by Sean Ellis
His feelings for Elisabeth remained problematic. The unquestionable physical attraction he felt for her was undiminished, yet he was certain that she was once again using him, or worse, setting him up for another betrayal.
He felt a pang of concern also for Higgins. Perhaps in helping the actress escape, his old comrade in arms had also earned a death mark. He had no doubt the big Kiwi could take care of himself in a fight, but the assassins had struck from out of nowhere. Kismet recognized that he owed his own escape, more than anything else, to sheer luck; if he had not glimpsed the movement of shadow in the stateroom, both he and Elisabeth would now be as dead as the man whom he was dragging toward the aft deck.
Leaning the assassin's body against the railing, he made a careful visual sweep of the deck and the portholes of the next deck up. No one seemed to be up and about on the ship. Kismet casually removed the chains that blocked the disembarkation gate and helped the assassin on the next step of his journey. The limp shaped was instantly swallowed by the dark water.
When he got back to the stateroom, he knocked, hoping that Elisabeth had followed his parting advice to lock the door. When she did not reply, he tried the latch. The portal swung open, revealing a vacant room.
Wisps of smoke hung in the air, drifting from a nearly extinguished cigarette in an ashtray on the nightstand beside the bed. The sheets curled around the memory of a female body, still warm from her presence, but Elisabeth was gone.
* * *
Despite his vigilance, Kismet’s labors had not gone completely unnoticed. The second assassin, still gingerly holding his broken wrist, watched with growing anger as his brother’s lifeless body was unceremoniously dropped into the sea.
He had no idea who the man—the former Sultana’s lover—was. He and his brother had only been interested in collecting the bounty on Elisabeth Neuell, but right now the blood price was the last thing on his mind. Revenge was the first.
Injured and disarmed, he knew that a frontal assault was out of the question. His new target had already demonstrated unusual skill in hand-to-hand combat. No, he would have to take the man completely by surprise.
With his good hand, he removed his belt and fashioned a slipknot. He would drop the loop over the man’s head and then pull the noose tight. Strangling was one of the easiest ways to kill an opponent with superior size and skill, provided of course the loop could be tightened before the victim had time to react. Once the garrote was set, he would just hold on for about thirty seconds until unconsciousness claimed his victim. He knew this from experience; he had killed this way before.
He shrank back into the shadows as his brother’s killer passed by, and waited a few seconds more, gathering his courage, before emerging from his hiding place. With the garrote in his good hand, he took a deep breath and started forward.
Suddenly, everything in his world spun around crazily. Instead of his target’s retreating back, he found himself almost nose to nose with another man—a man who now tightly held the assassin’s head between his hands. It took a moment for his eyes to focus, a moment in which his head was filled with a sound like pieces of glass being crushed underfoot. Darkness began to swell at the periphery of his vision, eclipsing the features of the man who held him...the man who had twisted his head completely around, snapping his neck at the third cervical vertebrae.
“Sorry, chum.” The killer’s whispered voice was as harsh as the sound of breaking bones. “That one’s mine.”
If the assassin recognized his killer in that last fleeting second, the knowledge died with him. Less than a minute later, he joined his brother in an unmarked watery grave.
FIVE
Kismet awoke to an insistent knocking. His chest was still smarting from the stab wound, but only a crust of dried blood remained to mark the spot. It took him a few moments to recall where he was or how that injury had occurred, but he rolled out of the bed, slipped into his trousers and stood up. All the while, the knocking did not abate.
With his gun in his right hand behind his back, he opened the door.
Alex Higgins stood at the threshold. His eyes registered only the slightest flicker of surprise upon seeing someone other than the woman he believed to be occupying the stateroom. “Morning, mate.”
“Al.” Kismet covertly tucked the gun into his waistband. “Come in.”
Higgins stepped inside and looked around. Kismet saw him staring at the ashtray on the nightstand. Red lipstick painted the end of a single cigarette remnant. “Where’s she gone off to?”
Kismet was awake enough to realize that Higgins must have had some clue as to what had transpired. Nevertheless, he could not tell from the former Gurkha’s demeanor, just how he felt about it.
“She's gone. I don't know where she went.”
“What did you...what did you say to her?” Higgins's voice was suddenly hard, with a bitter accusatory edge.
“It was nothing like that.” Kismet picked his shirt off the floor and slipped it on. “We actually...Well, I'll just say that we came to an understanding. Then things got interesting.” He briefly related the details of the attack, along with his suspicions about the motive behind it. “When I got back she was gone. There was no sign of a struggle. Her clothes and all her luggage were gone, too. If I had to guess, I'd say she left voluntarily.”
“Why would she do that?” complained Higgins. “Especially if these bastards are after her. Doesn't she know we can protect her?”
Kismet shrugged. “I guess she got what she wanted from us.”
“Why are you so quick to judge her?”
