, the conspicuous bulges of shoulder holsters visible beneath their arms. The fourth was too enormous to wear a jacket, but like the others sported a leather holster that wrapped around his shoulder blades. More than six and a half feet tall, with bulging muscles and the battered features of a veteran brawler, his wild eyes were nearly obscured by the mop of curly hair that fell down over his forehead.

The other two figures in the room were seated in a corner. Kismet could see only their feet, close to the legs of the chairs in which they sat. One was clearly female, with shapely calves extending from the folds of a simple wraparound skirt. From his obscured viewpoint, he could see nothing above the knees, but what he could see of the motionless figures was unsettling.

"I don't know," Harcourt answered. "He seemed very upset at the speculative nature of our mission. Perhaps you will succeed in persuading him, where I failed."

The other man sighed and paced around the area, affording Kismet a chance to glimpse him. He was a tall man, perhaps a hand's breadth taller than Kismet himself. A moat of hair encircled a shiny bald pate and continued down the man's cheeks in a bushy, but well-groomed beard. The fellow was on the portly side, but carried himself with a regal posture apropos of his authoritative voice. Kismet noted that his dark suit was of a style that had peaked in popularity near the beginning of the last decade, suggesting that the bald, bearded man had worn his girth proudly for many years.

"A wasted effort," the man declared. Kismet noted also the soft pronunciation of the consonant 'r', and placed the man in an aristocratic New England background. "I should have gone directly to him myself in the first place. But let us focus our attention elsewhere for the moment."

"I see that you have visitors," Harcourt observed.

"Yes. Allow me to introduce Peter Kerns, formerly Petr Chereneyev, a fugitive from Soviet Russia."

"And the girl?"

"His daughter." The man's answer was off-hand, as if the second prisoner was of little interest to him. He did not offer her name.

Harcourt was silent for a long moment. "Is it necessary for them to be tied up like that?"

"Sir Andrew, I don't think you appreciate the urgency of our situation. I require results, and quickly. I cannot invest my resources in the possibility that Mr. Kerns here will cooperate of his own accord. The measures I have taken will insure that he does."

"Nick," whispered Lyse at Kismet's shoulder. "You said that this guy Harcourt knew something he wasn't supposed to know, right?"

Kismet nodded.

"Was it some kind of government secret?"

Kismet's brow furrowed. "I guess you could say that. Why?"

"That guy down there, the fat one. His name is Halverson Grimes; used to be Admiral Halverson Grimes. He was an aviator during Viet Nam; a bona fide war hero."

Kismet looked down at Grimes. As much as he wanted to believe that he had uncovered the hidden lair of the Prometheus group, there was a more plausible explanation for Harcourt's parting shot. If Grimes' background in the military gave him a high enough security clearance, then conceivably he would have had access to the after action review that had followed Kismet's disastrous mission into Iraq, which included his description of the artifact the defector had shown him. It would have been a simple thing to leak that tidbit of information to Harcourt in order to help him recruit Kismet's assistance. But why did the former Admiral Grimes think that he was essential to the recovery effort? For that matter, why was he interested in something as obscure as an ancient Greek legend?

"You look up hawk in the dictionary and you'll find his picture," continued Lyse. "He pushed hard for pre-emptive military action against Iran and North Korea, and advocated a more aggressive posture toward Russia and China. You remember all the controversy about torture of inmates at Gitmo? Well, Grimes was doing stuff that even the former administration didn't approve of. He finally became too much of an embarrassment and they canned him. I'm not sure what he's been up to since then."

"How do you know all this?" Kismet whispered over his shoulder.

Lyse's face went blank. "Gee, Nick, don't you read the newspapers?"

He shook his head in amazement. "I thought I did," he murmured, then focused his attention on the conversation below.

"My investigators," Grimes was saying, "have traced the sale of the artifacts back to Mr. Kerns. It seems that before he left his homeland, Kerns — or should I say Chereneyev — was a prominent petroleum engineer, and a good communist. Then, without warning, he emigrated to the United States, changed his name, and sold a number of ancient Greek antiquities for a great deal of money."

"You found it, didn't you?" accused Harcourt.

There was a moment of muffled speech, in which Kismet guessed a prisoner's gag was being removed. Then, a thickly accented voice replied: "Please, don't hurt us. I'll tell you where to look."

"You'll do more than that Comrade Chereneyev." It was Grimes that spoke, filling his last two words with contempt. "You will direct Sir Andrew to the site where you discovered the artifacts. If you attempt to mislead him, I assure you that the consequences to your daughter will be most grave."

"Yes, I will show you. Only please do not hurt—" He was silenced once more by the gag.

"Chereneyev has already given us a starting point," Grimes continued. "I've seen to your travel arrangements."

The burly guards moved toward the seated captives and loosened the bonds of the male hostage. He was helped to his feet and half-dragged to stand beside Harcourt.

Kismet leaned back. "Harcourt is about to leave. Get back to the car and follow him. I want to know where he's going next."

“Nick, I love you, but I didn’t come here to be your errand girl. I need that statue back.”

Lyse's whisper was growing louder, and Kismet feared she might attract the attention of the men below. He held a finger to his lips, and then took a deep breath. “I think this is important, Lyse. Do this one thing for me, and then we‘ll be square. I’ll text you the name and location of a safe location. You'll get the statue then."

"I'd better," grumbled Lyse. "What about you?"

"I'm going to get the girl."

Lyse flashed a grin. "Don't let little Nick get you in any trouble."

"You're hilarious."

Her smile slipped, replaced by something more sincere. "Good luck, Nick. And be careful."

"You too, Lyse."

She squeezed his shoulder then turned and deftly darted down the length of the beam. Her touch had triggered an unexpected surge of pleasant memories. Kismet's gaze lingered on her for a long, wistful moment. Shaking his head to clear away the nostalgia, he returned his attention to the scene below.

Harcourt and Grimes continued to converse, discussing details about the impending expedition, without ever revealing the ultimate destination. "I have a few matters to attend to before I can join you," Grimes said, "foremost of which is to persuade Nick Kismet to lend his assistance in our project."

"I still fail to understand why you want Kismet along," Harcourt complained. "He's entirely too skeptical."

"Thank you for your opinion, Sir Andrew," was the caustic reply. "In the future, refrain from offering it until you are asked to do so."

The group began moving down the length of the hall, passing directly beneath Kismet. He threw a backward glance at Lyse but she had already vanished through the opening. Moments later, Grimes and Harcourt, along with a submissive Kerns and the retinue of guards, stopped beneath the ladder.

Kismet could no longer hear their conversation, but saw Grimes gesturing to the gigantic man, directing him and another fellow to return to watch over Kerns' daughter. As the two guards wandered back through the hall, Harcourt and the others commenced ascending the ladder. Kismet quickly walked down the long beam until he reached the last of the crosspieces. He tiptoed across the system of braces and perched directly above where Kerns' daughter sat bound and gagged in a chair. Beside her, the slack ropes that had restrained her father lay upon his now vacant seat.

He could not see much of her, only blonde hair cascading over what appeared to be flawless, pale skin. She did not struggle against her bonds, but it was clear to Kismet that she had not surrendered to the idea of captivity. Her eyes darted warily around the hall, following the movements of the giant and the other guard.

The two men paused, waiting until the last of Grimes' party had exited through the opening above. Kismet also waited, weighing his options and formulating a plan of attack.

"Guess what missy," grunted the smaller of the men below Kismet. "As soon as your daddy gets on that plane, me and Rudy get to have some fun with you."

"Fun," echoed the giant, Rudy. Both men laughed hysterically as if they had reached the very zenith of humor.

Kismet fished a coin from his pocket and hurled it the length of the hall. There was a metallic clink twenty yards away, then a pinging ricochet from a second beam. A moment later it clattered on the stone floor.

"What was that?" asked the smaller guard, who being marginally more intelligent, was evidently in charge. "Go check it out, Rudy."

Rudy grunted an affirmative and stalked off to investigate, while the other fellow assumed a defensive stance behind Miss Kerns. Kismet waited until Rudy's footsteps were barely audible, and then cautiously lowered himself from the beam. His grip tightened instinctively as more and more of his body hung out into open space, but he pushed back his primal trepidation, took a deep breath, and let go. A fraction of a second later, he landed directly on the smaller of the woman's tormentors.

His feet struck the man between the shoulder blades, instantly slamming him to the floor, but Kismet lost his balance in the process and went sprawling. His attempt to stay upright succeeded only in his twisting an ankle before he slammed into the stone floor. The guard however had borne the brunt of the impact, and now lay supine alongside Miss Kerns, clutching his chest and unable to catch his breath. Kismet ignored the pain in his foot and pounced, striking the stunned guard at the pressure point behind his ear. Two such blows rendered the man unconscious. The commotion however had not gone unnoticed.

"Frank?" Rudy called, turning around. "Where are you, Frank?"

Kismet ducked behind the bound captive, but could do nothing to hide the slumped form from Rudy's view. He could hear the giant's steps growing louder and as the big man drew near, Kismet crawled around to the other side of the hostage, keeping her between himself and Rudy. In the dim light, the giant never saw him, but Kerns' daughter did, and Kismet got his first good look at her. Her beauty caught him off guard.

Her features were classically Russian: broad cheekbones framing a triangular face, marred only by a strip of silver tape that covered her mouth. Her eyes were liquid black, almost haunting against her delicate white skin. He risked a quick smile before reaching out to take hold of the empty chair beside her.

Rudy was standing over his unmoving companion. "Get up Frank. Quit screwing around."

Kismet quietly stood up, lifting the sturdy chair over his head. Rising onto his toes, he brought the chair down on Rudy's cranium with such force that the wooden seat shattered and drove the big man to his knees. Kismet triumphantly tossed aside the fragments of his makeshift bludgeon, but in the corner of his eye he saw the giant climbing to his feet. Rudy turned slowly, breathing heavily like an enraged bull. Incredulous, Kismet found himself staring, first at Rudy's sternum, which was at eye level, then up into a pair of crimson-rimmed eyes. The giant's fingers were flexing, curling into fists that resembled sledgehammers.

"That could have gone better," muttered Kismet, glancing around for some other weapon to use against the moving mountain that now advanced on him. There was nothing, certainly nothing that could make a dent in such a formidable adversary. With a grim expression Kismet raised his own fists, aware of how pathetic his defense must have seemed to the other man.

Rudy glanced at Kismet's fists, laughing. Nevertheless, the big man appeared wary, refusing to let his own overwhelming size lead him into the trap of overconfidence. If Rudy was in most ways mentally deficient, in matters of combat he excelled. Fortunately for Kismet, he failed to see what his foe was really up to. Following the lead of Kismet's fists, Rudy edged closer. Kismet feinted, and as Rudy moved to block the punch, Kismet kicked him hard in the crotch.

The giant grunted but shook off the effects of the kick. Kismet on the other hand felt a stab of pain in his injured ankle and hopped back a step, shaking his head. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Rudy was in agony, but pain affected him differently than most men; it was like fuel in the engine of his fighting machine. Intent upon dismembering his opponent, he took a step closer but suddenly pitched forward. Surprised, Kismet watched him plummet like a felled tree. As Rudy had passed the bound girl in the chair, ignoring her as she posed no immediate threat, she had stuck her foot out, snaring his ankle to trip him up. Kismet pounced on the giant's back, raining blows with fists and elbows at the base of Rudy's neck.

He knew, even as he struck, that his strength was insufficient to overpower the giant. He could feel Rudy's muscles bunching beneath him, building up like a volcano for a titanic eruption of destructive power. Rudy roared to life, pitching his assailant aside like a rag doll. Kismet rolled away and came to rest against Frank's motionless form.

Rudy rose to his full height a second time, casting a scornful glance at the woman who had felled him. With palpable disdain he lashed a foot against the leg of her chair, causing it to tip. Unable to catch herself, she fell backward, and the chair hit the stone floor with a sickening crack.

Kismet thrust his hand into Frank's jacket, and then turned to face Rudy. The giant stopped the instant he found himself staring into the barrel of a Smith & Wesson .44 Special revolver. Kismet thumbed the action back and jammed the weapon into the Rudy's chest.

"Tougher than her, but are you tougher than this?" Kismet snarled, surprised at his own ferocity. The brutal attack on the helpless girl had ignited his fury. "Down on the floor, hands behind your head."

