by Sean Ellis
"Schliemann's detractors are now my own, but what does that prove? Merely that the institution of archaeology is governed by narrow-minded men; men without vision. But I assure you I am not doing this to add to my acclaim. The Fleece is a very important, possibly very powerful artifact."
Harcourt's rising passion had already validated Kismet's reticence, but with that last assertion the British archaeologist had crossed a line. "Powerful?"
"Think of the helmet shard. You said yourself that the Greeks would not have wasted gold to overlay a war helmet. But the legend tells how Medea used a magical salve to make Jason invincible, a balm that she spread on both his body and his armor. I contend that the balm she used was derived from the power latent in the Golden Fleece."
Kismet found he was curious in spite of himself. "How do you make that connection?"
"First, the Fleece was in the possession of her father, the king of Colchis. One version of the myth suggests that it was kept in a temple guarded by an enormous serpent, and that Medea herself had access to both the temple and its guardian. The serpent motif is found extensively throughout ruins along the Black Sea coastline."
"And in just about every other culture in the world."
Harcourt conceded the point with a nod, but resumed his argument without missing a beat. "Moreover, she was a witch. She would have believed that the Fleece had magical properties and would have sought to use it."
"Witchcraft and shamanism are also a part of most cultures, both historic and contemporary. That doesn't mean those superstitions are real."
Harcourt smiled cryptically. "A demonstration then." He centered the helmet shard on Kismet's desk, turned so the outward curve faced the ceiling. It looked almost as if a face was pushing through the desktop. "Do you have a letter opener?"
Kismet dug into his pocket and took out an oblong olive-drab colored object: his pocket knife, a Benchmade 53 Marlowe Balisong knife. The Balisong butterfly knife design, which had originated in the Philippines, was different than an ordinary pocket knife where the blade folded into the side of handle. The Balisong handle was split lengthwise, and the blade rotated on two pivot points out of the grooved channels on either side. Kismet squeezed the handle halves together just enough to allow the spring-loaded latch to pop open, then whipped his wrist around. One half of the hinged handle fell away and suddenly three inches of gleaming steel flashed into view. Kismet caught the loose handle half before it could strike the back of his hand, and with the handle halves together once more, the knife was ready for use. He surreptitiously thumbed the latch shut, securing the handle so that the blade would not collapse, then held it out for Harcourt's inspection. "Will this work?"
Harcourt blanched a little. The Balisong was a tricky knife to master--more than a few first-time users had the scars on their fingers to prove it--but in skilled hands, the blade and handle halves flashing through the air could prove downright intimidating. Kismet didn't normally like to show-off, but if it meant making Harcourt nervous, he was willing to make an exception.
"I should say so." Harcourt took a step back. "Now, if you please, I want you to stab at the helmet shard. Don't hold back; you can't damage it."
Kismet raised an eyebrow. He wasn't as protective about the relics as some of the bone-diggers, but he drew the line at wanton vandalism. Still, what harm would one more nick or dent matter to a piece of combat gear? He raised the knife over his head, drew a mental crosshair on the helmet piece, and hammered down with his fist.
What happened next was difficult to follow. The blade seemed to skitter along the surface of the helmet shard, redirecting away to the right. The tip gouged a deep furrow in the wood desktop. At the same time, the violence of the blow was reflected in the reaction; the helmet piece shot away, banging against the wall before crashing noisily to the floor. Kismet released his hold on the knife, leaving it upright where it had impaled the desk. "Okay, what did that prove?"
Harcourt raised a forbearing hand as he retrieved the shard and presented it for inspection. The soft gold showed no evidence of having been scored by the hardened steel blade. The relic was undamaged.
"It's not what you think," Harcourt offered in the absence of a comment from Kismet. "Your blade never touched it."
"What do you mean?"