Kismet mentally threw up his hands. Higgins had a blind spot for the actress and couldn’t see reason. Admittedly, Kismet too had been enticed by her charms, but the difference was that he had never quite been able to let go of his suspicions about the actress, and so had little difficulty getting over how she had used him. “It doesn't matter now. She's made her choice. And you know as well as I do, that she knows how to take care of herself.”
Higgins frowned but said nothing.
Kismet pulled on his shoes. “Is it too late to get some breakfast?”
Higgins surprised him by chuckling. “Finally, something we can agree on.”
* * *
Kismet had not slept well. He had spent nearly an hour looking for Elisabeth, fearing the worst. Only later did he recognize all the signs that pointed to her leaving on her own. After that, he had tried to sleep, but was haunted by the echo of her presence. He could still smell her on the sheets, and the arousing scent triggered vivid, disquieting memories of their lovemaking, and the brutal aftermath. Eventually, overcome by sheer exhaustion, he had succumbed to sleep. Now, all he really wanted was to leave the Malaysian misadventure behind and get started on the new endeavor which occupied his thoughts, something he intended to do just as soon as the beast in his belly was quieted.
After his third trip to the breakfast buffet, Kismet's mood improved dramatically. The Star of Muara hired only the best classically trained chefs, and the coffee, grown in Indonesia, was fabulous. Kismet downed several mugs full, savoring the full-bodied, faintly sweet flavor. With the caffeine coursing through his veins, he felt ready to tackle his new project. He opened his laptop computer and enabled a secure connection to the GHC server.
“Checking with your stock broker?” Higgins quipped.
Kismet smiled and gave a vague nod, but said nothing as he typed the words “Henry Fortune” into the search engine. A few seconds later, he had his answer.
Higgins voice intruded again. “Seriously, mate, what are you looking at? Internet porn?”
Kismet realized that almost ten minutes had passed. “Sorry, it’s a work thing.”
“You’re here because of all these relics, right?”
“Right. I work for the UN. We’re trying to help get everything back where it belongs.” He knew, even as he said it, that his answer sounded evasive. Worse, he felt a pang of guilt at deceiving the man who had once faced certain death
at his side. Maybe it was time for a leap of faith. “This is something different though. Sometime in the 1960’s a man named Henry Fortune reported the discovery of a new cave system somewhere in the southern United States. His letter attributed some unique properties to the cavern; in his words: ‘Flames dance on the surface of the water’ of a ‘pool possessed of magnificent properties.’”
“Was it true?”
“I don’t know. As near as I can tell, no one ever looked into it.”
“That’s fifty years ago. What’s changed? What made you decide to go looking for a cave in America, while sitting here on a cruise ship in the South China Sea?”
Kismet drew a breath. The more he talked about it, the more he wondered about that himself. Earlier, in the privacy of his own thoughts, the idea of beating Dr. Leeds to the prize, or maybe finding something that might draw Prometheus out of the shadows seemed so much more desirable. But really, what was he looking for? The secret of eternal life? Yet, as preposterous as that sounded, there was no denying the eerie similarity between the cavern Fortunato had described to Rodriguez, and the one Henry Fortune had written of more than 300 years later.
The letter was addressed with an anonymous:
To whom it may concern:
For many years I have kept to myself a fabulous secret; a concealed knowledge which I have believed the world unready for. The time has come however, to share my discovery with the scientists of our modern era. The treasure of which I speak has for years been secreted away in a cavern, or perhaps it would be better to say that it is a part of the cavern for the treasure is a natural wonder unlike anything else on the planet. Within is an underground pool, where flames dance on the surface of the water. Moreover, the pool is possessed of magnificent properties, which cannot be adequately explained until witnessed directly. It would not be too much to say that it seems to defy the very laws of creation. I have held back this secret for too long. The world is in need of such a wondrous thing.
Kismet read the letter aloud and finished with the signature. “‘With deepest regards, Henry Fortune.’”
“Sounds like something for the bloody X-Files,” scoffed Higgins. “What do you suppose he was on about?”
“What he described might be something as commonplace as luminescent lichens or methane discharges. Still, the chance to find and map a previously unknown cave would be enough to make any spelunker salivate.”
It was then that he realized his search had returned two results. He didn’t remember a second letter, but according to the database, someone had attempted to follow up on the report. He clicked on the file and gazed at the second scanned document. Though it shared the same return address, general delivery to a postal office in Charleston, South Carolina, the handwriting was very different.
“This is interesting. Listen: ‘It is with great sadness that I must inform you of the death of Mr. Henry Fontaine. He took his secret to the grave. With regrets, Joseph King.’” Kismet reread the letter, noticing the different spelling for Fortune's last name. It seemed to accentuate the link between Fortune and Hernando Fontaneda.
“Well, that’s that,” sighed Higgins. “Another one for the blokes who write books about unsolved mysteries. But, you never answered my question: why are you interested, now after all these years?”
Kismet stared back at the burly Kiwi. “There was something in the Sultan’s collection that made me think this might be important. It’s a complicated story and if I tried to explain it, you’d think I was crazy, but I am starting to believe that I need to find this cave.”
