by Sean Ellis
He struggled to get Elisabeth out of his thoughts. His anger was already yielding to the arguments Higgins had presented in her defense. He knew better, of course. Higgins had not been there in the tiger pit; had not heard her mocking laughter...
He shoveled another forkful of food into his mouth, chewing vigorously as if to shake the memory loose. “So Dr. Leeds thinks he can find the secret of immortality,” he wondered aloud, hoping that by articulating the thought, he might force his mind to switch tracks.
To some extent, it worked.
What intrigued him was the scope of Leeds’ search. In one short conversation, the man had incorporated a mosaic of Judaism, Christianity, Gnosticism, and an obscure Mesopotamian myth, into a seemingly coherent philosophy. Despite his superior manner, Leeds expressed himself with a certainty that made a person feel foolish for doubting.
Kismet searched his memory for details of the Epic of Gilgamesh. Elisabeth’s untimely intrusion had side-tracked him from his original plan to research the legend, but he still remembered his college course on mythology, where he had read translations of the tablets of Shin-eqi-unninni, largely considered to be the most complete account of the Epic. The tablets, recovered from the same library in the ruins of Nineveh as the prism Leeds was studying, had been tentatively dated to 2000 BCE, making them the closest thing to a contemporary account. Gilgamesh was generally accepted as an actual historic figure, king of Uruk, a city in Babylonia, though Kismet could not recall if he had ever been linked to the Nimrod of the Genesis account.
Leeds had focused on the latter third of the Epic, the final three tablets describing Gilgamesh's search for the secret of immortality. The character of Uta-Napishtim indeed bore a close resemblance to the biblical Noah; survivor of a global flood, preserving alive all species of animal life in a great boat, even right down to the detail of his sending forth birds to see if the waters had receded.
Gilgamesh himself was anything but heroic. He began the story as an oppressive king and demi-god, demanding, among other things, the right to share the bed of every virgin bride before her husband. The people of his kingdom called out to the gods for someone to deliver them from the oppressor, and their prayer was answered in the form of Enkidu, a shaggy wild man who lived in the forest and could talk to animals. At first, Enkidu and Gilgamesh fought, but soon they became fast friends. Together, they challenged and slew Humbaba, demon of the cedar forest, and in the process offended the goddess Ishtar. Humbaba's dying curse was fulfilled when Ishtar smote Enkidu with a fatal illness.
Following the death of his friend, Gilgamesh troubled by his own mortality, began the search for the immortal Uta-Napishtim and the secret of eternal life. Along the way, he was repeatedly advised to abandon his quest; even Uta-Napishtim tried to reason with Gilgamesh that human death was the will of the gods and the search for eternal life could only end in futility. The outcome of the tale, with Gilgamesh losing the plant that possessed the secret of immortality, seemed underscore this eventuality.
The story was told from Gilgamesh's point of view, a retrospect on his life, inscribed on the lapis lazuli stone foundations of his city. Gilgamesh's transformation from an oppressive jerk into Enkidu's fast friend and mourner seemed like the stuff of heroic fiction, not history. The kings of ancient times never recorded their own failings, or allowed their scribes to show them in less than favorable light.
Leeds’ premise seemed to turn on the connection between Gilgamesh and Nimrod. If the two men were one and the same, it would seem to indicate that an epic quest for a life giving plant, what Leeds thought was a Seed of the Tree of Life, really did occur. Of course, that assumed the Bible account about Nimrod—and for that matter Noah, and the Great Flood—was historically accurate, despite very little supportive evidence.
Kismet pushed his plate away and asked the bartender if there was a place where he could get computer access. A few minutes later in the ships cybercafé, he accessed an online edition of the Authorized Version of 1611, better known as the King James Version of the Holy Bible. He clicked on ‘Genesis’ and began skimming through the lines of text until he reached the first mention of Nimrod. There were only three short verses:
“And Cush begat Nimrod: he began to be a mighty one in the earth. He was a mighty hunter before the LORD: wherefore it is said, Even as Nimrod the mighty hunter before the LORD. And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel, and Erech, and Accad, and Calneh, in the land of Shinar.”