The glowering behemoth grudgingly complied, sinking first to his knees then lying flat on the stone surface. Kismet kept the pistol ready for use, fully intending to shoot upon the slightest sign of aggression.

He transferred the gun to his left hand and slipped the Benchmade from his pocket, flipping it open one-handed. The blade easily sliced through the knots that held the girl fast. She flexed her fingers to restore circulation then ripped the tape strip from her lips with an unrestrained curse. "Dermo!"

"Are you hurt?" Kismet asked in Russian, his eyes never leaving Rudy.

"Nyet," she replied.

"Will you take the gun so that I may bind this man?"

She nodded, extending an open palm.

"Are you able to shoot to kill if necessary?" pressed Kismet, not quite ready to surrender the weapon.

"I might shoot this dog even if it is not necessary," she snapped, directing her venom toward the prone giant.

Kismet found her rage reassuring. "Please do not shoot unless you must. The sound might raise the alarm and bring his companions."

"I would like to shoot them also, but there are not enough bullets. Do not worry. I will not shoot unless he moves."

That was good enough for Kismet. He passed the revolver over to the young woman then knelt beside Rudy. He stripped the giant of his sidearm and slid it toward the girl. He then indelicately grabbed Rudy's wrists and shackled them with the ropes that had bound Peter Kerns only minutes before. Kismet pulled the knots hard enough to cause the giant to wince. He resisted an impulse to kick Rudy, choosing instead to properly greet his new companion.

He found himself staring into the muzzle of the gun. He frowned, wondering if this was her idea of a joke. "That is not a wise thing to do. Please lower the gun."

"I don't know if you are Mafiya or FSB — I do not really care. But I will not permit you to hold me captive any more than I would surrender myself again to these men."

"You don't understand," replied Kismet. "I am not either. My name is Nick Kismet. I am trying to help you."

"Kismet?" Comprehension dawned in her eyes and she smiled wryly, switching fluidly into English with only a hint of accent. "An unusual name. Doesn't that mean something?"

Kismet raised an eyebrow then broke into laughter. "Yes, it does. I wish I had known you spoke English."

"You weren't doing so badly in Russian." She lowered the gun and offered it to him. "Irina. But I've always gone by Irene; Irene Kerns."

Kismet took the revolver and eased the action down. "A pleasure to meet you, Irine. Now, I suggest we get out of here while we still can."

He glanced around, noticing for the first time an enormous tapestry that dominated the end of the hall. The tapestry was weighted at the bottom, hanging all the way to the floor, and its ornate center rippled and pulsated, as though the wall was a living creature. The coat of arms emblazoned there — a white shield quartered by a rough black cross — was oddly familiar, and after a brief scrutiny he remembered that he had seen it in a book detailing an incident of Vatican complicity with Nazi Germany; it was the crest of the Teutonic Knights.

"And should I call you Mr. Kismet?" Irene intoned.

He took her hand and led her back toward the ladder. "Nick is fine."

Despite his outward confidence, he felt a sudden sense of foreboding creeping over him, and he unconsciously tightened his grip on the revolver. Everything that had happened from the moment Harcourt walked into his office pointed to a larger conspiracy. The tapestry seemed like yet another link in a diabolical chain. Perhaps he had been too quick to dismiss the possibility that his old nemeses had returned; perhaps the Prometheus reference all those years ago, had been a smokescreen to divert his attention from this, a reportedly defunct feudal brotherhood with ties to Germany. He was beginning to get the feeling that he was in over his head, and wondered for the first time if Lyse had gotten away safely. Approaching the ladder, he peered upwards. The dark aperture above revealed nothing. He jammed the revolver into his belt. "Wait here."

He ascended quickly, realizing only when he was near the top that the trapdoor had been lowered into place. He kept climbing until his shoulders were against the barrier, then levered his legs to lift it out of the way. Before he could raise it however, he felt the ladder tremble faintly; Irine had begun climbing beneath him. He groaned at her impatience and resumed pushing against the trapdoor. It was heavier than he expected, but when he tried again, it abruptly flew open. The solid planks slammed against the floor of the confessional with a bang that made him wince, but there was nothing he could do about it. He advanced another step up the ladder, poking his head out.

Halverson Grimes stood in front of the opening. Behind him, outside the confines of the confessional, were half a dozen men, uniformly dressed in black suits.

"Oh." Kismet didn't know what else to say. He looked down, his own body blocking his view of Irene. "Get off!" he hissed.

"What?" Oblivious to the threat above, she took another step up.

"Unless I'm mistaken," Grimes observed pontifically, "you must be Nick Kismet. A pleasure, sir. We need to talk." Two of Grimes' men pushed past their leader, assuming defensive postures on either side of the hole.

"Indeed, Mr. Kismet. There is great deal to discuss."

FOUR

Kismet leaned back a few inches and looked down. Irene's face was visible in the space between his legs. She was peering up at him, still unaware that their escape was in jeopardy. His brain went into overdrive. If they could not go out the way they had come in, what options remained? He contemplated using the captured revolver preemptively, but promptly dismissed that idea. Hanging from a ladder thirty feet up, shooting through a narrow hole in the floor was not his idea of a defensible position. Better, he decided, to get both feet on solid ground.

"Irene," he whispered again. "Get off the ladder."

"What?"

He knew that she had heard him. Her question was not a request to repeat himself, but to elucidate. Kismet growled in irritation. He didn't have time to stop and explain every move to her.

"Please come out of that hole, Mr. Kismet," urged Grimes. "I assure you, you have nothing to fear from me." Then, with a smile that was not as benign as he perhaps intended, he added: "If you cooperate."

"As much as I'd love to stay and chat…" Kismet replied disingenuously. He looked down one final time. With cautious, deliberate movements, he slipped his left foot off the rung, bracing the arch of his shoe against the outside of the ladder. Increasing the tenacity of his handhold, he then lifted his right foot and positioned it similarly. "Coming down," he whispered.

Understanding dawned in Irene's eyes. She quickly scampered toward the floor. Kismet returned his gaze to the menacing group of faces that was drawing ever closer, Halverson Grimes chief among them.

"As I was saying," he remarked, "I've already made plans for the evening. Perhaps we could get together for lunch sometime."

In the instant that Grimes registered a puzzled expression, Kismet released his hold, gripping the outside rails of the ladder loosely with both hands and feet.

Gravity seized hold of him and he plummeted. Immediately, he collided with something — Irene Kerns — and his carefully guided descent went askew as they both dropped to the floor in a painful tangle of limbs.

Grimes' voice was audible above them, ordering his cronies to go down and subdue the escapees. Kismet experienced a moment of déjà vu, flashing back to the sewers of Marrakech. The difference this time, aside from the lack of an unpleasant odor, was that the bad guys had a ladder to climb down. He scrambled to his feet determined to remove that liability.

The opening above grew dark as a descending body eclipsed the aperture. Kismet briefly considered shooting the man right there, but quickly realized the flaw in such a strategy; if the confrontation became a shooting match, Grimes' men and their ammunition would certainly hold out longer than he and his. Instead of dealing with the man, Kismet chose to deal with the ladder.

Dropping into a low stance, his shoulder leading, Kismet rammed the ladder like a charging football linebacker. His shoulder hit the sturdy wooden frame and he bounced back, spilling onto the floor. A flash of pain was followed by a numbed paralysis, but he judged the maneuver to be a partial success. The ladder shook violently with the blow, and the man who was climbing down, now clutched desperately to regain a secure handhold. Kismet got up, lowered his other shoulder to the ladder and charged again.

The right rail of the ladder split nearly in two as Kismet struck it. The descending man now gave up any thought of continuing, choosing instead to regain the safety and stability of the floor above.

Kismet did not charge a third time, but instead seized hold of the bottom rung and wrenched it from side to side. The damage he had already caused to the ladder was quickly aggravated and the rails broke apart near the top where they had been bolted into the underside of the floorboards. With a satisfied grin, Kismet stepped back as the elongated structure tilted sideways and fell over, splintering when it crashed on the stone floor.

The noise of an explosion, like a car backfiring, roared in his ears and reverberated in the confines of the underground room. A bullet kicked up a small puff of dust, just behind him and left a tiny pockmark in the stone floor.

"Damn," he exclaimed, darting away from the remains of the ladder. Irene was already up and moving, seeking cover from the gunfire, which was quickly becoming a hailstorm of bullets. Kismet reached her side and seized her hand, then guided her toward the place where she had earlier been held captive.

They quickly passed out of the broad, cone shaped area where they were in the most danger of being wounded, but Kismet knew that the seconds he had gained by destroying the ladder would be lost by any delay on their part. With his free hand he took out and opened his knife.

"How are we going to get out of here?" Irene asked frantically.

"Back door," muttered Kismet, releasing her hand and sprinting ahead. He was dimly aware that she had stopped running, but he did not slow down. Instead he aimed himself at the wall, focusing on the heart of the enormous tapestry mounted there. The center of the woven shield was like a bull's eye on a target and the blade in his hand was an arrow intent upon piercing it. As he got closer, he raised his arm and brought it down, slashing at the fabric of the great tapestry. The knife cut a long gash in the old cloth before entangling in the fibers. Kismet's momentum caused him to fall forward, into the middle of the ornamental weaving, where he hung momentarily like a fly in a web. As he moved to extricate himself, his weight broke apart the remaining threads, and the tapestry tore in two all the way to the floor, dropping him into the darkness beyond.

Irene approached and looked at him in stunned amazement. Kismet's gambit had revealed a secret passageway. "How did you know about that?"

He got up, wincing from pains old and new. "A guess. Earlier I saw that the fabric was moving, almost like it was being rustled by the wind. I assumed that the tapestry was put up to cover an opening."

"If you had been wrong, you would have run into a brick wall."

Kismet knelt and retrieved his Balisong from the twisted remnant of the tapestry and flicked it shut. "Good thing I wasn't."

"And this will lead us out of here?"

The sound of a shot rang suddenly in the underground chamber, impacting the wall that framed their escape route. The shot had been fired from ground level; Grimes' men had found a way down. Kismet didn't look back.

"It had better," he shouted over the din. "Get going."

"You can't be right every time," retorted Irene.

"Can we discuss this later?" He pushed her into the dark tunnel then turned to face the unseen shooters, his revolver drawn. He pumped three shots randomly into the gloom behind them, hoping not so much to find a target as to give the pursuers one more reason to hesitate. Saving the remainder of the ammunition for future encounters, Kismet shoved the smoking gun into the pocket of his suit coat, turned and plunged into the mysterious opening.

The air in the passage was cool and slightly musty, but it did not have the stale quality of a tomb or crypt, leading Kismet to deduce that there was another means of access and that it was used at least once in a while. His greatest fear was that Grimes might also know about this passage and would already be sending his men to cover the exit. There would be no allowance for delays, wrong turns or dead ends. He kept an outstretched hand in contact with the wall, a blind man's guide through the artificial night. The tunnel was short and quickly opened into a much larger room.

Irene spoke from out of the darkness. "I've run into something. It's a box of some kind."

"Probably a coffin," remarked Kismet, trying to estimate where she was in relation to himself. "Old churches like this usually have catacombs where prominent clergymen are interred. Try to follow the sound of my voice. I think I'm just a few steps away from you…right behind you."

"A coffin?" was the distasteful reply. She was moving, getting closer.

He didn't elaborate; he had been half-joking, but it was as good an explanation as any. Reaching out, he began groping in an arc all around until his fingers grazed something soft. "Don't move."

He eased away from the wall long enough to touch her. His fingers barely caressed her hair, but starting from that point he was able to find her shoulder, and then take her hand. "If we follow the wall, we should be able to move around the perimeter of the room and find another passageway."

Their haste to escape led to more than one minor collision; although it took only about a minute for them to grope along the wall and find a way out of the vault, the irregularities of the room and the arrangement of invisible impediments proved to be a precarious obstacle course. Kismet barked his shins twice, and caught the corner of a protruding piece of stonework squarely in his chest. Notwithstanding this, they reached the opposite side of the room and found a recess that led to a flight of worn stone steps. The treads were irregular, forcing them to proceed slowly. At the top of the stairs a thin strip of light was visible, burning through the space between the threshold and the bottom of an unseen door. Kismet explored the door with his fingertips and located an archaic slide latch that could be worked from either side of the door. "Thank goodness for that," he whispered, and worked the bolt. With the revolver poised, he pushed the door open.

