by Sean Ellis
Kismet's foot left the final step in time to see the intruder pulling the large double doors to the dining rooms shut behind him. Kismet charged the door, bursting through without stopping. The man had not lingered to keep him out, but was already crossing the busy dining room. As Kismet stumbled headlong, trying to regain his balance after crashing through the doors, the big intruder glanced backward.
In that instant, he collided with a waiter carrying a tray of desserts. Artfully decorated pastries flew into the air in a confectionery cloud. The shock of the impact spread throughout the dining room, shouts and gasps rising into a cacophony. The intruder quickly regained his feet, his clothing streaked with buttercream frosting, and maneuvered through the minefield of broken plates and desserts on the floor.
The collision with the waiter allowed Kismet to close the distance to his prey, but the gain was short lived. Vaulting over the fallen waiter, Kismet's leading foot set down on the remains of a piece of cake, and slid away from beneath him, dropping him on his backside.
Before he could recover from the indignity of his fall, he heard the pitch of the room change from amused confusion to outright chaos. Amid the strident screams of a dozen women, Kismet discovered Annie standing in the doorway of the dining hall, brandishing his Glock.
“I told you to stay put,” he shouted.
He did not belabor the point, but rose to his feet and picked his way through the splattered desserts before she could even attempt to answer. The fleeing intruder had reached the exit doors at the far end of the dining room, and was rapidly increasing his lead. Kismet leapt clear of the dessert wreckage and renewed the chase.
The doors opened onto an exposed deck, and Kismet caught a glimpse of the man's back as he ran sternward. However, when he reached the place where the man had been, there was no sign of him. Kismet stopped running, cocked his head to the side, and listened for the telltale sound of footsteps. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Annie exiting the dining hall, still hefting the gun. He scowled at her but said nothing.
Then his ears caught the staccato beat of footsteps nearby. He took a deliberate step forward, trying to isolate the sound. It was coming from above. In a flash of insight, he realized where the intruder had gone. He darted forward at a full run until he reached a metal staircase ascending to the uppermost deck of the ship. He vaulted the banister landing on the third step and raced up the stairs, taking three at a time.
He emerged onto the ship’s highest observation deck. His quarry stood at the far end of the deck, gripping the railing, gazing out at surface of the ocean twelve stories below. The only way off was the way they’d both come. The intruder was trapped.
Kismet approached at a walking pace, stopping when he was close enough to hear the other man's labored breathing. “Let’s try that again. Who the hell are you, and why you were in my stateroom?”
The man's silver tooth flashed as he grinned. Kismet did not comprehend the reason for his sudden attack of humor until, a moment later when the man reached into the depths of his jacket, and drew out a long knife with an ornate, wavy blade. Kismet recognized it as a kris, an ancient Indonesian ceremonial dagger. It was probably a replica the man had picked up as a souvenir, but that didn’t make it any less dangerous.
One of his army combatives instructors had once told Kismet: “Always rush a gun, but run away from a knife.” The logic behind this was simple; a gun could reach out and hurt you even if you ran away, so your best chance of survival lay in trying get close enough to deflect the barrel or take the gun away. But the closer you got to a knife, the more likely you were to get cut.
The silver-toothed man laughed, weaving the knife back and forth. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to stick this in you.”
Kismet couldn’t quite place the accent. Something from the Commonwealth; it might have been Aussie or it could have been from Liverpool. That didn’t concern him as much as the fact that his assailant seemed to be making this personal. Kismet raised his hands halfway, more as a placating gesture than a sign of surrender. “If you’ve got some problem with me, let’s talk.”
The movement of the blade stopped abruptly, and the man looked back blankly. “Oh, Kismet. You really have no idea. It's almost a pity that you'll die ignorant.”
“I don't think you’re going to kill me.” Kismet's mind raced to figure out the puzzle of who the man was and what he wanted. “You were looking for something in my room, and you obviously didn't find it. If you kill me, there's a chance you'll never find what you are after.”
“Bah! Killing you is something I've wanted for a long time.”
