Into the Black (45 page)

"Hell, I could have told you that.  I figured that out years ago."

He chuckled, but there was no humor.  "Yeah, I guess you did."  He tossed the Fleece onto his shoulder and turned in the direction the others had gone, eager to find a quiet place to relax.

"Nick, wait."

"I'm keeping the Fleece, Lyse.  You owe me that much."

"Sure, whatever.  But there's something you owe me.  The memory card?  Remember? You told me you gave them to a friend.  I need to know who that is."

Kismet almost laughed.  It had all started with those plans; plans to build a super weapon using the mystery element contained in the Golden Fleece.  Now that the ubergold was beyond reach, at the bottom of the Black Sea, Kismet wondered if the plans would do anyone any good.

"Why not?" He reached for his waist pack.  The nylon bag, which had somehow survived the assault by Grimes and the final descent of the golden ship, was bloated with seawater.  He turned it over, and the contents splashed on the deck, drenching Lyse's shoes.  He laughed as she jumped back self-consciously, and then drew out the sheath of his
kukri
.  The scabbard of carved wood, overlaid with black leather was probably ruined but it was replaceable.  Using the blade of the big knife, he cut apart the seams that held the leather together along the backside of the sheath.  The dyed covering spread apart, revealing the plastic bag with the SD card inside.  He pulled it loose and tossed it to her.

Lyse was livid.  "You told me you gave it to a friend."

He held the
kukri
up, inspecting it in the subdued light, and remembering a fateful night many years before when he had been given the blade as an almost sacred trust between warriors. "One of my oldest and dearest.  And might I add, the only one I trust implicitly."

"What if you had gone down with that ship? Then it would have been lost forever."

"That probably would have been better.  The world would be a better place without your superbombs."

She wagged her head in despair, and then went to work unwrapping the package, as if still convinced that he would again try to swindle her.  Leaving her to inspect the SD card, he continued down the companionway, into the heart of the submarine.  A narrow portal in the bulkhead opened into a cramped room with two vacant bunks.  As he entered, he heard his name called yet again, but this time it was not Lyse.

"Irene?"  He was mildly surprised to find her at his door.  "Was this your room?"

"No."  Her smile was coy and eager.

"Irene..." He tried to find the words that would make her understand that 'happily ever after' was something he could never offer, but something about her expression weakened his resolve.  He shook his head and tried a different tack.  "You forgot to give the captain his jacket."

"My goodness.  Are you jealous?"

"Of course not."  He tossed the now gold-less Fleece onto the upper bunk.  "You’re an adult.  You can...."

Before he could finish, she darted forward and shook her hand in the air above his head.  A dusting of glitter drifted down from her fingertips, and Kismet felt as though he had walked through a cobweb.  He brushed reflexively at his face and found specks of gold clinging to his fingertips. "What's this?"

"Magic dust," she replied, with a straight face.  "I found it in my pocket.  It must have brushed off when we were down there."

"Well why did you throw it at me?"

She shrugged.  "Medea used it to make Jason fall in love her."

"No she didn't.  Besides, that whole story is just a myth anyway."

She stopped him with a sultry look, moving closer.  "Maybe she did," she continued, threading her arms around him and gazing up into his eyes.  "Maybe it's more than just a story."

If he had a counter to her statement, it was restrained as her lips met his; her tongue silenced his own.  He savored the kiss for a moment.  "Magic dust," he whispered close to her ear.  "So did it work?"

"Hmm?"

"When Medea used it on Jason—did it work?  Did it make him love her?"

She drew back far enough to look him in the eyes.  "What are you worried about?  I didn't think you believed in the magic of the Fleece."

"Maybe I'm starting to."

He did not resist as she pulled him into the small space between the bunks.  "Good," she said, her voice low and intent.  "Because it works."

THE ARGO DESTINY

Langley, Virginia—Two months later

Lysette Lyon hastened from the chilly interior of her car to the airlock-like foyer of the reception building.  The bulletproof glass doors slid shut behind her, locking out the frigid air of a Virginia winter, but the cold lingered in her extremities for several minutes as she moved through the final security checkpoint and into the heart of the Central Intelligence Agency headquarters building.

