by Sean Ellis
Neither Irene nor Anatoly seemed eager to leave, but there was little they could do to assist him. After they left to go below decks, Kismet turned his eyes forward, gazing through the water that poured across the windscreen as he held the wheel steady.
He contemplated trying to make a second covert radio contact but decided against it. There wasn't anything to report and it wasn't worth risking discovery if his suspicions about Anatoly were true. He was troubled by the possibility that the fisherman was working for the Russian intelligence service, primarily because the big man had been so helpful in their efforts to recover the Golden Fleece.
Irene reappeared after nearly half an hour, carrying a soggy sandwich and a half-filled cup of coffee. "This was full a minute ago," she complained, passing it to him. "It's a good thing I don't get seasick."
"Thanks. I thought you were going to get some rest?"
"With the boat pitching like this?" She shook he head. "I thought I'd try to make myself useful. Anatoly helped me get the stove going. I left him holding the coffee pot so that it doesn't end up getting spilled."
Kismet took a bite of the sandwich. Tucked between the two slices of bread were several fillets of oily sprat--a fish from the herring family. He managed to hide his lack of enthusiasm for the repast behind a more or less sincere smile.
Irene leaned against the bulkhead. "Well, you've brought us this far. What's next?"
"The compass is pretty much useless with this much electrical activity, so it's tough to say exactly where we are right now. But the coast of Turkey occupies all points to the south. If the storm breaks even a little, we'll turn and make a beeline in that direction."
"That's not exactly what I meant."
He raised an eyebrow. "Then I don't follow you."
"I have no doubt that you'll be able to get us safely to Turkey. For you, the impossible is routine."
"Thanks. Or was that not a compliment?"
"I mean, what will you do once you've succeeded? Once you've told the world about the Fleece?"
"If things work out as they usually do, the ship and everything on it will become a political bargaining chip. I might get a little credit for discovering it, but it will eventually be taken away from me. Since it was discovered off the coast of Georgia, they will have the most binding claim. But if it can be authenticated as a Greek artifact, then the Greek government will want it."
"And of course, if you take it to Turkey, they will want a piece of the action."
He laughed. "I think you're beginning to understand how the game of international antiquities is played."
"So why do you do it? Why chase all over the world for things that you'll never get to keep, or even get credit for?"
"I could give you my standard answer; insatiable curiosity and a thirst for knowledge of the ancient past."
"But we both know that's not really it."
"No." He unconsciously chewed his lip. The purpose that fired him, linked to that fateful night in the desert so many years before, was something he rarely revealed to anyone. He was not oblivious to the overtures Irene had made—not simply the mutual physical attraction, but something much deeper. Along with the kind of commitment she yearned for, there was a degree of trust, which he remained unwilling to share.
His personal quest was a jealous mistress, yielding precious little space in his heart for romance and even less time to pursue it. It had destroyed his relationship with Lyse, and God only knew how many other opportunities had been missed through the years. Yet, Irene deserved some kind of answer. "This is just something I have to do."
Even as he said it, the foolishness, not only of his words but of the very argument that generated them, rang in his head. Why indeed did he remain on a path he had chosen more than a decade previously, when years of searching had failed to yield a single clue? How many chances for happiness had he passed up because of his vendetta against an unknown and perhaps unknowable enemy? How many more chances would he get? He tried to meet her eyes; to make some small token to indicate that perhaps with just a little more coaxing, he might be persuaded to accept her implicit offer.
"Sounds like a lonely way to live." Her tone was solemn.
He couldn't match her stare. Deep down, he knew that, were he to attempt to lay aside his quest, the hunger for answers would consume him. There could be no rest, no ordinary life, not while those questions remained unresolved. He might not find those answers in the Golden Fleece, but recovering that mythic artifact was simply a facet of what he had become. As a tangible link to events shrouded in mystery, that gilt lambskin held answers to a different set of questions, but answers nonetheless. His eyes quickly returned to the rain-drenched windscreen. "I guess I've gotten used to it."
