by Sean Ellis
"Sure. If you find the Golden Fleece, you'll be rich and famous." She struggled free of his grasp. "I can't believe I ever thought you cared."
Fearful that she was going to blunder off in her rage and expose them to Harcourt's guards, he gripped her arm, causing her to wince. "Damn it, Irene, you've got it all wrong."
If the Fleece did exist—if it was composed of the strange reactive element that could be turned into a weapon—then it was more than just an important archaeological find. More importantly, it was exactly the sort of thing that might lure the agents of the Prometheus group into the light. But how was he to explain that to Irene before she betrayed their presence with an emotional outburst?
"It's not about fame or wealth," he continued. "It's about a relic of enormous historic value, and possibly incredible power, falling into the wrong hands. And I don't mean Harcourt. He's just a puppet, working for evil men who will use the Fleece in terrible ways. We can prevent that. We have to."
She shook her arm, trying to break his hold. "Let go of me. So help me, I'll scream."
"Five minutes," he pleaded, relaxing his grip, but unsure of how she would decide. "If we stick together, there's a chance we might pull this off. But if you go off on your own..."
Her eyes did not lose their hard edge but she relented. "All right. Five minutes."
He let go of her arm, nodded and commenced inserting himself through the rent in the canvas. Irene however, wasn't finished. "Nick. This changes everything."
He didn't know how to respond. Damn her for not understanding, for not realizing that his motives weren't selfish and for complicating his decision with emotional blackmail. But there was no way, given the urgency of the moment, to make her comprehend that his decision to find out the truth about the Golden Fleece in no way eclipsed his commitment to helping her. And valuable time was being lost as he wrestled with the problem. Unable to explain, he turned away and threaded himself into the tent.
After climbing over a heap of dirt, he found himself standing above a trench, six feet deep and terminating at the tunnel mouth. He squatted down at the edge then lowered himself in. A shadow fell over him and he looked up to see Irene, arms folded across her chest, watching him. He decided to ignore her.
Harcourt had been exceedingly professional in his excavation. Kismet could see the attention to detail; the careful laying out of reference grids with string lines and markers to indicate when and where something of importance was located. Chalk marks differentiated the soil horizons and rock strata on the trench walls, highlighting approximations of how the sediment had built up over the course of several millennia.
Kismet wished that he could have been more than just a hasty spy making a cursory inspection of the dig. Instead, he had to settle for making a few quick mental notes before hurrying toward the cave entrance.
Harcourt had been more successful there. A number of markers highlighted his discoveries: the petrified remains of a fire-pit, possibly used as a forge; animal bones in such a concentration as to indicate a refuse heap; even one wall of a wooden structure embedded in the embankment. Kismet pushed on and entered the tunnel.
It was darker here, and he paused to take the MagLite from his pack A red filter muted the intensity of the light, but provided enough illumination for him to survey the smooth rock walls, examining the marks left by the passage of time. The history of the place spoke to him. He lingered for only a moment, then shut off the light and hurried back to Irene.
When she saw him return empty-handed, she registered a puzzled expression. "Are you satisfied?"
"More than you can know." He scrambled up the side of the trench and brushed himself off. "Come on. Let's go find your father."
The next tent they looked into turned out to be a supply depot, piled with fuel cans, foodstuffs and other crates of unknown purpose. "They're being supplied by air drops," he deduced aloud. "There's no way they could have brought all this stuff up in a single truck."
"Supplied by whom?"
He raised his eyebrows knowingly, but did not answer her question. "I'd say they're planning on being here awhile. That could work to our advantage."
"What are you talking about?" He was intentionally evasive, more to annoy her than anything else. If she wasn't going to trust him, why should he be cooperative? He knew it was petty, but she had put him in a vindictive mood. He simply grinned and led her from the enclosure.
