Into the Black

EPILOGUE: THE ARGO DESTINY

Lysette Lyon hastened from the chilly interior of her car to the airlock-like foyer of the reception building. The bulletproof glass doors slid shut behind her, locking out the frigid air of a Virginia winter, but the cold lingered in her extremities for several minutes as she moved through the final security checkpoint and into the heart of the Central Intelligence Agency headquarters building.

She had not been back to the Langley facility since receiving the orders that had sent her to the Black Sea, two months earlier. In fact, she had only set foot on American soil six hours earlier, just enough time to shower and eat before delivering the bad news. The dread that had robbed her of her appetite during her brief visit to her apartment now loomed heavily as she exited the elevator and traversed the remaining distance to the section chief's office. The secretary admitted her without question.

Her immediate superior was not alone. She instantly recognized most of the other faces sitting around his desk; it was as if the entire upper echelon of Central Intelligence had decided to conduct a top-level meeting in the small room. She closed the door firmly and strode toward the desk and into the monster's lair.

"Field Officer Lyon." The section chief rose to greet her, his face unreadable. "I hope you don't mind if the Director sits in on your debriefing."

It wasn't a question, so she withheld a verbal response. The DCI (Director of Central Intelligence) nevertheless rose, and inclined his head politely. She answered with her trademark smile and was pleased to see a faint rush of color in the old bureaucrat's cheeks. The department directors and their deputies followed his example but one man, who stood facing the large window behind the desk, did not even turn to acknowledge her. His face was barely visible in the reflection.

Once the pleasantries were exchanged, everyone but the man at the window returned to their seats. Lyse was acutely aware that she too would have to stand. Evidently the DCI's chivalry did not extend to offering his chair to a lady if that lady happened to be in his employ. Perhaps it was for the best; she might need to make a hasty retreat from the room if they took the news the way she feared they might. Her lips drew into a tight grimace, and then she commenced her report.

She started from the beginning, not so much because she felt the need to brief those men who might not have actually been privy to the details of the mission, but because she was stalling. Maybe, after telling the whole sordid affair in its entirety, her failure would seem less important. She recalled the efforts to gather the intelligence on the EMP weapon from Germany, and the unfortunate decision that had brought Nick Kismet into the loop.

Her first mention of her former paramour's name had elicited a fidgety response from the DCI, who unthinkingly glanced at the man near the window; the latter did not react in any way. She filed their reaction away as something to look into, and then continued with her tale. Much of what she told them from that point onward was gleaned from her interviews with Kismet and Irene and Peter Kerns, the only surviving witnesses to Halverson Grimes' treachery and ultimate demise. Despite a great deal of evidence to support the charge of treason, Lysette had already heard rumors that Grimes' death would be attributed to a boating accident, and that no mention of his traitorous leanings would ever see the light of public scrutiny. He would be remembered only as an American hero.

She nevertheless reported what she had seen with her own eyes: Grimes and Harcourt conversing with the leader of the German KSK unit. Grimes had evaded capture that night, slipping away with the British archaeologist and a handful of commandos moments before Lyse and the COLT operators raided the mountain camp, leaving no survivors. From there, they had raced back down to the shore in a captured snow-cat and returned to the submarine. From beneath the storm tossed sea, they had managed to follow Kismet's progress across the sea using sonar, and intercept the Boyevoy in time to save him and Irene from a brutal death.

The DDO (Deputy Director, Operations) seemed especially pleased with the success of the COLT team against the German commandos. They had completely overwhelmed the larger force, sustaining no casualties among their own ranks, and completely sterilized the area, right down to the last brass shell casing. No one would ever know that anyone had established a camp in the Caucasus or that a battle had raged there.

The minor naval skirmish on the Black Sea was a slightly different story. Back-channeled information indicated that the Russians knew all too well who was behind the torpedo attack that had crippled one of their destroyers, but as there was no proof, the incident was being reported as an accidental explosion. Lyse had also heard that representatives of the UN had casually mentioned that further exploration of the matter might reveal that a certain Captain Severin had committed a number of international crimes, not the least of which was the attempted murder of a UNESCO representative. Despite that part of the affair being swept under the carpet along with the rest, DDO was understandably concerned at the level of exposure.

