by Sean Ellis
“I booked you rooms at the Carlyle,” Kismet told the others as he got out. “It’s just on the other side of the park.”
Annie gazed breathlessly out the window. “New York. I never dreamed I’d be here.”
“We can probably squeeze in a couple days of sight-seeing if you like.” He was about to give the cab driver their next destination when Higgins abruptly got out.
“Just across the park, you say?” The former Gurkha nodded toward the verdant urban greenspace just across the street. “If it’s all the same, I think I’d like to stretch my legs a bit.”
Kismet shrugged and with the driver’s assistance, retrieved their luggage from trunk. Higgins and Annie traveled light; one small carry-on bag apiece, containing the bare minimum for an overnight stay. Neither of them had anticipated traveling abroad. Kismet hauled his own duffel bag out as well and paid the driver.
“The hotel is on 76th and Madison Avenue,” he explained as they shouldered their bags. “If you go up to 81st—” He pointed to a street intersection a couple blocks north of the museum—“and stay on the Transverse Road that cuts through the park, it will bring you out a couple blocks north of where you want to be. Go east one more block to Madison and head south to 76th.”
“No worries,” Higgins answered.
“And what will you be doing?” Annie asked.
“I’m going to print up everything we’ve got so far, and hopefully get some contact info on Joseph King.”
The young woman glanced at her father and then at Kismet, and he sensed that she was trying to decide which man to accompany. Kismet put her at ease. “I’ll meet you for dinner in an hour or so at the hotel and get you caught up,” he said. “Enjoy your walk.”
* * *
Although they had indeed spent nearly two days sitting in airport lounges and even more uncomfortably, airplane seats, Higgins was not entirely sincere in stating his motives for choosing to walk through Central Park. As the taxi had cruised up Central Park West, he had caught a glimpse of a familiar face near the park entrance opposite the museum, and felt compelled to investigate. He didn’t want to reveal this to Kismet, and was unsure if he even wanted Annie to accompany him. Probably just a look-alike, he told himself, unconvincingly.
But as he and Annie crossed the street, the face he had glimpsed appeared again, looking right at him...beckoning him. Annie saw as well.
“What the—?” She glanced sidelong at her father. “That’s her, isn’t it? How the hell did she get here?”
Less than fifty yards away, Elisabeth Neuell was leaning against the stone half wall that lined the border of a footpath into the park, casually smoking a cigarette. Her extravagant formal wear had been replaced by a yellow mid-thigh length tunic dress. Despite the garment’s simplicity, she made it look glamorous. Higgins was a bit surprised that she had not already been recognized by a passerby; maybe her star had dimmed a bit in the years since leaving her career to become Sultana. As they drew closer, Elisabeth dropped her cigarette and stubbed it out with the toe of her sandal.
He sensed Annie starting to outpace him, perhaps intent on some kind of confrontation, and he quickened his step to head her off. “Beth!” he called, jogging ahead of his daughter. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“You must have hired a Concorde jet to get here ahead of us,” Annie supplied, with a hint of scorn. “But how did you know to find us here?”
The former Sultana gave a tight smile. “That’s not important right now.”
“I think it bloody well is,” Annie retorted, advancing with her fists balled.
Higgins blocked Annie’s way with a restraining arm, but kept his attention on Elisabeth. “It’s a fair question, Beth. Especially after what happened back on the ship.”
“I’ll explain everything, but right now you just need to trust me. Can you do that?”
Higgins glanced at his daughter, reading her answer in the set of her jaw, but then he nodded.
Elisabeth reached out and took his hand and led him into the park. Annie scowled, but followed after them. They didn’t go far however; Elisabeth guided them to one of Central Park’s famous horse drawn carriages, one of several that were parked on the street near the intersection with the footpath.
The driver dismounted as they approached and offered his hand to Elisabeth, helping her step up into the covered Vis-a-Vis style carriage. As Elisabeth took her seat, Higgins saw that the coach was already occupied.