He set the book down thoughtfully. Erech was easily Uruk—the ancient name for Iraq—the city-state built and ruled by Gilgamesh in the parallel legend. In fact, both men were described as city builders and kings. It was a tenuous link, but a link nevertheless.
Still, a great distance separated Gilgamesh from the Fountain of Youth. He would have dismissed the matter as a crackpot scheme on Leeds’ part if not for one thing. Though his recall remained faint, he kept coming back to the name Henry Fortune; and something about a cave where ‘fire danced on the water.’
It had been almost exactly the same language as that used by a Spanish colonial three hundred and fifty years earlier, a man whose name curiously enough, translated into Henry Fortune. He felt certain that he had first encountered that pairing while perusing the archives of GHC and UNESCO correspondence.
Over the course of its seventy year history, the United Nations’ cultural organization had received thousands of letters, often formal request from governments and preservation societies requesting that certain historically important places receive World Heritage Site status, but interspersed among them were inquiries from private citizens. Gaining access to that prodigious database had been Kismet’s primary motivation for taking the job as Global Heritage Commission liaison; he was convinced that somewhere in those files, he would find a clue that would lead to the mysterious Prometheus organization, and answers about the mystery that had dominated his life.
Prometheus.
While the quest for Prometheus was never far from his thoughts, seeing Sergeant Higgins again had brought it all back to the surface. That night in the desert, so long ago now, had been his first and only real encounter with Prometheus. He had surmised that they were some kind of secret society devoted to scooping up sacred relics—he could only guess about what else they had their hands in—but could not fathom their interest in him personally. He still remembered the words of the Prometheus team leader, a man who had identified himself as Ulrich Hauser:
Kismet, if I killed you, your mother would have my head.
Two decades later, that remained the extent of his knowledge.
“The Fountain of Youth.” It seemed ludicrous on the surface, but if, by some miracle, it really did exist, it was exactly the sort of thing Prometheus would want to control.
The information he wanted was only a few keystrokes away, but he didn’t dare access the GHC database from an unsecure computer. That would have to wait until he could get his laptop from his stateroom. Still...
He typed the words he had just muttered into a search window.
“Nick?”
Kismet jumped when he felt the soft touch on his arm. He spun around to face the person that had startled him, recognizing her voice at the same instant he saw her face. Elisabeth's hand remained on his arm, her touch strangely appealing. Almost guiltily, he closed the Internet browser, even as the screen filled up with websites promising answers to his inquiry, and then stood, putting Elisabeth at arm’s length.
He knew he ought to rage at her, but some instinctive need held him back. He was attracted to her...aroused by her. He managed to keep the conflicting emotions out of his voice, addressing her in a flat tone. “What do you want from me?”
She smiled, fixing his gaze with her own. “I think you know.”
He forced his eyes away from hers. There was a purple discoloration on her cheek, just above the jaw, that her make-up could not quite conceal. He’d done that, but then she’d been point a gun at him moments before. He reached out wit
h a finger, caressing the bruise gently. “You almost got me killed. Twice.”
“Believe it or not, you almost got me killed twice, too.”
“Is that supposed to make me trust you?” He could not entirely mask the bitterness in his tone. “You betrayed me to Jin.”
“He caught me as I was taking the sapphire. Nick, I had to play along and hope for the best. If he had suspected that I was trying to escape, he would have killed me on the spot.”
“It didn't look that way from where I was standing...in the tiger pit.”
“I'm an actress, Nick. It's what I do.”
“You were awfully convincing.” He sighed, his eyes flashing back to meet hers. “You’re pretty convincing right now. Is this just an act?”
She took a step forward, close enough that he could almost feel her body heat radiating against his skin. “Am I convincing enough?”
Kismet felt her hand take his. He drew back as if her touch was venomous, but her eyes did not waver. “Alex told me that I took your stateroom. I’m willing to share.”
“What the hell do you want from me?” he repeated, his voice a dry rasp.
