Into the Black

by Sean Ellis

  Kismet gripped the stern railing and gazed into the distance. The wake churned up by the small chartered boat marked a turbulent pathway on the surface of the water; thick and distinct as it bubbled up from the spinning screw beneath the waterline but quickly spreading out until its message was no longer discernible.

  Beyond the point where even the ripples of their passage could no longer be seen, the narrow Strait of Bosporus—the passage from the Aegean Sea into the Black—was still ominously visible. In the legend of Jason and the Argonauts, Kismet recalled, a pair of massive rocks called the Symplegades, had wandered about the sea in pursuit of the swift Argo in an attempt to smash it into timbers. Although Jason's ship had survived the passage, hundreds of other mariners through the centuries had fallen victim to the treacherous narrows of the Bosporus which, although lacking the power of movement, was nevertheless a mighty anvil upon which the stormy seas might hammer unfortunate vessels. Kismet was not overly concerned. The strait was becalmed, with only the merest whisper wind blowing out of the Black Sea.

  Irene made her away across the deck and stood beside him. "I don't like that man," she grumbled. "It gives me the creeps when he leers at me like that."

  Kismet glanced over at her. They were the only passengers on a small freight hauling vessel owned and captained by a Turk named Achmet. He couldn't fault the boat's skipper for staring. She really looked that good.

  Irene had blossomed before his eyes over the past few days. As fierce determination supplanted desperation, she had begun to glow with an inner fire. Of course, replacing the work clothes that he had supplied on the night of their escape from Grimes' clutches, with garments more suitable to her form and gender had accomplished wonders.

  Irene may have called it 'leering' and perhaps it was, for Achmet made no effort to temper his lecherous grin, but Kismet preferred to think of it as gazing in admiration. The dress that she now wore, a gown of hand dyed silks, tailored for her in the marketplaces of Istanbul, accentuated her beauty in a way that left him breathless.

  "Achmet's all right," he replied, unable to suppress a grin. "He might not win a personality contest, but he won't sell us into slavery either."

  "Easy for you to say," she retorted. "He isn't looking at you like you were a piece of meat."

  Kismet nodded, ceding the point. He was, in truth, not overly concerned about the operator of their present means of conveyance. Achmet was indeed repulsive, a male chauvinist by the most liberal of standards and every inch the stereotypical sailor. But Kismet had learned over the course of many years to trust his own instincts when judging people, and the Turkish skipper had yet to trigger any intuitive alarm bells. He seemed to be a simple, reliable man who just happened to be, as Irene had so succinctly stated, creepy.

  Achmet's boat was only the latest in a series of planes, trains and ships that had taken the two of them across one hundred and five degrees of longitude; from the snowy streets of New York to the somewhat milder climate of the Black Sea, off the Turkish coast. The journey had gone well and speedily, at least to the extent that any globetrotter could hope for, but Kismet was growing anxious. He fidgeted with the zipper of his heavy leather bomber jacket and turned back to his traveling companion.

  Irene had focused attention on a single location frequented by her father prior to their flight, a place not far from Poti, the coastal city she and her father had called home for many years. Their goal was on a mountainside in the Caucasus, a remote range straddling the border between Russia and the former Soviet Republic of Georgia. Petr Chereneyev had surveyed this region in search of petroleum for the Soviet Union during the height of the Cold War. While the land where Jason the Argonaut had found the Golden Fleece still had a reputation for yielding up occasional nuggets of yellow gold, it was the quest for black gold that now drove men to comb its remote reaches. However, Chereneyev had found something else in the course of his survey up in those distant mountains; a cache of Greek relics that had financed their escape from KGB assassins.

  Peter Kerns had likely returned to that place, now in the role of guide for Sir Andrew Harcourt. When the British archaeologist had dropped in on New Year's Eve, Kismet had not expected to become his rival, much less imagined that the man would become a kidnapping menace. But a menace he was, coercing Kerns into revealing the site where he had unearthed the relics. Kismet's growing anxiety stemmed from the fact that every step closer to their goal was a step closer to what would undoubtedly be a violent confrontation with Harcourt. Moreover, if Halverson Grimes was involved with foreign espionage as he suspected, or perhaps something even more sinister—the same group that had menaced him in the desert years before—then their foes would probably have powerful allies at their beck and call. And as if things couldn't get any more complicated, Poti had been virtually annexed by Russian armed forces following the end of the South Ossetia conflict. At every turn, he and Irene would face dangerous enemies and would almost certainly be outnumbered.

  Typical, Kismet thought darkly.

  "Why the long face?"

  Kismet turned and feigned a smile to conceal his apprehension, and then saw by her silent laughter that she was poking fun at him. He returned his gaze to the sea.

  "Just thinking about the Clashing Rocks," he lied. "In the legend of the Argonauts—"

  "I know all about the Clashing Rocks, Nick. I can quote you chapter and verse about Jason and the Argonauts. I grew up with it."

  "Really?"

  "To Americans, Greek myths are just that, fanciful fairy tales from an ancient but ultimately dead civilization. But on the Black coast, they view the legend as true history."