The light beyond was by no means brilliant, but even its dim glory was more than their eyes were used to. Squinting and shading his gaze with a cupped hand, Kismet scanned the area for any movement. Seeing none, he took the last step out of the underground chamber.

The room into which they entered was a pantry, lined with several shelves of canned food. A single electric light bulb hung from the ceiling. Kismet pulled Irene out of the dark stairway and closed the door behind them. It was a sure bet that at least some of Grimes' men were pursuing them through the darkened passage, but Kismet saw an opportunity to cut off that pursuit.

After guiding Irene out of the way, he insinuated his fingers into the space between the wall of the pantry and the upright shelves. The shelf unit was heavy, built of sturdy hardwoods, likely a century before by a craftsman who knew his business. Fortunately, the carpenter had not integrated the shelves into the wall, but left them standing free. Sensing his purpose, Irene offered her assistance to Kismet's endeavor.

He felt his muscles growing fatigued before the shelves moved even a millimeter. Yet, as the cabinet began to tilt, its own weight began to work for them. With a loud grunt, he redoubled his efforts and kept pushing until it went over. Jars of preserved fruits and vegetables exploded on the pantry floor, only to be buried by the cabinet as it fell on top of the debris. The shelves fell directly in the path of the door through which they had escaped. Kismet reckoned that it would be impossible to open the door more than a couple inches. "That ought to slow them down," he observed. "But my guess is that some of Grimes' men stayed topside. We have to keep moving."

From beyond the pantry, they heard sounds of shouting. Kismet concluded that their foes had not initially been aware of the alternate exit from the underground chamber, or were at least in the dark as to where it came out. The priests and nuns who resided at the church however, doubtless unaware of the mob's murderous intentions, would almost certainly be able to give them the details. Kismet opened the pantry door and looked out. The hallway beyond was deserted. Two other doors opened off the corridor, and a third doorway was framed at the far end, presumably the exit. Kismet realized intuitively that they were no longer in the main church building, but in a satellite structure.

The door at the end of the hallway opened into a large kitchen facility, already washed for the evening and put in order for the next day. He moved through the cooking area and peered carefully through the windowpane in the exit door. A large, indistinct object obscured the landscape outside, blocking the dim light of the street lamps as well as Kismet's view of the church courtyard. Fortunately, it would also give them cover for their escape. He opened the door and together they ventured outside.

The object eclipsing the street was the sanitation truck Kismet and Lyse had passed during their initial approach. The vehicle stood at idle, the extended lifting forks slotted into the channels on either end of a medium-sized garbage dumpster. The truck's operator, a pot-bellied fellow with an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth, was standing near the rear of the vehicle seemingly oblivious to the smell. The middle-aged priest with whom he was animatedly conversing did not appear to have the same immunity to the stench, but like the driver was captivated by the commotion that was blossoming around them as black suited men poured out of the main church building and spread out across the grounds.

As Kismet watched his mind turned with possibilities. Then it dawned on him what good fortune had provided for them. Grinning, he faced Irene, put a finger to his lips, and then led the way toward the truck's cab. He opened the passenger door, wincing as the hinges creaked, and climbed inside.

Apparently, the noise had not been loud enough to raise an alarm. The driver's shoulder was just visible in the large mirror mounted on the left door, and it seemed he had not heard the sound over the idling engine.

When Irene was seated beside him, Kismet depressed the clutch and shifted the transmission into gear. There was an audible clanking sound in the differential and an instant later, the driver's face appeared in the mirror. The man's expression was one of confusion and disbelief, which gave way to anger as he realized someone was stealing his truck. Kismet hit the lock with his elbow, and then punched the accelerator. The garbage-man jumped onto the running board and made a vain attempt to open the door while shouting rare curses known only to truck drivers and longshoremen. The enormous machine lurched forward and commenced a broad turn under Kismet's guiding hands that spilled the enraged man from his perch.

Unfortunately, the screams of wrath drew the attention of Grimes' men, who raced to intercept the commandeered vehicle. Kismet checked to be sure that the fallen man was clear of the truck's massive tires, then accelerated, working through the gears as he steered the truck toward the open gates of the church compound. Several of their pursuers were visible behind him, but none were in a position to blockade the exit.

The truck shot out into the street, and Kismet whipped the steering wheel hard to the right. Irene slid across the seat, colliding with him as she fought to get a handhold on her own side. The back end of the truck fish-tailed and Kismet fought to regain control, slamming into parked cars, and causing two pedestrians to drop their parcels and dive for safety. He wrestled the steering wheel back and bore down on the accelerator once more. The forward movement pulled the truck out of its thrashing and at last, control was restored.

Despite her earlier terror, Irene now seemed almost to be enjoying the wild ride. Kismet flashed her a grin, then saw in the side view mirror Grimes' thugs pouring into the street and crossing over to the cars his exit had damaged.

"I don't think we're in the clear yet."

Irene craned her head around to look, but the mirror on her side had been knocked askew during their escape. She began rolling down her window, but Kismet forestalled her with a restraining hand and a shake of his head. She frowned in mock disappointment. "So what now?"

"I'll try to lose them. Outrun them or something. This truck sticks out like a sore thumb." He glanced in the mirror, noting the caravan of Buick Skylark sedans that was closing the distance between them. "Better keep your head down in case they start shooting."

Though he lived in New York and walked its streets often, Kismet neither owned a car nor had occasion to drive around the city. He knew approximately where he was, but lacked the familiarity needed to elude the ruthless men pursuing them. He was going to have to equalize the situation; it was time to slow them down.

The street they were on eventually began crossing the main avenues, and Kismet swung the behemoth onto the first one that afforded easy access, driving north through the heart of Greenwich Village. Traffic was light, but this advantage did not compensate for the truck's lack of maneuverability. Rather than dodge in and out of the flow, he picked the center lane and stayed there, shifting the truck into a higher gear and flooring the accelerator. Cars in his lane hastened to flee before the imposing juggernaut that rolled unstoppably through red lights while blasting its horn like a herald of doom.

Even in this, Kismet realized, they were gaining nothing. The traffic that parted grudgingly to allow them past left a wide-open trail for their pursuers to follow. In the mirror he could see the train of lights racing toward them, and several blocks behind them, the flashing beacons of a police car that had joined the chase.

One of the sedans disappeared into Kismet's blind spot, but before he could act on his sudden inspiration to hit the brakes, forcing a collision, the car reappeared in his mirror, sidling alongside the truck's left flank. A dark silhouette leaned out the passenger side, carefully aiming a pistol up at Kismet.

"Fool," Kismet rasped to no one in particular. If the gunman shot him, the truck would veer out of control, probably killing the inhabitants of the sedan as well as countless innocent pedestrians. Either the man with the gun was too dense to realize that, or too callous to care. With a shake of his head, Kismet took a preemptive measure.

Jerking the steering wheel to the left he crossed several feet into the path of the Buick. The other driver reacted without thinking, braking and swerving reflexively away from the truck. His impulsive response proved disastrous. The sedan slammed into a parked car, jackknifing both vehicles, then plowed onto the sidewalk, stopping only when its front end wrapped around a sturdy light pole. The man with the pistol was catapulted from his window perch, and Kismet caught a brief glimpse of his body rolling like a tumbleweed, into the path of the other pursuing vehicles.

In the mirror he saw the aftermath of the encounter. The array of headlights broke apart, losing symmetry as the various cars swerved to avoid the fallen man, or stopped to render assistance. The maneuver had yielded a few seconds of lead-time — no great margin to be sure, but enough to begin formulating his next move.

"Irene, do you drive?"

"Of course…" She looked at his face, then at the elaborate system of controls on the dashboard. "Oh, you're not serious."

"It's easier than it looks," he lied. "Come on. Slide over here and do exactly as I tell you."

She hesitated, then reached out to him and let herself be pulled close. He liked the feeling of her body pressed against his, and had to force himself to shake off the distracting sensation. "It's simple. It drives just like a car. You don't need to crank the wheel very far to get results. It will resist if you aren't going fast enough, but if you're going too fast you'll roll it over."

"I'm going to have to turn this thing?" she groaned.

"Yes, but if everything goes as planned, you'll only have to do it once.”

"And where will you be?"

"I'm going to try to slow them down." He quickly described the foot pedals and gave her a rough idea of how to downshift. "Think you can do it?"

"No," she replied in all sincerity.

"Sure you can." Before moving out from behind the wheel, he located the control box for the lift mechanism and experimentally pushed one of the green buttons. The hydraulic lift lurched, sending a vibration through the body of the truck, and the dumpster rose up, briefly blocking their view as it passed in front of the windshield. There was a deep rumble behind them as the contents of the bin emptied into the large holding canister. Kismet released the button, leaving the lift in the fully elevated position.

"That should do the trick. Okay, your turn." He unlocked the door and worked the lever, careful not to let it fly open. With his other hand he kept the steering wheel steady and scooted to the extreme edge of the bench seat. His right foot was stretched as far as he dared to keep the accelerator depressed.

"Grab the wheel," he instructed. "Get ready to put your foot on the pedal. Now!"

He slid out of the way and she did exactly as told, muttering pessimistically in Russian. Kismet retained his hold on the wheel, but was now standing outside the truck, on the running board. He felt an immediate decrease in power. "Push down a little harder!" he yelled over the sound of road and engine noise. She did, and the speedometer needle registered the acceleration.

"You're doing great!"

"When do I turn?"

"I‘ll tell you when," he replied. Irene's confidence was already starting to overshadow her inexperience and Kismet felt certain that she was capable of executing his plan. "Okay, you're on your own!"

He eased away from the door, slamming it closed when he was out of the way. Utilizing the door handle and the extended mirror frame like ladder steps, he ascended to the roof of the cab, staying close against the side of the truck in case one of the Grimes' men thought he made a nice target. Once atop the cab, he was blasted by the wind of their passage through the streets. He risked raising his head just high enough to look over the inverted dumpster at the thoroughfare behind them, and saw two sets of headlights racing toward the truck, with a third, the police car, not far behind.

He had been fortunate that the controls for the hydraulic lift were fairly intuitive; the next part of his strategy would require only brute strength. Keeping his arms spread wide for stability, he braced his back against the roof of the cab, extended his feet against the side of the dumpster and began pushing.

The mechanism of the lift was designed to raise the load evenly until, at the last moment, it would be turned almost completely upside down, allowing the refuse inside to fall into the cavernous interior of the garbage truck. Kismet now saw that the lifting forks were not parallel to ground as he had hoped, but angled upward to prevent the dumpster from sliding off — which, unfortunately, was exactly what Kismet wanted it to do.

Nevertheless, the heavy container grudgingly yielded to the insistent pressure from his straining thigh muscles and began to slide. As it crept up the length of the rails the resistance steadily decreased, and at the halfway point, gravity became his ally. The brown dumpster tilted and began to slide independent of his efforts. A moment later, it crashed noisily along the back of the truck before banging down onto the pavement.

Irene was maintaining a good speed and a straight course, using the horn as she entered and crossed intersections under solid red lights. New York drivers answered with angry gestures and blasts from their own horns, but did not attempt to assert their legal right of way. Kismet knew she was going to have to make a turn at one of those intersections, and quickly, so as not to lose any advantage he might have gained with the dumpster maneuver. He cautiously rose to a crouch, peering over the end of the truck to see if his ploy had achieved the intended results. The container had stopped bouncing and now rested on its back, straddling the broken white line in the center of the avenue. The pursuing vehicles had been forced to take evasive action, but were quickly recovering and again closing the gap. It was time to take the next step.

Before he could move from his perch, another intersection flashed by — the perfect opportunity, but already lost. Sliding cautiously toward the right side of the cab, Kismet lowered himself onto the running board. Before he could open his mouth to speak however, something cracked against the outer wall of the refuse canister, pinging away in a flash of sparks. Someone was shooting at him. He pressed himself tight against the door.

"Irene!"

"Now?" Her voice was barely audible.

"No! Take the next right! Got it?"

There was a brief silence and Kismet repeated himself, and then heard her shout an affirmative. He risked a forward glance, marking the distance to the next traffic signal, and then turned his attention to the next part of his plan.

When they had first commandeered the truck, Kismet had spied the mobile control box hanging from a bracket just behind the passenger door. He had suspected its purpose even then, filing the information away without really knowing why. Now he knew. He took a moment to study the switches so there would be no surprises.

