by Sean Ellis
“Not exactly, but there’s been an important development.”
“Go ahead.”
“Nick Kismet. He’s here.”
Another pause and a strange noise that might have been a sigh. “That’s very interesting.”
“There’s more. Guess what he’s looking for.”
The person on the other end listened in rapt silence as the information was relayed. When the caller finished, he asked, “Do you think he will find it?”
“If it really exists. He may have information that we don’t.”
“This could lead to the Source. We cannot risk letting him get too close. Find out what he knows, and then dissuade him from the search. I leave the question of ‘how’ to your discretion.”
“Does that mean the first order has been revoked?”
The man at the other end laughed. “Are you asking for my permission to kill him?”
“Well, yes.”
The man at the other end thought for a moment, then in a voice that, despite the effects of the modulator, was still icy and grim, said, “Do what you have to.”
* * *
Alex Higgins had a lot on his mind.
He stood on the forward observation deck, staring out at the sun-dappled water, trying to make sense of everything that had happened in the last few days.
Nothing was ever certain in a soldier’s life, and despite the fact that he had been retired from the military for more than a decade, he was still very much a soldier. Recent events had, like a well-placed explosive device, completely obliterated everything familiar, but it was a soldier’s duty to regroup and get the fight. The only problem was, he didn’t know what to fight for.
His mind turned over Kismet’s proposal. It had seemed simple enough when he had agreed to it. Tramp around for a while in the United States, looking for a cave that probably wouldn’t ever be found, and some crazy Fountain of Youth that certainly didn’t exist. As he had intimated to Kismet, it might even be fun. He wasn’t that concerned about the project itself. No, the thing was eating at him, like a grain of sand embedded under his skin, was being with Kismet himself.
Seeing the American again had opened an old wound, and he was only now starting to feel it. They had fought together, been captured by the Republican Guard and brutally interrogated, and by some miracle that he had never really comprehended, Kismet had gotten free, rescued him, and hauled his ass across the desert to safety. He owed Nick Kismet his life.
And maybe that was the problem. The life debt was something he could never repay. When you owe someone a debt that can’t be repaid, you feel like their slave.
It didn’t help that Kismet had shagged Elisabeth.
He couldn’t very well blame Kismet for that. Higgins was a believer in the notion that “all's fair in love and war.” If Elisabeth fancied Kismet over him, then so be it. But it was so bloody obvious there was no chemistry there. Kismet could barely conceal his contempt for the former Sultana, while Elisabeth was plainly just using the American for...comfort? Sex? Who knew what she really wanted, but whatever it was, Higgins would have willingly...eagerly given it to her.
Why didn’t anyone care how he felt?
“Bitch,” he muttered, and then instantly regretted it as he spied the source of his turmoil leaving the observation deck in the company of a silver-haired man dressed entirely in black. Higgins had almost missed her.
“Beth!” When he had been her bodyguard, she had insisted that he call her that, at least in private.
Elisabeth Neuell stopped and slowly turned to face him. A quick smile greeted him. “Alex!”
The black clad figure at her side continued moving, never looking back. Higgins felt an almost overwhelming curiosity about the man’s identity, but Elisabeth commanded his full attention. He rushed forward, as if to embrace her, but stopped short an arm's length away. She however did not hold back. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling his head down to hers and quickly kissed him on the cheek. It seemed an innocent enough gesture, a token of affection between two friends, but Higgins felt the blood rushing to his face.
“What happened to you?” He finally managed to say. “You just disappeared.”
Elisabeth's smile slipped a notch. “Oh, Alex. I behaved so awfully. I realized that I was using you, and Nick, to protect me. When I saw that clearly, I knew I had to stand on my own.”
“But we—I was so worried. I wish you had told me.”
She smiled again, and Higgins felt his volition melt. “Alex, I can take care of myself. In fact, I realized that I had to. You risked so much for me. I do appreciate it, too.” She reached out, looping her arm through his, and tugged him into motion.