"The metal which you take to be gold on that shard has a rather unusual attribute. From a metallurgical standpoint it is indeed gold, but unlike ordinary gold, this substance can store a transient electrical charge, stealing electrons from the environment. When an oppositely charged item—your knife blade—is directed toward it at high speed, an electrostatic field is created. The helmet shard literally repelled your knife blade, pushing it away as it came close. I had it analyzed by a top European research firm; it is a stable anion of gold—they dubbed it 'ubergold.' It rather reminds me of orichalcum, the divine metal Plato associated with Atlantis. Whether it is a naturally occurring substance is anyone's guess, but they all agree that nothing like it has ever been discovered."
Kismet stared at the British archaeologist, weighing the arguments the other man had presented. The possibility that some kind of magnetic gold might have imbued an object with extraordinary abilities was intriguing, but merely as a curiosity. It would take a lot more for Kismet to want to get on board with Sir Andrew Harcourt. "Well, that is interesting, but I don't see how it supports your broader theory. You still have nothing more to offer than conjecture based primarily on myths and legends."
"I admit that it is a rough beginning, but the goal will be worth the effort if we succeed."
"I still am unclear as to why you want me along. Why not contact England's liaison to the Commission? I imagine he would jump at the chance to accompany the Queen's favorite archaeologist on his latest quest."
"As you might well imagine, celebrity brings with it the jealousy of one's peers. To be honest, I suspect that you are the only one of my colleagues likely to assist me in this endeavor. Oh yes, I do think of you as a colleague; I sense that you are genuinely interested in the pursuit of truth, unlike most of the bureaucrats in UNESCO. And you have a reputation for delivering the goods."
Kismet was unmoved. "I shouldn't have to remind you of your obligation to remain objective, Andrew. We can't let myths and legends affect our perspective. Archaeology is about uncovering the past; reading history in the ruins and bones of ancient civilizations. It's not about proving pet theories, and it certainly isn't about chasing after magical talismans."
Harcourt suddenly broke into a grin, as if he had landed a sucker punch in their verbal sparring match. He stood abruptly, retrieved the helmet shard and returned it to his case. He left photographs on Kismet's desk. "I'm surprised you can say that after having looked upon the Ark of the Covenant."
Kismet felt as though he had been hit broadside. "I think you've got me confused with someone else," he replied slowly, straining to control his expression.
"Oh, really? My mistake." He picked up the case and strolled toward the door. "Consider my offer, Nick. You have a chance to be a part of history. Be seeing you."
Kismet did not move, struggling to keep his balance; the inside of his head was roaring with the sudden rush of adrenaline. He strove to remain imperturbable as Harcourt exited, but the moment he heard the Englishman's footsteps in the hall, he jumped up, retrieved his knife and ran to the door. He opened it a crack and peered after his departing guest.
Harcourt strode purposefully for the exit. A moment later, someone else appeared and headed down the vacant hallway toward him; a shapely feminine figure in a remarkable strapless black cocktail dress that seemed, like Harcourt's helmet shard, to defy the laws of physics.
Kismet groaned; beautiful as she was, at just this moment Lysette Lyon was the last person on earth he wanted to see. As the taller man passed by, Lyse paused and looked over her shoulder at him. Kismet waited until Harcourt turned the corner leading to the elevator foyer before bursting into the corridor.
"Nick." She flashe
d her lethal smile. "Sorry I'm late, but this weather has slowed things down and parking was a nightmare."
Kismet pushed past her. He could hear the sound of the elevator in the shaft. If Harcourt was taking it up from the lower level, it stood to reason that he would be leaving through the front entrance facing Central Park.
"Bad timing, Lyse. I'm sorry, but our night on the town will have to wait." As soon as the elevator doors thumped shut, Kismet sprinted past the foyer and down the hallway to a flight of stairs at north end of the building. He could hear Lyse's heels tapping a quick staccato rhythm in his wake.
Rounding the banister, Kismet flashed a wave to the guard posted at the seldom-used 81st Street entrance and pushed through the door. He hastened along the perimeter of the castle-like structure, ducking low alongside the massive stone walls, and paused at the corner where he could surreptitiously observe the stairs that faced the park. Harcourt was descending the stone steps, moving purposefully toward an idling black Lincoln Towne Car. As he approached, the driver of the vehicle got out and opened the back door.