The engine revved loudly as Irene depressed the clutch prematurely, her other foot still holding the accelerator. Kismet looked forward again, realizing that she had misunderstood his instructions and was turning down a narrow alley instead of waiting for the next major intersection. The mechanical whine subsided after a moment and Kismet felt the truck slowing as she braked. He mentally commended her for not panicking and more or less getting it right, but his relief turned sour in the next instant.

Irene tried to steer and shift at the same time, and failed to do either very well. The truck angled toward two o'clock, not enough to make the right hand turn, and continued to lose speed. Gears shrieked in metallic agony as the clutch engaged, and then the truck stopped dead. A moment later it lurched forward again, throwing Kismet against its side and nearly dislodging him from his foothold. Only a fierce grip on the frame of the side mirror kept him from spilling into the street.

As the truck began to move again with painful slowness, Irene threw her strength into the labor of turning the steering wheel. The vehicle grudgingly complied and crept into the narrow side street.

Kismet turned back to the avenue behind them. The first of the chasing cars screeched into view. It lost some traction as the driver attempted the turn too fast, but he knew what he was doing and corrected, regaining control without sacrificing any speed. Kismet knew he had to act immediately or his efforts would be for nothing. He pushed the button.

Twin hydraulic cylinders lifted the hatch covering the back end of the refuse canister, exposing its cavernous interior. Kismet's fingers danced toward a different switch, activating a much larger device.

The front end of the enormous tank-like structure began swinging up and immediately the contents of the container were vomited into the alley. A number of plastic garbage bags burst on impact with the street, spewing a foul-smelling mixture of food refuse and other debris into the path of the oncoming vehicle.

The driver of the Buick evidently failed to appreciate what this would mean in terms of road surface. Undaunted, he aimed the car into the heart of the growing obstacle and sped forward. The front bumper plowed into the mound of trash, but then the tires lost traction and the car skidded haphazardly across the narrow street. The sedan's rear end crashed into the wall of a six story apartment building, leaving a trail of sparks as metal scoured brick, before it came to a halt, effectively blocking the street. A second car screeched into the alley, and its driver hit the brakes too late to avoid plowing into the first sedan and disabling both vehicles.

Kismet's triumphant grin lasted only a second. Irene suddenly stomped the brake and the garbage truck's wheels locked. This time he was caught unprepared and was thrown forward, landing on his shoulder and rolling several yards down the street. The fabric of his suit jacket afforded some protection but was nearly shredded by the rough asphalt.

"Damn it, Irene," he rasped, struggling to his feet. "What the hell—?"

As he looked down the alley he saw why she had stopped. Illuminated in the beams of the truck's headlights, behind a fence of blue and white wooden barricades, was a mountain of steaming rubble. A glance to the sidewalk revealed that one of the structures had recently burned and been gutted. Furniture, appliances and other large pieces of debris had been dragged into the street, where they now effectively blocked the way.

Kismet sagged in defeat. Irene's head popped out of the open door of the cab, her face desperate for an answer to the question she framed. "What now?"

Behind them the doors of the wrecked sedans flew open, disgorging seven armed men eager to finish the pursuit on foot. They were less than half a block away.

"Looks like you were right," Kismet muttered, turning to his companion. "I can't be right every time, and I'd say my luck just ran out."

FIVE

The first of Grimes' men to attempt the mountain of garbage found the obstacle more daunting than he had anticipated. After only a few steps, he lost his footing and vanished into the heap. Seeing this, his comrades approached the slippery mass with more caution, but they too had difficulty crossing. Kismet could hear them shouting to one another that the best course lay in trying to go around the perimeter of the spill. Time was running out.

"You've brought us this far," Irene urged. "Don't give up now."

He darted toward the driver's side door of the truck and snared Irene's wrist, pulling her without explanation from behind the wheel. "Right. We're not dead yet."

Despite his assurance, he had not yet settled on his next course of action; he only knew that they had to keep moving. He glanced at the heap of rubble, then at the street around them. Just ahead was the shell of the building that had been ravaged by flames. Its windows were boarded over and smoke stains were visible on the brick of the upper three stories. The skeletal remains of a fire escape hung mockingly above the entrance. Because the edifice shared walls with adjoining buildings, the fire damage had spread out, blackening the exteriors of the neighboring apartments. The damage appeared extensive enough that the structure was almost certainly vacant. As he took stock of his surroundings, the thread of a plan materialized. With Irene's hand locked in his own, he charged toward the steps.

"Where are we going?"

"I wish you hadn't asked that," he muttered. Then, more loudly as if to reassure her, he added: "I've got an idea."

A voice from behind them commanded that they halt. The order was punctuated by the crack of a gunshot. The bullet, perhaps intentionally aimed high as a warning, smacked into the wall overhead, spraying chips of brick and mortar. Kismet steered toward the front porch of the burned out building and bounded onto it in a single leap. Irene slipped as she tried to keep up, landing painfully on her knee, but nothing more than a grunt of discomfort escaped her lips. Through what must have been a monumental display of self-restraint, she did not ply him for the details of his obviously desperate bid for survival.

Four slats of wood blockaded the doorway — a poor substitute for the heavy wooden door that had been hacked apart with a fire-axe and now lay in fragments on the front porch of the building. Kismet did not even slow down as he crossed beneath the lintel, smashing the thin boards apart as if they were strips of paper. The first floor landing was slick with water and debris. He navigated toward the stairs, slowing down just enough to keep Irene half a step behind him.

"Hold on to the rail!" he shouted.

She slipped, landing again on the same knee, but nodded in agreement even as she muttered frustrated curses. The stairs, at least two-dozen steps to the next landing, were structurally sound, but bore the irreversible side effects of the tragedy that had befallen the whole building. The carpet adorning them was swollen and mildewed from the deluge of water that had been used to battle the flames, and the bare wooden banister was coated with slimy, wet ash. As they reached the top of the staircase, their gun-toting adversaries were exactly one flight behind them.

Kismet did not hesitate or look back. He used the railing to launch himself around the turn onto the second floor landing, and held on to it as he ran along the flat balcony to the next flight of stairs. Bullets erupted through the floor, splintering the landing. The shots had no lethal effect, but did trigger a surge of adrenaline in both Kismet and Irene, and subsequently a burst of speed. They gained the third floor before the first of their foes had rounded the bend of the second. Kismet could hear more gunshots, loud in the confines of the stairway, but saw no evidence that the shots had penetrated the walls or steps to endanger them.

The third story appeared to have been the birthplace of the fire that had devastated the building. The walls, which had partitioned several different small residences were gone; only a few blackened and fragile upright posts remained. Beyond those charred timbers was a scene of total destruction; nothing recognizable remained. For the first time since entering the building, Kismet wondered if anyone had perished in the fire. It was a passing thought, and one he did not dwell on as he charged ahead; he was focused intently upon reaching the base of the next staircase. His single-mindedness nearly proved fatal.

Six feet from the end of the landing, his left foot came down, and then went right on through the floor. His weight crumbled the burned wood, and after his leg broke through, the rest of him quickly followed. As his torso went forward, smashing the hole even wider, he flung his hand out to the balustrade. His right leg slipped through the opening, and he found himself dangling over the second story balcony.

Irene knelt at his side, eager to render him whatever assistance she could. The boards beneath seemed soft, almost insubstantial, and suddenly she realized that they had run from one danger, namely the pursuing gunmen, headlong into a potentially greater threat. Now, as Kismet had earlier realized, even a single mistake might prove disastrous.

In his tightening grip, Kismet realized that the fiery kiss of the conflagration had touched the wood of the banister railing to which he clung. Though not completely destroying its integrity, the flames had severely compromised it, and he was certain that it would break apart at any second, delivering him to the waiting arms of the gunmen below. A downward glance revealed that two of the men, realizing that their quarry had run into a dead end, were waiting beneath him. The rest of the gang was doubtless close on their heels.

Irene waved her hand in front of his face. "Take it," she urged.

Kismet pushed it away with his free hand, and winked at her. "Be right back."

He let go of the railing and dropped to the second story landing. The two men standing there had been anticipating his fall, but he landed purposefully, swinging his fist at the nearer of the two. The man was caught totally by surprise, raising neither hand nor sidearm in his own defense. Kismet's blow knocked him back against the wall, stunning him.

The second man tried to aim his pistol, but hesitated for a moment, concerned about accidentally shooting his friend. Kismet moved in quickly, knocking the gun hand aside, and then delivered a quick one-two punch that laid the man out. The first man however had rapidly recovered his breath and wits, and hurled himself at Kismet, wrapping both arms around him from behind. Kismet struggled in the hold, trying alternately to break the man's grip and throw him off balance. The second man, still gasping to catch his breath, rose to his knees, then stood. Kismet noted with satisfaction the trickle of red that leaked from the corner of his foe's mouth. The man wiped at it disdainfully as he balled his fists and stalked toward him.

As the man drew back to strike, Kismet stopped struggling against his captor. He sagged in the man's arms, dropping his full weight against the hold. Even as the man's knees locked to keep his burden upright, Kismet lifted both feet into the air and planted them squarely in the chest of the man in front of him. The force of the kick launched the man backward, his arms windmilling in a futile effort to find a handhold. He slammed into the hip-high railing, and then both he and a long section of the banister went over the side, crashing onto the flight of stairs just below.

The attack worked in the other direction as well. The force of the impact caused the man holding him to stumble backwards and ultimately to fall with Kismet's full weight landing upon his torso. Kismet heard his opponent's wind driven from his lungs in a single wheezing cough. He rolled off of the man just as Irene appeared at the base of the stairs.

"No!" he shouted. "Back up—"

The words were cut off as a pair of hands wrapped around his throat.

Although winded, the man that had held him was not giving up. Kismet drove his right elbow back, striking the man in the sternum, but to no avail. The fingers squeezed tighter. Kismet began to panic. Instead of trying to deal with source of the problem, he found he was able only to focus upon the immediate threat. He reached up to his neck, fumbling to pry loose the choke-hold. Bright spots of light began migrating across his field of view, a warning that his efforts were failing.

There was a muffled crack, like the sound of a hammer striking a tree trunk, and instantly the fingers fell away. Kismet rolled free, coughing and gasping, but ready to fight should the man try again; he would not, for several hours at least. Another figure stood over the sprawled form of the unconscious man, holding a pistol by the barrel.

“I thought you could use some help," remarked Irene, tossing the impromptu cudgel aside. Kismet nodded, unable to thank her because of what felt like a pound of gravel in his throat. He got to his feet and gestured toward the ascending stairs.

"No good," Irene supplied. "The floor up there is a death trap."

"We can't go back down," Kismet wheezed. "Trust—"

"I know, trust you." She grimaced as a fit of coughing overtook him.

Kismet shook off the spasm and mounted the steps once more. At the third floor balcony he slowed, testing each step as he went. Irene's appraisal was correct; the entire floor seemed on the verge of collapse. Floorboards that had held them up moments before now seemed unable to bear their weight. Nevertheless, he trod across the ruined surface, cautiously making his way toward the next staircase.

Irene glanced up and saw that the flight leading to the fourth floor was incomplete. Halfway up, the stairs ended in empty space. Everything above that level had been reduced to cinders. "There's nowhere to go."

"Not the stairs." He pointed past the end of the balcony to a boarded over window frame.

"You're kidding."

Kismet did not answer, but took two more steps and stood before the window. His fingers pried two of the boards loose, creating an opening just big enough for a person to squeeze through. He carefully raised his left foot and stepped out into night, three stories above the street.

"The fire escape," he explained, grinning back at Irene. "Come on, but watch your step."

With some reluctance she crossed the treacherous landing and took the hand he offered. She stuck her head through the opening and gazed out at the night. The fire escape looked nearly as precarious as the burned out edifice to which it was attached. Below them however was a scene that seemed even more threatening. Beyond the truck and the heap of garbage strewn behind, a third sedan had joined the two wrecked vehicles. Its occupants were likely already charging up the stairs behind them. Additionally, two police cars, their lights flashing a multi-hued spectacle up and down the block, were stationed across the end of the alley to prevent anyone from entering or leaving, and in the distance the sirens of reinforcements en route were audible.

"Even if we get down, we'll never get away."

"We're not going down," Kismet replied grimly. "Up. To the roof. From there we can get to another building, and just maybe find somewhere to hide."

