by Sean Ellis
"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 bew
ilderment 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 tre
acherous. 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."