The next tent was the smallest of the camp. They did not go in, but Kismet cut a peephole, which revealed it to belong solely to Harcourt. Given the austere conditions, the interior was furnished like an upscale luxury hotel room, replete with a glowing space heater at its center. Repressing mischievous desires, Kismet led the way to the next structure.
"This is interesting," he whispered. "It looks like the main bivouac for the troops."
"Troops? Anatoly said there were only a few soldiers."
Kismet looked again. "Well, now there are a few dozen. Probably paratroopers who dropped in with the supplies."
Irene shook her head in confusion. "I don't get it. I thought this was just about Harcourt and Grimes trying to get the Fleece. Now they have an army on their side? Did they make a deal with the Russian government?"
"These aren't Russian soldiers. Could be mercenaries, or...” He thought about the computer file he had helped Lyse smuggle into the U.S. “Or KSK—German Special Forces."
Irene's stunned silence indicated that their earlier argument was all but forgotten. "German soldiers have invaded Georgia?"
"Hard to believe, isn't it? I suspected that Grimes was working with German intelligence agents when I found you in New York. One of the dominating tapestries in that underground hall belonged to an old papal order called the Teutonic Knights; that's what got me thinking there might be a connection. Then a few other things happened." He did not elaborate with mention of the file on the SD card or the spy that had accosted him at his brownstone. "But I really didn't expect them to make such a big production out of this. It looks like they're willing to risk an international incident, maybe even war with Russia, if that's what it takes to find the Fleece."
"Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"
"I wasn't sure. You didn't need to know. What difference does it make?"
"What difference?" Her stage whisper could barely contain the strident tone of her rising anxiety. "There's no way we can get my father out of here, much less the Fleece."
"Irene, I swear to you that we'll get your father out."
"And the Fleece?"
"Since when does that matter to you?"
"Since I found out that the people are willing to go to war over it."
"Fortunately, that won't happen." He eased away from the bivouac then walked over to the remaining tent.
"How do you know that?" Irene persisted, her whispers growing uncomfortably loud.
"Because the Fleece isn't here." He raised a finger to his lips to silence any further discussion, and then cut a tiny slit in the fabric wall of the shelter. After peering inside, he pulled her close and whispered into her ear. "Pay dirt. There's one guard, and I count five prisoners tied on the floor. One of them is your father."
Irene drew in a breath, suddenly overcome with emotion. "Is he all right?"
"They all look a little thin. My guess is that Harcourt's been using them for slave labor." He looked over and saw tears welling up in her eyes. Impulsively, he reached out to her, hugging her to offer consolation. "Hey, it's going to be all right. We'll have him out of there in no time."
Together they crept around to the opposite side of the tent, to the place Kismet approximated to be directly behind the guard. A second incision revealed his estimate to be correct, and he noiselessly sliced apart the canvas. The guard was standing at attention with his back to them, less than three feet away. After a moment of preparation, Kismet reached in and wrapped his arm around the man's neck.
Rather than raise an alarm by firing the rifle in his hands, the guard i
nstinctively dropped his firearm and tried to pry loose the stranglehold. Kismet yanked him backward through the rent, maintaining constant pressure. After a brief struggle, the man went limp in Kismet's arms.
Like the sentry roaming the perimeter, this man also wore snow camouflage fatigues. The white nylon shell offered no indication that the man belonged to any nation's armed forces. Similarly, his weapon, the AK-47 Kalashnikov semi-automatic rifle—was an anonymous choice, easily obtained by anyone with the right connections and ready cash. That way, if anyone from the expedition was discovered or captured, the German government could simply claim that it was a mercenary force working for private interests. Kismet confirmed that the man was unconscious then dragged him through the hole, back into the tent.
The struggle had awakened some of the prisoners. Except for Kerns, who was still sleeping, the prisoners were all young men, dressed only in trousers and undershirts, with close-cropped hair. It was evident that the body they had found on the trail had once belonged to their number. Kismet gestured for silence and the young men nodded eagerly, understanding that liberation was near.