Somehow Irene must have sensed that she had lost him, for she made no further inquiries. After a few moments of silence, Kismet tried again to look at her, but discovered that she had already gone.
* * *
Dawn soon broke but the sky did not brighten noticeably. The thunder and lightning stayed with them, as did the wind, rain and occasional outpourings of hail. Kismet had not been able to turn south as hoped. Rather, the storm had chosen the next course change, and it was due north.
Though it flew in the face of reason, Kismet was beginning to accept that the storm and the salvage of the golden ship were indeed linked. He would not go so far as to accept that a supernatural intelligence was behind the weather—it was not mighty Zeus hurling thunderbolts down at them—but several undeniable facts were pointing to a similarly improbable conclusion. The weather system had definitely risen as soon as the galley and its spectacular cargo had been lifted from the depths, and the center of the storm had been chasing them for hours. An ordinary tempest would have eventually passed them by, but this phenomenal front seemed to match their pace, driving them ahead even as it tried to close the gap, not unlike a donkey chasing a carrot held out by its rider. He further surmised that the cyclic nature of the disturbance, due to the Coriolis effect, was responsible for what was pushing them in a gradual curve that would eventually bring them full circle. It was like being caught in a whirlpool. If the Golden Fleece was the shackle that bound them to the vortex, their only hope of survival might be to surrender their prize once more to the depths. It was a decision that would have to be made soon. Trying to ride out the storm was like playing Russian roulette; every wave that crashed over the bow might be the one that would capsize or crush the trawler.
Anatoly came up to the wheelhouse, confessing to them that he had finally nodded off for a while. Kismet turned the wheel over to the Russian, but did not leave the cabin. He was too keyed up to even think about sleep. The rational man that he was kept telling him to hang on just a little longer; that the weather would eventually pass and the Golden Fleece, as well as he and Irene, would be safe. However, his travels had taught him that there were a great many things that science and rationale could not explain. It was getting harder to deny that the events they were experiencing fell into that category.
"I'm going to go out on the deck and check the tow line!" He had to shout to be heard over the howling wind, but Anatoly did hear and nodded affirmatively. Kismet stole a glance at the radio, wondering if he should trust the Russian, but his momentary suspicion passed; there were more pressing matters to attend to.
Irene followed him out into the storm. If the hours under cover had allowed their clothes to dry out a little, the torrential downpour quickly reversed that condition. The driving wind tore at his jacket, dumping rivers of chilly water down his collar. He pulled the lapels of the jacket tight at his neck, but the damage was already done.
A night spent enduring the constant pitching had given him sea legs and he was able to make the traverse to the stern without falling. A quick inspection of the tow winch showed some wear, but he felt confident that the cable would hold at least a little while longer. He then peered through the rain and spray to see how the golden ship was holding up.
The gall
ey had not been designed for prolonged journeys under harsh conditions; it had been built by seafarers who never sailed beyond sight of the shore. When seas were rough, they drove their ship onto the beach rather than attempt to ride out the storms. Notwithstanding the intentions of her shipwrights, the vessel was holding up remarkably well. It was both light enough to ride over the swells and broad enough to avoid being rolled over.
"Nick!" He turned to see what she wanted and found her pointing urgently in the general direction of the galley. He tried to follow the line of her finger, but for a moment saw nothing.
"What is it?"
"Just watch. There it is again."
This time he too saw the flash of orange light; not lightning, but something artificial. "There's someone else out here. But no one in their right mind would be out in this storm. That means they must be looking for us."
"Do you think Anatoly called the Boyevoy?"
That Irene voiced the suspicion only reinforced Kismet's distrust. If she was no longer confident of her old friend's fidelity, how could he believe that the fisherman was not a spy? "Let's go ask him."
He half expected to catch Anatoly in the act of transmitting a signal to the destroyer, but the Russian had his hands full trying to wrestle control of the rudder from the storm.