Without further explanation he implemented his new plan, carefully ascending the steps of the fire escape. Despite the structural damage, the iron framework was sturdy enough. They quickly made their way up to the platform that ran beneath the sixth story windows. A vertical iron ladder was bolted to the brick face, leading up to the roof. Kismet crossed to it and climbed up.

As he looked over the scorched brick parapet, he saw that the rest of the roof had been burned away. Seven paces to his left was a neighboring building, constructed with a common wall. The fire had partially damaged the apartments along that side, but otherwise, the building appeared to be sound. He pulled himself onto the low half-wall, straddling it so that one of his legs hung down into the ruins. "This could be a little risky."

"What a surprise," Irene grumbled, watching as he leaned forward and began crawling along the narrow brick ledge. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

He paused, looking at her sideways, and then answered with complete sincerity: "I don't know. Probably."

At the end of the parapet, he placed one hand firmly on the ledge of the neighboring building and pulled himself over. There was evidence of some damage here, but for the most part the covering of black tar was intact, as was the structure beneath. He turned back to Irene, assisting her until she was safely beside him.

"What is that smell?" She wrinkled her nose.

"Probably something from the fire."

"No. It smells like…" She looked over the side of the building. "Ugh, garbage."

He followed her gaze. She was right. The trash he had dumped into the street was beginning to release the unmistakable fragrance of rot. Their escape route had brought them back up the block, so that they now stood directly above the slippery mess. Below them, more than a few neighborhood residents were gathering to observe the second plague that had befallen their street in less than one week's time.

"I think we've worn out our welcome," Kismet observed. "Let's head down and find a way out of here."

Irene silently agreed and followed him toward the small rooftop structure that housed a doorframe leading down into the building. He was still a few steps away when the knob rattled and the door swung open.

Kismet immediately extended his arm to block Irene's progress, and began backing away as three figures emerged onto the rooftop. The first was a policeman, his blue uniform jacket bulky over a bulletproof vest, his hand resting but ready on the butt of his holstered sidearm. Kismet's impulse to rush over and beg for protection from the menacing gang that had pursued him across the city evaporated when he saw the second man step out from behind the officer, one of Grimes' stooges. Evidently an alliance had been forged between the black-suited minions working for Grimes and the New York Police Department. The third man to venture out onto the roof was none other than the panting mastermind himself: Halverson Grimes.

"Great minds think alike, do they not, Mr. Kismet?"

Kismet took another backward step. "Don't flatter yourself Grimes."

"Ah, so you know me also." Clutching his side, Grimes advanced. Beads of perspiration trickled from the top of his balding head and ran down his face and neck. He was clearly unaccustomed to dashing up seven flights of stairs. "Please stay where you are, Mr. Kismet. I have no desire to harm you."

Kismet glanced over his shoulder. One of the men he had battled with in the burned-out stairway was now ascending to the roof of that building, having followed the same route as he and Irene. That avenue of escape was no longer viable. Kismet turned back to Grimes, taking another backward step. Irene, pressed close against his back, moved synchronously.

"Look, Grimes, I really would like to trust you, but you and your men have been chasing me all over the city, shooting at me. That's no way to begin a working relationship." He nudged Irene back another step. The front wall of the building was only a few yards away, perhaps six steps if they turned and ran.

"If he moves again," stated Grimes to his underling, "shoot him where he stands."

"Whoa," the policeman intoned. "Slow down. He's got nowhere to go. Nobody's going to do any shooting."

"That's right Grimes. There's no need for violence. If you wanted my help, you should have just called my office and set up an appointment. I would have preferred that to having to sit through the ridiculous ranting of your lap dog Harcourt."

Grimes' face hardened and Kismet saw that his verbal barb had stuck. He risked another step back, but Grimes' man jumped forward, brandishing a pistol.

"Perhaps you are right," Grimes said with a sigh. "Sir Andrew insisted that he could persuade you. I was wrong to let him try. He has a tendency—"

"To believe in fairy tales?"

"To be overeager. That is why I want you involved in this project. You are a man of action. You get results." He gestured for his man to lower his weapon. "We can make history if we work together, Kismet. I swear to you, this time you will not have your prize snatched away."

"I wish I could believe you. But I don't work for kidnappers and murderers."

The policeman raised an eyebrow, and turned to Grimes. "Murderers? What's he talking about?"

Kismet went into motion, whirling and seizing Irene's hand. He ran straight toward the parapet overlooking the street. The man he had fought in the stairway was jumping down onto the roof, attempting to intercept, but Kismet ignored this threat, peering instead over the side of the building.

As with the neighboring structure, the iron frame of a fire escape zigzagged across the front of the apartments. An upright ladder accessed the sixth floor deck, but Kismet had no time to find it and execute a correct descent.

"Over the side." He did not wait for Irene's inevitable statements of disbelief, but quickly stepped over the parapet and dropped onto the catwalk below. The steel structure groaned with the sudden impact. A second later Irene landed alongside and clutched his arm for stability. He steadied her, and then hastily located the ladder. Two of Grimes' men were staring down from the edge, shouting and threatening with their guns, but for the moment Kismet was unconcerned; the grill-work of the fire escape would make it nearly impossible for a bullet to find them. The men must have realized this, for they put their guns away and climbed over the side to give chase.

Kismet saw no sign of their enemies on the street below, but knew they were likely running down from wherever they were in order to cut off the escape. The two men on the ladder, only a few steps behind them, were effectively herding them toward the street, where Grimes would either have them shot or arrested. It was time to hasten their descent.

When he reached the third floor deck of the fire escape, he drew to a stop, and waited for Irene to reach him. She stepped down and looked at him for direction.

"Shortcut!" Before she could utter a word, he wrapped one arm around her waist. Irene suddenly realized what he was up to, and Kismet heard the beginning of an oath, spoken in Russian, which had something to do with his mother.

Her foreign curse notwithstanding, Irene seemed to comprehend that what Kismet was about to attempt would require her full cooperation. She synchronized her movements with his own; bending her knees, tensing her muscles as he did, and springing forward when he shouted: "Jump!"

They flew out into the open space above the street, arcing at first, until gravity's pull exceeded the lateral thrust of their leap, and then they plummeted. Irene's skirt filled with air, like an umbrella in a windstorm, and flew up around her head, baring her legs to the world for one and a half heavenly seconds.

Immediately as they jumped, Kismet released his hold, thrusting her away so that they would not collide upon landing. Irene seemed to float an arm's length away, her face eclipsed by the cloth of her dress. An instant later, they hit.

The garbage bags were not as soft as he had hoped for, but sufficiently broke their fall to prevent injury. Upon hitting the pile of trash, Kismet pitched forward, sinking deep into its reeking midst. He righted himself and looked for Irene. She had landed nearby and already freed herself from the mire. As she rolled down to the street, a few fragments of damp paper tumbled from beneath her skirt. Kismet picked his way across to slippery mess to join her.

Suddenly his head snapped sideways. A bright flash scorched his vision, followed by a ringing in his ears. He turned his head back to face Irene, and found her massaging the knuckles of her right hand. A moment later, his jaw started smarting and he raised a hand to gently probe his left cheek. He was almost convinced that he could feel it beginning to swell. Irene regarded him with smoldering rage. "If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I swear I'll do more than just hit you."

He raised a disapproving eyebrow, though he was secretly impressed by how tough she was proving to be. The trials they had faced since escaping the underground church hall were virtually Herculean, certainly more than enough to overwhelm the endurance of most men. Yet this woman that he hardly knew had survived it all and still had the mettle to put him in his place.

Muted popping noises echoed between the buildings, punctuating the impact of bullets on the street all around them. Kismet hastily pointed to the refuse hauler they had earlier abandoned and shouted: "Back in the truck. Move!"

"But the street is blocked!" Irene shouted. He ignored her and was not surprised when she slid into the passenger seat at the same time he pulled his own door shut. He worked the ignition then revved the engine several times.

"We're not going forward," he explained, shifting the gear lever into reverse.

Irene glanced backward. "That way is blocked, too."

"Not for long." Kismet floored the accelerator then slipped his foot off the clutch pedal. The vehicle shot backward with a violent lurch that threw Irene forward onto the floor.

A loud noise rang through the cab as a bullet struck the heavy steel roof of the truck, directly between them. Another shot shattered the windshield, showering fragments of glass upon Kismet and Irene. The truck's huge rear tires, further weighted down by the upraised container, plowed into the mound of trash and either scattered refuse in all directions or simply mashed it flat. Kismet felt his control over the vehicle diminish slightly, but continued to maintain pressure on the accelerator.

The rear end of the truck slammed into the sedan that had crashed sideways across the lane. The Buick spun around and broadsided the truck. The second car, which had crashed into the first, was devastated as the right edge of the holding canister raked along the doorposts, smashing both the front and back windows and obliterating everything on the driver's side.

Although he managed to avoid striking the third car, the driver of which had been foresighted enough to park close to the sidewalk, Kismet was unable to thread his way between the two police cars that had blockaded the way to the intersection. He barely had time to warn Irene before they hit. The truck lurched with the impact but refused to stop. The driver's side wheels climbed up onto one of the cars, crushed its fenders and twisted its frame into scrap metal. Kismet corrected his steering and the wheels dropped back onto the pavement, causing the entire vehicle to bounce violently.

With that final pang they were free, bursting backward into the intersection, where policemen had already stopped traffic. Kismet braked, then shifted into second and steered back onto the avenue. Within moments they had left the scene of the confrontation behind.

"Irene, are you all right?"

She looked up cautiously from where she was huddled down on the floor. "I don't know," she confessed. "Have we escaped?"

"We're not across the finish line yet, but things are finally looking up."

She shook herself, trying to dislodge shards of glass from her hair and clothes. Her seat was similarly littered with sharp splinters, which she cautiously removed before sitting down. Kismet navigated straight ahead, slightly faster than the flow of traffic. Two minutes later he saw the first sign of pursuit: a string of flashing police lights, a few blocks behind and closing fast.

"Uh, oh. That's no good. Where are we?"

Irene scanned a street corner for a signpost. "Madison Avenue. We just passed 34th Street."

Kismet thought for a moment, and then his eyes brightened. "Perfect."

They continued north for several blocks, but as they approached 42nd street, the way became choked with pedestrian traffic. Though midnight was still a few hours away, thousands of native New Yorkers and tourists were braving the inclement weather to ring in the New Year at the Times Square extravaganza. While it would be impossible to fight through the human flood in the stolen truck, Kismet immediately saw an opportunity to gain an advantage on their pursuers, and halted the vehicle.

Irene looked across the cab at him. "Well?"

"What do you say we watch the ball drop?"

She raised a dubious eyebrow, but followed his lead when he opened the door and dropped down onto the pavement. The shouts of annoyance that greeted their abandonment of the sanitation truck were quickly swallowed up by the crowd noise and the swell of music echoing down the rain-slicked streets. After a few steps they could no longer hear the sirens of the approaching police cars in the din of the celebration.

They did not completely blend in with the masses however. People gave a wide berth to the reeking, soot-stained duo, parting like the sea in a Biblical epic. In no time at all they had traversed three blocks and were within sight of the main stage and the legendary lighted ball that would drop at the stroke of midnight. It was impossible to tell if they were still being pursued, but Kismet was sure of one thing; their presence would leave an impression on all those who crossed their path. Simply trying to blend in with the crowd would not suffice.

He pushed through the throng, crossing the wide avenue toward the corner of 42nd and Broadway. Once his feet touched the sidewalk, he spied his next destination: a green globe, like a lamppost, standing above a stairway that descended into the bowels of the city. "There," he said, steering Irene toward the subway entrance.

Pedestrian traffic on the stairs was heavy with people commuting to the celebration, but they managed to force their way through the rising mass into the warmer, more spacious interior of the station. Kismet stripped off his ruined jacket to ease the impact of his appearance and minimize the curious stares of onlookers.

Following the signs on the wall, Kismet guided Irene through the underground maze, down a long escalator to the platform that serviced the numbers one, two and three trains to lower Manhattan and beyond. While traffic out of the station was heavy, there were only a handful of people waiting on the southbound platform.

They hastened down the concrete island, ducking behind one of the enormous supporting columns. After so much frantic action, it was difficult to simply stand still and wait. Irene leaned against the pillar, but the stale air and heat sent a wave of vertigo crashing over her. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Kismet gripped her shoulder reassuringly and eased her to the floor. "It's all right. You've been through a lot today. Just try to breathe deeply, steadily."