Irene pushed past him and rushed to her father's side. Kerns awoke gradually, and when his eyes focused and recognition dawned, grief twisted his countenance. "Oh my daughter, they have brought you here, too."
She laughed and pushed away the tears that had were beading at the corner of her eyes. "No, papa. Nick and I are here to rescue you."
Kerns' expression changed to confusion. He looked over to Kismet, who was busy cutting the young laborers free. "Nick?"
"Nick Kismet. It's true, sir. Your daughter and I are going to get you out of here." He extended his hand to the other prisoners. "All of you."
The other young men responded with looks of incomprehension. It was obvious that they did not speak English. "They are Russian sailors," supplied Kerns. "The Germans captured their patrol boat and took their uniforms. Then they forced them to dig."
Kismet nodded. He would have preferred to keep his knowledge of the Russian language a secret, but time did not allow him that luxury. "Which of you is the leader?"
One of the young men raised his hand and started to speak, but Kismet cut him off. "Listen, I can set you free, but this place is crawling with soldiers. If you go to the supply tent, you can get enough food and clothing to make the trip down the mountains."
The young sailor nodded. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You'll have to go through hell to get out of here alive."
He bent over to Kerns, cutting his bonds and helping him to his feet. Kerns looked thinner than when Kismet had seen him in the hall of the Teutonic Knights. His face was bruised and cut, and when he stood he seemed frail, but after a moment he straightened, addressing Kismet in deeply accented English. "They've already been through hell. Getting off this mountain will be easy by comparison."
"I hope you're right." He saw one of the men stooping over the fallen guard, fishing in the man's jacket pocket. A moment later he drew out a silver flask stamped with the insignia of the old Soviet military, a five-pointed red star. The sailor took a long drink from the flask then passed it around to his comrades. A few moments later, the de facto leader of the group offered it to Kismet.
After taking an obligatory sip of the vodka, a somewhat superior distillation than what Severin had served aboard the Boyevoy, Kismet proffered the flask.
The Russian sailor shook his head, indicating that Kismet should keep the container, and then bent over the guard to commandeer his firearm. Kismet frowned. "I recommend you shoot only as a last resort. The sound will awaken the camp."
The young man nodded, but nevertheless drew back the bolt partway to inspect the weapon, then let it go, leaving a round into the chamber. Kismet shook his head in resignation and turned back to Kerns and his daughter. "Are we ready?"
After receiving affirmative nods, Kismet led the way, exiting through the door flaps while watching out for the lone sentry. Once more, the marching soldier's bootsteps betrayed his location. They had only to wait until the footsteps grew softer to make their move. The Russian sailors waited for Kismet's signal then darted into the supply tent.
"They're on their own," Kismet declared. "Now it's our turn." The three of them crept from shadow to shadow until reaching the edge of the camp. The sentry marched past a few minutes later. Once he rounded the next corner, they started moving again. Kerns was slow, his limbs stiff from the cold, but with Kismet on one side and his daughter on the other, they made the top of the snowdrift with a minute to spare.
Irene was giddy with relief, as they reached the sleigh. "I can't believe we pulled that off."
"Wait until we're back home before you start celebrating," Kismet chided. "We've got a long trip ahead of us."
"Yeah, but it's all downhill from here. How long before they know we're gone?"
"It depends. If our Russian friends don't do anything foolish, we should be well on our way before anyone knows what happened. Hopefully, the Germans will think that their prisoners escaped on their own. I don't want Harcourt knowing I'm here if I can help it."
Irene and her father got into the back of the sleigh and bundled up together in the blankets, while Kismet took the driver's seat and coaxed the team into motion. The horses effortlessly drew the sleigh in a wide circle until the iron rails slipped into the tracks they had earlier cut. From that point on, the ride was virtually self-guiding.
