by Sean Ellis
As with the neighboring structure, the iron frame of a fire escape zigzagged across the front of the apartments. An upright ladder accessed the sixth floor deck, but Kismet had no time to find it and execute a correct descent.
"Over the side." He did not wait for Irene's inevitable statements of disbelief, but quickly stepped over the parapet and dropped onto the catwalk below. The steel structure groaned with the sudden impact. A second later Irene landed alongside and clutched his arm for stability. He steadied her, and then hastily located the ladder. Two of Grimes' men were staring down from the edge, shouting and threatening with their guns, but for the moment Kismet was unconcerned; the grill-work of the fire escape would make it nearly impossible for a bullet to find them. The men must have realized this, for they put their guns away and climbed over the side to give chase.
Kismet saw no sign of their enemies on the street below, but knew they were likely running down from wherever they were in order to cut off the escape. The two men on the ladder, only a few steps behind them, were effectively herding them toward the street, where Grimes would either have them shot or arrested. It was time to hasten their descent.
When he reached the third floor deck of the fire escape, he drew to a stop, and waited for Irene to reach him. She stepped down and looked at him for direction.
"Shortcut!" Before she could utter a word, he wrapped one arm around her waist. Irene suddenly realized what he was up to, and Kismet heard the beginning of an oath, spoken in Russian, which had something to do with his mother.
Her foreign curse notwithstanding, Irene seemed to comprehend that what Kismet was about to attempt would require her full cooperation. She synchronized her movements with his own; bending her knees, tensing her muscles as he did, and springing forward when he shouted: "Jump!"
They flew out into the open space above the street, arcing at first, until gravity's pull exceeded the lateral thrust of their leap, and then they plummeted. Irene's skirt filled with air, like an umbrella in a windstorm, and flew up around her head, baring her legs to the world for one and a half heavenly seconds.
Immediately as they jumped, Kismet released his hold, thrusting her away so that they would not collide upon landing. Irene seemed to float an arm's length away, her face eclipsed by the cloth of her dress. An instant later, they hit.
The garbage bags were not as soft as he had hoped for, but sufficiently broke their fall to prevent injury. Upon hitting the pile of trash, Kismet pitched forward, sinking deep into its reeking midst. He righted himself and looked for Irene. She had landed nearby and already freed herself from the mire. As she rolled down to the street, a few fragments of damp paper tumbled from beneath her skirt. Kismet picked his way across to slippery mess to join her.
Suddenly his head snapped sideways. A bright flash scorched his vision, followed by a ringing in his ears. He turned his head back to face Irene, and found her massaging the knuckles of her right hand. A moment later, his jaw started smarting and he raised a hand to gently probe his left cheek. He was almost convinced that he could feel it beginning to swell. Irene regarded him with smoldering rage. "If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I swear I'll do more than just hit you."
He raised a disapproving eyebrow, though he was secretly impressed by how tough she was proving to be. The trials they had faced since escaping the underground church hall were virtually Herculean, certainly more than enough to overwhelm the endurance of most men. Yet this woman that he hardly knew had survived it all and still had the mettle to put him in his place.
Muted popping noises echoed between the buildings, punctuating the impact of bullets on the street all around them. Kismet hastily pointed to the refuse hauler they had earlier abandoned and shouted: "Back in the truck. Move!"
"But the street is blocked!" Irene shouted. He ignored her and was not surprised when she slid into the passenger seat at the same time he pulled his own door shut. He worked the ignition then revved the engine several times.
"We're not going forward," he explained, shifting the gear lever into reverse.
Irene glanced backward. "That way is blocked, too."
"Not for long." Kismet floored the accelerator then slipped his foot off the clutch pedal. The vehicle shot backward with a violent lurch that threw Irene forward onto the floor.
A loud noise rang through the cab as a bullet struck the heavy steel roof of the truck, directly between them. Another shot shattered the windshield, showering fragments of glass upon Kismet and Irene. The truck's huge rear tires, further weighted down by the upraised container, plowed into the mound of trash and either scattered refuse in all directions or simply mashed it flat. Kismet felt his control over the vehicle diminish slightly, but continued to maintain pressure on the accelerator.
The rear end of the truck slammed into the sedan that had crashed sideways across the lane. The Buick spun around and broadsided the truck. The second car, which had crashed into the first, was devastated as the right edge of the holding canister raked along the doorposts, smashing both the front and back windows and obliterating everything on the driver's side.
Although he managed to avoid striking the third car, the driver of which had been foresighted enough to park close to the sidewalk, Kismet was unable to thread his way between the two police cars that had blockaded the way to the intersection. He barely had time to warn Irene before they hit. The truck lurched with the impact but refused to stop. The driver's side wheels climbed up onto one of the cars, crushed its fenders and twisted its frame into scrap metal. Kismet corrected his steering and the wheels dropped back onto the pavement, causing the entire vehicle to bounce violently.
With that final pang they were free, bursting backward into the intersection, where policemen had already stopped traffic. Kismet braked, then shifted into second and steered back onto the avenue. Within moments they had left the scene of the confrontation behind.