She reached up weakly to take his hand in her own. "Thank you, Nick. For everything."

He knelt beside her. "So, do you know what all this is about?"

She pressed her forehead to her knees and breathed in and out slowly several times before answering. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its quaver. "Actually, I'm more confused now than when those men first grabbed me."

"Why is that?"

"I'm feeling better. Help me up." With a measure of her dignity restored, she began self-consciously smoothing out her skirt, ignoring the permanent stains from their earlier misadventure. "When those men took me, I immediately assumed that they were Mafiya — the Russian gangsters that run Brighton Beach."

"You also mentioned FSB—Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti—back at the church. Why would you have anything to fear from Russian state security?"

"Not so many years ago, FSB was known as KGB; you know this, I am sure. My father escaped from the Soviet Union when I was just a child. We have always lived with the fear that they would one day catch up to us."

"Why? The Soviet Union is ancient history."

"Russians have long memories, Nick. And not all of the people exiled to Siberian gulags were guilty of ideological differences; sometimes it was personal. Nor did all of those KGB agents lose their jobs when the letters changed."

"So it's an old grudge." Kismet maintained a neutral expression. He was still fishing to see how much Irene knew, and what she might reveal. "You said you assumed they were mobsters or FSB; you now believe otherwise?"

She nodded. "They were not Russians at all. I heard only some of their conversations. They must have captured my father sometime earlier in the week. When he saw that they had me also, he immediately agreed to cooperate, so long as my safety was guaranteed."

Kismet held back his questions. He pressed his fingers together, trying to gauge how much he should share with the young woman in an effort to draw her out and win her trust. Before he could reach a decision, a subtle change in air pressure followed by the squeal of metal on metal, signaled the approach of a subway train. He leaned out from behind their place of concealment and checked the platform for any sign of their pursuers. No one appeared to be paying them any special attention.

"Looks like our ride's here. Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes." She stepped in front of him, fixing her dark eyes on his. "Nick, do you know what those men wanted from my father?"

"I have a vague idea." Something about the way she asked the question convinced him of her sincerity, but trust was a different issue altogether. The arrival of the southbound number two train spared him the burden of answering, or worse, deceiving her. The train disgorged another crowd of partygoers, leaving an almost completely empty car. They darted inside just as the doors closed.

Following an unintelligible announcement from the overhead speaker, the subway lurched forward. Kismet stayed low inside the carriage until they passed into the darkened tunnel beyond the station.

"Where to now?"

Kismet sank wearily into the molded plastic seat beside Irene. "My place first, but just long enough to clean up and grab a few things. If Grimes—"

"The big man?"

"Yes. I don't know how he knows me, but he does. Anyway, if he's done his homework, and I'm sure he has, then that's the first place he'll look. Hopefully, we'll be long gone before he comes calling."

She nodded then leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. Almost without thinking, he gently brushed a sliver of glass from her hair. There were still more answers he needed from her, but before he could phrase the questions, he realized that she had already left him; Irene Kerns had fallen asleep. With an affectionate chuckle he leaned back, gazed out into the darkness of the subterranean transit system, and fought the urge to join her.

SIX

Kismet carefully surveyed the front of his brownstone residence looking for anything out place. They had already made a complete circuit of the surrounding block. If Grimes and his bunch had somehow leapfrogged ahead to the Brooklyn Heights neighborhood where Kismet lived, they would have had to park somewhere, but there were no unfamiliar cars on the surrounding streets. From what he could tell, the coast was clear.

Irene followed him up the brick steps, into the warmth of the interior hallway and up to the second floor. She waited until they were securely inside the apartment before demanding an explanation.

"Keep it down," Kismet urged, ignoring her protest. He left the lights off, motioning for her to stay by the door as he quickly swept the rooms for signs of an intrusion. In the diffused light from the street lamps trickling in through the windows, she got a look at the personal abode of the man who had rescued her. She was strangely pleased at the total absence of feminine influence in the decor of the front sitting room. Kismet reappeared a moment later. "I think we're okay. Come on in."

She followed his lead, passing through the front room with its large window overlooking the street and down a long hallway into a bedroom with a perfectly made queen-sized mattress. Her brow furrowed slightly at this, but when Kismet flipped on the lights, she saw that the room looked almost unused. Remembering her earlier unanswered question, she turned to him. "All right, it's your turn Nick. There's more to this than you've let on. What's really going on?"

He jerked a thumb toward a door across the hall. "Bathroom's in there. You can clean up, but don't get too comfortable. We won't be here long. As to what's going on…I don't have a clue."

"You do know something. I heard what that man Grimes said to you. Those men weren’t just after me. They wanted you too. You're involved in this…" Her eyes widened in sudden comprehension. "You know where they're taking my father, don't you?"

"That's where you're wrong. If anyone knows where your father is going, it's you."

Kismet turned to leave the room, but she raced after him. "Just what is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"It means that those men took your father because he knows where to find what they want. I was just supposed to be the hired help."

"But I don't know what it is they want to find."

His expression hardened and he took a step closer, staring into her eyes, as if attempting to discern there the sincerity of her statement. "Grimes and Harcourt are looking for the Golden Fleece."

"Oh."

Irene's monosyllabic answer spoke volumes. Kismet held her gaze even as she attempted to look away. "Then your father does know where it is."

She took a step backwards, looked around then sank slowly onto the bed. "It's not that," she sighed. "If that's really what they are after, then it means that they'll be taking him back to where his enemies are. If they find him there…" She did not complete the sentence, nor did she need to.

Kismet shook his head. "If it exists at all, the Fleece surely wouldn't be in Russia."

"Not Russia. The Republic of Georgia. When I was a girl — when we left — Georgia was simply one more state in the Soviet Union. My father did most of his work in the Caucasus, the mountain range that is the natural border between Russia and Georgia. I didn't understand what that man Grimes wanted from my father, even when he mentioned something about Greek antiquities. But now it makes sense."

"Georgia might as well be in Russia; it certainly tops the list of old Soviet satellites that Moscow wants to return to the fold. Russian troops invaded Georgia recently and there's still a significant military presence in some areas." Kismet rubbed his forehead ruefully. "Why do these ancient treasures always wind up in the middle of war zones?"

"You‘re not suggesting the Golden Fleece is real?"

"The Black Sea coast of Georgia has always been accepted as the most likely location for Colchis, the legendary home of the Golden Fleece. If he found those artifacts in the mountains, it would provide evidence of an ancient Greek presence in Georgia. From there it would only be a short step to believing that those Greek explorers were searching for the Golden Fleece.

"Still," he continued. "Georgia is a long way from the Kremlin. I wouldn't think the reach of your father's enemies would extend that far."

"We were in Georgia when my father decided to flee."

Kismet couldn't tell how much of her concern was based on real experience and how much was paranoia. Either way, it would do little to alter the situation. "Listen, Irene. I just need to know one thing. If we went over there, to the Caucasus, could you find the place where your father discovered those artifacts?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Then we don't have any time to waste. Go get cleaned up; there's time for a quick shower if you want."

"I don't understand. We are going to go over there? We are going to rescue my father?"

"Not if we don't start moving." He stepped away from the doorframe, a reassuring grin breaking across his face. "The shower is in there."

She stood up quickly and moved as if to follow his direction, but when she drew even with where he stood, she stepped close, placing her hand on his arm.

Her sudden action surprised and unsettled him; the former only because he was not expecting it, the latter because he had been secretly hoping for such intimate contact. Her dark eyes looked up into his. "We are going to rescue my father," she repeated, but it was no longer a question.

He nodded, not speaking, and pulled her close. She did not resist, but instead let her arms enfold his torso and tilted her head up to face him, her lips drawn invitingly apart. He lowered his mouth to hers, and a warm sweet euphoria swirled over his tongue like vapors of brandy.

The kiss lasted only a moment, then he heard her whisper: "Thank you,"

He opened his eyes, feasting on her innocent beauty. "No. Thank you."

"Nick," she giggled. "I mean, thank you for deciding to help me find my father."

For some reason he couldn't define, the bloom of passion wilted and he released her with unintended abruptness. "Sure," he replied, gazing past her. "No problem. Better hurry up with your shower."

Irene seemed to sense as well that something had gone awry. She nodded and moved away. Kismet stepped back and watched as she crossed the hall into the bathroom and pulled the door closed. A few seconds later, he heard the sound of the shower spigot running.

He shook his head, stalking from the room into the hallway that led to the dining room and kitchen. He was angry with himself, angry for having kissed her and angrier still at his reaction afterward. Seeing Lyse again after so long had unexpectedly awakened a part of him that cared nothing for the machinations of secret societies and ancient relics.

"Like kissing my sister," he muttered. Although he in fact had no siblings, the approximation was nevertheless accurate. Irene Kerns had come to into his life young and vulnerable. Of course he had offered to help, that was the right thing to do. But to take advantage of her emotional state….

Still, there was nothing wrong with her offering herself to him, nor with his accepting. Intimacy was often based on less substantial foundations. She was an adult. And she certainly was desirable. In frustration he tore off his soiled shirt and tossed it toward the refuse can beside his desk.

Let it go, he admonished himself. There was too much at stake to complicate matters by adding an emotional component. She was just a kid looking for a hero to come and save the day. Maybe he would be her hero, but she would have to wait for someone else with whom to live happily ever after. As soon as she was done bathing.…

An image of Irene in his shower sprang unbidden into his mind; her delicate body caressed by the spray, wreathed in veils of steam that could not eclipse the curve of her thighs, but in his mind's eye barely concealed the sculpted contours of her breasts.

He threw a glance over his shoulder toward the hallway leading to the bathroom. He had not actually heard her throw the privacy bolt; did that qualify as an invitation?

"Hell, she's an adult." He started back toward the bathroom then stopped in his tracks.

A man stood in the corner of the dining room, beads of precipitation dripping from his hat and overcoat. The dull metal of his gun however, was bone dry. "Good evening, Mr. Kismet. I hope I am not interrupting anything important."

"Damn," Kismet cursed under his breath. He had underestimated the opposition. He had known from the outset that Grimes would eventually conclude they had escaped Times Square, but had wagered their safety on the belief that their head start was great enough. He had also hoped Grimes would judge him too smart to return to his own home, and thus figured it would be the unlikeliest place for their enemies to be laying in wait. Wrong on both counts, his desire for a brief respite before fleeing the country had led them into a trap.

He turned toward the man, slowly so as not to invite reprisal, and sized him up. The face was familiar, but the images it evoked had little in common with the pursuit they had just so desperately eluded. He searched his memory to place the man.

"Ah, you were hoping to entertain the lady and I spoiled your fun. This is such a nasty business," offered the gunman in mock apology. "Now if you will just give me the parcel, we can avoid further incident."

"Parcel?" Kismet echoed, not really seeking to comprehend the man's request.

The voice, he thought. Something about the voice, a baritone, faintly accented….

German? One of the Teutonic Knights perhaps?

Suddenly Kismet recognized the intruder. It was the man he had encountered in the street outside the Fat Man's house in Marrakech — the German motorist who had seemingly offered the assistance of his pistol in frightening off the Fat Man's goons, only to turn and pursue Lyse and himself through the length, breadth and bowels of the city.

The gun was not the same. Kismet realized after a moment that something had been added to the barrel of the weapon; a suppressor designed to baffle the noise of firing. It was the sort of modification a spy might use. The pistol was likely a .22 or .25 caliber weapon; quiet, with a subsonic round, but nonetheless lethal at close range.

"Parcel?" he repeated after only a second. Now he wasn't entirely sure what it was the man was after. Was he in collusion with Grimes, demanding that Irene be handed back to his portly conspirator? Or was this visitation entirely coincidental?

"Yes, Kismet. Quickly, or I shall have to use a more persuasive argument; a threat to your life perhaps. Or to the health of your…ah, guest?"

"No," Kismet replied, trying to sound casual. "That won't be necessary. It's just that I'm not sure what it is you want."

"Do not be obtuse, Kismet. You are trying my patience."

He was getting nowhere. It was time to try a different tack. He snapped his fingers as if experiencing a revelation. "Hey, I remember you now. You were in Morocco."

A faint smile tilted the corners of the man's lips. "Yes. And I've come back to finish that business."

Realization dawned. "The calf. You want that statue of the golden calf."

