Into the Black

ELEVEN

Kismet contemplated the burning match in his fingers for a moment then waved it in the air until its flame was extinguished. Although there were yet a few hours of daylight remaining, the mildewed confines of Anatoly Grishakov's cellar saw none of it, forcing Kismet to once more make use of the old kerosene lamp with the missing chimney.

The lamp was actually the second flame he had lit; the first was in the dusty hearth, where a fire now crackled, warming the exhausted pair, father and daughter, that were stretched out before it on a bed of blankets.

Their journey down the mountain had taken several more hours, and the path they followed had brought them to the coastline a couple miles north of the city. None of them had really slept in over twenty-four hours, and exhaustion was beginning to take a toll, especially on the Kerns. Practically sleepwalking, Irene and her father had allowed Kismet to tuck them in front of the fireplace in Irene‘s room. Kismet too had fought a battle with heavy eyelids and muscle aches for much of the descent, but as they neared the city, his mind came fully awake. His fatigue evaporated as he began to contemplate the next step in the quest for the Fleece.

He already had a notion of where he would find it; it would fall to Kerns to supply the details that would make searching unnecessary. He spread one of Kerns' old survey maps out on the tabletop, and studied it in the flickering glow of the lamp. The paper had gotten damp during the course of their adventure on the mountain, but it was intact and the ink markings had not blurred.

His forefinger moved lightly across the paper, first settling on the site of the mountain camp where Harcourt was conducting his futile search. He then followed the line identifying the old riverbed that cut a meandering path down to the sea, a couple miles north of the inlet. There were no further markings along that line, but Kismet didn't need any. The map showed him where to find the Fleece, as effectively as if Kerns had engraved it with the traditional "X" to mark the spot.

He checked his watch; dusk would soon arrive. He knew he should force himself to get some sleep, but his mind would not turn off. His new knowledge had created an entirely different set of problems; getting to the Fleece would require specialized skills that he did not have. Moreover, the equipment he would have to use was antiquated and there was no guarantee that it would work. He would literally be staking his life on its reliability.

Because he could not sleep, he chose instead to search for something to eat or drink. Anatoly and his wife were nowhere to be found, but in their pantry, he found a supply of coffee, and set about brewing a pot. As he savored the first cup, he became conscious of the darkening sky. It would soon be time for his rendezvous with Lyse. Before that, he needed to ask the old man a few questions; tough inquiries of which Irene might disapprove. He decided not to awaken her as he knelt down and shook the engineer.

Peter Kerns was practically stove-up from the ordeal of his imprisonment and the brutal trip down the mountain. Kismet nevertheless roused him with a mug full of coffee and planted him at the table in front of the map. Kerns stopped in mid-sip, suddenly aware of the paper spread before him. "Ah."

Kismet sat across from him. "You found the Golden Fleece," he stated plainly. "But it wasn't up in the mountains."

Kerns sighed. "How did you know?"

"There were too many pieces to the puzzle that didn't fit. The first was when Harcourt showed me a golden helmet fragment that you had found. The metal had a trace of salt scale on it. Of course I really didn't believe there was a Golden Fleece to be found at that point." He paused to take a sip of his coffee. "The equipment down in your cellar was another clue, but I still wasn't sure; not until I got a look at the mountain dig site."

"How did that help?"

Kismet smiled patiently. “Although Harcourt hasn't figured it out yet, I immediately saw what you did all those years ago when you first discovered that old mining camp. The settlement had been abandoned. The Greeks, or whoever, had mined the ore until the vein was dry. Then they packed up everything but the trash and left. If they found the Golden Fleece, they certainly wouldn't have left it behind."

"No. I suppose they would not."

Kerns remained evasive, unwilling to be forthcoming with the answers Kismet needed. Kismet decided not to press him just yet. "They must have followed the old river down to the coast, loaded their ships, or more likely built a new ship to ferry their wealth back home. But something terrible happened. Their treasure ship sank, not too far from the shore, and the Fleece was lost to the ages."

"How do you know that they did not make it safely home? The Jason legend says that he did return with the Fleece."

"I'm not talking about the legend," Kismet snapped, tiring of Kerns' feigned ignorance. "I'm talking about reality and we both know it. So cut the crap and tell me the truth about what you found."

Kerns sagged in defeat. "I should not tell you. Better that the secret remains lost. This world is no place for such powers."

"I understand your concerns. But the Fleece will be recovered. If not by us, then by Grimes and his gang, or by the Russians. Who would you prefer possess it?"

"You are right, of course." He drew in a breath, steeling himself for the confession. "You are wrong in one respect. I did not find the Golden Fleece; only a few artifacts scattered on the sea floor. I dove to retrieve them—"

"SCUBA?"

"No. All I had available was an old Russian Navy-issue three-bolt rig, with compressed air pumped down from the surface. I had to install a second petrol tank on the compressor in order to work alone. I told no one of my discovery; not my daughter, nor my best friend Anatoly."

"I thought we were finished with this little game, Kerns. You found more than just a few old relics."

The old man sighed, sinking back into his memories. "It took me weeks of secret diving, in a careful search pattern, to find the pieces. But when I began discovering fragments of gold and temple stones of marble, it was as if my feet were set upon the path. As I moved from one discovery to another, I drew closer to something strange.

"I first began to notice the fish. It was as if they stood guard around a certain place. I remembered hearing talk-superstition really-from the fishermen in the village. They spoke of a place that was haunted, where the ocean glowed with a yellow light during the night. Nets lowered there would always come up filled, but no one lingered in that place, fearful of tempting whatever powers lurked below. I, of course, dismissed the stories, trusting the assurance of my intellect that no such haunting was possible. But as I stood on the ocean floor, surrounded by some increasingly aggressive fish, I became a believer."

"Just because of some fish?"

"Not just the fish. I saw something else. A wreck, I think, though I cannot to this day be certain. It was the axis around which the sentry fish orbited. Whatever they protected was concealed there. I know, for the whole place was alive with a golden light."

Despite his willingness to believe, Kismet was momentarily plagued with skepticism. "You never went any closer? Why do you believe the Fleece is there?"

"I did not. In fact, upon returning to the surface, I stored my equipment and never dove again. I had already taken enough relics to pay for my flight from the USSR. It did not occur to me that the Golden Fleece might be there until I was captured by those men and interrogated concerning it. Only then did I realize what it was I had seen."

"But you didn't tell them anything. And when they pressed you, you led them to the old mountain camp. You took a hell of a chance with your daughter's life."

Kerns returned his gaze with an earnest expression. "I believe you would have done the same thing, Mr. Kismet. We both know that one life here or there is of little consequence against something as potentially dangerous as that Fleece. Power like that could reshape the world.

"However, my efforts to mislead them might have proved successful. The site is genuine. Harcourt verified that from the beginning. They would have searched for a while and, finding nothing, given up, believing that I had cooperated fully. It was the only thing I could think of doing."

Kismet sat back, unconsciously stroking the stubble on his chin. "You probably made the right decision. Your cooperation would not have made a difference though. Grimes ordered Irene's death the minute they had you out the door."

"I feared as much. Still, I had hoped they would honor their word."

"All of which leaves us with the question of how to proceed. Despite our escape, I believe Harcourt will continue to dig up there, at least for a while. I want you to do two things for me. First, show me on the chart exactly where you found the wreck. And second, teach me how to use the diving equipment."

Kerns hesitated only a moment then stabbed at the map with a finger. He was pointing to a shelf, roughly twenty fathoms below the surface, after which the sea floor dropped dramatically. Anything lost beyond that point would be gone forever from the world of mankind; sunk to depths where the pressure would crush any diver or submarine. Kismet studied the location carefully, committing it to memory. He had no intention of leaving a paper trail for his foes to follow.

"My equipment ought to function, despite the years," Kerns offered. "But it will take me a while to show you how it works."

Kismet checked his watch. "You've got three hours."

Three hours and fifteen minutes later, Nick Kismet swung down from the broad back of the draft horse and scanned the inky waters of the Black Sea for signs of motion. He saw nothing, but the moon was still low in the sky and the sea revealed little about itself. Still, he was where he was supposed to be, and even a few minutes early. He dug into his waist pack, took out his MagLite and removed the red lens cover. After a quick compass reading, he positioned himself facing due west, after which he flashed the naked light three times out across the black water. A moment later three pulses of light, like echoes of his own signal, flickered in the distant darkness.

"This is it," he declared, offering his hand to Irene. With some difficulty, due to fatigue and soreness, she and her father dismounted from the other horse.

They waited in silence for fifteen minutes. Before that time had passed, Kismet was sure that he heard the distinct whine of an outboard motor, but the noise ended abruptly before his eyes could distinguish the source. Shortly thereafter, he glimpsed a shadowy spot that didn't reflect starlight. The form drew closer, but it wasn't until the small craft was drawn onto the beach that Kismet and the others could correctly identify it as a large inflatable rubber boat.

Two large men dressed entirely in black, with faces stained by dark greasepaint, stowed their oars in the raft, then jumped out into the gentle surf and pulled the boat onto dry ground. A third person, smaller than the others, but similarly decked out, remained seated in the craft until it was secure. Kismet went down to meet them.

"Hey, Lyse."

The smallest member of the shore party looked up, her grin a white crescent in an otherwise darkened face. "Nick. Son of a gun, you're still alive."

Eschewing what he expected to be the protocol of clandestine meetings, Lysette Lyon threw her arms around him. Somewhere behind him, he thought he heard Irene clearing her throat.

"You sound surprised."

She withdrew after a moment. "Pleasantly so. We've been monitoring all kinds of radio traffic. You've definitely stirred up a hornet's nest or two."

"I was only aware of one. Germans."

"The Russians are talking about you too, both military and something else. A code we haven't been able to break yet. Face it; everyone knows you're here. The sooner we get out of here, the better." She gazed past Kismet at Irene and her father as they moved to join the reunion. "I see you got what you came for."

"Not quite. But I'll have the Golden Fleece in two days. What I need right now is for you to get them—" He jerked a thumb casually in the direction of his companions, speaking softly so that they would not overhear—"somewhere out of the way until I can get it."

"What's going on, Nick?" Irene touched him on the shoulder as she came to a standstill beside him. Kismet couldn't tell if she was harboring jealousy toward Lyse's unexpected presence or merely curious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Absolutely not."

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

"She makes a valid point," Lyse intoned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll find it."

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

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

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

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

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

"Go on."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Grimes doesn't think so."

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

"Bullshit."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighed. "What about Grimes?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You have my promise of support, Nick."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you find what you sought on the mountain?" Anatoly asked, tearing his gaze away from the firearm.

Kismet sat down, putting the gun on his lap, out of view. "I think so. Let's say I'm off to a good start."

Anatoly set the lamp down and disappeared from the room. He returned with a bottle, and two glass jars into which he decanted a fair amount of the bottle‘s contents. "Irina sleeps?"

Kismet nodded. "It was a long day." The clear spirits burned cool on his tongue. The anonymity of the bottle led him to believe that the vodka originated locally, possibly distilled by Anatoly himself.

"And why are you not also asleep?"

He drew in a deep breath. "I need your help."

Anatoly broke into another grin. "And I was beginning to think you didn't trust me. Of course, Nikolai Kristanovich. In whatever way I can help, I will…"

The Russian's voice trailed off and he turned his head to one side as if distracted by a noise in the distance. Kismet listened too, but heard only the faraway sound of barking dogs. Before he could frame a question, there was a rapping on the front door. Kismet dropped his hand to the firearm beneath the tabletop, and watched cautiously as Anatoly opened the door.