"Do you have a pair of binoculars?" Kismet asked. "There's another boat following us."
Anatoly looked genuinely surprised. He reached into a cabinet and withdrew a pair of binoculars. Kismet thanked him and went back out into the tempest.
The lenses became smeared with rain as soon as he attempted to peer through them. He wiped it away, but was unable to keep them clear for more than a few seconds. Nevertheless, through the distorting rivulets of water, he could make out the silhouette of the other vessel as it crested a swell.
"Is it Severin?" Irene shouted.
"No. It's too small. But it's military all right. Probably a patrol boat." He motioned for her to join him below decks.
"Then maybe they aren't after us," she suggested, once they were out of the storm. She futilely tried to squeeze the water from her hair then gave up in disgust.
"No. They know we're here. But maybe they haven't been in contact with Severin. We might be able to bluff our way past them."
"And if not?"
Kismet contemplated returning to the wheelhouse, where he had left the captured AK-47 with a half-full magazine of ammunition. "The odds will be a lot better than if we were taking on the Boyevoy."
Irene swallowed, but said nothing more. A moment later, Anatoly stepped onto the deck and moved close enough to speak without shouting. "I've tied the wheel down. It's useless to try to navigate in this storm anyway. Well, is there another ship out there?"
"Yes. It's looks like a patrol boat though, not Severin's destroyer."
Shock registered on the Russian's face. "Not possible," he whispered in Russian, then abruptly turned and hastily fled the cabin.
"What the hell do you suppose that was about?"
Irene shrugged. "He must know something we don't. Should we clue him in on your plan?"
"As soon as I figure out what it is, I'll tell you, then him. Any ideas?"
"We could tell them we were taking a cruise in our Greek galley when the storm came up. And that Anatoly found us, and was trying to tow us back to port."
Though she spoke half in jest, Kismet suddenly brightened at the idea. "It might work." He raced once more out into the storm and stared across the water at the valiant golden ship.
"Mind sharing that with me?" Irene yelled, her dark hair once more plastered to her head by the driving rain.
"Okay, try this!" The wind seemed to steal the enthusiasm from his voice, and his words came out in terse blocks of speech. "World renowned adventurer Nick Kismet and his lovely assistant attempt to recreate the historic voyage of Jason and the Argonauts by building a replica of the Argo and sailing it across the Black Sea. My dad used to do things like that all the time."
"That's crazy." She drew closer so that her argument would not be lost in the tempest. "They'll never buy it."
"It suits the situation. A gunboat isn't going to be crewed by suspicious officers like Severin. We'll probably end up talking to some poor lieutenant who'd give his left testicle to be back on dry land. We can pull this off. We just have to speak with authority."
Irene gazed through the sheeting rain at the approaching patrol vessel. It was no longer a flashing light in the distance. The patrol boat's more powerful engine was stabbing through the tumultuous seas, gaining on them with every passing second. "Speak with authority? That doesn't seem like your style."
"That will be the easy part. Remember, I'm a lawyer. Besides, these guys probably won't understand English. You can translate for me."
"Wonderful." She made no attempt to hide her sarcasm. "Shall we at least let Anatoly in on this little scheme?"
When they entered the wheelhouse, the big Russian was hunched over the radio, listening intently. Somehow, Kismet wasn't surprised. "Who are you calling?"
"Silence!" His outburst caused him to lose his concentration and he pounded the counter in frustration. Composing himself, he fired off a message that Kismet found impossible to decipher. They watched in mute confusion as he continued this way for several minutes. He then tore the headset off, and started out of the wheelhouse.
"Anatoly!" Irene shouted. "We've got a plan!"
The Russian either did not hear or chose to ignore her. Kismet chased after him. "Just a damn minute—"
Anatoly stood at the stern, staring intently at the approaching gunboat. It was now close enough that they could easily discern the radio mast, as well as the forward mounted machine gun emplacement. Just above that, a light was flickering on and off.