“The truth of the matter is,” she continued, in a less serious tone. “I met the most extraordinary man...no, it’s not what you’re thinking.”
“I don't understand. You met someone? When?”
“Right after Nick and I were attacked. You do know about that, don't you?”
“Yes. But—”
“His name is Dr. Leeds. He’s a fascinating man.” Something almost like embarrassment tinged her cheeks. “I know this will sound silly, but he’s a...well, he has these special abilities. Psychic abilities. I didn’t believe it myself at first, but then he proved it.”
Higgins gaped, struggling to process what he was hearing.
Elisabeth seemed not to notice. “Dr. Leeds is looking for something unbelievable, and he has asked me to be a part of it.”
Higgins recalled that Kismet had mentioned that other people might be looking for the cavern—looking for the Fountain of Youth. Was this who he had been talking about? This psychic?
“You must hear all about it. It is wonderful. It could change the world.” She loosened her hold on his arm. “I have to go now, but I will arrange for you to join us tonight for dinner.”
“Beth, I—” Before Higgins could even begin to articulate what he was thinking, the actress slipped away. He watched her until she turned a corner and disappeared from view.
Her presence was too much to digest. After losing her once, he could not believe his good fortune at finding her once again. But had anything really changed?
As Higgins reached the door of Kismet’s stateroom, he tried to figure out how he would broach the subject of his encounter with Elisabeth, and her apparent alliance with the psychic Dr. Leeds. His instincts told him that Kismet would not be pleased by the news, and Higgins wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He was about to knock when he saw that the door was slightly ajar.
A loud thump and the sound of a struggle issued from inside, and his troubled thoughts evaporated in a flash of adrenaline. He burst through the door, ready to join whatever battle was being fought within.
* * *
It hadn’t taken long for Kismet to exhaust all legitimate avenues of research. There was plenty of information available about the Fountain of Youth legend, but all of it was either from a historical perspective, written with a view to debunking even the notion that Ponce de Leon had been looking for it in the first place, or so ridiculously fantastic as to further underscore the foolishness of the quest. His thoughts had eventually turned to Dr. Leeds.
He had been surprised to learn that Leeds was almost as much of a celebrity as Elisabeth. He came from old money in the American South and was by all reports comfortably wealthy, though not perhaps beyond dreams of avarice. From a very young age, he had been interested in the supernatural. Eschewing a place in the family business, he apprenticed to a well-known stage magician, and soon was a headlining performer. While best known for mind-reading and hypnotism acts, he was quite adept at illusions on a grand scale.
Unlike many of his peers, Leeds seemed to honestly believe in paranormal phenomena, and even as he played psychic adviser to movie stars and politicians, he formalized his studies of comparative religion and the occult, earning a PhD and his preferential title.
But the reviews and biographical articles didn’t tell the whole story. Leed
s had enemies, and in the darker corners of the Internet, Kismet found accounts of the man’s involvement in black magic, renegade Masonic rites, and devil worship. Some of the conspiratorial rumors were laughable, but Kismet saw a grain of truth in many of them, particularly those which characterized the occult scholar as a rabid white supremacist, and possible a neo-Nazi. Some reports linked him to unexplained acts of violence, even the unsolved murders of some of Leeds’ rivals and harshest critics.
If even half of what was said about the man was true, Leeds was not someone to be trifled with.
By late afternoon, the long hours of physical idleness had left him feeling drowsy. He considered heading to the salon for a drink, but then decided instead to have a sip from his personal supply which he kept in a stainless steel hip flask. The container, adorned with a distinctive red star, was a memento from his recent trip to the former Soviet Republic of Georgia. After freeing some Russian sailors from captivity, one of them had given him the container as a gesture of gratitude.
He hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but looking back, it was a hell of a lot more useful than flowers and a Hallmark Card, especially since he’d replaced the flavorless vodka with some smooth, 127 proof Booker’s Bourbon whiskey.