  "You're kidding." The shaking of her head was answer enough. "I mean, from an academic standpoint, it's reasonable that the Jason legend might have been inspired by an actual historical figure who traveled along the Black Sea coast, but I had no idea that the people living there today were even aware of it."

  "It's a part of their heritage. Why is that so hard to understand?"

  Kismet shrugged. "Most Americans are oblivious to the rich heritage of their own native legends. They think American history begins with Columbus. Most don't know, or even care to know, of recent historic events in their own back yard. I guess I just assumed that sort of thinking was universal."

  "I suppose it's getting to be that way," Irene conceded. "Everyone is too interested in what's going on right now to worry about the past. As a result, they lose out on valuable lessons that the past can teach them."

  The significance of her comments finally clicked into place and he saw a connection that had previously eluded him. "Irene, if you know all about the legend, then wouldn't your father as well?"

  "Sure. He explained most of it to me. I was quite young at the time."

  "Have the locals ever found any artifacts, besides the ones your father discovered?"

  "There are pieces attributed to the serpent temple that show up now and then; nothing of value really."

  "And did your father ever indicate that his pieces were linked to the legend?"

  "No." It was Irene's turn to appear thoughtful. "But that doesn't mean he didn't make the connection. You have to understand that my father was very secretive about those artifacts. He only mentioned them to me after we were in the United States. Something you learn living in a Communist state is healthy paranoia."

  Kismet was silent. Had Peter Kerns had made the connection all those years before? Had he in fact uncovered the very proof that Harcourt was after? More importantly, would he lead the British archaeologist directly to the prize?

  The stakes now seemed even greater.

  "Clashing Rocks," Irene murmured, mostly to herself.

  Kismet shook off his ruminations and returned his attention to her. "What made you say that?"

  "Just looking at them...you can almost believe that they are moving."

  Although the Bosporus was blurry in the distance, Kismet checked to see if her assessment was correct. It was true that the gentl
e rocking of wave action caused the eye to constantly refocus, sometimes giving the illusion that stationary objects were in motion, but overall Kismet saw nothing extraordinary.

  "That one," exclaimed Irene, pointing in the general area of the strait. "It did move."

  "Maybe you should go back to the cabin," he gently suggested. "The sun can be brutal on the open water like this."

  "I am not seeing things," she protested. "Look for yourself. One of the rocks is moving—there!"

  Kismet looked again. "I'll be damned," he whispered. Between the two large rocks, a smaller lump was indeed moving. "It's got to be a ship."

  "Then it's a pretty big one."

  "An oil tanker," Kismet theorized aloud. "I'm sure there's no cause for alarm." Then, in spite of his platitude, he left her side, returning a moment later with a pair of battered binoculars. He raised them to his eyes and scanned from left to right until he could make out the mouth of the passage between the seas. His gaze then fell upon the rapidly moving shape that was indeed moving to intercept them. Incredulous, Kismet lowered the binoculars. "Not good."

  "What's not good? What did you see?"

  He ignored her. "Achmet! Can this tub go any faster?"

  The lecherous captain poked his head out of the wheelhouse and barked something unintelligible. Kismet pointed toward the moving 'rock' and handed the binoculars over. Achmet focused in on the shape and spat an oath in his native tongue. He then added in passable English: "I knew you two were trouble."

  "Damn it, Nick," Irene persisted. "What is it? Is it the Clashing Rocks for real?"

  "No. Much worse."

  The shape grew nearer and more distinct in the space of a few minutes. Even from a distance of two nautical miles, there was no mistaking the spiky, irregular outline of a great ship built for war. A large ensign snapped in the breeze from the bowsprit, a white flag with a blue 'X' stretched from each corner. It was the Cross of St. Andrew, the banner of the Russian Navy.

  Achmet poured on the speed, angling the smaller vessel toward the coast. Turkey was the nearest landmass and had a proper territorial right to the waters in which they were now traveling. Nevertheless, the Russians had made it abundantly clear that legal claims mattered little. The Black Sea was for all intents and purposes, a Russian domain. It was doubtful that the Turkish Navy would be willing to risk an international incident to protect them from the Russian destroyer. It was even less likely that Achmet's tiny boat would be able to outdistance the powerful warship.

  Kismet and Irene remained astern, watching as the distance between the two craft diminished. Irene broke the tense silence. "So what do we do?"

  Kismet managed a tight-lipped smile. "Why should we have to do anything? We've got as much right to be here as they do. All of our documents are in order. In short, there is no problem."

  "Naiveté doesn't suit you, Nick. There is a big problem. At best they'll just bully us. At worst—well, it won't take them long to realize that I am Petr Chereneyev's only daughter."

  "If it comes to that, just stick to the story. You're not the one they want."

  The destroyer continued to close in on them, erasing any hopes that it merely shared their route through the passage. Achmet yelled for Kismet to join him, and asked what course of action they ought to pursue.

  "Just keep going as you are. If they want us to heave to, they can damn well call us on the radio and ask nicely."

  "Nick!"