The portly figure of Halverson Grimes filled the doorframe. Dressed in a heavy gray greatcoat and fur cap, the traitor carried only one item in his gloved hands: a stick with a white handkerchief attached to one end. Grimes proffered the makeshift truce flag, waving it to get Kismet's attention.

Before Anatoly could say a word, Kismet snarled: "Grimes. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Easy," Grimes soothed. "I wish only to parlay. Will you hear me out?"

"There's nothing you have to say that I want to hear."

"Are you so sure? I beg you, fifteen minutes of your time. If I have not convinced you, I will go my way honorably and trouble you no more."

Kismet was curious in spite of his reservations. "Why not? Have a seat, but keep your hands on the table." He turned to Anatoly and addressed him in Russian. "Let's give him some vodka."

Both Grimes and Anatoly registered mild surprise that Kismet was speaking in that tongue. The latter quickly recovered his composure, and went grinning in search of another jelly jar.

"What I have to say is meant only for your ears," Grimes continued. "This country is rife with informants and mobsters—"

Anatoly returned a moment later with a glass, filling it to the rim with vodka and setting it in front of the newcomer. Kismet waited until he had taken a seat to answer Grimes. "Anatoly doesn't speak English," he explained. "He may as well not be in the room, for all he will understand."

Growing wise to the deception, Anatoly feigned bewilderment then turned to Kismet and asked him in Russian to translate.

"I did not know that you spoke his language, Mr. Kismet." Grimes chuckled theatrically. "Ah, but of course you traveled extensively in your youth. In how many languages are you fluent?"

"I'm sure that's not what you came here to talk about." Kismet picked up his glass and tilted it toward the other men. "Salud. Bottoms up, Grimes."

With a distasteful look, Grimes drank from the glass, wheezing a moment later as the neutral spirits burned down his throat and into his belly. "No," he said, coughing. "I didn't come to discuss your prowess with foreign tongues. It is your knowledge of antiquities that interests me."

"I thought that Andy was your resident expert."

"Sir Andrew has been most helpful, but he is a visionary, while you are a man of action. The chaos on the mountain has provided me with overwhelming evidence to that effect."

Kismet ignored the jibe, brusquely seizing the vodka bottle and splashing some of its contents into each of the glasses. "I guess I gave you too much credit, Grimes. I would have thought it was obvious that I'm not interested in helping you."

"What are you interested in, Kismet? Saving Petr Chereneyev from my wicked schemes? I think we both know better." Grimes took the glass and raised it to Kismet before downing it in a gulp. This time, the vodka did not produce so much as a grimace.

"That's where you're wrong," Kismet countered. "The safety of Peter Kerns, whom I might add is an American citizen, is very important to me; especially when creeps like you think you can snatch him right out of the States to play your little spy games."

Grimes folded his hands on the table. "Spare me the rhetoric, Kismet. It ill becomes you. The truth of the matter is that you and I have both been victims of our government's treachery."

Kismet was, for the first time, genuinely puzzled. "What in the hell are you talking about?"

"I think you know exactly to what I am referring," hissed Grimes. "You risked your life on a mission that led you to one of the most sought after treasures on the planet. But someone else knew about your mission. A second team was sent, your prize was snatched away and you were left to die in the desert. Who do you think sent that second team?"

Kismet heart skipped a beat as Grimes spoke. Was it possible that this man, who had become his sworn enemy, possessed the answer to the riddle that had haunted him for most of his adult life? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a perplexed look flicker across Anatoly's mien. Struggling to maintain his poker face, he sneered: "I really don't know what you're talking about."

"I was head of joint military intelligence. We were very troubled by Samir al Azir's request, naming you personally as the only man he would meet with to negotiate the disposition of that sacred relic. How was it possible that this Iraqi engineer had knowledge of you, a mere second lieutenant? We could not simply sit by and entrust such an important matter to a junior officer and a platoon of disposable Gurkhas. I received orders from the desk of the President himself, to send another team to secure the relic and leave no witnesses. Your escape across the desert was nothing short of miraculous.

"I'm sure that in the years since, you have imagined a scenario exactly like the one I have just described. I think deep in your heart you have always believed that it was your own country that betrayed you, leaving you to die."

Kismet threw a sidelong glance at Anatoly. The Russian was doing a good job of concealing his ability to understand the conversation — no mean feat considering Grimes' revelations. He was beginning to wonder if he had erred by encouraging Anatoly to stay, but there was nothing he could do about it now. For his own part, there was just enough truth in what Grimes was saying to plant a seed of doubt. "Assuming any of this is actually true, why tell me? If you really did what you said, then I should kill you right now."

Grimes smiled coyly. "Like you, I was a soldier, following orders. But those orders, and many that have followed, were troubling to me. I was shut out of the after-action review. The final fate of the recovery team and the disposition of the relic were kept secret from me, as were too many other things. I began to suspect the existence of a secret coterie within our own government; a cabal following an agenda that has nothing to do with the interests of the American people."

"Ah, the diabolical conspiracy." Kismet tried to inject sarcasm into his tone, but his mind was racing to assimilate the Grimes' suspicions. "A secret society — the Freemasons or the Tri-Lateral Commission perhaps. Or the Teutonic Knights?"

Grimes smiled humorlessly at the last statement. "So you know something of my quest for answers. Yes, I accepted membership into the Teutonic Order of Saint Mary. And when I was forced to resign from the Defense Department, that affiliation opened doors for me overseas. It was not possible to fight the enemy from within his own castle, so I sought willing allies where I could find them."

"Look, Grimes, I think you're too smart to be drinking the conspiracy Kool-aid, but if that's what you want to believe, fine. Why are you so bent on getting me to believe it?"

"As you have also surely surmised, the shadow government has a vested interest in the secrets of the ancient world. Even I do not fully grasp the extent to which they have hidden the true history of mankind, but my new allies are aware of many such discoveries, secreted away in the name of protecting mankind from itself. The Golden Fleece is just such a secret, and you can be sure that even now the shadow government is preparing to strike to prevent its power from coming into the light. I would think you of all people would appreciate that this must not be allowed to happen. We must find it first and take it to a place of safety."

Kismet's eyes darted toward Anatoly at the mention of the Fleece, but the Russian had chosen that moment to drain his vodka glass, hiding his reaction behind a mouthful of liquor. Grimes appeared not to notice and continued speaking. "Sir Andrew is capable enough, but you — when you decide to find something, nothing can prevent you. I want you working for me, Mr. Kismet. And I want you to receive the recognition you deserve. I can't change what was done during the war, but the Golden Fleece is another matter. The German government won't hide it away. The man who finds that treasure will be greatly honored. More importantly, I believe that the discovery will draw our mutual enemies into the light."

Kismet weighed Grimes' arguments quickly, trusting his gut reaction as a litmus test. The man he now thought of as a traitor had once been a flag officer in the US Navy and an expert in espionage. Intelligence operations weren't just about gaining information, but also had the goal of winning hearts and minds, using whatever means — and whatever lies — necessary. But why was Grimes trying so hard to convince him? He splashed more liquor into the glasses. "Nice try. But I'm not interested in proving Harcourt's pet theories. If the Golden Fleece really does exist, you're welcome to it. I'm going home."

Grimes disdained the final toast, pushing away from the table in preparation to depart. "Then may I at least have your assurance that you will not continue to interfere?"

"If you stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours."

Grimes inclined his head and pushed away from the table. "Please thank our host for his courtesy. I wish that you and I could have been allies."

Alarm bells were going off in Kismet's head. After making such an impassioned plea to swing his loyalty, why had the traitor capitulated so quickly? Something was wrong — dreadfully wrong. As Grimes grasped the door handle, Kismet sprang erect and brandished the rifle. "I think you forgot something."

Grimes stared at the firearm as if he did not understand its purpose. "Already breaking the terms of our truce, Kismet?"

He wouldn't just give up. That's not his way. Kismet's mind flashed through what he did know about the way Grimes operated. He suddenly realized he had given Grimes too much credit; the portly spy had shown a preference for brute force over subtlety and sophistication. A sick feeling began to creep across his gut; the certainty that Grimes' call for a truce had merely been a diversion to conceal something more treacherous. Irene!

He hid his anxiety behind a fierce mask. "What's your hurry? The night is young."

"This has grown tiresome, Kismet. Stay out of my way, or you'll regret it." Grimes turned again to the door.

Kismet answered by pulling the bolt on the weapon, advancing a round into the firing chamber.

Grimes stopped dead in his tracks. "All right, Kismet. What now?"

"Come back to the table. There's one more thing we need to discuss. It's simple really. You can leave here alive, when your men release Irene."

"What on earth are you ranting about?"

Kismet jabbed the gun toward Grimes. "Nothing's ever what it seems with you. Sure, you want my help looking for the Fleece. Peter Kerns might have told me something that he didn't tell you. Or he might have told his daughter. This meeting was just a diversion, so that you could try to kidnap her again."

"You're paranoid, Kismet."

"And you're dead if Irene Kerns isn't standing here in front of me in five minutes. Shall we go up to her room and take a look? Or will you save yourself a few precious minutes and make the call?"

Grimes stared defiantly, impassively blinking in the face of Kismet's threat. Anatoly stood mutely to one side, still feigning incomprehension, but clearly ready for action should the need arise. Finally, Grimes relented, reaching slowly into the folds of his coat. Kismet stepped closer, ready to take action in the event that Grimes was drawing a weapon, but the traitor produced only a small walkie-talkie.

Kismet darted across the room, taking a station directly behind Grimes as the latter spoke to his unseen comrades. Grimes spoke in English, and received only a curt affirmative in reply. A few minutes later, the door opened to reveal a haggard looking Irene, who ran into Kismet's embrace.

"Satisfied, Kismet?" growled Grimes. "I could have my soldiers burn this house to the ground with all of you inside, but what would that accomplish? There is no need for us to continue as enemies."

"Go to hell, Grimes."

The large man inclined his head. "Pray that our paths never again cross."

With that, he ducked through the door and escaped into the night. As soon as he was gone, Irene poured out the story of her abduction by the commandos, told how they had scaled the outer wall of the residence, stealthily gaining entry and taking her hostage while Kismet and Grimes talked.

Kismet tried to listen but found that his nerves were too jangled to make sense of her tale. Part of him was still wondering if he had made the correct decision in shutting Grimes out; what if the man truly did have insight into the events that had changed his life that night in the desert? With almost trembling hands, he set the rifle on the table and downed another shot of vodka.

Anatoly joined him, gulping down a similarly copious dose of the spirit. "Kristanovich. Was there something you wanted to ask of me tonight?"

Kismet laughed in spite of himself. "I honestly don't remember."

TWELVE

Despite his fatigue, Kismet's sleep was troubled. His mind would not let go of the things Grimes had revealed, but continued churning them over and over, looking for some bit of information he might have missed that would supply the necessary confirmation. It would have been almost too easy to accept the traitor's statements as fact; indeed, Grimes' assertions fit perfectly in many respects. And if Grimes was telling the truth, then he was standing on the brink of a replay of those events. Even now, Lysette Lyon was poised with a team of CIA operatives, ostensibly to capture Grimes, but what if they were receiving orders from the so-called ‘shadow government' to seize the Golden Fleece as soon as Kismet located it? Had he unwittingly played, once again, into the hands of that conspiracy by trusting Lyse?