As he edged closer, Kismet heard the sound of another pair of feet ascending the stairs. He knew without turning to look that it was Annie. A few moments later she was running across the deck, hefting the Glock.
In the moment that the knife-wielding intruder saw Annie, Kismet made his move. The big man recovered quickly from the distraction, thrusting with the blade, but Kismet anticipated the attack, and sidestepped. The kris stabbed the air impotently to Kismet's left, and as the man’s momentum carried him forward, Kismet stepped closer, slipping his right arm around the man’s shoulder and hooking a hand behind his neck in a half-nelson. The knife clattered to the deck, but then he wrenched himself free and spun around, lashing out with a foot to sweep Kismet’s legs from under him.
Kismet landed hard on his side. The silver-toothed man dove for his knife, but even as his hand took hold of the ornate haft of the weapon, Annie shouted a warning for him to stop. She didn’t have a clear shot—she was just as likely to hit Kismet as the intruder—but it was enough to give the man pause. He straightened up without recovering the kris, and shook his head sadly. “Gonna shoot me, little girl?”
“She doesn’t have to.” Kismet struck as the man turned to face him, landing a roundhouse that sent the intruder crashing into the waist-high rail that ringed the observation deck. The man flipped over the barrier, but succeeded in wrapping one arm around it to arrest his fall.
“Should have let me shoot him,” Annie remarked, shaking her head.
Kismet ignored her, stalking toward the hanging intruder. “One more time. Tell me who you are.”
The man showed no sign of surrender. Even as he struggled against his own failing grip, Kismet saw the defiance building in his eye. “I don't think so,” was the grated reply.
The man abruptly let go with his right hand. Kismet saw a glint of light, the reflection a familiar emblem engraved on a golden ring standing out from the man's fist, for just a fraction of a second before that fist hammered into his face.
Kismet’s head snapped to the side with the force of the blow. It took a moment for his vision to clear, but when it did, he rolled back to the railing and leaned over, looking for some sign of his assailant.
Annie was at his side an instant later. “My God, are you all right?”
“Where did he go?”
“He must have fallen in.”
Kismet shook his head, instantly regretting it as the pain of the man's parting blow flared anew. He gingerly probed his aching cheek and saw blood on his fingertips. The man's ring had sliced through the skin under his left eye. While it had not been as gaudy as Leeds’ ring, the symbol was the same: an Ouroboros.
He pushed away from the rail and retrieved the kris, testing its edge with a thumb. Annie stepped in front of him. “Nick. Would you please tell me what’s going on?”
“No,” he replied, thinking about the image of the snake devouring itself. “But I think I know who can.”
* * *
Alex Higgins tore his gaze away from Elisabeth and watched with a perplexed expression as his daughter left the dining hall with Kismet at her side. Something was wrong; some unspoken tension between Dr. Leeds and Kismet had reached and passed a climax. But Leeds gave no indication of what the problem might be. He merely stared at the table, silently waiting. Several seconds passed before he abruptly stood and nodded to Elisabeth.
; “Delightful!” She reached out and took hold of Higgins’ hand. When he felt her touch, every vestige of apprehension melted away. The feel of her skin set his heart pounding and the faint scent of her perfume led him like a ring through his nostrils. “It is time for the séance. This will be tremendously exciting.”
Dr. Leeds made a casual gesture toward some of the other guests in the dining hall. Half a dozen people left their meals unfinished and rose to follow him from the room. In the euphoria of his intimate contact with Elisabeth, Higgins scarcely noticed the route he and the rest of Leeds’ entourage took and was hardly aware as he was guided to a seat at a large round table, draped with a voluminous blue tablecloth. The room was dark except for a score of small votive candles that offered little in the way of illumination but certainly contributed to the mood of the occasion. Elisabeth sat beside him, and in short order, the other guests filled in around the circumference until only one seat remained.
Dr. Leeds seemed to glide into the room; his long cassock hid his feet from view. He smoothly took his seat and gestured to the audience. “Please, link hands.”
Higgins’ felt Elisabeth’s hand in his; he barely even noticed another guest take his other hand.