"Care to fill me in?"
Kismet turned to find Lyse peering over his shoulder. She looked somewhat ridiculous as she stretched on her tip-toes in the high-heeled shoes. He noted that she had at least managed to pull a lightweight raincoat over her cocktail dress. A thought occurred to him. "You said you had trouble parking. You drove?"
"Mmhhmm. And what a drive. I'm famished."
"Fine. You go get something to eat. I need to borrow your car."
"What? Not a chance. We may be old friends, but you're too old, and we're not that friendly."
Kismet frowned. "I need to follow that man."
Lyse stared back, her face uncharacteristically serious. "Is it really important?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"Okay. I'll drive you. I owe you one."
"You owe me plenty. But thanks."
The black Towne Car pulled into the moderately light traffic moving along Central Park West, and then signaled for a turn onto 81st Street. Lyse led Kismet back along the north side of the museum, across the lawn toward Columbus Avenue. Traffic was heavier there, but they crossed against the light and jogged down West 81st until Kismet spied an all too familiar shape.
"Oh, God. Not the Bug."
Lyse affected a hurt expression. "Nick, I thought you loved the Bug."
"Jesus, Lyse. That car's older than I am. And it's not exactly inconspicuous."
The last point was difficult to argue. Though he knew from experience that Lyse always kept the candy-apple red 1965 Volkswagen Super Beetle in superb condition, it was nevertheless something of a modern relic.
"Beggars can't be choosers, Nick. Would you'd rather try following him on foot?"
Kismet growled, but conceded her point and squirmed into the cramped interior. With any luck, the scattered snow showers would afford them a degree of concealment as they tailed Harcourt to his next destination. Lyse turned the key and the Volkswagen engine rattled to life. Kismet reconsidered walking, but as Harcourt's Lincoln turned left onto Columbus Avenue only a block away, Kismet knew their window of opportunity would not stay open for long. "Try not to lose them."
"Please Nick," she said, sounding wounded. "It's me."
The Super Beetle slipped easily from its parking space and puttered toward the intersection. Lyse executed a rolling stop, and then darted across two lanes, to the annoyance of a Yellow Cab that had to fan its brakes imperceptibly to let her in. Kismet scanned the road ahead, spying the ornate taillights of Harcourt's car about a hundred yards ahead.
"There he is," observed Lyse, easing back on the accelerator to maintain the distance. "He's staying to the inside. I'd say they're heading downtown. So who is this guy?"
Kismet rubbed his eyes as if he had a headache. Harcourt’s bombshell was still ringing in his ears. There seemed but one explanation: the mysterious Prometheus group had resurfaced. But he was not about to trust Lyse with that supposition. Instead, he answered her query with a simple, if incomplete statement of fact. "Sir Andrew Harcourt. He's an archaeologist from London."
"Yeah? From your tone, I take it he didn't get a Christmas card from you this year?"
"We butted heads a couple years back. Harcourt is a sensationalist. Most archaeologists focus on a particular area of study and pretty much devote their career to it. Harcourt is one of those guys who likes to develop flashy theories and make a big production out of his digs; live television coverage and so forth.
"About three years ago, he stumbled onto what looked like a Norse burial mound upstate. He excavated it and evidently found some impressive stuff; it looked good on camera at least. As I recall, he tried to link the burial mound with the legend of Beowulf; an epic poem, written in old English, a fairy tale, about a brave warrior who went on a quest, slew a dragon and got killed for his trouble."
"Saw the movie. Kind of a downer."
Kismet continued with a nod. "Harcourt tried to draw on similarities between the legend and his discovery, suggesting that the poem might have been the story of an ancient warrior who actually traveled to America centuries before Columbus. I don't know if he actually believed that he had found the burial place of the real Beowulf, but when they edited the footage for the Discovery Channel, it sure sounded that way."
"Where's the crime in that?"
"Pop science is great for getting kids interested, but when you try to build on a foundation of mythology—folk tales and superstition—you just cloud the issue."