On the other hand, Grimes could just as easily have cooked up a deception after reading Kismet's own after-action report from that doomed mission into the desert. If Hauser and his team had indeed been American Special Forces soldiers, then why had they conversed in a language that, more than a decade later, Kismet still could not identify? Furthermore, why had Hauser spoken of Kismet's mother as though he knew her personally?

In the end, he could not make Grimes' statements gel with the facts as he saw them. Grimes remained the enemy, and one of the most basic rules of warfare was to ignore enemy propaganda, even when it sounded plausible.

Anatoly kept watch throughout the night, an old shotgun resting on his lap. Over breakfast the following morning, the big Russian listened patiently as Kismet attempted to explain the events of the preceding night.

"There is much that I do not understand," intoned the Russian. "You tell me that my old friend Petr is alive, but was a prisoner of these spies? And that they have brought him back here?"

"Until we rescued him yesterday," Irene supplied.

"Foreign agents — soldiers-moving illegally through my country. Very bad. Worse that they have threatened my friends in my own house. Why have they done this?"

Kismet sublimated a nagging urge to withhold the full explanation from Anatoly. It was time to show a little trust. "Grimes — the unpleasant fellow you met last night — believes that there is treasure hidden up on the mountain."

"Ah, yes. The Golden Fleece. He spoke of it to you. And do you also believe?"

"It's not where he thinks it is. Peter — Petr — knows where it is. He told me where to find it, and how to get to it. That's where you come in."

Anatoly raised a hand. "A moment, please. If you have rescued Petr Ilyich, then where is he now?"

"Safe. And probably already on his way home."

"And how was this accomplished?"

Kismet abruptly realized there were still a few things he wasn't ready to give up. Before Irene could reply, he answered in a decisive tone: "Petr Chereneyev is a problem solver. He escaped once before. It's probably better that we don't know where he is, or how he plans to get out."

Anatoly nodded slowly. "Of course. A pity though that I could not see my old friend."

"After we recover the Fleece, you could leave with us," Irene suggested. "You could start a new life for yourself in America."

Anatoly chuckled at the idea, but offered no comment. Instead, he turned his attention back to Kismet. "So, where do I, as you say, come in?"

"The artifacts that Petr Ilyich discovered weren't up on the mountain. There was an old camp up there, probably a mining camp, but it was abandoned. The relics came from the sea. Petr showed me where he found them."

"I do not understand. From the sea? Did he drag the bottom with hooks and nets?"

"No. He used an old diving apparatus and walked on the bottom of the Black Sea."

Anatoly registered disbelief. "It would appear that my old friend had more talents than even I was aware of."

"The suit and compressor are in the cellar. He told me how to use the equipment, but I need a boat to operate from. That is where, as I say, you come in."

The big Russian stroked his shaggy beard thoughtfully. "Well then. We should get started."

Had anyone paused to notice, they would have observed their neighbor Anatoly, along with his two visitors, shuttling between the dock and his home. By midday the equipment was loaded and tested, and Kismet announced his readiness to commence. Anatoly cast off the moorings, coaxed his trawler out of its slip and headed for open water.

The fisherman navigated according to the chart Kismet had given him, while the latter remained in the bow, fastening air lines to the compressor. Despite their age, both the suit and the compressor proved to be in remarkably good repair. Chereneyev might have been a daredevil in his own way, but he took pride in his work and apparently valued safety. The suit was a little tight, but not uncomfortably so, and Kismet donned it with help from Irene.

The journey to the dive site was brief. The weather was clear and the sea calm when Anatoly went aft to drop anchor. Kismet scanned in all directions, assuring himself that no one was watching. The shoreline and the towering mountains stretched across the eastern horizon, but the village was an indistinct speck. No other boats were visible, although Kismet knew that the fishing fleet had departed from the harbor hours before.

To give the illusion that they were simply fishing in the remote area, Anatoly lowered his nets into the water. Meanwhile, Kismet made the final step in putting on his aquatic suit of armor: the helmet. Cast of solid copper, the critical piece of headgear was typical of the hard-hat dive rigs that had been in use before the invention of the Aqualung and self-contained breathing apparatus. Its creators had simply called it tryokhboltovoye snaryazheniye, literally "three-bolt equipment" because of the fact that the helmet was secured to the chest piece by three bolts spaced evenly around the apparatus at roughly chin level. The helmet and chest plate together weighed nearly eighty pounds. It looked like something Jules Verne might have dreamed up, and in fact an earlier version of it had been in use during Verne's lifetime. Nevertheless, for extended dives with long decompression periods, the old hardhat system was superior to SCUBA, and the three-bolt suits had served the Russian Navy's purposes well into the twentieth century.

As soon as the metal globe enveloped his head, Kismet experienced a wave of trepidation. The helmet was a tangible manifestation of the fact that he was about to plunge into a wholly foreign and potentially fatal environment. His only means of communicating with the surface took the form of three small orange floats, which he would release to signal either his need for a gradual ascent, or an emergency withdrawal from the depths. The words Kerns had uttered the night before now echoed in his head with ominous finality. The thought of being trapped below and suffocating, or being forced to make an ascent too rapidly and suffering the painful effects of the bends, or of losing his cognitive abilities to nitrogen narcosis, now seemed not simply to be requisite risks, but unavoidable certainties.

Kismet had SCUBA dived before and would have preferred the independence of carrying his own supply of air, relying only on himself to survive the unpredictable variables of a descent, but that just wasn't practical. Not only was there the obvious problem of acquiring the equipment, but the depth to which he would be diving was at the limit of what was termed recreational diving. At the depth Peter Kerns had indicated, bottom time for a SCUBA diver using compressed air was measured in mere minutes; in fact, with decompression stops, the dive would more than exceed the capacity of what he could bring along in two tanks. Most deep diving of this sort was now done with helium-oxygen mixtures, which were much safer but required even more in the way of specialized equipment and topside support. Like it or not, Peter Kerns' old school diving technique, despite the inherent risks, was simply the only option under the circumstances.

A tapping on the left porthole distracted him from his rising apprehension. It was Irene. "Are you going to be alright?"

Kismet turned his head to face her. The barrier between them muffled her voice. Her concern was evident, yet Kismet could see that she really had no idea of the dangers he was about to confront. He wanted to scream, to tear the metal and rubber from his body. Instead, he forced a smile and nodded. Anatoly started up the compressor and a rush of oily smelling air filled the helmet.

"Great," he murmured to himself. Without further delay, he ambled across the deck to the nets and lowered himself into the water.

As soon as he was beneath the surface, he felt better. Though the dampness from the water could not penetrate his suit, its cold quickly seeped in, calming his nerves.

Underwater, everything was different. The compressor was still audible, chugging and hissing to provide him with breathable air, but the undersea world was a place of perpetual green twilight and serenity. He released his hold on the net and allowed himself to sink. Anatoly was controlling his descent from the boat. A cable attached to a winch was gradually played out to provide him with a measured rate of descent, as well as a lifeline back to the surface. Even so, the bottom quickly rushed up to greet him.

At this depth, darkness reigned; very little light from the surface could penetrate. When he looked up, Kismet had no difficulty seeing the keel of Anatoly's trawler, with its nets spread out behind it like drably colored plumage. But that light could not pierce to the shadows around him. When his booted feet touched down, sinking several inches into the sediment and kicking up a tremendous cloud of silt, he discovered even greater respect for Petr Chereneyev, who had made this same journey without support from allies on the surface. When the cloud finally settled, Kismet looked around at the alien landscape where he was the intruder.

Faint silhouettes of the rocky outcropping surrounded him, a veritable labyrinth of obstacles. After a few moments, Kismet became conscious of fish swimming through the maze. Even in this inhospitable place he was surrounded by life.

As he surveyed the submarine environment, he gradually became aware of an unusual light source off to the west. The quality of the illumination was negligible, but Kismet knew that nothing in the natural world could account for it. Kerns' comment about golden light shining from beneath the sea echoed in his head. He hadn't really expected to witness any such manifestation, but if the Golden Fleece was indeed the source of the light he was now seeing, then he would have little difficulty locating it.

A step in that direction created yet another obscuring silt cloud. Rather than wait for it to subside, he proceeded more cautiously, taking long, deliberate steps. By this method he was able to keep silting to a minimum while making good progress toward the light source.

In terms of actual distance, the light was very close. Kerns' coordinates had been right on the mark. Nevertheless, distances in the underwater realm were exaggerated. It took Kismet almost half an hour to cross a few hundred yards. From time to time he would gaze upward toward the idle trawler, and was amazed to find that its position in relation to his seemed unchanged. The cable connecting him to the boat was still being played out as needed, but he was beginning to wonder if he had actually gone anywhere.

The amount of time he was spending below was beginning to concern him. Kerns had outlined decompression recovery times for him on the previous night. Kismet knew that minutes spent under the influence of the sea's tremendous pressure might require hours of gradual ascent to avoid the bends — bubbles of gas in the bloodstream that caused painful cramps or even death. In spite of the risk of further obfuscation due to the silt clouds, Kismet strove to pick up his pace.

He was quickly rewarded. The glow soon became a ray of golden brilliance guiding him through the underwater labyrinth. He passed from behind a large outcropping and got his first look at the place where Petr Chereneyev had discovered the relics of a forgotten age.

The rocky maze gave way to a broad plain, broken up by a scattering of small rocky nubs that barely poked out of the soft mud. Chereneyev's footprints were still visible, as were the depressions in the sediment where he had removed artifacts. As Kismet's eyes roved across the plain, he made out dozens of holes, and realized that the artifacts Harcourt had showed him were merely the tip of the iceberg.

As he continued west, his gaze began to focus on the source of the golden illumination, directly ahead. Another of Kerns' caveats occurred to him as he crossed the expanse. The old Russian had warned him of unusual activity from the fish; he had used the word "aggressive." Kismet was now seeing exactly that kind of behavior. The area before him was thick with schools of fish. Smaller fish from the herring family formed a virtual curtain, sparkling in the unnatural golden light, while larger fish — dogfish, rays and even enormous sturgeon, all of which should have been devouring the smaller prey creatures — cut harmlessly through the traffic, content to patrol the region without feasting. Kismet realized that he was becoming the object of their interest when a large stingray seemed to erupt from the silted seafloor. The creature's barb hovered dangerously close as it circled his chest, and Kismet decided it was time to bare the blade of his kukri. The ray's flanks rippled menacingly and then it retreated into the silt cloud.

A few more steps brought him close enough to discern the outlines of a sunken wreck laying on its side, half buried in silt, in the midst of the yellow brilliance. The lack of distinctive features led Kismet to believe that he was looking at the underside of the vessel. He noted also that the sediment, which had built up around the craft, did not significantly eclipse the golden light; it seemed to shine evenly from the hull of the wreck, passing through the silt as through a veil of gauze.

Suddenly something struck him from behind and sent him stumbling. He struggled to recover his balance, but the weight of the helmet took him over and he ended up face down in the muck. He pushed himself up, but saw only a dark shadow pass over him and faint eddies in the swirling murk. With one glove he smeared away the algae that clung to the front view port of the helmet.