"Irene, are you all right?"
She looked up cautiously from where she was huddled down on the floor. "I don't know," she confessed. "Have we escaped?"
"We're not across the finish line yet, but things are finally looking up."
She shook herself, trying to dislodge shards of glass from her hair and clothes. Her seat was similarly littered with sharp splinters, which she cautiously removed before sitting down. Kismet navigated straight ahead, slightly faster than the flow of traffic. Two minutes later he saw the first sign of pursuit: a string of flashing police lights, a few blocks behind and closing fast.
"Uh, oh. That's no good. Where are we?"
Irene scanned a street corner for a signpost. "Madison Avenue. We just passed 34th Street."
Kismet thought for a moment, and then his eyes brightened. "Perfect."
They continued north for several blocks, but as they approached 42nd street, the way became choked with pedestrian traffic. Though midnight was still a few hours away, thousands of native New Yorkers and tourists were braving the inclement weather to ring in the New Year at the Times Square extravaganza. While it would be impossible to fight through the human flood in the stolen truck, Kismet immediately saw an opportunity to gain an advantage on their pursuers, and halted the vehicle.
Irene looked across the cab at him. "Well?"
"What do you say we watch the ball drop?"
She raised a dubious eyebrow, but followed his lead when he opened the door and dropped down onto the pavement. The shouts of annoyance that greeted their abandonment of the sanitation truck were quickly swallowed up by the crowd noise and the swell of music echoing down the rain-slicked streets. After a few steps they could no longer hear the sirens of the approaching police cars in the din of the celebration.
They did not completely blend in with the masses however. People gave a wide berth to the reeking, soot-stained duo, parting like the sea in a Biblical epic. In no time at all they had traversed three blocks and were within sight of the main stage and the legendary lighted ball that would drop at the stroke of midnight. It
was impossible to tell if they were still being pursued, but Kismet was sure of one thing; their presence would leave an impression on all those who crossed their path. Simply trying to blend in with the crowd would not suffice.
He pushed through the throng, crossing the wide avenue toward the corner of 42nd and Broadway. Once his feet touched the sidewalk, he spied his next destination: a green globe, like a lamppost, standing above a stairway that descended into the bowels of the city. "There," he said, steering Irene toward the subway entrance.
Pedestrian traffic on the stairs was heavy with people commuting to the celebration, but they managed to force their way through the rising mass into the warmer, more spacious interior of the station. Kismet stripped off his ruined jacket to ease the impact of his appearance and minimize the curious stares of onlookers.
Following the signs on the wall, Kismet guided Irene through the underground maze, down a long escalator to the platform that serviced the numbers one, two and three trains to lower Manhattan and beyond. While traffic out of the station was heavy, there were only a handful of people waiting on the southbound platform.
They hastened down the concrete island, ducking behind one of the enormous supporting columns. After so much frantic action, it was difficult to simply stand still and wait. Irene leaned against the pillar, but the stale air and heat sent a wave of vertigo crashing over her. "I think I'm going to be sick."
Kismet gripped her shoulder reassuringly and eased her to the floor. "It's all right. You've been through a lot today. Just try to breathe deeply, steadily."
She reached up weakly to take his hand in her own. "Thank you, Nick. For everything."
He knelt beside her. "So, do you know what all this is about?"
She pressed her forehead to her knees and breathed in and out slowly several times before answering. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its quaver. "Actually, I'm more confused now than when those men first grabbed me."
"Why is that?"
"I'm feeling better. Help me up." With a measure of her dignity restored, she began self-consciously smoothing out her skirt, ignoring the permanent stains from their earlier misadventure. "When those men took me, I immediately assumed that they were Mafiya—the Russian gangsters that run Brighton Beach."
"You also mentioned FSB—Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti—back at the church. Why would you have anything to fear from Russian state security?"
"Not so many years ago, FSB was known as KGB; you know this, I am sure. My father escaped from the Soviet Union when I was just a child. We have always lived with the fear that they would one day catch up to us."
"Why? The Soviet Union is ancient history."
"Russians have long memories, Nick. And not all of the people exiled to Siberian gulags were guilty of ideological differences; sometimes it was personal. Nor did all of those KGB agents lose their jobs when the letters changed."
"So it's an old grudge." Kismet maintained a neutral expression. He was still fishing to see how much Irene knew, and what she might reveal. "You said you assumed they were mobsters or FSB; you now believe otherwise?"
She nodded. "They were not Russians at all. I heard only some of their conversations. They must have captured my father sometime earlier in the week. When he saw that they had me also, he immediately agreed to cooperate, so long as my safety was guaranteed."
Kismet held back his questions. He pressed his fingers together, trying to gauge how much he should share with the young woman in an effort to draw her out and win her trust. Before he could reach a decision, a subtle change in air pressure followed by the squeal of metal on metal, signaled the approach of a subway train. He leaned out from behind their place of concealment and checked the platform for any sign of their pursuers. No one appeared to be paying them any special attention.
"Looks like our ride's here. Are you feeling all right?"
"Yes." She stepped in front of him, fixing her dark eyes on his. "Nick, do you know what those men wanted from my father?"