Leeds spoke again, his tone both hushed and commanding. “We wish to know more of our quest. There are many answers that may not be found on this terrestrial plane, but beyond it, in the spirit realm. Hernando Fontaneda was the keeper of the secret, but he has passed beyond this world. Will you reach out with me, to contact him?”
There was a murmur of ascent and Dr. Leeds seemed satisfied. “He may not remember at first. Your concentration and assistance is crucial. Leave off all doubt now. Close your eyes and focus your thoughts.”
Higgins did as he was told, but found he could not concentrate in the way Dr. Leeds wanted him to. His thoughts were swirling, not around the spirit realm, but the heaven of Elisabeth’s touch. He gripped her hand, as if to squeeze his emotions into her, barely cognizant of Dr. Leeds’ mumbled incantations.
“Alex,” Elisabeth whispered urgently. “Open your eyes. Look!”
He obeyed, looking into her eyes, but she nodded toward the center of the table. Higgins nearly fainted when he saw the figure there, hovering in the mist above the table's surface.
Though it was only a few inches in height, Higgins had no trouble making out the apparition; the details of its face and dress were vivid. He was unquestionably looking at the likeness of a Spanish conquistador. The crescent helmet concealed the face of the specter, but he knew that it must be Hernando Fontaneda.
“¿Quien estoy?” whispered Dr. Leeds, his voice strangely altered. “Diga me. Quiero saber.”
“He is speaking Spanish,” gasped one of the men at the table. “He wants to know who he is?”
No one seemed willing to answer. Realizing that Dr. Leeds was acting as a medium Higgins, in a trembling voice, supplied the name.
“Si. Recuerdo.” whispered Leeds. “A ver, ¿a dónde estoy? Me parece que es bien oscuro.”
“He remembers,” translated the same man. “He wants to know where he is. He says he it is very dark there.”
“You died,” replied Elisabeth. “Don't you remember?”
“No.” The voice issuing from Leeds’ mouth switched to deeply accented English. “How did I die? Do you know?”
No one could give him an answer, not even Higgins.
“Tell me more. I might remember. There was a man...King was his name. I was with him, but I can't remember...” Leeds’ eyes fluttered open and he stared directly at Higgins. “You know,” he said, still speaking in the Spaniard's voice. “Tell me. Where did I die?”
Wide-eyed and trembling, Higgins stared at the apparition. Elisabeth's gentle touch on his arm prompted him and he opened his mouth to answer.
* * *
The dining area was a shambles from Kismet's pursuit of the knife-wielding intruder. Icing from destroyed pastries seemed to be everywhere. Moreover, some of the passengers acting in blind terror had overturned their tables, spilling plates, silverware and food, and were crouched down behind them. The waiters were conferring with the ship's officers about the cause of the mayhem. One of them spotted Kismet and identified him as one of the perpetrators. The officers moved to question him, but stopped short when they saw the prodigious blade of the serpentine knife held in his right fist.
Kismet dismissed them with an exasperated gesture. “Where are the people who were sitting there?” He pointed to the table where he had left Higgins, in the company of Dr. Leeds and Elisabeth Neuell.
“In the conference room,” replied a waiter, before anyone could think to silence him. “For the séance.”
“Sir,” interjected one of the senior officers, trying to be calm and authoritative. “I must ask you to surrender your weapon.”
Shaking his head, more out of frustration than defiance, he pushed through the group and headed for the exit.
The conference room was dark, lit only by a few candles. The perfect place for an ambush, Kismet decided. He spied Higgins at a table, with Elisabeth and Leeds. The latter was mumbling something, while in the center of the table, projected onto a cloud of mist was the likeness of a gaudy conquistador; a product of amateurish make-up and costume, smoke and mirrors. He stalked over to the table, unnoticed by all except of the architect of the charade himself.
Leeds’ icy gaze defied his stare, but Kismet was unmoved by Leeds’ parlor tricks. Higgins opened his mouth to speak, to reveal the location from which the final correspondence with Henry Fortune had originated, but Kismet cleared his throat, breaking the spell.