Kerns gradually revealed the events that had transpired since his separation from his daughter in New York. Harcourt and two of Grimes' agents had crossed the Atlantic with him, stopping in Germany long enough to assemble a team of Bundeswehr Kommandos Spezialkrafte elite soldiers. Together they infiltrated Russian controlled waters, captured a Svetlyak class patrol boat, the Zmeya, and used it to make a surreptitious landing at a remote point just south of Poti. Much of what Kismet had supposed was verified; the death of the fleeing sailor, the airdrops and the arrival of fresh troops parachuting in under cover of darkness.
Kerns had cooperated for fear of his daughter's life, taking Harcourt directly to the site of the ancient mining camp. Kismet did not comment, but continued to listen as Irene spun the tale of their own adventures. Soon thereafter, both father and daughter were lulled to sleep, while Kismet continued to tend the horses.
Traveling on the decline was more difficult than Kismet had anticipated. The sleigh naturally wanted to race downhill. The horses were no longer serving as a means of locomotion, but rather as a brake to prevent the sleigh from running away out of control. Since this was not the task for which nature had so perfectly endowed them, they were having difficulty in maintaining surefootedness on the icy slopes. Kismet's attention was totally focused on controlling the team.
The lights of dawn were beginning to shine over the crest of the Caucasus six hours after they left the mountain camp when Irene stirred from her sleep and crawled forward to sit beside Kismet. "What time is it?"
"After seven. It should be light soon."
"How much farther?"
"I'd say we're about halfway." Kismet relaxed his tense grip on the reins as the track leveled out briefly. The horses, sensing that their yoke was no longer pushing them from behind, also relaxed and began trotting forward as if grateful for the exercise. The track led into a narrow pass, with snowdrifts piled high on either side for several hundred yards. Kismet remembered that the defile curved around to the left, and began to gradually decline again before leading into the switchbacks. Nevertheless, he was happy for the brief respite.
"But they're probably awake up in the camp. They know my father is gone."
Kismet shrugged. "They've probably known that for hours. But even with the truck they can't make it down this path any faster than we can. We've got a good lead on them."
Irene cocked her head to one side. "What's that sound?"
Her hearing was sharper than his, but before he could enquire, he heard it too; the unmistakable sound of an engine. He turned his
head sideways, trying to isolate the source. It wasn't coming from behind them, but rather from further down the trail. Suddenly, a massive vehicle rounded the corner, its headlamps blazing.
Reflexively, Kismet reined back the horses, halting them fifty yards from the turn. An enormous tracked snow-cat, the kind used to groom ski slopes at mountain resorts, rumbled toward them. Two more just like it followed close behind, their tracks digging deep parallel grooves in the snow pack. Painted white to blend in with the wintry background, each vehicle carried a complement of barely distinguishable figures, likewise camouflaged.
"Troop carriers," Kismet realized aloud.
As the driver of the lead vehicle caught sight of them, Kismet could hear gears whining as they were shifted down. The troop carrier ground to a halt less than twenty paces from the sleigh. Kismet's heart skipped a beat—not because of the standoff, but because of what he saw in the cab of the snow-cat.
He did not recognize the two men sitting in the front of the vehicle, but the identity of the third man, leaning over the back of the driver's seat, was beyond question. In a frozen moment, they recognized each other.
Through the frosty pane, he saw Halverson Grimes' lips slowly form a single word: "Kismet!"
NINE
Grimes' incredulous expression mirrored Kismet's own. Both sets of eyes narrowed into defensive slits as each man recognized the other's presence on this remote mountainside. Grimes broke the visual deadlock, turning to the driver beside him to bark an order.
Kismet also looked away, refocusing on the snow-cats and the terrain they dominated. The vehicles had turned the corner sharply, staying close to the right hand side of the track—Kismet's left. On the other side however, to his right, the gap between the snow bank and the sides of the vehicles was considerable, possibly even wide enough to....
Kismet did not hesitate. Grimes and his troops were already starting to move, beginning the process that would result in their capture or death. "Hold on!"