Annie leaned past him and looked inside. “Dr. Leeds. What a surprise.”
Leeds had foregone his elaborate skullcap and cassock in favor of black slacks and a charcoal gray turtleneck shirt. He looked almost ordinary. “Please,” he said, offering a hand. “Ride with me and I will explain everything.”
Annie’s body language made it clear that she didn’t want to get in, but Higgins’ curiosity impelled him forward. “Come on, Annie girl. Won’t hurt to listen to what the man has to say.”
“Wanna bet?” Annie grumbled as she climbed inside, sitting next to Higgins on the rear facing seat.
Leeds folded his hands in his lap and did not speak until the carriage lurched into motion. When he did start talking, it was in a low but faintly pleading voice. “I don’t know quite how to tell you this. Nick Kismet is not who you think he is.”
Annie rolled her eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Especially coming from you.”
Leeds offered an inscrutable smile. “Did Kismet tell you about Prometheus?”
* * *
As the printer whirred to life, Kismet accessed a commercial people-finder website and typed in “Joseph King Charleston SC.” The response was prodigious; there were a lot of discrete references to Joseph King floating around the Worldwide Web, and no way to really tell which one was the one he needed. It was going to be a tedious process and he wasn’t in the mood for that right now. He sent the search results to the printer as well. He was about to check his email when his eye caught on one of the advertisements at the top of the webpage.
He almost laughed aloud. “Surely it can’t be that easy.”
He logged off the computer and scooped the sheaf of paper from the printer tray, then headed for the exit, eager to share his discovery with Higgins and Annie.
He only got as far as the front steps of the museum when he was stopped dead in his tracks.
Powerful hands seized him in mid-step. Two men flanked him, pinioning his arms and immobilizing him. A third materialized out of the crowd and stood directly before him. It was the man with the silver tooth. Kismet struggled uselessly against his captors. They had lifted him off the ground, and he was unable to find any leverage that might break their hold.
Silver Tooth just grinned.
Kismet saw the blow coming, but could do nothing to protect himself. The man's fist burrowed into the pit of his stomach, and his body curled around the impact like a worm on a fishhook. A wave of nausea racked his body.
“To answer your earlier question, the name’s Ian MacKay.” A second blow hammered into Kismet’s gut, and then he felt the papers torn from his hand. “And this is what I was looking for. Thanks ever so much.”
A third punch took his breath away and brought him to the brink of unconsciousness. When the darkness receded, he found himself lying supine on the steps, surrounded by a throng of people who were only just beginning to wonder why he was writhing in agony.
* * *
“Prometheus,” Leeds began, “is quite simply a cabal of intellectuals intent upon remaking the destiny of our planet.”
Annie rolled her eyes again, but their host ignored her open incredulity.
“They took their name, rather hypocritically, from the Titan in Greek mythology—a figure renowned for his wisdom and his love of mankind. It was Prometheus who stole fire from the gods of Olympus and gave it to man, and it was he who made sure that Pandora’s Box also contained hope. But this modern Prometheus obscenity is more like Zeus, intent on locking the mysteries
of our world away, hoarding the secret knowledge for their own schemes. And like the gods of Olympus, they delight in playing games with people’s lives, controlling them as a puppet master works the strings of a marionette. They are playing just such a game with your friend Nick Kismet. He is, unknowingly I believe, their greatest experiment.”
“Experiment?” asked Higgins. “What kind of experiment?”
Leeds brought his fingers together in a steeple beneath his chin. “I’m not sure they even know. They unleashed him on the world, and then sat back to see what sort of havoc he would wreak. And they have been protecting him. I believe you have witnessed their interference first hand, Mr. Higgins. How else would you explain your miraculous escape from the Republican Guard in Nasiriyah?”
“This is ridiculous,” scoffed Annie.
“It is the truth,” Leeds answered, unperturbed. “And without his even realizing it, Kismet has become their bloodhound, tracking down the world’s last remaining mysteries—mysteries like the Seed of the Tree of Life—so that Prometheus can hide them away...or perhaps use them for some nefarious purpose.”