  Kismet looked away from the captain, and followed the direction of Irene's gesture. A lazy ring of smoke hovered like a halo above the destroyer. When he heard the shrieking whistle of incoming fire, Kismet dashed across the deck and threw Irene down, covering her with his body.

  An instant later, the sea erupted as a 130 millimeter artillery shell exploded a stone's throw off the port bow of the small boat. The displacement of water and the shock wave tossed the little craft violently, pitching Kismet and Irene against the gunwale. Achmet tumbled from the wheelhouse and sprawled across the deck, striking his head.

  As the tumult subsided, the small boat's screws continued turning, pushing it on a random heading out of the blast zone. Achmet rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered back to the helm to shut off the engine. Kismet held Irene a moment longer.

  "I'm okay," she breathed, then added: "That was Russian for 'please,' in case you weren't paying attention."

  He released his hold, and as she pulled herself erect, the Russian destroyer moved alongside their boat, looming over them like a skyscraper.

  Kismet gazed up at the stony faces of Russian sailors perched high above on the main deck of the destroyer. He wondered if the shot had been an intentional near miss, or if it had been their purpose to blow them out of the water.

  A launch was deployed off the stern of the destroyer with an armed company of sailors and officers aboard. The seamen on the deck of the warship continued watching, their fingers ready on the triggers of the stationary 30mm anti-aircraft gun emplacements. The motor launch cut a wide circle in the water as it came around to pull alongside Achmet's boat. The Turkish mariner sat alone in the wheelhouse, fidgeting as he watched the Russians draw near.

  "So what do we do now?" Irene asked, a faint quaver betraying her anxiety.

  "Keep smiling. We haven't done anything wrong. Like I said, just stick to the story."

  The launch drew alongside Achmet's boat and Kismet strode casually toward it, signaling that he would tie their belay line if they threw it to him. The sailors disdained his gesture, waving with their firearms to indicate that he should back off.

  The pilot of the launch idled close and one of the seamen clambered over the gunwale and moored the launch to the boat. As if directed by a single mind, the sailors spilled over into Achmet's vessel and without a word deployed throughout, searching every cabin, closet and locker. A man wearing a dark blue officer's winter uniform, with a single star and one wide gold stripe on each of his shoulder boards—the insignia for a Captain 1st Class—climbed from the launch and moved toward Kismet and Irene.

  He was tall, with a prominent forward-thrust jaw and an extremely self-assured bearing. A smug grin crept over his face as he approached. "Good afternoon, Mr. Kismet."

  Kismet hid his dismay, but the captain's words struck him like a fist. He could not believe that the Russians had learned of his identity and presence aboard the boat, and his mind raced to identify where and when the leak of information had occurred. If the Russians already knew about his plans, their mission was doomed. After an interminable pause, he returned the smile. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure, Captain—?"

  "Captain Gregory Severin, commanding the destroyer Boyevoy." Although the Russian's English was thickly accented, with syllables that sounded as though they were being spoken through a mouthful of breadcrumbs, there was no disguising the man's satisfaction at having the upper hand. He said nothing more until one of the sailors stepped to his side.

  Before the seaman could report, Kismet spoke up. "What's this all about, Captain Severin? Why did you fire on us?"

  Severin ignored him and turned to the sailor. "Report."

  "Nothing at all, sir. Everyone is accounted for."

  On an impulse, Kismet feigned confusion at their conversation. "What are you guys talking about? I want some answers."

  "As do I, Mr. Kismet," Severin barked. "I want to know why a notorious American espionage agent is trying to sneak into my country."

  "Is that what you think?" Kismet affected offense. "You're wrong on so many counts I don't even know where to start. I'm not an espionage agent. I was in Army Intelligence a lifetime ago, but even you must realize that's not the same thing. And we're not going to 'your country,' we're going to Georgia. Furthermore, we aren't sneaking, captain. We are traveling openly and legally on United Nations' passports. The documents are completely valid."

  "I'm sure they are," Severin answered with a sneer. "I will of course be looking at them in greater detail." His eyes fell upon Irene. "And this
is your lady?"

  The statement was guarded, and for the first time Kismet entertained a glimmer of hope that the Russian was in the dark. Maybe Severin had not yet identified Irene; didn't know of her true heritage, or her exile from the Rodina—the Motherland. Kismet squeezed her hand, hoping to impart to her the message 'volunteer nothing.'

  As if to signal her comprehension, Irene gripped his hand tightly and took a step forward. "I am not his lady," she snapped in clear, unaccented English. "I am his fiancée. And I would also like to know why you were shooting at us. You could have killed us."

  The captain chuckled mirthlessly. "You are too lovely a woman to be taking up with a rogue like Nikolai Kismet. I wonder what you see in him, Irina Chereneyeva."

  Kismet's heart skipped a beat. So Severin was playing with them; teasing them with what he might or might not already know. Before he could stop her, Irene replied. "So you know my name. I'm not impressed. You have no right to accost us like this. We aren't even in Russian waters. You are nothing better than a pirate."

  Kismet pulled on her arm, dragging her back a step and cutting her tirade short, before she could hurl further insults. They were in over their heads; there was no sense digging the grave any deeper.