With Kismet and the two Russian émigrés safely on their way back to the States, Lyse and the retired USAF Colonel who had skippered the K-322 on its last mission, returned to the Black Sea, this time with an upgrade. Using a state of the art deep sea submersible, they scoured the lowest reaches of the Black Sea in hopes of locating the golden ship for further study and possibly retrieval.

She took a deep breath. "On January 21, we located the wreckage of the fishing vessel Kismet used in his initial survey and recovery. The debris was scattered in an area roughly one kilometer in diameter and only three kilometers from the GPS coordinates of the boat's last known location, indicating only a slight degree of subsurface drift. Using these figures, we were able to create a computer model of where our target vessel might have settled.

"Unfortunately, a thorough search of the area did not lead us to the target. For two weeks thereafter, we continued to broaden the search, but without success."

"You found nothing?" It was the section chief that spoke, but she sensed the question was being asked collectively.

"Actually, we found thirteen wrecks dating back as far as the seventeenth century. The comparatively low salinity of the Black Sea and the cold at those depths preserved—"

"You know that's not what I meant," he snapped.

Lyse bit her lip. The other faces in the room remained unreadable. "We were unable to locate the target vessel."

"Maybe we should get someone else to look for it," suggested the Deputy Director, Intelligence. "From what I understand, this fellow—" He named the former US Air Force Colonel with a derisive snort, as if referring to a hole in the ground. " — is something of a maverick."

"Nonsense," retorted DDO. "I've worked with him in the past. If he can't find it, it can't be found."

Lyse saw her opening. "On that subject…" She took another breath, gathering her courage to drop the other shoe. "We think we may have been too late. He…We believe that someone got there first."

The uproar that followed was about what she expected. DDI was the loudest voice. "Preposterous. The Russians don't have the resources for that kind of work. Hell, they couldn't even bring up the Kursk from four hundred feet, and they knew exactly where it was. And they sure as hell couldn't have pulled it off without our birds snapping their picture."

"We have satellites tasked to monitor the Black Sea?" inquired DCI skeptically.

"Well…."

"Ms. Lyon?" The voice was strangely familiar and though spoken in a low tone, it instantly silenced everyone else. Lyse glanced around to identify the speaker; it was the man at the window.

"Ms. Lyon," he repeated, still gazing through the glass. "Did you at any time see this supposed Greek galley with your own eyes?"

She frowned. "No, but Nick—"

"I understand why you would want to put implicit trust in Mr. Kismet's word, both for professional and personal reasons, but leaving that aside, can you or anyone else corroborate his claim?"

"Irene Kerns was with him." She sensed that he was chuckling, but his face remained indistinct in the reflection. "No. When we surfaced to rescue them, it had already gone down. We did however track the vessels on sonar. There was a larger craft being towed by the fishing boat."

"But there is no way to verify its origins or any of the other qualities Mr. Kismet attributed to it. Would you agree with that characterization?"

Lyse's heart began to pound. She had anticipated a degree of reproof for having failed to recover the golden ship, but nothing like this. She cursed herself for not having seen it coming. This sort of scapegoating was common practice in the political environment that pervaded the Company; they even had an acronym for it: CYA — Cover Your Ass.

"Christ," scowled the section chief. "What a circus. We're a hundred million in the red on this and absolutely nothing to show for it."

"Oh, it's not all bad." The man at the window slowly turned as he spoke, affording Lyse a chance to glimpse her accuser. She barely held back an audible gasp; it was him — the man that had recruited her all those years ago. His appearance had changed little, save for one distinct feature; where his left eye ought to have been, there was only a square of black cloth.

"Hindsight is rarely perfect," he continued. "Mr. Kismet seemed a credible source, and Ms. Lyon cannot be faulted for acting on the information he provided. It was after all his tip that helped you expose Admiral Grimes as an agent of foreign influence. Perhaps this business with the Greek galley was merely a practical joke on his part; payback for your having involved him in the espionage business."

Lyse opened her mouth to defend Kismet, but thought better of it. The man was giving her an exit.

"A damned expensive joke," muttered the DCI. "Someone is going to have to pay for this screw-up."

His declaration seemed to signal the end of the meeting. The section chief shifted in his chair, but did not rise. "Field Officer Lyon, pending the outcome of an internal investigation into this matter, you are suspended." Then, as if to soften the blow, he added: "Paid, of course. Go home, get some rest."