The gathering looked up in surprise and Elisabeth breathed a vehement curse. Dr. Leeds folded his arms casually across his chest. “You are disturbing the spirits, Kismet”.
“Perhaps the spirits can answer my questions. I'd like to know why the man that ransacked my room and tried to kill me was wearing a ring with an Ouroboros. Kind of like the one you’re wearing, Dr. Leeds.”
Leeds remained impassive. “You’re imagining things, Kismet.”
“I didn’t imagine this.” Kismet thrust the knife out, over the center of the table, and then stabbed downward, into the heart of the apparition. The blade sliced through the vapors, shattering a mirror concealed underneath, and causing the ghost to dissolve. The gathering dispersed, frightened by the display of violence, but Kismet wasn’t finished. Grabbing hold of the table and shoving it out of the way, he advanced on Leeds.
Leeds did not cower, but instead threw something to the floor, a glass vial that shattered and began spewing thick smoke. A screen of dense fog suddenly rose up around Kismet. He waved his hand to fan away the acrid fumes, and pushed forward undaunted, thrusting his hands out to the place where Leeds was sitting.
His hands closed on empty air. Dr. Leeds and Elisabeth Neuell had vanished.
SEVEN
Unfair though it was, Kismet offered no protest when the captain ordered him off the ship. He was eager to be done with The Star of Muara, eager to put the whole sordid affair behind him, and most of all, eager to take up the search for Henry Fortune’s wondrous cavern.
In the early hours of the morning following the disastrous séance, Kismet, along with Higgins and his daughter, boarded a helicopter for the mainland. A few hours later, they were on a trans-Pacific flight to Los Angeles, and because of a trick of geography, arrived in the United States on the evening of the calendar day before they left. They spent a night in a hotel near LAX, but early the next day were back in the air.
The long flights gave Kismet time to think, but his mind was not occupied with fantasies of discovering the source of immortality. Rather, he kept replaying what the man with the silver tooth had said: You really have no idea. It's almost a pity that you'll die ignorant...Killing you is something I've wanted for a long time.
Kismet knew of one very good possible explanation for the man’s hostility: Dr. Leeds and his thug were part of the Prometheus group. And if Prometheus w
as after the Fountain of Youth...or the Seed from the Tree of Life or whatever else...then Kismet was determined to beat them there.
But as much as he wanted to believe that Dr. Leeds would somehow lead him to the answers he had been seeking for half his life, he knew that the explanation wasn’t a perfect fit. In his only meaningful encounter with Prometheus, he had been led to believe that he was somehow protected, or at least that Prometheus had no interest in taking direct action against him. He had never been able to fathom the why of it, aside from a cryptic intimation that his mother might somehow be a player in the drama, though even that information was suspect. In any case, his prior knowledge of Prometheus’ goals certainly didn’t square with Leeds’ silver-toothed goon’s lethal grudge. So where did that leave him?
After collecting their luggage from the carousel at La Guardia Airport, Kismet hailed a taxi and the three of them crowded into its rear seat. Little was said as the hired car fought traffic through Queens and across the Williamsburg Bridge; the three had virtually exhausted every avenue of discussion during long hours spent in airport lobbies.
Much of the conversation had focused on Elisabeth Neuell. Higgins, who knew her better than any of them, and was clearly smitten in spite of everything that had happened, was loathe to admit that she might be up to no good, but he was at least willing to allow that Dr. Leeds was not to be trusted.
Then they had turned to the issue of how they would proceed in their search for the cavern. The whole adventure hinged on finding Joseph King, or possibly his heirs, and hoping that he, or they, knew something about Henry Fortune’s—or rather Hernando Fontaneda's—explorations. The rest of the time had been wiled away in an endless and mind-numbing succession of card games and similarly pointless distractions.
Though he was not easily given to sentiment, Kismet felt a wave of relief as the taxi turned on to Central Park West. The familiar foliage of the park, brightly verdant in the summer humidity, was a welcome sight after the disastrous cruise. A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of the American Museum of Natural History, where Kismet’s kept an office.