The spirits compounded his drowsiness and he was just starting to nod off when he felt an unexpected draft on his cheek.
Through the veil of his barely parted eyelashes, he saw someone creeping through the doorway. The figure was indistinct; he could not hope to see the person clearly without opening his eyes and turning to face the intruder. He intuited that it was not Higgins. He did not believe the big man could move as stealthily as the person now closing the door and moving toward him.
Was this another wave of bounty hunting assassins, taking revenge for his part in Elisabeth Neuell's defection from her husband? Was it Dr. Leeds taking preemptive action against a rival Fountain hunter?
Kismet resisted the impulse to hold his breath. The only way to turn the tables on the intruder was to lull him into believing that his entry had gone unnoticed. He measured the person's footsteps with his inhalations. Each breath seemed to bring the intruder closer.
The approaching steps halted right beside him. In his mind's eye, Kismet could see the shadowy form hovering above him, a knife or cudgel gripped loosely in one hand. He concentrated on the barely audible sounds of the person moving, trying to anticipate when the unseen weapon would be raised for use, all the while keeping a steady rhythm of breathing. Inhale...Exhale...Inhale...
Kismet blew out his breath in a burst of motion. Twisting his body, he propelled himself off the bed, striking the intruder in the abdomen. His right hand flew to the nightstand, fingers brushing but failing to grip the butt of the Glock resting there, while his left sought the other person’s throat.
Both Kismet and the intruder hit the floor together an instant later. Kismet heard the breath driven from the other's lungs as his full weight came down. He tried to identify the face, looking for some similarity to the syphilitic assassins that had attacked the previous night, but a stream of fiery light from the afternoon sun struck his sensitive pupils, momentarily blinding him.
He felt the intruder's hands, first trying to pry loose Kismet’s choke hold, then beating ineffectively against Kismet's chest. The blows gave no evidence of superior physical strength, but their determination made up for the lack of raw power. Kismet added his right hand to the stranglehold. “You lose.”
“What the hell?”
Kismet heard the exclamation from behind him—Higgins’ voice—and turned to look. His eyes, still flashing with burned-in retinal fireworks, gradually focused on the big Kiwi, standing in the doorway of the stateroom. Kismet did not relax as his grip one bit as he spoke, “Looks like we've got an unexpected visitor.”
Higgins seemed to ignore him, focusing instead on the intruder. “What on earth are you doing here?”
Kismet looked down for a moment, and then felt the figure beneath him shift. Suddenly, his left arm gave out as the other person struck directly at a pressure point in his elbow. Kismet toppled forward, and the intruder squirmed from beneath him, flipping him over, and straddling his chest.
Instinctively, Kismet fought back. The weight on his torso was hardly enough to pin him down; it was as if the intruder was a mere child. He drew back a fist, ready to pound his attacker senseless. Then his burning eyes focused on the stranger's face, and he understood why Higgins had reacted as he had.
The face of the intruder staring down at him belonged to a young woman. Her short hair and elfin features could not hide the obvious family resemblance. Kismet’s assailant looked enough like Higgins to be his—
“Daughter?”
The waif grinned down at him. “Want to try for best two out of three?”
PART TWO
Audience with the Dead
SIX
“What are you doing here?” repeated Higgins, a hint of anger creeping into his tone.
The girl straddling Kismet fixed him with a disdainful look, then gracefully dismounted and faced him with her hands on her hips. “Good to see you too, Dad.”
Higgins extended a hand to Kismet and helped him up. “I see you’ve met my daughter.”
“I’m afraid we skipped past the introduction and went right to ground-fighting.” He turned to the girl and sized her up.