She could barely hear him through the rushing noise in her ears, and it required an effort of will for her not to run from the room. As she closed the door and crossed the reception area, she had to fight back tears. Without being consciously aware of her movements, she walked to the elevator and summoned the car. It was only when a hand slipped into the gap between the closing doors and arresting their movement, that she looked up to acknowledge her surroundings.

The doors slid silently back to reveal the man with the eye patch. He stepped inside the small enclosure and turned his back so that he was standing beside her, facing the doors. As they slid into place a second time, he spoke: "I'm sorry I had to do that Lyse."

"Sorry?" she echoed.

"I've followed your career with great interest. You've exceeded my expectations. But this latest matter… Perhaps your feelings for him got in the way of the mission. It's understandable really; after all, that's where all of this began."

"I was telling the truth in there and you know it. You threw me under the bus."

The man sighed. "I may have been hasty in debunking the premise upon which your recent efforts were based, so I thought it only fair to give you an opportunity to acquit yourself."

She glanced sidelong at him and noted that he was still staring straight ahead. Because she was on his left, it was impossible for him to see her at all, but she nevertheless felt his scrutiny.

"It occurred to me," he continued, "that there might be some physical evidence to support Kismet's claims; some sort of object or artifact that would validate his assertion that he had recovered an authentic Bronze Age sailing vessel. Something he may have kept as a souvenir, perhaps. "

Lyse's heart leaped into her throat. He knows.

It was such a small thing that she had thought nothing of the omission. And Kismet had deserved something for his troubles. At the time, she hadn't been able to think of a single reason to deny his request — no, his demand — that he be allowed to keep the soggy sheep's hide he claimed to have recovered from the doomed galley. Yet, to avoid possible recriminations, she had elected not to include any reference to that Fleece in her reports. Now, she would have to expose Kismet and admit the indiscretion in order to save herself.

Except it wasn't really a big deal. She didn't owe Kismet that much after all, and since the Company was more concerned about validating the expense of the search effort, she wasn't likely to be in too much hot water for having let Kismet keep his Fleece. She turned completely to look at the man who still faced straight ahead.

Although the admission was on her lips, something forestalled her. She pursed her lips and looked away. "I'm sorry," she began, choosing her words carefully. "I know that you must be cleared for this since you were in that conference room, but we're not there anymore and to be frank, I have no idea who you really are."

A dry chuckle shook the other man's chest as he at last turned to face her. "It's no secret, Ms. Lyon. I'm Rich Houseman. I work under the President's national security advisor."

Lyse had no reason to doubt his statement and no inclination to ask for credentials, but something about his expression made her instinctively distrustful. She had an urge to look away from his monocular stare, but sublimated it as best she could. "Well, Mr. Houseman, let me just say that I remain convinced that Nick Kismet was telling the truth about the existence of the galley—"

You know it too, don't you?

"— and I'm likewise certain that somebody beat us to it. Maybe it wasn't the Russians, but somebody with a lot of money or a lot of influence, or both, got down there ahead of us and recovered that galley."

"I'm curious in spite of myself, Ms. Lyon. Who, if not the Russians, do you suppose might have done this? Who else indeed even knew of its existence?"

"I don't know. Kind of a scary thought, isn't it?" She became increasingly convinced that he already knew the answer. There was only one nation on Earth with the resources to recover a sunken vessel from the extreme depths of the Black Sea; a nation whose leaders had made a study of deception and denial. She wondered if a similar disaffection with America's clandestine oligarchy had led to Grimes' defection.

"Scary," he echoed.

The elevator car settled to a stop and a chime announced its arrival as the doors slid apart. Lyse needed no other cue. She immediately stepped forward, eager to be away, but Houseman was not done. "Lyse, you haven't answered my question."

She faced him steadily, maintaining eye contact so that he would have no reason to doubt her veracity. "If Nick did take a souvenir, I didn't see it. Maybe you should ask him."

There was another chime, and as the doors began sliding shut Lyse saw the man's lips draw back in a feral, wolf-like grin. His words chilled her more than the bitter winter air outside.

"Oh, I will. When I see Kismet again, be sure that I will."