When he got to his feet, he realized that the crowd of bottom dwellers had moved away from the wreck and begun orbiting a new axis: him. Like a squadron of fighter planes, the larger fish seemed to be circling, preparing to dive-bomb their target. Before he could raise the knife in his own defense, an enormous sturgeon, like some prehistoric monster from the fossil record, veered toward him.

Instinctively, he tried to dodge the creature. The fish smacked into his shoulder, but did not succeed in knocking him down. As it flashed past, he slapped at it with his empty hand, striking it in the gills. Enraged, and possibly injured, the sturgeon retreated hastily toward the wreck. With its flight, the attack ended. Kismet remained ready to slash at the next assault, but the schools held their distance. He took a tentative step toward the wreck, then another.

His earlier assumption about the vessel lying on its side was soon confirmed. As he drew closer, he could discern the outline of the keel just above the mud line. Kismet was not an archaeologist by trade, and certainly not an expert on maritime history, but he had studied Jason and the Argonauts during his classical education and knew enough about ships of the era from various contemporary sources to recognize a Greek galley about fifty feet long and twenty feet broad of beam — more a big boat than a ship in the modern sense. But no galley in myth or history looked quite like this one, ablaze with golden brilliance. The illumination was indeed shining from the skin of the craft, which to Kismet's surprise, did not appear to be wood.

A few more steps brought him close enough to place a gloved hand against the ship. As he pressed experimentally against the surface he could feel a tingling in his fingertips but no heat. When he moved his hand away, he saw the indentations left behind, as though he had pushed into stiff clay. Pondering this observation, he started walking toward what he presumed to be the stern of the craft.

The coating on the hull was uniform, like a layer of paint. The natural world was filled with luminescent fungi, plants, insects and fish, but Kismet was certain that some other phenomenon was at work. The overlay on the ship was smooth and consistent, whereas lichen growth would adhere to a more chaotic pattern and would certainly have rubbed off when touched. There was only one explanation: the ship was coated in luminous gold.

Kismet was also not a metallurgist, but he did know a thing or two about the corrosive power of salt water. Even in the Black Sea, where the salinity was about half that of the world's oceans, time and oxidation would have corroded any other substance, leaving a wooden ship to decay into pulp. Only gold could resist ravages of the sea for so many centuries. The vessel had evidently been overlaid with gold in a manner similar to the helmet fragment Harcourt had displayed in Kismet's office. What he could not fathom, as he rounded the stern and got his first look at the topside of the ship, was why the ancients had covered their sea-going craft in one of the heaviest substances known to man, and why that normally inert element was glowing like an incandescent light bulb.

The galley held yet another surprise. Situated aft, but extending forward to dominate roughly a third of the craft, was an enclosed superstructure. He had been expecting an open craft; essentially a big rowboat. The ancient Greeks, despite their mythic reputation for adventurous wanderings, had never perfected the art of sailing on the open sea. They had preferred to row, assisted by a single square sail, within sight of the shore by day, and would beach their vessels at the onset of night. Their ships, much like Viking longboats, had little in the way of creature comforts. Even the description of the Argo in legend suggested an open craft, not a ship with a superstructure. Kismet found himself wondering if Kerns' discovery perhaps had nothing do with the legend of Jason and the Golden Fleece. The answer, he reasoned, must lie within the enclosure.

The open decks of the ship were empty. Nothing of the crew or their belongings remained. The oarlocks held only water, even the rudder oars were gone, and the stump of a mast protruded from the center of the craft, just aft of the enclosure. Likely, the event that had sent the ship to the bottom had also washed overboard anything that wasn't secured. Kismet did not pause to inspect the gilt beams or the benches where the oarsmen had labored centuries before, but continued purposefully toward his goal.

The enclosure had been designed for more than just shelter. A colonnade of ornamental pillars, suggesting that it might have been used for worship, ringed the solid walls. The columns were spaced far enough apart to allow for easy passage, and Kismet could see that something had been erected between the colonnade and the interior structure. He moved closer to get a better look.

As he peered through the pillars, leaning sideways, he immediately recognized the foundation of a small altar. The base, set into the floor of the shrine, was overlaid in glowing metal. Kismet glanced down and saw one of the altar stones resting on a pillar. Behind his glass porthole, his brows drew together in contemplation. The displaced stone was also gilt, whereas the altar stone recovered by Kerns and shown in the photographs Harcourt had displayed was of white marble.

Curious, Kismet reached down and shifted the stone. Where the relic had been in contact with the pillar, idle for millennia, the underlying white marble was visible in a thin stripe. The clean stone seemed dark against the luminescent metal. Likewise on the pillar, a smudge of shadow revealed the resting-place of the stone. He could draw but one impossible conclusion: the gold that covered nearly every inch of the ship had accreted after the wreck, after the craft had rolled over onto the bottom.

Kismet released the stone and returned his attention to the enclosure just behind the base of the altar. A thin seam revealed the presence of a door, sealed for ages by the accumulated coating of shining gold. He traced along the seam with the tip of his knife. The plating was thinner than beaten foil and split apart without resistance. Minute bubbles of trapped gas trickled out of the cut. Kismet sheathed the knife then placed both hands on the featureless portal and pushed.

The door opened a couple inches and released a gasp of bubbles that momentarily obscured his view. Then the tingling in his palms suddenly blossomed into a pulse of pain that jolted up his arms and through his torso. He jerked back in surprise and looked at his hands.

Dark shapes swarmed over his arms; moving shapes that he could not shake loose. Kismet did not know their taxonomic nomenclature—Torpedindae torpedo—but he recognized them easily nevertheless. Electric rays.

More of the flat speckled fish wriggled out of the colonnade to join in the assault. Kismet staggered back, brushing at the creatures, which continued to send surges of pain up his arms.

In an instant, the torpedo rays enveloped him; a cloud of writhing forms blanketed his head and chest. He flailed at them blindly, his muscles seizing every time they released their potent charges.

He knew that the rubber of his diving suit should have insulated him from the shock, but the electricity seemed to pass right through. Gritting his teeth, he took hold of a ray in either hand and started pulling them away from his helmet.

Blinded, he took another step back…and fell into nothingness.

Irene was in a state of panic.

Her anxiety had begun the moment Kismet disappeared into the still water. It was inconceivable to her that her own father had made repeated forays into the underwater realm, utilizing his antiquated equipment, without her ever knowing. Stranger still that he had used the gains of that enterprise to finance a venture of even greater risk, namely their flight to the United States. But her father's success did not necessarily translate into confidence in Kismet's ability to survive the peril into which he had so willingly plunged.

She had looked to Anatoly for encouragement, but the big Russian had simply shrugged. "He'll make it," he had assured her, in a less than inspirational tone. "You watch the compressor. Make sure it doesn't run out of fuel. I'll radio for a weather report. Storms on the Black — well, you know how quickly they can rise. We might be out here a long time."

The comment, delivered in Russian, was a veritable oration from Anatoly, who was not generally loquacious. He had turned away however, leaving her to watch the chugging compressor, the slow unspooling of the cable and the calm surface of the water.

Her uneasiness did not abate during his long absence. When he returned, some fifteen minutes later, he inquired briefly about Kismet's status. Irene had nothing to report; Kismet could be dead for all she knew.

Ten minutes later, the panic set in.

Irene saw it first, a barely perceptible speck creeping over the western horizon and trailing a plume of white vapor. She knew instantly what it was. "That's the Boyevoy. It's the ship that brought Nick and I here."

Anatoly did not seem concerned. "I'm sure it's a coincidence."

"You don't understand. Captain Severin doesn't trust us. He thinks Nick's a grave robber, trying to steal national treasures."

Anatoly's bushy eyebrows went up. "Is he not?"

"That's not the point. It won't take him long to figure out that Nick is down there. Once he does…" She couldn't put her fears into words that conveyed the panic she felt.

"What should we do?" asked Anatoly.

Irene wanted to scream at the big Russian; to tell him to think of something, but it was evident that he did not share her urgency. She would have to be the one to come up with a solution.

Severin's destroyer was chugging steadily toward them, grinding out its maximum speed of thirty-two knots. “He'll be here in a few minutes," grated Irene. "We've got to do something."

She ran to the edge of the boat and started pulling at the fishing nets, trying to camouflage Kismet's air hose and lifeline beneath the old twine webs. Anatoly helped her complete the illusion, but it was obvious to both of them that, if they were boarded, even a casual search would pierce their veil of deception. One thing they could not hide was the compressor; its motor chugged loudly, exhaling a cloud of blue exhaust smoke. Irene stared at the rickety machine, well aware that Kismet's life depended on its continued operation.

"We could shut it off," suggested Anatoly, as if reading her mind. "He probably has a few minutes of air in his helmet."

She cringed at the thought. "Only if it becomes obvious that we're going to be boarded. And we don't turn it off until we absolutely have to."

Anatoly nodded gravely. "If we are boarded, it may not matter. We cannot hide this."

Irene turned away, unable to answer him. She didn't know what else to do.

All too soon, the Boyevoy grew large with its approach. There could be no questioning its intention to intercept the trawler. The Sovremenny class warship cut a path straight toward them, reversing its screws only when it seemed that a collision with the idle boat was unavoidable, and even as the ship was still coasting forward, the efficient crew lowered the motor launch into the water.

Suddenly, a whirring noise caught Irene's attention. The cable that connected Kismet to the boat was spinning out of control. Thirty yards of twisted wire snaked out in a matter of seconds. Similarly, the rubber air hose was jumping out of its coil on the deck at an alarming rate. While the lifeline had over a hundred yards of reserve, the air hose was about to run out. Panicked, she rushed to the winch and engaged the ratchet. The cable seized instantly and snapped taut. The remainder of the air hose lay in a loop on the deck; a mere six feet in length.

Something disastrous had occurred below; something had happened to him and there was nothing she could do about it. She raised her eyes to the approaching launch and knew that she had one more task to perform; a duty that might well spell the end for Kismet. Gathering her courage, she stepped to the compressor and pulled the choke lever. The engine roared for a moment, then sputtered into silence.

Anatoly placed a protective hand on her shoulder, offering no assistance to the Russian seamen that swarmed onto the deck of his boat. For Irene, it was like a replay of the events a few days previously, when Severin had accosted them aboard the boat of the Turkish smuggler. The cocky Russian captain addressed her with the overly familiar patronymic.

"Greetings, Petrovna. How pleasant to see you again."

"What do you want?" she croaked, surprised to find her voice thick with fear and anger. She blinked away tears, trying to keep the emotion off her face.

Severin ignored her question as he gazed curiously around the boat. "Where are you hiding the dubious Nick Kismet?"

Irene sensed that he was toying with her. "He stayed behind. He wasn't feeling well."

"Ah! But you thought you would help your father's old friend with his fishing. How kind of you." He swiveled his gaze to face the unbowed fisherman. "I am curious, Anatoly Sergeievich Grishakov. How will your nets catch any fish if you are at anchor? Is this some new technique?"

"Why are you bothering us?" Anatoly snapped. "We aren't doing anything wrong. Go pester someone else."

Severin spat out derisive laugh. "State security has not forgotten you, Sergeievich. Your name is on a list of known troublemakers. You would do yourself a favor by cooperating."

"I am cooperating, fool. I've let you come aboard my boat, even though your warship has driven all the fish away and ruined my catch."