She looked to be in her mid-twenties. Taller than he had first realized, her willowy frame—thin, but more like a marathon runner rather than a fashion model—was clad in designer blue jeans and a long-sleeved striped t-shirt. Her short dark hair—the same color as Higgins’—was pulled back in a stub of a pony-tail. She wore soft pink lipstick, but no other makeup that Kismet could see; Higgins’ daughter was obviously a tomboy. He extended a hand. “Nick Kismet.”
“Yes, I know.” There was no mistaking the twang of her New Zealand accent.
Realization dawned and he pulled his hand back abruptly. “You never answered his question. What the hell are you doing in my room? Why did you attack me?”
“As I recall, you attacked me.” A defiant smile curled the corners of her mouth, and then she stuck out her own hand. “The name’s Annie, by the way. Annie Crane.”
Higgins pushed between them. “Damn it, girl. I told you to get your arse back to Auckland.”
“Don’t have a hissy fit, dad. The Sultan called off his dogs. He’s already got more bad publicity than he can handle right now.”
Kismet threw a questioning look at Higgins, and the latter rubbed the bridge of his nose as if he was getting a headache. “Annie is my...call her my administrative assistant.”
The girl laughed, but did not interrupt.
“She was at my office in the palace when the shite hit the fan. I told her to get out quick. Obviously, she listens to me about as well as her mother ever did.”
Kismet turned to Annie again. “So why are you here? In my room?”
“Dad told me he was going to be working with you. He’s mentioned you a time or two over the years. Always figured you’d look younger somehow.” The smile again, eyes full of mischief. “Anyway, I thought I’d come see what all the fuss was about.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Kismet replied stonily.
“Who says you did?” she retorted, but Kismet had already returned his attention to Higgins.
“Look, if you have to deal with this, and can’t help me out, I’ll understand.”
The former Gurkha’s brow furrowed. “Actually, I think I may have some new information about our—” He glanced at Annie—“Our project. I ran into Elisabeth. She’s hooked up with someone who I think may be looking for it as well.”
Kismet’s breath caught in his throat. “Dr. Leeds?”
“Figured you might know about him. Anyway, she invited me to dinner tonight...to meet this bloke. I thought you might want to tag along.”
“Dinner?” chirped Annie. “Fabulous. I’ll need to buy a dress though.”
Kismet sighed. Elisabeth Neuell and Dr. Leeds together. Wonderful. But his curiosity was more powerful than his disdain. “I suppose I’ll have to go shopping as well. I need a new tux.”
* * *
Despite his apprehension about what the evening would bring, Kismet felt a little more centered as the appointed hour drew near. Part of that was due to Annie’s revelation that the storm originating from the Sultan’s palace had more or less blown out. The knowledge that the death mark had been rescinded relieved him of one source of stress; he just hoped the surviving assassin lurking somewhere on the ship had gotten the message.
The main dining hall of The Star of Muara was resplendent, and as Kismet entered he realized that it was the first time he was experiencing what most of the passengers had come for in the first place. Formal dining wasn’t something he typically went out of his way for, but at just that moment, he understood the appeal. He turned to Annie, who was bookended between him and her father, and smiled.
The tomboy was gone, or at the very least, sublimated. Higgins’ daughter looked extraordinary in an oriental-style gown of jade green silk. Her rather plain hairstyle had been transformed into a crown of wavy curls, laying bare her finely sculpted neck, adorned with a string of pearls. She bore little resemblance to the waif that had sneaked into Kismet’s stateroom and nearly gotten herself killed.
Kismet had learned quite a bit about the girl over the course of the afternoon. Although she was the offspring of a relationship that had never quite gotten off the ground, Higgins doted on his daughter, and she in turn was fascinated by his world of travel and adventure. When he had called her his “administrative assistant,” he had been downplaying her role. Higgins had taught her everything about his trade, and while her own education supplied her with the skills to manage his business affairs, she had also done a fair amount of hands-on work. She proved as much when she had tracked down Kismet’s location on the ship and thwarted the electronic lock on his stateroom. She also evidently knew a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat.