"I do," replied the man. "Please get it for me now."

"You know it's a fake, don't you?"

The man did not reply, not even a flicker of emotion at the statement. Kismet could not for the life of himself understand what was so important about the statue. It had no cultural value and not much artistic importance. Its precious metal content might gain the attention of a petty crook, but would certainly not justify an international retrieval effort, unless there was something else at stake that he had not considered. He understood only one thing: the German wanted the statue badly, therefore he must not be allowed to have it. Kismet needed options. "It's in a safe place," he stated cautiously.

"I would expect so. You will show me." The fellow gestured with his gun for emphasis.

Kismet glanced around his apartment. It was no longer the place where he lived and slept but a battlefield. His eyes roamed every corner, every stick of furniture, as if he were a field marshal organizing a defense against an overwhelming enemy. His gaze settled on the refrigerator, and a plan began to take shape.

"It's in there," he revealed, pointing toward the kitchen. He moved, a little too eagerly, in that direction. "I'll get it."

"Stop," ordered the German. Kismet halted, allowing the German to push past him. "Where?"

Kismet again moved quickly, kneeling before the sink. "I put it down here."

"Do not open that. Back away, slowly."

Kismet did, trying to appear confused. "I thought you wanted me to get the statue."

"Indeed. But will I find the statue down here, or perhaps you have a hidden weapon? I shall be very disappointed if that is what I discover." The German knelt, his pistol trained on Kismet, and opened the cabinet under the sink with his left hand.

Kismet took a careful step backwards. He was now standing in front of the refrigerator. Two more steps in that direction would take him out of that room; closer to his bedroom where the Smith & Wesson revolver he had captured earlier in the evening lay in the pocket of his destroyed suit coat.

A small wastebasket was the first thing the German's searching hand encountered. He risked a brief look then thrust the can aside, spilling some debris on the tile floor. He continued to reach and probe with his left hand, but because he was unwilling to lend his eyes to the search, he was limited to a very small area of movement.

"It's farther back," volunteered Kismet, evincing defeat.

The German grunted, trying one last time to reach into the unseen depths of the cupboard. Finally he eased forward, squatting on his haunches. He switched the gun to his left hand freeing his right for the search. "Let me assure you that I am equally capable shooting with either hand."

Kismet suppressed an urge to laugh. If the man were truly ambidextrous, as he claimed, he would have had no difficulty reaching into the cabinet with his left hand. He added this fact to the body of his overall scheme. Now he had only to wait until his trap was sprung. He gauged his distance to the refrigerator door; he needed to be closer.

"What's the big deal with that statue anyway?" he asked, taking a half step sideways. The German stiffened to an alert pose, waving the pistol to reaffirm his control of the situation. Kismet raised his arms submissively then lowered them when the moment of tension had passed. His left hand came to rest on the handle of the refrigerator door. He wrapped his fingers around it and waited.

"You are better off not knowing," remarked the German. "Some things are better left—"

The German yelped suddenly and snatched his hand back as though it had been burned. Kismet noted with satisfaction that the mousetrap, which he had left set beneath the sink drain, had snapped across the tips of the man's first two fingers.

Kismet pulled on the handle, opening the refrigerator door, and threw himself behind it. The heavy door swung out, shielding him from the view of the frustrated foreign agent. The man nevertheless retained the wherewithal to discharge his weapon. A series of soft coughing noises instantaneously heralded a chaotic pattern of ruptures in the metal skin of the door. Even as a carton of eggs, a plastic jug of milk and a jar of mustard exploded on one side of the barrier, Kismet felt blows slamming into his chest; sharp hits, like a hammer striking against his body but did not let the wounds slow him. Grasping the back of the refrigerator with both hands and bracing one foot against the wall, he pulled the top of the appliance toward himself.

The refrigerator tilted away from the wall, slowly at first, until gravity's downward influence assisted his efforts. The heavy appliance disgorged its contents in a rush upon the unsuspecting German, and then it crashed down on top of him. There was a grunt as the freezer compartment struck him in the head, knocking him senseless, just before the wire shelves pinned him to the floor.

Kismet inspected the mayhem. All that was visible of the man were his feet and his right hand; his swollen fingers were still locked in the jaws of the trap. The intruder did not seem to be moving, but Kismet was nevertheless cautious as he knelt and pushed the refrigerator aside.

He turned the appliance over on its back, so that it resembled a waiting sarcophagus. The cavity inside was now totally vacant, the food and shelves in broken disarray all around the stunned spy. Three holes, each no bigger around than a pencil, perforated the door, and two similar piercings had ventilated the side panel.

Before the German could regain control of his faculties, Kismet kicked the silenced automatic pistol out of reach. He then inserted one arm under the fellow's head, the other under his legs, lifted him up and dumped him unceremoniously into the ruined refrigerator.

The German grunted again, the pain of striking his head a second time rousing him. He started thrashing briefly as his awareness returned, then stopped moving when he realized that his prey now held the upper hand. Kismet picked up the pistol and trained it on a point roughly in the area of the other man's nose. "Now will you tell me why that statue is so important, mein Herr?"

There was a flicker of an eyebrow in response to the last two words, but the foreign agent quickly mastered his emotions. He would give nothing away. "You may as well shoot me, Kismet. I have nothing to say to you."

"How unfortunate," mused Kismet, taking a step closer. He slid his foot under the door and leaned over the German. “However, I have no intention of killing you. I'm sure the authorities have more persuasive ways of getting answers from you, and I know they'll be interested in what kind of operations the German intelligence service is running on American soil."

The man did not react at all; his face was an unreadable mask. Kismet frowned as he considered his options, and then decided to play one last wild card. "If you see him, give my regards to Halverson Grimes."

The German jerked suddenly as if suffering an electric shock. "How did—" He silenced himself almost immediately but could not hide his dismay.

Kismet kicked the door of the refrigerator, lifting it high enough with his foot so that it slammed down, entombing the intruder. He hastily grabbed a roll of silver duct tape from the bottom drawer of the kitchen cabinets then leaped onto the door just as the captive inside tried to push it open. The man's cries were muffled by the insulation. Kismet quickly began running strips of the heavy duty adhesive back and forth across the door until even the German's most ferocious efforts failed to crack it open so much as a millimeter. The tiny bullet holes would provide adequate ventilation for the captive, Kismet reasoned. And if they didn't? Well, that was too bad, wasn't it? Spying was a dangerous business after all.

After laying aside the silenced pistol, Kismet stroked his chin thoughtfully. His final comment had been a bluff, based on a whisper of doubt in his mind about Grimes. He hadn't really expected a reaction, but was alarmed by what the German's response suggested. In any event, the entire incident, unexpected as it was, had placed Irene and himself in jeopardy once more. The German might have comrades — reinforcements waiting in the shadows. And eventually, Grimes would send his goons to ransack the residence in search of clues as to where Kismet had gone. They had to get out, and quickly.

Before he could reach the bathroom door, it swung open to reveal Irene. She wore only a towel, wrapped around her torso and tucked in over her left breast. A second towel was twisted turban-like upon her head. Clouds of steam billowed out from behind her. "What was that noise?"

"A big rat in the kitchen. You know how these old buildings can be. Hurry up. There's not much time left."

"Time for what?" Her question became a gasp. "My God, is that blood?"

Kismet looked down, following the direction of her pointing finger. Three crimson spots were visible on the fabric of his undershirt, though the cloth itself was intact. He touched the spots, rekindling the pain in the nerves of his abraded skin. The bullets had given up lethal velocity as they passed through the impromptu shield of the refrigerator door, but had still hit hard enough to cause superficial abrasions.

"It's nothing," he lied, taking her arm and guiding her curious eyes away from the hallway. "You'll have to make do with some of my clothes."

As Irene unfurled her turban, releasing a cascade of damp hair, Kismet felt a pang of regret that their meeting had been so ill-timed and under such desperate circumstances.

Instead of dwelling on the missed opportunity, he opened the closet, pulled a pair of khakis and work shirt from a hanger, and passed these to Irene. As soon as she took them, he abruptly pushed all of the clothes hanging on the dowel out of the way, exposing the wall. He then turned the wooden rod until he heard a click from within the wall itself. Gentle pressure on the panel caused it to swing inward, exposing a small room beyond. Kismet ducked under the low lintel and entered the secret room.

The small chamber was only slightly bigger than the closet through which he had passed. Kismet had built this room himself by creating a false wall in what had originally been a much larger walk-in closet. The space beyond was empty, save for a small worktable against the back wall. The tabletop was piled with various papers, many of which were documents pertaining to his personal quest — more than a decade spent trying to find some trace of the wolf-like Ulrich Hauser and the organization that man had hinted at. Kismet had been discreet, never sure who could be trusted with his knowledge, content to simply listen for certain keywords to pop up in conversation with people who seemed to have a little too much interest in legendary antiquities. Beyond that, the search for answers had begun to resemble a campaign against windmills.

Also occupying the tabletop was his kukri, along with a Glock 17 pistol, a cleaning kit, and several boxes of ammunition. He left the .44 Special and the silenced .22 automatic alongside the other weapons; he would think of some way to dispose of them later.

One other item occupied a place on the table. Hidden inside a plastic grocery bag was the object of the German agent's quest. Kismet took it out and held it up to the light. "What are you hiding?" he whispered.

"So exactly what is it that you do, Nick Kismet?" Irene stood just behind him, gazing in awe at the hidden room and its contents. One of his Ex Oficio shirts now clothed her upper body. In spite of the fact that she had left the top three buttons undone, exposing a healthy amount of cleavage, her breasts strained at the fabric beneath the chest pockets. Kismet silently cursed the German once again for his untimely intrusion and tore his gaze from her.

"Believe it or not, I'm a lawyer."

She raised a dubious eyebrow. "This should be interesting."

He laughed. "I work for the United Nations; specifically, for an agency that deals with issues regarding art and antiquities. We basically make sure that art treasures and so forth don't get snatched up illegally by private collectors and black marketeers."

"You make it sound so pedestrian."

Kismet chuckled at the observation. "Well, I do occasionally go into battle in the courtroom, but mostly I inspect digs to make sure that the laws are being observed, and try to shut down illegal art smuggling operations."

Irene pointed to the statue. "Is that something you got to keep?"

"I'm not sure, but it just might be our ace in the hole." He ran his fingers along its length, probing for unnoticed irregularities or incongruous defects. He turned it on its side, and then examined the calf's belly. Finally, he turned his attention to the sun disk between the horns of the idol. The block Hebrew characters-engraved characters of the Aramaic alphabet rather than the more spidery paleo-Hebrew used prior to the third century BCE-looked back at him with all the authority the word inscribed there carried. Some rabbis held that the name itself was a word of great power, but its actual pronunciation was an incomprehensible mystery because the vowels that connected the four consonants were unknown. Did those letters, the anachronism that had revealed the idol's fraudulent nature to him, hold the secret that made the golden calf statue so desirable, both to the German agent and to Lysette Lyon? If it did, the significance escaped him. He turned the artifact once more.

There it was: a faint line as thin as a hair encircling the circumference of the disk. He inserted a fingernail and exerted pressure until the disk popped open like a keepsake locket. A concealed jeweler's hinge held it fast on the bottom edge.

Kismet swiped his finger across the inside of the hollow space and dislodged a tiny reclosable bag, about the size of a postage stamp, which contained a wafer thin piece of blue plastic. Laying the statue aside, he gave closer attention to this new item.

"It's a memory card," he realized aloud. He had completely forgotten his houseguest, and Irene was forced to quickly back out of the hidden enclosure as Kismet raced purposefully back into the bedroom.

Kismet grabbed his notebook computer off the nightstand and slipped the secure digital file storage device into the appropriate port. The file directory opened, but the card evidently had only one executable file, which Kismet double-clicked.

The screen abruptly went black then words started scrolling from bottom to top. German words. He mentally paraphrased a translation, quickly getting the gist of the two paragraph long messages that commenced the program. The first was a security warning, stating that only certain people were authorized to view what followed, and that if one was not a high ranking member of the Bundeswehr, the German ministry of defense or something called Alb-Werk, then continuing to watch constituted espionage and would be dealt with in the most severe way. Kismet glanced at Irene, who was staring once more over his shoulder. "Do you speak German?"

She shook her head.