She threw him a sidelong glance. "Why? I mean, sometimes those legends are based on real events, right?"
"Harcourt's methods tend to blur the distinction. When you try that hard to reconcile fairy tales with established historical facts, you only obscure the truth. Just imagine if I came forward and claimed to have discovered the golden coffin of Snow White. I might get a lot of attention, but the truth of the matter is, Snow White is just a fairy tale. It didn't really happen. So even if I really had found an empty golden coffin, by saying that it belonged to a character from a fairy tale, I would be misdirecting people away from the facts about whose coffin it really was."
Lyse looked unconvinced but Kismet didn't know how to illustrate the problem more simply. "Well anyway, there's more to the story. In addition to the Norse artifacts there were quite a few Native American pieces at the site. Naturally it turned into a pissing contest, and because his theories were so wild, Harcourt ended up getting pushed out. I'm afraid that was mostly my doing."
"Ah, so that's why you two are best pals."
Before he could answer, the black car ahead of them angled left onto Broadway. Lyse peered intently through the drizzle, then downshifted for a surge of power. The Volkswagen shot forward and rapidly closed the gap between the two cars. "They're heading downtown, all right. I'm going to pass them."
"What? I don't want them to see me."
"They're a lot less likely to realize that we are following them if we're ahead of them. Just look away as we go by."
Before he could argue, Lyse swung the Super Beetle into the left lane and drew alongside the Lincoln. Kismet hastily folded himself over, pressing his torso against his knees below the level of the window. He gave her a scorching glance as she looked over to the other driver and smiled mischievously.
"Damn it, Lyse!"
She laughed and floored the accelerator pedal. The rear-mounted engine whined in protest as the smaller car pulled ahead of the considerably more powerful Lincoln. When they had pulled back into the right lane, Kismet sat up and risked a look through the back window. The Towne Car's headlights were twin spots of brilliance, perhaps a hundred yards behind them. "Don't worry. In a few minutes I'll let them pass us again. They'll never figure it out."
Kismet sighed. It was probably a good plan; he was just irked that she hadn't consulted him first. Typical Lyse.
"I hate to bring this up," she continued. "But I came to see you for a reason."
"I know, I know.
That fake statue. You'll get it tonight. I promise."
She seemed satisfied with his assurance. "Good enough. Now, finish the story. You got him kicked off the dig. Then what?"
Kismet shrugged. "I lost track of him. It’s not like it was some kind of grudge match. Anyway, he's got a new pet project: he just walked into my office claiming to have found an historical link to the legendary Golden Fleece."
"Another fairy tale?"
"Exactly. In fact, the legend of Jason and the Argonauts is just about the original fairy tale."
"I've heard of it."
Kismet nodded. "The legend tells of an adventurer named Jason who was sent on a quest to find the hide of a golden ram."
"Real gold? It was worth a lot then?"
"Maybe. Some versions of the legend ascribe various supernatural powers to the Golden Fleece; control over the elements, healing, and so forth. In the legend, Jason got together a crew of heroes, including Hercules, to sail a ship called the Argo to the land of Colchis. They had the usual adventures along the way, monsters and so forth. When they reached Colchis, Jason tried to negotiate for the Fleece, but ended up stealing it with the help of the king's daughter Medea. She was a priestess of the temple where the Fleece was kept and used her witchcraft to help Jason defeat the Fleece's guardians. They left Colchis with the prize and returned to Jason's homeland, Iolcos, where he eventually became king."
"And they all lived happily ever after?"
"Hardly. Jason divorced Medea and married someone else. Medea murdered Jason's new wife, her own children, and just about everyone else he loved. He died a bitter failure. He was resting in the shadow of the Argo when a loose beam collapsed on him and shattered his skull." Kismet sighed thoughtfully, gazing out at the passing buildings. "It's the sort of ironic end that comes to people who spend their whole lives searching for treasure and glory."
"And the Golden Fleece? Harcourt is looking for it, and you want to beat him to it?"
Kismet looked over with a stern expression. "The Golden Fleece is just a fairy tale."
"Then why are we following him?"