Severin smiled and turned away, walking to the stern gunwale and peering into the water. "Apparently you are the only fisher in your city who believes there are fish to be caught here." He faced Anatoly once more. "There is an FSB informant in the city who overheard your call for a weather report. He thought it curious that you would fish here, where no one ever goes. He also told me how you and Kismet spent the morning loading equipment onto your boat. So you will understand if I tell you that your answers thus far have not impressed me."

He took a step closer, his smile drawing into a menacing sneer. "You will cooperate."

"I have grown weary of threats," sighed Anatoly, unmoved. "If you wish to torture me, do so. I have nothing to say that I have not already said."

"Perhaps I will — torture? — ha! Perhaps Irina Petrovna will be more cooperative. Or perhaps, for her sake, you will leave off your posturing, and tell me where I can find Nick Kismet."

As he spoke, Severin moved closer, increasing his pitch and volume. His last words were shouted, though he was less than a hand's breadth from her face. She tried to shrink deeper into Anatoly's embrace.

"She told you!" the fisherman roared, equally stentorian. "Kismet isn't here."

The Russian captain turned away once more, walking in a slow circle around them. "Indeed. My men have searched your vessel and Kismet quite obviously is not here. But that does not answer the question of why you are here, in these waters where no one ever fishes."

He paused, standing directly behind Irene and Anatoly so that they could not see him. "What is this?" Severin's tone was mockingly inquisitive. "It looks like an engine, but there is hose of some sort that goes into the water. Is this also part of your unusual fishing technique?"

The Russian naval officer did not wait for an answer. He barked an order to one of the seamen, who strode forward and started reeling in the cable with the winch. At least seventy-five yards of the twisted metal line had been played out and it took the burly sailor almost five minutes to wind it in. Severin leaned over the stern, eyeing the cable hungrily, eager to see what he had caught.

Abruptly, without any disturbance of the surface, the end of the cable popped up. A gated carabiner was secured to a loop at its end, but nothing was connected to that hook.

"Nyet!" raged Severin. He pushed the sailor away and snatched the air line off the deck. Furious, he began pulling it in. As the rubber hose piled up around his knees, two of the sailors, acting on a cue from the XO, stepped in and took over for their superior.

Irene gazed at the empty carabiner in mute terror. That cable was Kismet's only lifeline. The hose connection wasn't strong enough to lift Kismet and his heavy suit off the bottom. The rubber tubing might withstand the strain, but the brass fittings of the helmet would surely crack before he could be brought up. Even if they didn't break off altogether, the rupture would certainly fill the protective suit with seawater, drowning him before he could be lifted to the surface. In his rage Severin either failed to conceive this possibility, or simply didn't care.

Then the sailors stopped pulling in the hose, and Irene turned to see why. She couldn't hold back a low cry when she saw the ragged end of the hose in their hands. Severin's face twisted with rage, then slowly relaxed. After a long silence, he began laughing.

Kismet was in a cold, dark place.

Immediately after his fall, the torpedo rays had relented. Perhaps satisfied with having repelled the intruder, they retreated to their defensive perimeter. It was also possible that the colder water and harsher extreme of pressure at the depth where Kismet now found himself was disagreeable to the electric fish.

He couldn't see anything. The golden illumination from the wreck was gone. Gone also was the ground beneath his feet. He was hanging in the water suspended by the cable leading to the surface. Why that line had suddenly gone taut was a mystery, but he knew that the interruption had probably saved him. He had no idea how far he had descended, but was certain that the atmospheres weighing upon him had more than doubled. He sucked greedily at the air that was being pumped down from the surface, trying to calm his racing heart.

He fumbled in the dark to find the net bag tied to his belt, intent on sending up one of the orange floats. One ball was the signal to begin the gradual ascent, allowing for decompression at certain intervals. Releasing all three of the floats would indicate an extreme emergency, dire enough to supersede the risk of the bends. Terrifying though it had been, he didn't think his encounter with the electric rays or the subsequent tumble into darkness justified such a drastic measure.

It was clear now what had happened. Blinded by the attack, he had wandered off of the submerged shelf that formed a perimeter along the coast of the Black Sea. The Caucasus didn't really stop at the water's edge, but plunged more than a mile below sea level. No diving or exploration, at least not with the antiquated equipment he was using, was possible in that dark beyond where the combined mass of water would crush his diving helmet like an eggshell. That the ancient ship had sunk so close to that shelf without going over was a coincidence that verged on miraculous; had it gone down just fifty yards further to the west, the secret of the Golden Fleece would have been lost forever.

His fingers closed around one of the floats, but before he could withdraw it, he found himself unable to draw breath; the air refused to enter his lungs. Concentrating on his chest, he tried again to inhale. He could feel the resistance, like trying to suck the air out of a bottle and a breath was grudgingly granted. Intuitively, he realized his air supply had been cut off; the compressor was no longer pumping air down to him.

Kismet immediately tried to reassure himself; the mechanism had simply stalled. He envisioned his companions on the boat frantically trying to restart the motor, and was confident that they would succeed and that at any moment precious air would resume flowing into his helmet. But thirty seconds passed, then a minute, and his ability to restrain the growing panic was diminishing with every heartbeat. Every inhalation was an effort. Each strained breath was using up his precious reserve of good air, and each exhalation further poisoned his environment with useless carbon dioxide. He closed his eyes, willing himself calm, and drew another shallow, labored breath. His hands once more sought out the floats in the net bag. He debated sending up all three, but thought better of it. Anatoly and Irene certainly must have recognized that restarting the compressor was an emergency. There was no need to compound his peril by signaling for a hasty extraction from the depths. But why were they taking so long?

Before he could release a float however, he felt a tugging across his back. A tremor vibrated along the length of cable connecting him to the boat and he slowly began to ascend out of the pit. The flow of fresh air, however, did not resume.

Instantly, the panic returned. Had the compressor failed, breaking down beyond Anatoly's ability to repair? If so, was there sufficient air remaining in his helmet to make the ascent? Even without the requisite decompression stops, the upward journey would take several minutes.

He arched his back, tilting his enclosed head to get a look at the surface. Very little illumination could penetrate the thickness of the water, but he was able to pick out the oblong shape of the trawler. He squinted at the keel, trying to estimate the depth to which he had plunged and how long it would take for his friends to draw him up. As he stared at the boat, steeling himself against the inevitable moment when he would feel the painful cramps of the bends, he became aware of a smaller boat, orbiting the trawler like a satellite.

No, he realized. The second shape is the trawler.

There was another vessel right next to Anatoly's boat; a craft much larger than the tiny fishing vessel. With equal parts intuition and dread, Kismet realized that it was not another fishing boat but a ship. It could only be the Boyevoy. The Russian captain and his armed sailors were undoubtedly already aboard the trawler and probably knew that Kismet was in the water. They had likely cut off his air supply, intending to bring his lifeless body up as evidence against Irene and Anatoly. Kismet imagined the delight they would take in watching his agonizing struggle to readjust to topside pressurization, provided he did not suffocate during the ascent.

Neither fate was one he could accept. The secret of the Golden Fleece was so tantalizingly close he could not die without knowing the truth.

A few seconds later, feeling the faint delirium of hypoxia, Kismet rose to the level of the shelf where the golden ship rested on its side ablaze in supernatural glory. As he swung toward it, he knew what he had to do.

He twisted around until he could reach the clip that secured his harness to the cable and popped the hook free. As soon as he let go the cable shot away, continuing the ascent without him, while he plummeted to the sea floor.

His sudden reappearance startled the mass of briny creatures surrounding the wreck. They immediately shifted, circling close to drive him off once again. He did not balk; too little time remaining to be slowed down now.

Heedless of the silt cloud he was stirring up, he raced toward the sunken vessel. His helmet suddenly resounded with a loud noise; the sound of an unseen fish striking at him. At almost the same moment he felt a blow to his abdomen, but neither collision was sufficient to slow his charge. Yet, despite expending all his energy, he could barely move through the fluid environment faster than a jog. He began swinging his arms to ward off the aggressive marine life but his movements were hampered by the thickness of the water.

Larger fish descended on him; bulky sturgeon, moving fast enough to knock him off balance and spiny dogfish, nearly as large as Kismet himself, flashing their menacing teeth.

He ignored them all.

The nest of electric rays reawakened as he approached the sunken shrine and the doorway behind the colonnade. Their shocks stung, but he blindly pushed them aside, refusing to be driven from the precipice a second time.

Seizing the threshold of the portal, he pushed the gilt door open and threw himself inside. Gasping for a breath that would not come, he fell against the door, shutting out the sea and the defenders of the golden ship.

THIRTEEN

The door refused to close. Kismet struggled with it for a moment before realizing that his air hose was the obstruction. He stared at the rubber tube, wondering what to do, vaguely aware of how stupid the predicament made him feel. The lack of fresh oxygen was clouding his ability to think.

He finally gave up trying to secure the door. The attack by the sentry fish had ceased as soon as he had gained the safety of the structure, making his efforts to shut them out unnecessary. He turned away and surveyed the enclosure. Though the ornate exterior had suggested a ritual significance, the interior appeared to be nothing more than a cargo hold. Rope webs held chests in place in two long rows, one on either side of a center aisle, the entire length of the enclosure.

Although the ship now rested on its side, creating a top and bottom aspect to the cargo arrangement, the ropes remained secure. The cargo had barely shifted in spite of the wreck. It took Kismet a moment to realize that, as with the exterior, the interior of the hold as well as the rope nets and the cargo casks were covered in a layer of brilliant gold, preserving everything intact despite centuries of exposure to salt water. He had no difficulty discerning any of the details in his surroundings because the covering of gold in the cargo bay of the wreck was brilliantly aglow.

There were more than three feet of clearance between the cargo above and below, plenty of room for a man to walk through, even carrying a heavy load in his arms, when the ship was in an upright position. But with the ship keeled over ninety degrees, Kismet was forced to crawl on his hands and knees along the crates resting on the starboard wall of the enclosure.

With so many casks to choose from, he simply selected one at random. He slashed his kukri at the gilt ropes, slicing through metal and ancient fibers with relative ease, releasing the first crate on the port wall. It tumbled down, sinking through the water like an anchor, and landed on its side. When he tried to maneuver the oblong case, he found it impossibly heavy. Though he was unable to lift it, he managed instead to push it over. He pierced the gold overlay with the edge of his blade. It separated easily from the wood, allowing him to peel it away like the soft lead on a bottle of wine. Beneath was unfinished white wood.

There appeared to be no hinges or latches securing the lid, leaving him to wonder the was box upside down. Rather than attempt to turn it over, he chose instead to cut through the wood with the knife. Working along the edge, he found the seam where the rough-hewn boards were joined and began prying them apart. Immediately upon breaking the internal sanctity of the cask, a flood of air bubbles rose up, tickling at the faceplate of the helmet before gathering above him in a small air pocket. Golden rays also shone from the gap he had created, stimulating him to work faster. Once the board was loose, he laid his knife aside, wedging his fingers under the wood and wrenching at it until it broke free. Through the hole he could see gold.

Bubbles of gas continued to trickle up through his fingers, obscuring his view of the prize within. He yawned, vaguely aware that the periphery of his vision was starting to go dark, and went to work breaking another of the boards free. The panels had been assembled without fasteners, utilizing a tongue-and-groove method, and after he had loosened one segment, the rest popped free with very little effort. In a matter of seconds, the contents of the box were plainly visible.