“Important? How important?”
Kismet spread his hands. “Maybe a matter of life and death. Maybe even bigger than that.”
“That’s how it always is for us, isn’t it?” A smile flickered across the big man’s hard face. “Listen, I did some caving as a lad, and I know a thing or two about caves. The southern United States is honeycombed with karst—interconnected limestone caverns, most of them underwater. You could spend a lifetime—ten lifetimes—splashing around and not find a damned thing.”
“An eternal lifetime,” Kismet murmured, thinking about Leeds’ words from the previous evening. “What if Mr. Joseph King of Charleston knows more than he's telling?”
“That was fifty years ago. What are the chances he’s still alive?”
Kismet knew the Kiwi was probably right, but it was his only lead. “I’m going there. The sooner I get off this tub, the better. I’ll leave from our next port, whatever that is.”
“Macao.”
“Good enough. I’ll start making the arrangements now.” He looked at Higgins again, thoughtfully. “What about you?”
“I’m for the unemployment line, I suppose. I doubt His Royal Highness would take me back, and I can’t say I’m terribly interested in working for him anyway. And Elisabeth...” He let the sentence trail off.
“How would you feel about working for me?”
“You serious, mate?”
“You said you’d done some caving. I could use your expertise.”
“My expertise is in killing people, Nick. Cave exploration was something I did at summer camp one year.” But something about Kismet’s offer softened him after a moment. “Oh, what the hell? I could use a change of pace.”
Kismet was heartened by the Kiwi’s enthusiasm, but deep down, he knew the reason he had made the offer to the former Gurkha had nothing at all to do with his ability as a spelunker. He took another deep breath. “Listen, there's something you need to know about.
It’s possible that some people—some very bad people—might think there’s a connection between this cavern and the Fountain of Youth—”
Higgins registered a blank expression. “Fountain of Youth?”
“In the year 1512, a Spanish explorer named Juan Ponce de Leon was told by natives in the West Indies about a pool of water capable of rejuvenating the old; literally, restoring their youth. The natives told him that the Fountain could be found on island called Bimini, somewhere to the north of what is now Cuba. Ponce de Leon got permission from the king of Spain to go looking for this Fountain.”
“There’s a legend like that in the South Pacific, too. Captain Cook searched for it. I take it this de Leon bloke never found it?”
“Since he is no longer with us,” remarked Kismet, “I would say that’s a safe bet.”
“Do you think such a thing could really exist?” Higgins seemed alternately skeptical and intrigued. “I mean, if it did, wouldn’t everyone know of it by now?”
Kismet nodded. “Most historians believe what Ponce de Leon was really after was the gold of the New World, which makes more sense. It’s doubtful that Spain, in the grip of the Inquisition, would have sanctioned any kind of a search for eternal life. The very thought of it would run contrary to the dogma of the Church—no salvation except through Christ. Whatever his reasons, he did explore the Caribbean, found Florida and established the first permanent Spanish settlement in what would become the United States.”
Higgins leaned back in his chair. “So you think that the 'fire on the water' described by Henry Fortune has something to do with this Fountain of Youth?”
“Ordinarily, I would call that a wild leap of deduction. But last night I read a letter written almost four hundred years ago, describing the exact same thing, in almost exactly the same words, dictated by a man named Henrique Fortunato.”
“Fortunato sounds an awful bloody lot like Fortune. But this letter from Joseph King says that Fortune died. Would that be possible if he had access to a Fountain of Youth?”
“I don't know. It's a place to start.” Kismet leaned forward to catch Higgins’ eye. “But that’s not why I want you along. I don’t know if this cavern really exists, and the odds of it actually being the site of the legendary Fountain of Youth...” He shrugged. “But there are people who believe things like that are real, and worth killing to protect.”
The light dawned in former Gurkha’s eyes.
“I
see. Once more into the breach.” Higgins raised his mug to toast the venture. “Just like old times.”
“God I hope not.”
* * *
The tiny speaker in the earpiece of the cell phone trilled as the call was sent. It rang three times before the person on the other end initiated the connection without speaking. The person making the call spoke immediately.
“We are the chains of God. ID number 145211212.” The voice, sent electronically through the ether was in no way recognizable, thanks to the small auto-tuning device that had been affixed to the mouthpiece. The device randomly altered the pitch and cadence of the speaker, making any kind of positive identification impossible.
The call would most certainly be monitored by the American National Security Agency’s Echelon program—their computers eavesdropped on every phone call in the world, listening for keywords that might hint at some possible terrorist plot or act of espionage—but the caller wasn’t worried. Nothing would be said to raise an alarm, and even if something did cause the call to be flagged, there would be no evidence left behind. In a few minutes, the phone—a throwaway purchased months earlier but not activated until this very call—would be sitting at the bottom of the ocean.
After a brief pause, the person at the other end, his voice similarly disguised, spoke again. “Was your mission successful?”