Annie leaned close to her father, and sotto voce said: “What’s ‘nefarious’ mean?”
Higgins ignored her. “How do you know all this?”
“I have given my life to searching for the very mysteries Prometheus wishes to conceal. One cannot wade too deep into those waters without hearing whispers of the conspiracy...or of the Nick Kismet experiment.”
Higgins glanced at Elisabeth, who seemed to be hanging on Leeds’ every word. “Why are you telling us? What are we supposed to do about it?”
“Kismet must not be allowed to uncover Hernando Fontaneda’s secret. I do not wish any harm to come to him, but if he finds the Seed, then Prometheus finds it, and they will not share its magnificent power with the world. They most certainly won’t share it with us.”
Leeds smiled again. “So, what I want from you, put simply, is this: join me in my quest. Abandon Kismet, for his own good, and help me find the Seed before Kismet or Prometheus.”
Annie bit back a caustic reply and instead watched her father’s reaction. She felt a surge of disappointment when she realized that he wasn’t going to reject Leeds’ offer out of hand. “He won’t stop looking, you know,” the former Gurkha said, after a long pause.
“No, I don’t imagine he will. That is the very reason that I seek a partnership with you. Time is of the essence. I have resources which can expedite our search, but you...you possess the information that can point me directly to the goal.”
“You already pumped us for that information,” Annie retorted. “What else do you think we know that you didn’t get from that phony séance?”
Leeds inclined his head in a conciliatory gesture. “It may be that you have some crucial piece of knowledge, the importance of which none of us realizes. And it may also be that your contribution to the endeavor will arise, not from what you know, but from what you will do.”
Annie stabbed an angry finger at Leeds. “You know what? You can go fu—“
Higgins cut her off, gripping her knee in his left hand. “I need to discuss this with my daughter. Privately.”
Leeds’ smile returned. “I know just the place.”
* * *
Kismet rolled over onto hands and knees. His gut seemed twisted around the bruises forming in his abdomen. Nevertheless, he climbed to his feet and began pushing through the crowd toward the street.
He scanned the boulevard in both directions, and then looked over at the park entrance. The men who had accosted him were gone. He couldn’t fathom how MacKay had managed to reach New York ahead of them in order to lay an ambush, but his aching insides told him that the silver-toothed thug had not made the trip alone.
He charged down the steps, dodging traffic, in a beeline for the 81st street intersection with the Transverse Road. It hadn’t been five minutes since he parted company with Higgins and Annie, but MacKay and his team had evidently been watching all along, and might have already made a move on his friends.
One of Central Park’s famous carriages—a red and yellow Vis-a-Vis, drawn by a single chestnut gelding—was parked just beyond the entrance. The driver, wearing a formal jacket and an old-fashioned top hat, nodded in his direction as he passed, prompting Kismet to pull up short. “I think my friends may have come through here a few minutes ago; a big guy with dark hair, and a tall, skinny girl with short brown hair.”
The driver nodded. “Saw ‘em. They caught a ride with my buddy, Jack.”
“A ride? A carriage ride?” Kismet frowned. “Just the two of them?”
“Not sure. But I know Jack’s route if you want to follow ‘em.”
“Do it.” Kismet swung into the coach, settling into the front facing seat. “There's a big tip for you if you can catch them.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” answered the driver with a grin and he climbed up onto his seat, perched about the front wheel. He gave the reins a shake, and horse and carriage lurched into motion together.
Kismet drummed his fingers impatiently on the carved wooden sides of the coach. The animal's hooves and the clatter of the metal rimmed wheels on the paving stones started a low tremor, which passed through every molecule in the cab. Kismet gritted his teeth against the annoying sound, absently wondering how the starry-eyed lovers that frequently made use of the carriages could endure the din.