Kismet yawned again, struggling to keep his eyes open. He felt extraordinarily drowsy and found the trail of bubbles ascending from the cask to be almost hypnotic. "Got to stay awake," he muttered to himself, hoping that the sound of his own voice would do the trick. Hypoxia was taking him to the brink of consciousness. If he could not hold on for just a few more minutes, he would die without seeing the object of his quest, the reason for his sacrifice. Blinking away the somnolence, staying awake by a sheer act of will, he took the golden artifact into his arms.

It was much heavier than he expected, but he succeeded in raising it out of the cloud of air bubbles and into full view. Despite the fog that clouded his mind, he felt a shudder of excitement and incredulity as he held aloft the Golden Fleece.

It appeared as nothing more than a lambskin, heavy with gold. The wool was indistinguishable, matted with glowing metal flakes of varying size. Kismet estimated that it probably weighed at least a hundred pounds. Curiously, the Fleece continued to issue bubbles of gas, no larger than the effervescence in a glass of soda water. Though tiny, the bubbles, which seemed to trickle from every surface of the golden artifact, formed a veritable swarm. Kismet tilted backwards to get a look at the starboard side of the hold, where the globules were collecting into a great mass.

Inspiration crashed over him like a wave.

Hovering over his head was a pocket of gas, growing larger by the second. He could not explain how that atmosphere had been stored, or perhaps generated within the Golden Fleece. Nor did he pause to consider whether the gas was poisonous, or whether he would be able to survive a pressure change if he attempted to breathe it in. In the fugue of carbon dioxide poisoning, he was unable to conceive of such notions.

Casting aside what vestiges of caution remained, he dropped the Fleece into its cask and seized his air hose. He kinked it in his left hand, and then sliced it in two with the razor sharp edge of his kukri. The long end, still connected to the compressor, trailed impotently away like a decapitated python. Kismet took the remaining end, still bent double in his hand, and thrust it up into the growing air pocket. As he did, he relaxed his hold, which allowed the hose to open and the gas pocket to flow into and mix with the stale air in his helmet. He detected no immediate change. His tunnel vision did not brighten, yet neither did his delirium increase. He didn't smell anything noxious in the confines of his helmet, but then he knew that most gases, even the poisonous ones, were odorless and tasteless. In the absence of any other alternative, he continued to take deep breaths, hoping against hope that the gas pocket held breathable air.

He glanced back down at the Golden Fleece. The fizz of bubbles continued to trickle from it without interruption. Kismet knew that what he was witnessing could not be the result of trapped air; the volume of gas that had ascended exceeded the total volume of the crate. The only other explanation was that the Fleece was somehow producing the atmosphere he now breathed.

He vaguely recalled Harcourt's words that fateful day in his office; that the gold — or rather ubergold—layer on the helmet shard could pull electrons out of the air. He knew that water was simply a combination of hydrogen and oxygen atoms, both of which existed separately in a gaseous state, but bonded together in a liquid molecule that could be broken by the application of an electrical current The Fleece was evidently doing exactly that, electrically breaking the molecular bond of the water and separating its gaseous constituents.

Kismet gazed once more at the air pocket over his head, amazed that he was breathing in atmosphere produced by a talisman of ancient legend. Hydrogen, the lightest of all elements, occupied the uppermost reaches of the air pocket, leaving him with a layer of almost pure oxygen, which was even now mixing and diluting with the carbon dioxide he had exhaled.

That he was able to put this chain of reasoning together was evidence enough that he was recovering. How exactly the ancient object was able to perform that miracle remained a mystery, which even under the best of circumstances he feared he would be unable to resolve.

Though the Fleece had given him a second chance, he still felt like a man living under a death sentence. He could breathe again, and probably had a virtually inexhaustible air supply, but he was trapped on the sea floor. If he left the safety of the enclosure, he would at best have a few minutes of breathable air in his helmet, hardly long enough to make a free ascent. Moreover, the suit was too heavy to permit him to swim free, and even if he could, such a journey would carry the risk of decompression sickness. He could not remain here indefinitely, yet there was no way for him to reach the surface. Marooned in the wreck of the golden ship, Nick Kismet gazed at the object of his quest and began to despair.

Captain Severin tossed the severed and useless hose to the deck. Anatoly tightened his embrace on Irene, fearful that she might further endanger them by lashing out against their tormentor, but she did not move or say anything. She merely choked back her sobs and kept her head down, denying the Russian sailors a look at her tears.

"A most unusual way to catch fish," repeated Severin, mockingly. "I hope you have better success in the future. However, I must now order you to raise your anchors and leave this area. Whatever activity you were truly engaged in is finished, and tragically it would seem."

"We'll go," rasped Anatoly. "Now get off my boat."

Severin nodded, gesturing for his first officer to begin the egress. "Do svidania, Petrovna," he sneered, boarding the launch. "Give my regards to your poor, sick fiancé."

Anatoly watched them go, aware that his boat would remain under the shadow of the destroyer's artillery emplacements until he obeyed the Russian captain. He tenderly released Irene, turning her so that he could see her face.

"He's gone," she whispered.

"There's nothing we can do for him. He took a great risk; he knew this might happen. We must save ourselves."

Fifty yards away, as the captain of the Boyevoy was heralded back onto the deck of his ship, a great splash signaled the deployment of a marker buoy.

"We must leave here," urged Anatoly. "Can you help me?"

She nodded.

"I need you to bring up the forward anchor." He brought her to the motorized capstan and briefly showed her how to operate the device. "I must haul in the nets and start the engine. Can you do this?"

In a haze of grief, Irene nodded again. Kismet was gone; nothing else mattered.

Kismet bent the remnant of his air hose in his fist. He had no intention of giving up. He had been prepared for that eventuality before entering the enclosure, but discovering the Fleece had changed everything. If he was not going to suffocate quickly, then neither was he about to settle for a protracted death by thirst or starvation. There had to be a way for him to reach the surface and he was going to find it.

With the hose blocked and only a few minutes of air in his helmet, Kismet approached the door and pulled it open. There was no sign of the rest of his air line and he could only surmise that Severin had pulled it up after finding nothing attached to the cable. When the cut hose reached the surface, everyone would assume that he had suffered some tragedy below. The Russians had surely guessed that he had dived on the site, but had Severin been able to extract from Irene or Anatoly the reason for his descent?

Beyond the opening, the sentry fish had resumed their defense perimeter. Kismet wondered if they would attack him if he was moving away from the wreck; it was a sure bet that they would do their best to prevent him from regaining the safety of the hold. He decided not to take that risk, venturing out only with his head and shoulders. The fish did not move. He looked up and could see the activity on the surface as the motor launch shuttled back to the massive destroyer. A chain of ripples spread out from the point where the Russians dropped the marker buoy, and he could just make out the steel float bobbing on the surface, held in place by an anchor which plummeted through the water to bury itself on the sea floor less than a hundred yards from the wreck of the golden ship. A cloud of sediment rose up around the impact but did not obscure Kismet's view of the cable connecting the buoy to the anchor.

It was enough to give him hope. If only there was a way for him to climb up that cable….

He realized right away how impossible that would be. But time was running out. The two vessels on the surface would not remain in the vicinity much longer. Once they left, he would be stranded.

He considered releasing one of the signal floats, but quickly discarded the idea. Irene and Anatoly would never believe that he could still be alive, while Severin might interpret the signal as a reason to linger in the area.

The deployment of the marker buoy suggested that the Russian captain planned to return to the site. He would probably put into port at Sevastopol, take on a salvage crew and divers of his own, then return to discover what fate had befallen Kismet at the bottom of the sea. It would likely be days before the Boyevoy returned. Even with an inexhaustible source of oxygen, he could not hope to stay alive that long, and in the unlikely event that he did, he would most certainly face a much worse fate at Severin's hands.

Kismet ducked back into the hold and refreshed his air supply. There was a solution to this — there had to be — but loitering in the interior of the golden ship wasn't going to get him back to the surface. The Fleece remained in its box, giving him a plentiful supply of air, but offering no other insight. He realized with a defeated grimace that he would have to leave the Fleece behind. It was much too heavy for him to carry across the ocean floor.

Even as he considered this, a plan began to take shape; all of the pieces of the puzzle came together in an astonishing moment of clarity. He took several more deep breaths, trying to super-oxygenate his blood, then kinked his hose again tightly in his left hand.

This time he did not linger in the hatchway, but hastened though the portal as if escaping a burning building. The ring of fish immediately shifted toward him but he was not attacked. Moving with the greatest possible speed he bounded along the floor of the shelf toward the anchor that secured the buoy. As he had feared, there was no way he could ever ascend the heavily greased metal cable, but that was no longer his intention.

He was standing almost directly under the Boyevoy. It loomed above him like a great black cloud. He gazed up at it, but could not see what he was looking for. A churning of the water off her stern signaled that the destroyer's screws were now turning; she was about to get underway. Kismet abandoned his first plan, leaving the buoy anchor behind, and charged out across the sea floor yet again.

He tried to place himself directly beneath the shadow of Anatoly's fishing trawler. It was a much smaller area to locate, made more difficult by the vertical distance and the distorting effects of the water. A moment later however, he spied his goal.

It was the movement that caught his eye. Thirty yards away, well to the left of where he had positioned himself, the small anchor from Anatoly's boat was being reeled up. Rather than rising vertically, the anchor and the boat were performing a sort of tug-of-war. The slack in the anchor line had allowed the boat to drift a ways, but now both the boat and the anchor were swinging toward each other.

As soon as the bow of the trawler came directly over the weight at the other end of the line, the anchor would rapidly disappear toward the surface.

Kismet hastened toward it, watching as the anchor was dragged along the bottom, plowing a furrow of silt. Suddenly the cross-shaped hook of iron swung like a pendulum and began to rise. It seemed to jump towards the surface, moving in sudden bursts. Kismet, three steps away, found himself staring at the crosspiece, which was now at eye-level. He took two more steps toward it, but it jumped again, almost out of the reach of his fingertips. He bent his legs, then leaped straight up. His hand caught the upright, just above the flukes. It was enough. When the anchor rose again, he rose with it.

Kismet held on with all his might, unable to lift himself any higher or to improve his tentative hold on the anchor. He did not try; doing so might result in his sinking back to the bottom and there would be no second chance at this.

Kerns' warning about decompression sickness was ringing like a siren in his head, but there was simply no other option. The possibility of suffering from the bends was preferable to the certainty of a slow death beneath the Black Sea.

The ascent seemed to take forever. As the surface became more distinct, he imagined that he was getting heavier; that his grip would eventually fail. He stared at the crimped hose in his left hand and thought about releasing it, in order to use that hand also to secure himself to the anchor. He resisted the impulse.

Soon, he felt the pressure increasing inside the helmet. The relief valve began hissing, equalizing the pressure inside by venting out some of the air. This surprised him at first, but he quickly realized it was a normal function of the helmet's regulator. As he rose from the depths, the gas molecules would naturally expand, increasing the volume of air. Kerns had warned him not to hold his breath at any time, especially when coming up; the air in his lungs would also expand, causing the delicate tissues to rupture if he did not maintain steady respiration. Kismet reminded himself to keep breathing, wondering as he did if there was sufficient oxygen remaining in the helmet to keep him conscious until he reached the surface.

The Boyevoy lurched into motion, plowing up a frothy wake as it angled away from the trawler. The destroyer suddenly cut sharply to port, crossing the trawler's bow in an unmistakable display of force. The threat was apparently understood, for the reeling in of the anchor line seemed to take on a frenetic urgency. Kismet could feel the change in temperature as he rose up into the warmer layer of water near the surface.