"I have a vague idea." Something about the way she asked the question convinced him of her sincerity, but trust was a different issue altogether. The arrival of the southbound number two train spared him the burden of answering, or worse, deceiving her. The train disgorged another crowd of partygoers, leaving an almost completely empty car. They darted inside just as the doors closed.
Following an unintelligible announcement from the overhead speaker, the subway lurched forward. Kismet stayed low inside the carriage until they passed into the darkened tunnel beyond the station.
"Where to now?"
Kismet sank wearily into the molded plastic seat beside Irene. "My place first, but just long enough to clean up and grab a few things. If Grimes—"
"The big man?"
"Yes. I don't know how he knows me, but he does. Anyway, if he's done his homework, and I'm sure he has, then that's the first place he'll look. Hopefully, we'll be long gone before he comes calling."
She nodded then leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. Almost without thinking, he gently brushed a sliver of glass from her hair. There were still more answers he needed from her, but before he could phrase the questions, he realized that she had already left him; Irene Kerns had fallen asleep. With an affectionate chuckle he leaned back, gazed out into the darkness of the subterranean transit system, and fought the urge to join her.
SIX
Kismet carefully surveyed the front of his brownstone residence looking for anything out place. They had already made a complete circuit of the surrounding block. If Grimes and his bunch had somehow leapfrogged ahead to the Brooklyn Heights neighborhood where Kismet lived, they would have had to park somewhere, but there were no unfamiliar cars on the surrounding streets. From what he could tell, the coast was clear.
Irene followed him up the brick steps, into the warmth of the interior hallway and up to the second floor. She waited until they were securely inside the apartment before demanding an explanation.
"Keep it down," Kismet urged, ignoring her protest. He left the lights off, motioning for her to stay by the door as he quickly swept the rooms for signs of an intrusion. In the diffused light from the street lamps trickling in through the windows, she got a look at the personal abode of the man who had rescued her. She was strangely pleased at the total absence of feminine influence in the decor of the front sitting room. Kismet reappeared a moment later. "I think we're okay. Come on in."
She followed his lead, passing through the front room with its large window overlooking the street and down a long hallway into a bedroom with a perfectly made queen-sized mattress. Her brow furrowed slightly at this, but when Kismet flipped on the lights, she saw that the room looked almost unused. Remembering her earlier unanswered question, she turned to him. "All right, it's your turn Nick. There's more to this than you've let on. What's really going on?"
He jerked a thumb toward a door across the hall. "Bathroom's in there. You can clean up, but don't get too comfortable. We won't be here long. As to what's going on...I don't have a clue."
"You do know something. I heard what that man Grimes said to you. Those men weren’t just after me. They wanted you too. You're involved in this..." Her eyes widened in sudden comprehension. "You know where they're taking my father, don't you?"
"That's where you're wrong. If anyone knows where your father is going, it's you."
Kismet turned to leave the room, but she raced after him. "Just what is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.
"It means that those men took your father because he knows where to find what they want. I was just supposed to be the hired help."
"But I don't know what it is they want to find."
His expression hardened and he took a step closer, staring into her eyes, as if attempting to discern there the sincerity of her statement. "Grimes and Harcourt are looking for the Golden Fleece."
"Oh."
* * *
Irene's monosyllabic answer spoke volumes. Kismet held her
gaze even as she attempted to look away. "Then your father does know where it is."
She took a step backwards, looked around then sank slowly onto the bed. "It's not that," she sighed. "If that's really what they are after, then it means that they'll be taking him back to where his enemies are. If they find him there..." She did not complete the sentence, nor did she need to.
Kismet shook his head. "If it exists at all, the Fleece surely wouldn't be in Russia."
"Not Russia. The Republic of Georgia. When I was a girl—when we left—Georgia was simply one more state in the Soviet Union. My father did most of his work in the Caucasus, the mountain range that is the natural border between Russia and Georgia. I didn't understand what that man Grimes wanted from my father, even when he mentioned something about Greek antiquities. But now it makes sense."
"Georgia might as well be in Russia; it certainly tops the list of old Soviet satellites that Moscow wants to return to the fold. Russian troops invaded Georgia recently and there's still a significant military presence in some areas." Kismet rubbed his forehead ruefully. "Why do these ancient treasures always wind up in the middle of war zones?"
"You‘re not suggesting the Golden Fleece is real?"
"The Black Sea coast of Georgia has always been accepted as the most likely location for Colchis, the legendary home of the Golden Fleece. If he found those artifacts in the mountains, it would provide evidence of an ancient Greek presence in Georgia. From there it would only be a short step to believing that those Greek explorers were searching for the Golden Fleece.
"Still," he continued. "Georgia is a long way from the Kremlin. I wouldn't think the reach of your father's enemies would extend that far."
"We were in Georgia when my father decided to flee."
Kismet couldn't tell how much of her concern was based on real experience and how much was paranoia. Either way, it would do little to alter the situation. "Listen, Irene. I just need to know one thing. If we went over there, to the Caucasus, could you find the place where your father discovered those artifacts?"