"Listen Anatoly," Kismet began, trying to calm the fisherman. "We've got a plan that just might work."
"Are you still ignorant?" ranted the Russian. "Or just a fool? Look!"
He was pointing to the flashing light, and Kismet realized that it was a signal being sent in Morse code. He had learned the antiquated method of communication as a Boy Scout, and despite a few mental cobwebs, began to piece together the sequence of long and short flashes into a comprehensible message. Though he had missed the first half, he got the gist of it just from the last few letters.
"What are they saying?" demanded the Russian.
"'Heave to and prepare to be boarded.' Or they'll open fire. I thought all mariners knew Morse code." Even as he said it, he knew the answer. "They're sending in English."
"Those are not Russians!" Anatoly spun on his heel and vanished below decks.
Kismet's mind raced for another explanation. If the Russian sailors knew he was aboard, it would make sense that they would communicate in English. But whom had Anatoly been talking to, and why was he so upset? Frustrated, he made his way back to the wheelhouse where Irene was waiting.
"What was that about?"
"I'm not sure." Kismet checked the engine speed indicator, and then shifted the throttle to idle position. "But I don't think we can count on Anatoly for help."
"So what do we do?"
"Stick to Plan A for now. Let's go out on deck and prepare to be boarded."
"Is that like waiting for the axe to fall?" she asked, dismally.
"Let's hope not." He took her hand and guided her outside. With the screws no longer turning in the water, the trawler was completely at the mercy of the storm. The golden ship appeared to be moving closer, but it was the approaching gunboat that held Kismet's attention. It had closed to within hailing distance and another minute would bring it alongside the trawler. Despite what Anatoly had implied, the Russian tri-color flag and the Navy jack snapped in the wind on the bow line. Kismet threw an insincere wave to the crewmen on its deck, but received only steely stares by way of reply; the sailors had no intention of moving their hands away from the triggers of their guns to be polite.
Two of the sailors on the opposing craft lofted grap
ples across the distance. Kismet took no action as the hooks bit into the gunwale and the trawler was pulled in like a prize catch. Though the gunboat rode higher in the water, the crew of the naval vessel had no difficulty jumping down onto the smaller boat. Kismet raised his hands to indicate that he was not armed.
"Is that how you project authority, counselor?" Irene observed, imitating his posture.
Before he could answer her sarcastic quip, another group of men appeared on the deck of the patrol boat and one by one lowered themselves onto the trawler. Kismet groaned aloud as he recognized two of them, Halverson Grimes and Sir Andrew Harcourt. "So much for Plan A."
SIXTEEN
As torrential rain continued to hammer down from the heavens, the boarders herded them toward the stern where all had a clear view of the vessel in tow. Despite the dark clouds and curtain of precipitation, the ancient outline of the galley was unmistakable.
Harcourt gaped in breathless amazement. "You’ve done it, Kismet! You've actually found the Argo!"
Kismet laughed in spite of the situation. "You're doing it again Andy; confusing mythology with archaeology. This is exactly what got you into trouble with the Beowulf fiasco."
Harcourt whirled on him, his tone strident as he shouted to be heard over the wind. "Do you dare to deny that the Golden Fleece is on that ship? We've followed the storm all night, and the storm has followed you. You've found it! I know you have!"
"Be silent," Grimes barked. "I am sick of your prattle."
Harcourt glared at the portly traitor, nursing his wounded pride, but said nothing more.
"Nice boat," Kismet remarked. "I had almost forgotten that the first thing you did after getting here was capture a Russian patrol boat and enslave its crew."
"I am not interested in discussing trivial matters with you Kismet." Grimes motioned for two of his soldiers to man the winch. They immediately complied and began reeling in the towline. "I gave you every opportunity to join me in this historic endeavor. Now, thanks to you, I have what I want, but Sir Andrew will get to take all the credit. There's nothing left to say."