The last few feet took an eternity. He kept expecting to break through at any moment, but some trick of the water — an optical illusion caused by light refraction — made the surface appear within reach while still he rose. He endured the agonizing passage of that remaining distance, confident that he had escaped death at the bottom of the sea, and that he would, in a second or two, be hoisted up onto the deck of the trawler.

The journey finally came to an end when the anchor broke the surface in a splash of white spray. As the flukes emerged from the sea, sliding through the gap in the gunwale, his extended arm came out of the water as far as his elbow. The crown of his helmet broke the surface ever so slightly…and then Kismet stopped moving.

The anchor was completely drawn in, yet Kismet remained there, clinging with one hand to the metal crosspiece, almost completely submerged. He stared up at the peeling paint on the hull of Anatoly's boat and cursed his ill fortune.

He tried to pull himself up, flexing his right arm, but relented when he felt his grip start to fail. A rushing noise, muffled by the insulation of his helmet, signaled that the engine was turning over. The water around him started to move then he realized that it was not the water, but rather he and the boat moving through the sea.

Anatoly wasted no time driving the boat's engine to maximum thrust. Soon, the trawler was churning toward shore at fifteen knots. The drag of water flowing past Kismet was not as great as if the trawler had been a speedboat or even a craft like the Russian destroyer which still shadowed the fishing vessel, but it was taking its toll. He threw his left hand up, seizing the anchor but losing the remnant of the air hose in the process. The severed rubber line trailed along behind him, partially filling with water.

With his left arm now added to the struggle, he was able to heave himself nearly two feet above the surface. He released the hold of his fatigued right hand and thrust it up to grip the gunwale. With a second stretch and reach of his left arm, he managed to pull his head and shoulders above the agitated surface.

Immediately, he began screaming for Irene or Anatoly to help him up, but his words merely bounced back at him, trapped in the metal globe. He tried to pull himself up farther, but there was nothing else to grab onto, and the weight of the dive suit was too great. He even attempted kicking the side of the trawler with his heavy boots, but nothing could get the attention of the two persons on board.

Even though he had reached the surface, he was still in danger of suffocating. The hose was blocked, and the air supply he had stored from the hold of the golden ship was already stale. The helmet, his salvation against drowning while beneath the sea, now prevented him from breathing the life-giving atmosphere above the water. He could not hope to manipulate the clamps and nuts, which locked the portholes shut, not while hanging from the moving trawler.

His right arm was burning from the ordeal of hanging onto the anchor and Kismet knew he couldn't trust that solitary limb to keep him from slipping back into the sea. Instead, he put his faith in the grip of his left hand and released the right. The boat's forward motion caused him to twist, straining his good arm, and banging his back against the hull, but he ignored the pain and focused his attention on seizing the air line with his free hand. After a moment of fumbling, he fished it from the water and held it upright to restore the flow of air.

A splash of cold seawater drained into his suit as the hose cleared, then cool salty air filled the helmet and subsequently his lungs. With the rubber tube tucked between his thumb and hand, he twisted back around and reached for the gunwale. There was nothing to do but hang on. For almost an hour he remained suspended there, unable to move. His arms began to ache with fatigue, but letting go would mean certain death.

The Boyevoy had broken off and headed west shortly after Anatoly had gotten underway. Not long after the destroyer disappeared over the horizon, the sun began to follow. Anatoly piloted the trawler into the harbor in the gray of twilight. No one at the dock seemed to notice the strange figure clinging to the bow of the craft. Even when a young dockhand cinched the belays, firmly mooring the boat in its berth, Kismet went unseen.

He watched in impotent frustration as his companions disembarked, Anatoly sheltering the younger woman in an avuncular embrace, both of them deaf to his cries, then sagged in defeat as the pair vanished into the growing darkness.

There was nothing left for him to do. He knew he couldn't hang on forever, certainly not until morning, when someone might happen to notice him. With no other options available, Kismet decided to simply let go. He slipped from the bow of the trawler and vanished into the water without a splash.

Irene drank from the glass Anatoly set before her — vodka — but its fire could not cauterize the wound in her heart. The big Russian and his wife looked on, unsure of how to comfort the girl. Finally, Anatoly spoke. "Irina, I know how you must grieve. But think. Your father is safe. You must join him. Go back to your life."

Irene coughed, trying to choke back a sob. "I don't even know how to find him. Nick…I don't know where my father went."

"Kismet said he would make his way home, did he not?"

She shook her head. "Nick met with someone, a friend of his, a woman. My father went with her. But I don't know how to reach them. I'm stuck here. And Nick's gone. What difference does it make?"

Anatoly tried to speak again, but his wife forestalled him, touching her husband's forearm in a gesture that said: 'Leave her be.' The Russian nodded to his spouse and they left Irene alone with her tears.

"A bad day," said Anatoly, when they were out of Irene's earshot. "Kismet did something that was either very brave, or very foolish. He did not come back—"

A loud knock interrupted him. After the events of the previous night, Anatoly was apprehensive about opening the door. "Go to the girl. Hide her."

Irene was numb. The trepidation that gripped Anatoly and his wife ought to have triggered in her a sympathetic release of adrenaline, but she felt nothing at all as she was pushed toward the hearth. They thrust her into a shadowy niche behind the firewood bin. Sealed into a dark, claustrophobic space, still she felt no fear. Through her hollow grief, she had heard the disturbance at the door, and knew that either Severin or Grimes — it didn't matter which — was waiting on the threshold to take her away and subject her to unimaginable torments in order to learn the truth about Kismet's fate, but the realization was meaningless.

There was a metallic click as Anatoly breached his shotgun, and another as he snapped it closed on two loaded barrels. In her mind's eye, Irene saw him warily approach the door, opening it with one hand, while the other remained poised on the triggers. She waited for the sound of a shot, but instead heard only a long silence, broken by the impossible.

"It's about time," complained a familiar voice. "Now can you help me get out of this thing?"

Irene exploded out of her hiding place and gracelessly tripped over the scattering of cordwood in her haste to reach him. She knew, even as she ran, that she must have fallen asleep and was dreaming this moment. Fearful that the ghostly figure might evaporate if she lingered too long with her incredulity, she threw her arms around him and held on with all her might.

Nick Kismet had returned.

FOURTEEN

"So the Golden Fleece is real? It saved your life?"

Kismet smiled. It was not the first time he had heard the incredulous questions. Irene's joy at seeing him had left her virtually paralyzed for several minutes. After being relieved of the burden of the bulky diving suit, Kismet found himself once more submerged, only this time it was a sea of difficult questions in which he foundered.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that. It created a supply of oxygen which I was able to breathe after the compressor was shut off."

Irene looked chastened, as if she were to blame for that act, which at the time she had believed to be a deadly one. Anatoly now spoke. "Then the Fleece is a… a magical thing?"

Kismet shrugged. "In the legend, it has supernatural origins."

He had looked up some of the details of the myth prior to their departure, but those defied credibility even more than the events of the Argonauts' adventures. The Golden Fleece was said to be the skin of the winged ram Chrysomallus, sent by the god Hermes to rescue Phrixus and Helle, the heirs of King Athamas, who had been targeted for death by their ambitious stepmother. Their literal flight took them east across the Black Sea, though Helle fell along the way, and according to the myth, her death created the strait known in ancient times as the Hellespont-since renamed the Dardanelles. Her twin, Phrixus survived the journey and eventually came to the kingdom of Colchis where he sacrificed Chrysomallus out of gratitude to the gods, and gave the Fleece to the king of that land. In many respects, the elaborate nature of the myth had been part of what had led Kismet to give some credence to its actual existence, albeit not in a strictly literal sense. Myths often ascribed supernatural origins to geological formations — and that was certainly the case with the death of Helle. There was a certain logic to the idea that the Golden Fleece might have been as real as the Hellespont, though formed in an equally mundane fashion.

He briefly pointed out some of the more salient facts. "Some of the later Jason stories do speak of his using it to end a drought, but it is usually thought of as a trophy, not a talisman."

"But it saved your life. It turned water into air; what other explanation is there?"

Kismet equivocated. "It may have something to do with electrical fields—"

"Electrical fields," Irene scoffed. "You think that electrical fields could encase an entire ship in gold, turn sea water into breathable air, and cause fish to defend the Fleece with their lives?"

"It's not so farfetched," he replied, choosing his words carefully so as not to sound foolish. "It's a known fact that electricity can split the water molecule into hydrogen and oxygen atoms. And the ancient Greeks knew how to electroplate bronze. Sea water is loaded with dissolved metal particles; over the course of three thousand years, an electrical field generated by the Fleece could draw quite a bit of gold out of the water."

"That might also explain the light you described," offered Anatoly. "And the fish would naturally be drawn toward the oxygen rich waters of the wreck site."

"Even if I accept that theory," Irene retorted, "it doesn't explain what causes the Fleece to generate an electrical field in the first place."

"Some kind of galvanic reaction with the sea water," Kismet speculated, withholding the information Harcourt had earlier entrusted to him. "I don't know; I'm not a chemist. But I can see why Grimes is interested."

As Kismet attempted to change the subject, Irene realized that she did not care one whit about learning the source of the Fleece's power. She was arguing with Kismet simply to hear the sound of his voice. The sea had given him back to her and she was overjoyed.

After losing his hold on the anchor, Kismet had immediately sunk to the bottom of the harbor. However, the sea floor beneath the trawler's moorage was only about five fathoms deep; cold and dark, but not an especially dangerous depth to Kismet in his diving gear. All he had to do was walk up onto the shore beneath the dock pilings. Once on dry land, he was able to force open the faceplate of the helmet before cautiously making his way to Anatoly's house. Thus far, he had experienced none of the symptoms associated with the bends.

"I thought you dead," Anatoly confessed. "It was impossible that you could have survived, yet you were clinging to my boat all the time. I am such a fool."

"You couldn't have known. But maybe next time we can figure out a better way to communicate—"

"Next time?" Irene gasped. "You almost died. You can't go back."

"I have to. Now, more than ever. Severin marked the site; if he gets there first, he'll have the Fleece and that will be the last anyone ever sees of it." Unless the Russians learn about the EMP weapon, and then we're really in trouble. "But if we act quickly, we'll be long gone before he returns."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this."

"Irene, this is something I have to do. Now listen, I know what I'm going to be up against. And I know what the dangers are. I've got a plan."

She threw up her hands and headed for the door. "I'm done shedding tears for you, Nick. Go on, get yourself killed. Leave me out of it."

Kismet stopped her with a firm hand on one shoulder. "Irene, I need you."

She refused to face him, but dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, ashamed that she still did have tears to shed for him. "Damn you, Nick."

"Irene. I will come back. I promise you that. And you know that I keep my promises."

She slowly turned toward him, still refusing to look him in the eye. Her hands came up to his chest, her fingers knotting in the fabric of his shirt. "That's not good enough," she rasped, her voice thick with emotion.

"What else can I give you?"

She looked up, biting her lip, as if afraid to answer the question. But Kismet knew the answer, and let her draw him down against her body.

Anatoly gaped in disbelief as the kiss grew more passionate, but his wife quickly took his hand and led him from the room, giving the couple a measure of privacy. Kismet and Irene were too lost in each other's arms to notice or care.