She extended a finger, caressing his cheek as he had hers a few moments before. Her eyes held his, their intensity forcing him to look away. “Can't you believe that this is what I want?”
Her mouth drew close to his, and though every fiber of his conscience screamed that this was wrong, when her lips touched his, he yielded. The kiss filled his mouth with a flavor of sweet tobacco; a lusty fragrance that he drank greedily. His hands moved involuntarily to pull her close, against his body.
“I'll probably regret this tomorrow,” he whispered, his voice husky with rising passion.
“Only if you refuse.”
* * *
From the end of the corridor, Alex Higgins watched as Elisabeth and Kismet entered the stateroom, arm in arm. The expression on his face was unreadable, but his eyes remained fixed on the closed portal for a long time. After several minutes, he turned away, entered his own stateroom, and firmly closed the door.
A second pair of eyes, unseen by Higgins was also watching; watching Kismet and Elisabeth lost in a strange animal passion for each other, and watching Higgins wage a conflict of friendship and jealousy. A faint smile crossed the face of the watcher, the seed of a plan, beginning to germinate.
* * *
Their lovemaking was frenzied; as if, by the ferocity of their passion, they might exorcise the demons that had haunted them from the moment he had appeared in Elisabeth's window. Their fire for each other burned hot, a vain attempt to cauterize the open wound of their mutual distrust; each struggling to give the other a fulfillment that neither really desired. In the end, their mutual volcanic release satisfied a physical craving, but only exacerbated the deeper emotional hurts.
In the aftermath, Kismet held her in his arms; afraid to pull away, but feeling acutely the discomfort of having taken something he neither deserved nor wanted. As he gazed at Elisabeth's beautiful face, he couldn’t help but feel pity for her. At the same time, he could not quell the deep-seated embers of loathing that smoldered just beneath the surface.
His inner turmoil quickly subsided as he watched the gentle rise and fall of her breasts; in repose, she seemed so innocent that he felt a pang of self-recrimination. There was so much he felt he needed to say to her, yet he could not articulate a single syllable.
After a long while, her eyelids fluttered open. She was barely visible in the silvery moonlight that flooded through the porthole. Her smile surprised him; it seemed so genuine that he found himself wanting to apologize for having ever doubted her. He gazed into her eyes, and for a long silent moment they seemed to be daring each other to speak.
Kismet's lips parted, the beginning of a thought taking shape on his tongue. Then, he saw something that caused him to hesitate.
Something like the shadow of a hidden agenda flickered across her eyes. The heady fragrance of their lovemaking that had lingered in his nostrils was now overpowered by a vile, unclean odor.
Kismet's body reacted to the premonition faster than his mind could. He rolled over, throwing his hand up in time to arrest the downward plunge of the scimitar-shaped dagger. Its curved blade quivered a mere inch from his sternum. In that moment, as adrenaline began coursing through his body, his mind caught up.
The silent attacker, a leering man with Asian features ravaged by disease, bore down on the long knife, trying with all his might to impale Kismet. The assassin was not as strong as he, but it was all Kismet could do to hold the blade away from his heart. Refusing to accept the stalemate, the attacker rose up on his toes, trying to force the blade down.
Kismet heard Elisabeth scream beside him, and his gaze flickered toward her. A second figure was moving toward them, a second curved blade reflecting silver light. Above him, the sour-breathed laughter of the assassin beat at his face like a physical assault.
Unable to force back the knife-wielder, Kismet changed tactics. He contorted his body in order to get a leg up around the man's neck. Catching the killer's throat in the crook of his knee, he drew back, pulling the attacker into a scissors hold. As his left leg came up, trapping the surprised assailant behind the shoulders, Kismet heard the dreadful sound of snapping vertebrae and knew instantly that he had broken the man's neck.
The curved knife fell from the man's lifeless fingers and dropped directly toward Kismet’s heart. He twisted, trying to avoid its downward plunge, and felt the sharp tip score his flesh before falling away.