The horse drew the cab along the gradually curving Transverse Avenue. Children played on the edge of the pond off to the left, oblivious to the anxiety he was experiencing. Unable to simply sit idle, Kismet leaned forward, peering over the driver's shoulder to catch a glimpse of the other carriage.
“Can you push it a little,” he shouted over the rumbling, trying not to sound rude.
The driver shrugged and cracked his buggy whip over the horse, urging the gelding into a trot. The clatter of hooves and wheels on the asphalt was like a blaring siren ahead of the carriage, warning pedestrians to get clear. They did so grudgingly, voicing their opinions with characteristic New York politeness.
“Hang on, back there,” the driver shouted over his shoulder. “I know a shortcut.”
Despite the warning, Kismet was jounced violently as the carriage turned sharply to the right, just a few hundred yards past the East Drive underpass. The metal-shod wheels banged over the curb, and then the ride got a lot smoother and a lot quieter as they headed out across a manicured lawn. The hooves and wheels left a pockmarked trail of divots in their wake, but when Kismet glanced around to gauge the reaction of other park visitors, he saw no one. They were moving into the Ramble, the park’s thirty-eight acre manufactured wilderness.
A stand of trees lay directly ahead and Kismet knew the driver would have to slow down in order to go through the wooded area, but to his surprise and dismay, as soon as they reached the tree line, the driver pulled back on the reins, stopping altogether.
“What the hell kind of shortcut—?” Kismet fell silent as he saw the dismounted driver peering into the covered passenger area. He had removed his top hat, but the most conspicuous thing about him was the semi-automatic pistol in his right fist.
“This is where you get out, sir. Don’t worry about that tip. It’s been taken care of.”
In the sudden quiet, Kismet heard the rumble and clank of a piece of machinery emanating from the woods. He stared at the driver, meeting the man’s gaze rather than looking at the gun. There was a hardness there; this man believed he was capable of pulling the trigger. “Tell me something; are you one of Leeds’ true believers, or just hired help?”
The gunman ignored the dig. “Get out.”
Kismet complied, keeping his hands elevated. The driver maintained a standoff distance of about ten yards, enough to ensure that he would have time to pull the trigger if his captive tried anything. He gestured with the gun, pointing toward the tree line. Kismet knew that his odds of surviving this trap would be greatly reduced if he complied, but he there se
emed to be little alternative. Without taking his eyes off the gunman, he moved into the trees.
He emerged into a clearing—a secluded meadow ringed by trees—and immediately discovered the source of the machine noise. Parked in the middle of the open area was an enormous gasoline-powered industrial wood chipper. In principle, it was no different than a backyard mulch machine, but this device was designed to chew up entire tree trunks. It was so big it had to be towed by a truck. A six-foot long chute, lined with a series of rollers, led to a pair of spinning wheels which would grab anything that touched them and thrust it into a nest of rotary knives. Another metal chute, like a square-pipe, curved up out of the body of the machine like a snorkel, and was positioned above a pile of woodchips in the back of a small flatbed truck parked alongside the chipper. The gasoline engine was running, and all the wheels and knives were turning, but nothing was being fed into it and nothing was issuing from the output chute.
“You’re so bloody predictable, mate.”
Kismet tore his gaze away from the chipper and turned to the source of the voice. Ian MacKay stood a few feet to his right.
“Oh, I think you’ll find I’m full of surprises,” Kismet said.
MacKay just laughed, his hands resting on his hips. Kismet did a slow sweep and found another man positioned to his left. This fellow, one of the pair that had grabbed him on the front steps of the museum, held a long metal pole topped with a vicious-looking pruning saw. The ersatz carriage driver brought up the rear, still wielding his pistol.
“You really went to a lot of trouble,” Kismet remarked. “I’m touched. What did you do with the work crew? Kill them?”
“Naw. Just gave ‘em the afternoon off with pay, so to speak.” MacKay’s eyes took on a hard edge. “I don’t suppose you’d save us all a lot of trouble and just jump in. Won’t hurt for more than a second or two I reckon.”