"Good." The second paragraph was more of a proprietary statement, once more invoking the name of Alb-Werk, followed by a brief introduction stating that what followed was for general presentation purposes only; further technical information would be made available upon request. As the scrolling words left the screen, a logo, stylized from the name of the parent company, flashed in the center, then again went dark. What followed looked incredibly realistic, but Kismet noted a distinctive uniformity in the texture of the images that gave it away as the product of computer-generated animation.

The visual presentation began with a sweeping aerial shot descending down toward a dense forest in the purple of twilight falling. As the perspective leveled out, Kismet saw a generic military compound looming ahead. The point of view switched suddenly to a loose cluster of soldiers standing on the ground and gazing up at the barely visible silhouette of the aircraft as a cylindrical object, presumably a bomb, fell from its undercarriage. The device deployed stubby wings, and adjusted course incrementally as momentum carried it forward in a downward curve. The delivery aircraft then kicked in its afterburners, disappearing from the sky in a blaze of blue flame.

Two seconds later the bomb detonated high above the military base in a burst of brilliance that filled the screen. The light, probably a graphic special effect designed to impress the viewing audience, quickly faded, only to be replaced by what Kismet took to be a more accurate expression of the bomb's capability. The presentation broke from real time in order to relive the bomb blast from different perspectives and at different rates of progress. It was difficult in the first few scenes to understand how the device differed from a nuclear or large conventional explosive, but in the fourth cut scene, Kismet realized what he was witnessing.

The bomb created no shock wave, no blast of kinetic force. Instead, the airburst unleashed a cascade of particles, shown in the presentation as a silvery rain, which destroyed electronic equipment and central nervous systems alike. Living tissue, whether human flesh or vegetation, was vaporized instantly, while radio equipment and missile guidance systems began to spontaneously burst into flames.

The final scene showed a fleet of helicopters moving into the affected area, deploying ground troops across the compound. The men wore traditional combat gear, rather than special protective equipment, as might be used in a nuclear or biological hot zone. It was, Kismet realized, the holy grail of warfare: a bomb that killed the enemy without destroying infrastructure or permanently contaminating the drop site.

The dramatization ended with one soldier stepping forward to proudly raise the black, yellow and red flag of Germany. Immediately, the image on the screen segued into an exploded schematic of the weapon itself. Kismet recognized the basic components of an implosion device, a ball shaped charge surrounded by titanium plates that forced the blast inward, focusing the explosive energy into the fission core. He knew that in a nuclear device, the implosion would drive neutrons through the core material — plutonium or uranium — splitting the atom apart and releasing its latent energy in a tremendous blast, but this bomb was different. The core material was not a radio-isotope. It was identified only by its designation on the periodic table of elements, modified by a minus sign: Au-. The screen continued to show this final piece of information for few more seconds, then blinked out.

On an impulse, Kismet grabbed a battered copy of the New York Library Science Desk Reference from his bookshelf and thumbed through until he found the periodic table of the elements. "Gold?" he murmured. "Negatively charged gold?"

Had German researchers figured out a way to turn one of the most precious of metals on earth, into one of the most lethal, utilizing it in the core of a proposed new electromagnetic bomb? If so, what were those plans doing hidden in a bogus statue? And how had that parcel come into the possession of his old college flame Lysette Lyon?

Slightly annoyed at being ignored, Irene frowned and cleared her throat. "If you don't mind, I'm going to grab a glass of water."

"No!" Kismet looked up suddenly. He saw her jump and instantly regretted the sharpness of his tone. "I'm sorry. The kitchen is a mess right now. Are you hungry?"

"Famished. I could eat a horse."

He snapped the laptop shut without removing the disc. "Actually, I was thinking we could go for Italian."

Despite its reputation as 'the city that never sleeps,' New York does grow quieter as the night deepens. At twelve thirty a.m. however, half an hour into a new year, the streets of Brooklyn were still wide-awake. There had been the requisite bursts of noise, fireworks and car horns at the fall of midnight, followed by the exodus of partygoers trundling home. Kismet kept a solitary vigil, watching the events from the window of Mama Rosa's Italian Ristorante. Irene, drowsy after consuming a helping of leftover eggplant parmesan and a glass of red table wine, had already succumbed to the refuge of sleep. She lay in the darkened dining room, a checkered tablecloth pulled around her shoulders and a bundle of cloth napkins beneath her head, while Kismet nursed the remaining drops of wine, struggling to stay awake until Lyse kept the rendezvous.

He had discovered the Italian eatery shortly after moving into the neighborhood, and had quickly been adopted by Sal, the head chef. Over the years, the relationship had grown close enough that Kismet had been trusted with a key and the alarm code, and was told in no uncertain terms to make himself at home whenever he felt like it, as long as he didn't leave a mess. It was an arrangement that he confidently believed to be a secret from men such as Halverson Grimes.

Lyse arrived half an hour after Irene fell asleep. She entered quietly, nodding in affirmation when Kismet raised a finger to his lips, and followed him to the bar.

"Sorry I'm so late," she whispered, easing onto a stool beside the counter. "I've been everywhere tonight."

"No problem," replied Kismet. "Are you hungry?"

"Oh, yeah. I could eat a horse right now."

He grinned. "That's a popular choice tonight. How about a meatball hero?"

"As long as you do all the work."

"Just like old times." Kismet rose and led her into the kitchen. "So, what's the story? Were you able to follow Harcourt?"

"Yeah. How about you? I see you saved the damsel in distress from the clutches of the evil villain."

"All that and more." He laid a plate in front of her. Upon it was a split loaf of bread, piled with meatballs and dripping with marinara sauce. Lyse rubbed her hands together eagerly as he took a seat at the bar beside her. Given her trim figure, he had always been amazed at her appetite. As she devoured the meal, Kismet recounted the evening's events up to the point where they escaped from Times Square. Lyse nodded often, but offered no opinions. "Now it's your turn," he finished.

She virtually inhaled the remaining bites of her sandwich before answering. "My evening wasn't quite as wild as yours, but at least you were in better company. I spent most of the time driving, by myself."

''How sad for you."

"Spare me the sarcasm. Care to guess where your pal Andy went?"

"He left the country."

Lyse nodded. "He, along with that Russian guy and a couple of the guys in suits that all look alike drove to JFK and got on a flight to Paris. I don't know if that's their last stop."

"It isn't. My guess is he'll make one more stop in Germany to rendezvous with Grimes before leaving for their final destination. Grimes is spying for the Germans."

Lyse's mouth fell open. "That's a pretty serious accusation, Nick. I know he's up to no good, but a spy? And for the Germans? They're our friends."

"I can prove it. The question is: what are you going to do about it?"

There was an almost imperceptible pause between his statement and her rebuttal. "Me? Why should it matter to me?"

Kismet leaned back on his stool and gazed at the ceiling. "Look Lyse, I understand that you probably aren't able to tell me the truth about what you really do. But doing what I do…well, let's just say it's a lot like being a detective, and believe me you've left plenty of clues laying around that point to only one conclusion."

She tried to flash her notorious smile, but couldn't quite pull it off. "What conclusion is that?"

"Do I need to spell it out? It's just three letters: CIA. You don't have to confirm what I say. But if you want to nod or something, that would be helpful."

"I don't have the slightest idea what you are talking about."

"I should have realized it in Morocco," he continued, unmoved by her denial. "The whole situation was just too strange to be taken at face value. What, did you set things up with the Fat Man, so that I would have to help you out? I don't appreciate being used as your mule, Lyse. Especially without knowing what the stakes were. If you'd done your research on that particular piece, you might have actually fooled me, but I spotted the fake and threw a monkey wrench into your plan.

"Even at that, there was nothing to make me suspect that this was about anything besides some elaborate con job you were running. That German who chased us through the streets of Marrakech — there could have been a logical explanation for that — at least until he showed up at my place tonight, waving a silenced twenty-two and demanding I hand over the statue."

Lyse jumped out of her chair and stood bolt upright. "You didn't give it to him, did you?"

Kismet grinned. He drew out the wrapped parcel containing the idol and passed it to her. "If you tell your superiors, or whomever, they might be able to arrest the guy before his buddies come looking for him. He's in my refrigerator."

Lyse paused in her hasty unwrapping of the golden calf long enough to raise an eyebrow at Kismet's last statement. "I take it that this German told you that Grimes is spying for them?"

"Not in so many words. Perhaps your people can persuade him to talk more freely."

"My people?" echoed Lyse. "So you persist in believing that I am some kind of secret agent."

"Your denials are wasting valuable time, my dear. I'm handing you that German and Halverson Grimes on a silver platter. If you don't act quickly, it will be your own loss. I have more important matters to take care of."

Lyse set the idol down on the counter, gazing at it as if it were a trophy she had earned. "Okay, Nick, you're right. I can't tell you anything about what I do, but you've hit pretty close to the mark. And let me just say that Hal Grimes has been the subject of scrutiny for a long time. But he's a very powerful man, with a lot of friends."

"I noticed."

"What doesn't make any sense is his involvement with Harcourt. He's risking exposure without any real gain."

"That's where you're wrong. There's everything to gain if he finds the Golden Fleece."

"That? I thought you said it was a fairy tale."

"I'm revising my opinion. Like you said, it doesn't make sense for him to risk this, unless the Fleece is real. And I suspect that its value may be more than just historic."

"Like what? Magic or something?"

"Maybe." He hadn't worked out all the details, but just now thought better of trusting Lyse — and the people she was worked for — with details about the substance Harcourt had called 'ubergold.' "Whatever the case, Grimes must not find it. I'm going to get it before he does. And hopefully rescue Peter Kerns too."

"Really?" She tried the smile again, and this time pulled it off successfully. "Well, good luck."

"I'm going to need more than just luck, Lyse. I'm going to need your help."

"My help as in my help? Or as in the Company?"

Kismet sighed. "The latter, I'm afraid."

She toyed with her fork for a moment before answering. "I can see where our interests might coincide. What have you got in mind?"

"The first part is easy. I need discreet transportation for Irene and myself to anywhere in southern Europe. Greece would be fine. Or Turkey. Our ultimate destination is the Republic of Georgia."

"Georgia?" Lyse breathed a rare curse. "Things have been pretty volatile there of late. Are the Russians involved in this?"

Kismet shook his head. "I don’t think so. But that's why I'm going to need something else from you."

Lyse listened as Kismet briefly outlined his plan, a growing look of incredulity clouding her features. "Absolutely not," she declared when he finished. "Even if I could do that, it's sheer lunacy. With the situation there right now, we could start a war. A real war against a nation with a real military."

"You don't have a choice Lyse."

"Don't have a choice?"

"Grimes must not get the Fleece. That ought to be reason enough for you to help me, but if it isn't, then I'll go one better. I'll trade you for your help."

Lyse stopped fuming long enough to inquire. "Trade what?"

"The final clue that convinced me that you made a radical career change after we went our separate ways all those years ago. The real reason you wanted me to smuggle that golden calf into the United States."

For the second time that evening, Lyse's mouth fell open. She snatched the idol off the counter, felt for the tiny gap in the sun disk, popped it open and looked inside. The hollow space was empty.

"What was that anyway?" Kismet continued innocently. "Plans for some kind of electromagnetic pulse bomb?"

"Give it to me Nick. This goes way beyond our friendship. People have died for those secrets."

"You can have it when — make that if — I get back from Georgia in one piece. It would be a shame if I died over there and took the secret of where I hid it to the grave. Especially if you could have helped me and didn't."

"Nick, this is a matter of national importance."

"So is finding the Fleece. I'm no physicist, but something tells me that Grimes' interest in the Fleece has more to do with your bomb and less a lingering interest in Classical Greek folklore. Trust me, when your superiors find out what's at stake, they'll support the idea."

"Damn you." Lyse leaned back and dropped her hands to the bar. "Fine, I'll tell them about it. I'll do whatever it takes. But you have to give me the information that was in the statue."

"Sorry. That's my insurance policy. Your superiors should be told that as well."

Lyse was silent for several moments. "This isn't my decision. I'll pass it upstairs and see what I can do." She sighed in defeat. "Jesus, Nick. I hope you know what you're doing."

Kismet opened his mouth to reply, and then thought better of it. He gazed across the room, toward the seating area where Irene was soundly sleeping, and realized that his motives were not nearly as straightforward as he had led Lyse to believe. He turned back to her and chose to answer with the truth. "Actually, I haven't the faintest idea what I'm doing."