There was an intense flare of pain, but Kismet ignored it, kicking the limp corpse away, even as he reached out to deflect the attack of the fallen man's accomplice. He grasped the second man's wrists, arresting his double-fisted stab, and redirected the man’s momentum so that he fell forward, onto the bed and atop its occupants. Kismet drove his right elbow into the man's face, and twisted his wrists, forcing him to drop his knife.
The assassin fell from the bed, rolling onto the floor and howling in pain as he cradled his injured forearms. Kismet sprang over Elisabeth and launched himself at the man who looked up in time to see Kismet looming over him. He rolled away and Kismet fell flat on the floor.
The attacker was up in an instant, racing for the doorway. Kismet rose to hands and knees, but immediately realized that the assailant was beyond his grasp. He grabbed the wooden chair tucked under the writing desk, and pitched it across the room to strike the retreating assassin legs. The man fell backward, his weight snapping the chair like matchwood. Kismet leapt after him, intent on catching the man—maybe for questioning, maybe not; he hadn’t decided yet—but the man recovered too quickly, extracting himself from the wreckage of the chair and throwing the door open. Light from the corridor spilled into the room, momentarily blinding Kismet, and in that split second, the intruder escaped.
Kismet took a step out the door, but went no further. He stood in the corridor, stark naked, feeling vaguely foolish. There was no sign of the attacker.
As he stepped back inside the stateroom, Kismet flipped on the overhead light. Elisabeth was sitting up in bed, the sheet pulled up around her breasts. She seemed to have regained her composure and was taking a cigarette from a metal case. Kismet walked around the bed to where the body of the first assassin lay. He knelt beside the fallen man and began searching the body for some clue as to what precipitated the attack.
“How did they get in?” asked Elisabeth, exhaling a stream of smoke.
“They must have been in here before we came in. Probably hiding under the bed.”
“You mean they were here while we—” She didn't have to finish the question, or wait for his reply before grimacing.
“I thought I had managed to sneak on board without anyone noticing,” continued Kismet, rolling the body onto its side to examine the man's back pockets. The search proved fruitless. He leaned back on his haunches and sighed. Then, his expression darkened as a new thought occurred to him. “Unless they weren't after me.�
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“What's that supposed to mean?” Elisabeth took another drag on the cigarette. For the first time, Kismet wondered how much of her cool demeanor was merely the result of her professional skills.
“Think about it.” Before she could defend herself from the oblique accusation, Kismet rose and dug a fresh ExOficio shirt and a pair of cargo pants from his duffel bag. He also took out his Glock, loaded a magazine and chambered a round, and tucked it into his waistband at the small of back.
“Going somewhere?” asked Elisabeth.
“Our friend here is getting off before the next port.” He lifted the assassin's corpse, looping the man's stiffening arm across his shoulders. As an afterthought, he picked up the curved daggers the attackers had wielded. A cursory inspection revealed them to be crudely made and not worth keeping. He tucked them both into the dead man's belt. The body hung awkwardly against him, sagging dead weight, but Kismet managed to shuffle him toward the door. As he did, he felt a flare of pain in his chest. Blood was welling up from the stab wound, and though it was barely larger than a pinprick, an area the size of his fist was aching just to the right of his heart. He didn’t want to think about what sort of germs might be starting to colonize there, but disinfecting the cut would have to wait until he got back. “Be sure to lock the door.”
* * *
Elisabeth watched him leave without saying a word. When he was gone she lowered her head to her knees and began shaking uncontrollably, but managed to pull herself together a few moments later, and finished the cigarette.
Nevertheless, she almost screamed when an unexpected knock came at the door.
* * *
As Kismet dragged the lifeless form through the halls, careful to avoid attracting attention, he wrestled with the puzzle of the attack. He knew that, at least throughout Southeast Asia, he was probably a wanted man, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to the situation. If the two assassins had followed him, why had they waited so long to show themselves? Had they simply been waiting aboard the ship, expecting him to reunite with Higgins? If that was the case, they would also have known that Elisabeth was using his stateroom. The more he pondered it, the more convinced he was that Elisabeth herself was the target of the attack. Remembering that a second assassin still roamed the decks lent urgency to his errand.