Almost twenty-four hours later, Kismet, Irene and Anatoly stole quietly through the city and boarded the trawler. It had taken most of that day for Kismet to make all the preparations for his second attempt to gain the Golden Fleece. One of the technically complex jobs had been rigging a telephone line, which would link him to the surface. Many of the other details had been time consuming and given the threat of surveillance from enemies on two fronts, somewhat dangerous. Other aspects of the preparations seemed like a scavenger hunt. Anatoly's mechanical skills had been invaluable, and Irene had proved quite capable, apparently having inherited her father's talent for engineering.

Leaving under cover of darkness had been essential to Kismet's plan for several reasons. Primarily, he hoped that it would spare them from the spying eyes of informants in the village. Whether or not they were successful in this regard was difficult to ascertain. Kismet was confident that his return from the sea had gone unnoticed by the locals, but there could be no disguising the sound of Anatoly's trawler chugging out of the harbor and out to sea after dark.

The night was astonishingly clear, the stars and moon shining down with alarming brilliance. The still waters of the Black Sea reflected the myriad points of light, giving the journey a surreal aspect, as though they were sailing on a sea of stars. Kismet found himself wondering if Jason and the heroes of the Argo had experienced such a sight on their voyage.

He knew better. The story of Jason and the Argonauts was just a fairy tale. That the Fleece, or rather a golden fleece did exist, proved nothing. Likely, the very real object that he had discovered in the wrecked ship had merely served to inspire the legend.

As his thoughts wandered, Irene joined him. She had not voiced any misgivings since their coming to an understanding on the previous night. Remarkably, she had maintained her good mood throughout the day, evincing confidence not only in Kismet's plan, but also in his promise.

After a full day, Kismet was convinced that he had dodged the bullet of decompression sickness. He had always understood that the bends were by no means inevitable. Nevertheless, the incautious nature of his escape from the depths had left him feeling like another character of Grecian myth: Damocles, who was forced to sit beneath the point of a sword which was suspended by a single hair. But twenty-four hours later, with no signs or symptoms of the bends, Kismet dared to believe that the danger had passed. Returning to the pressurized environment of the deep would actually alleviate the risk by breaking up any pockets of nitrogen gas lurking in his muscle tissue, and Kismet was determined, upon his next descent into the sea, to religiously observe decompression times.

"Is that it?" whispered Irene.

He followed the line she was pointing, expecting to see the buoy left by Severin. But Irene was calling attention to something else; a faint gleam in the depths, which might have been reflected moonlight, except for its golden hue.

Kismet nodded. The luminescence from beneath the sea underscored the second reason for his attempting another dive on the golden ship after nightfall. Because the ship was a superior source of light, it would be much easier to find in the dark. He had gambled on being able to visually pinpoint the exact location of the ship from the surface, and that risk had paid off.

Irene helped Kismet don the completely repaired diving suit. Anatoly dropped the bow anchor, although the seas were calm enough to prevent the boat from drifting without its help. That was about to change. Still positioned in the bow, Anatoly pitched two small packages, both wrapped in several layers of plastic sheeting and taped watertight, into the water.

The packages vanished toward the bottom, leaving concentric ripples that disrupted the reflected star field. "Get ready!"

Fifteen seconds later, the improvised depth charges erupted silently in close succession. Two enormous bubbles of gas raced upward, heralding a tremendous shock wave. When the bubbles broke the surface, they released not only the smoke and noise of the underwater explosions, but also the destructive force. The trawler pitched back and forth in the center of the detonations.

The tumult subsided after a moment however, with no injury to any of its occupants. A few seconds later, other shapes broke the surface; dozens of fish, stunned or killed by the explosions. The way to the golden ship was now clear.

Anatoly dropped another parcel into the water. This package was substantially larger than the homemade depth charges and did not destroy itself in the course of its downward passage. Two magnesium flares tied to the bundle blazed with solar intensity as it spiraled toward the sea floor.

Irene placed the helmet over Kismet's head and locked it in place. She then lifted the telephone handset they had rigged, and spoke into it. "Can you hear me, Nick?"

"Loud and clear," was the tinny reply. "I just hope we insulated that cable well enough."

"Are you ready?"

"Ready or not, let's go."

Anatoly joined them. "The equipment is down."

"Start the compressor."

As soon as air started flowing into the helmet, Kismet made his way to the stern and lowered himself into the dark waters. This time however, he would not be descending in lonely silence.

"I'm drifting away from the wreck," he called into his microphone. "There must be a current here."

Irene stopped the unreeling of the cable, while Anatoly jockeyed the boat's engines to give Kismet a better shot at landing precisely on the site. "That's good," he called. The downward journey resumed, and a few minutes later Kismet was standing once more on the bottom, facing the wreck of the golden ship.

Its light was brilliant against the ebony expanse above. He could not see the stars, much less the keel of the trawler. The perimeter of sentry fish was gone; the depth charges had removed that barrier to the wreck, but he had no idea how extensive the shockwave had been, or how long it would take for other marine creatures to investigate and replace their decimated ranks. He knew only that time was in critically short supply.

His greatest concern in utilizing the depth charges had been a fear of smashing the golden ship flat. Not only had the blast left the ship undamaged, at least so far as he could discern, but it had served to scour away several layers of sediment, exposing even more of the vessel's hull.

He did not immediately approach the wreck. His first task was to locate the equipment package that had preceded him. He saw its flares blazing a hundred yards from the ship, and hustled toward it. "I'm going after the gear," he reported. "I'd say it got caught in the same current that I did. Probably some kind of upwelling from the depths beyond the shelf."

He was speaking primarily to maintain contact with his friends above. As long as he kept talking, Irene would know that he was in no danger.

"Everything looks fine up here," she answered. "I think Severin is going to leave us alone tonight."

"Let me know if anything changes up there." A few minutes later he reached the bundle and quickly cut away the magnesium torches; they had served their purpose. The parcel was wrapped in canvas tarpaulins and tied with ordinary ropes.

He gripped one of those ropes and commenced dragging the package along the sea floor, toward the golden ship. This labor took several more minutes, and Irene could hear him grunting across the telephone line, though he said nothing until he had accomplished the task.

After untying the package, he began shuttling the different articles within to various points around the golden ship. When only the canvas tarps remained, he picked these up also, draping them over the decks, both fore and aft.

"I'm going into the hold now."

He approached the colonnaded superstructure cautiously, as if expecting the electric torpedo rays to materialize at any moment and assault him, but nothing happened. When he pushed the hatchway open, only a rush of air bubbles greeted him.

Nearly a third of the enclosure, everything above the level of the sideways doorpost, was clear of water. During the twenty-four hour period since his opening of the Fleece's cask, a great quantity of seawater had been converted into its constituent atomic components. Kismet smiled and backed away from the enclosure, pulling the door shut as he went. So far, everything was going according to plan.

He spent nearly an hour moving around the wreck, securing the tarpaulins in place with lengths of rope. Doing so required him to dig underneath the hull, which he did using an old entrenching shovel that had come down with the equipment package for just such a purpose. But that was not the strangest article in the bundle. Large eye-hook screws, truck tire inner-tubes, fishing nets cut to resemble enormous hammocks, and pieces of air hose, spliced together like enormous arteries-all of these came out of the bundled tarps, and were secured to the hull of the golden ship. The eye-hooks he screwed directly into the metal and wood, while ropes attached the rest of the items.

"I think I'm just about done down here. Get ready to bring me up."

He made a final survey of the wreck, convinced that everything was in place, and then signaled Irene to take him to the first decompression stop. He would make several more stops, using up most of the night in the process of evacuating excess nitrogen from his bloodstream. Finally, at about four a.m. Anatoly and Irene pulled him onto the trawler and helped him out of the diving suit. Irene threw her arms around him before he could wrestle free of the heavy boots, almost knocking him off his feet. He didn't mind.

"I hope I never have to lay eyes on that thing again," he said, gazing at the helmet. His clothes were damp with sweat, leaving him at the mercy of the night air, but zipping into his heavy leather jacket helped ward off the chill. He carefully dried the kukri and returned its sheath to his waistpack. Then, he ran down his mental checklist, wondering what he had forgotten. He could think of nothing.

"Let's do it."

The golden ship on the sea floor was connected to the trawler by two different lines, set in place by Kismet and brought back to the surface. One was a heavy cable, of the same gauge as the one used to lower him into depths. The other line however was hollow and incapable of lifting any weight. It was an air hose — actually it was several short lengths of hose, cannibalized from numerous sources and spliced together. The line from the diving suit was removed from the compressor, and the second, piecemeal line was clamped to the fitting.

Kismet screwed the regulator valve down several notches before nodding to Anatoly. The big Russian switched on the compressor, and immediately air from the surface began trickling down to the golden ship.

"How do we know if this is working?" Irene inquired.

Kismet shrugged. "I don't know. I've never done this before."

Anatoly raised a sincere eyebrow. "I have difficulty believing there is anything you have not done, Nikolai Kristanovich."

Kismet laughed. "Thank you, I think."

He twisted the valve half a turn, and watched the needle on the gauge slowly creep. He let it build for several minutes, and then tightened the valve. The compressor immediately began to bleed off the excess, and he shut it off to avoid wasting fuel. "Anything?"

Irene stared into the inky depths. The golden light was less visible because of the tarpaulins Kismet had secured over its exposed decks, but she located it without difficulty. "I don't think so."

"Okay, let's try something else. Anatoly, fire up the engine. We'll give her a little tug."

As the Russian throttled forward, Kismet switched on the air a second time. Irene continued her vigil at the stern. The trawler glided forward a ways, and then stopped, as if caught on something. The engines roared louder, churning up a spray of foam, but no further movement was evident.

"I see bubbles!" Irene squealed.

Kismet immediately turned off the compressor and yelled for Anatoly to back off the engines. He then joined Irene. Large eruptions were indeed rising from the depths; bubbles of air from the submerged ship. He placed a hand on the cable, stretched tight between the two vessels, and could feel a tremor in the metal. "Something's happening."

Indeed, the boiling on the surface grew more intense, while the taut cable fell slack. A close examination unquestionably revealed that the source of the golden light was moving, getting closer.

An enormous bubble broke the surface, and Kismet intuitively guessed that one of the inner-tubes had burst. He had attempted to regulate the airflow to the enormous rubber bladders, trying to fill them only partway, so that the reduction of pressure caused by the ascent would not rupture them, but apparently one of them had failed. Nevertheless, the shape beneath the waves did not recede. The surface continued to churn as the air he had pumped down into the golden ship expanded and overflowed.

Suddenly, the surface erupted in a foaming mass that dwarfed even the explosive depth charges. A wave lifted the trawler, heaving Kismet and Irene across the deck, where they remained prone until the turbulence calmed. Kismet heard the engines shut down, but did not attempt to rise until Anatoly appeared and beckoned. The big Russian seemed unable to speak; he gazed astern, gesturing weakly for the two of them to look. Kismet got to his feet and went to see what had so amazed the fisherman.

“I don't believe it," gasped Irene, gazing at the spectacle, which bobbed in their wake. "Nick, you actually did it."

Kismet was inclined to echo the former sentiment, but instead chose to grin and bask in a moment of pride. Rocking gently in the becalmed waters of the Black Sea, attached to huge, bloated inner-tubes and covered by bulging, inflated canvas tarpaulins, was the golden ship, sailing once more after untold millennia below the waves.