She had not been back to the Langley facility since receiving the orders that had sent her to the Black Sea, two months earlier.  In fact, she had only set foot on American soil six hours earlier, just enough time to shower and eat before delivering the bad news.  The dread that had robbed her of her appetite during her brief visit to her apartment now loomed heavily as she exited the elevator and traversed the remaining distance to the section chief's office.  The secretary admitted her without question.

Her immediate superior was not alone.  She instantly recognized most of the other faces sitting around his desk; it was as if the entire upper echelon of Central Intelligence had decided to conduct a top-level meeting in the small room.  She closed the door firmly and strode toward the desk and into the monster's lair.

"Field Officer Lyon."  The section chief rose to greet her, his face unreadable.  "I hope you don't mind if the Director sits in on your debriefing."

It wasn't a question, so she withheld a verbal response.  The DCI (Director of Central Intelligence) nevertheless rose, and inclined his head politely.  She answered with her trademark smile and was pleased to see a faint rush of color in the old bureaucrat's cheeks.  The department directors and their deputies followed his example but one man, who stood facing the large window behind the desk, did not even turn to acknowledge her.  His face was barely visible in the reflection.

Once the pleasantries were exchanged, everyone but the man at the window returned to their seats.  Lyse was acutely aware that she too would have to stand.  Evidently the DCI's chivalry did not extend to offering his chair to a lady if that lady happened to be in his employ.  Perhaps it was for the best; she might need to make a hasty retreat from the room if they took the news the way she feared they might.  Her lips drew into a tight grimace, and then she commenced her report.

She started from the beginning, not so much because she felt the need to brief those men who might not have actually been privy to the details of the mission, but because she was stalling.  Maybe, after telling the whole sordid affair in its entirety, her failure would seem less important.  She recalled the efforts to gather the intelligence on the EMP weapon from Germany, and the unfortunate decision that had brought Nick Kismet into the loop. 

Her first mention of her former paramour's name had elicited a fidgety response from the DCI, who unthinkingly glanced at the man near the window; the latter did not react in any way.  She filed their reaction away as something to look into, and then continued with her tale.  Much of what she told them from that point onward was gleaned from her interviews with Kismet and Irene and Peter Kerns, the only surviving witnesses to Halverson Grimes' treachery and ultimate demise.  Despite a great deal of evidence to support the charge of treason, Lysette had already heard rumors that Grimes' death would be attributed to a boating accident, and that no mention of his traitorous leanings would ever see the light of public scrutiny.  He would be remembered only as an American hero. 

She nevertheless reported what she had seen with her own eyes: Grimes and Harcourt conversing with the leader of the German KSK unit.  Grimes had evaded capture that night, slipping away with the British archaeologist and a handful of commandos moments before Lyse and the COLT operators raided the mountain camp, leaving no survivors.  From there, they had raced back down to the shore in a captured snow-cat and returned to the submarine.  From beneath the storm tossed sea, they had managed to follow Kismet's progress across the sea using  sonar, and intercept the
Boyevoy
in time to save him and Irene from a brutal death.

The DDO (Deputy Director, Operations) seemed especially pleased with the success of the COLT team against the German commandos.  They had completely overwhelmed the larger force, sustaining no casualties among their own ranks, and completely sterilized the area, right down to the last brass shell casing.  No one would ever know that anyone had established a camp in the Caucasus or that a battle had raged there.

The minor naval skirmish on the Black Sea was a slightly different story.  Back-channeled information indicated that the Russians knew all too well who was behind the torpedo attack that had crippled one of their destroyers, but as there was no proof, the incident was being reported as an accidental explosion.  Lyse had also heard that representatives of the UN had casually mentioned that further exploration of the matter might reveal that a certain Captain Severin had committed a number of international crimes, not the least of which was the attempted murder of a UNESCO representative.  Despite that part of the affair being swept under the carpet along with the rest, DDO was understandably concerned at the level of exposure.

With Kismet and the two Russian émigrés safely on their way back to the States, Lyse and the retired USAF Colonel who had skippered the K-322 on its last mission, returned to the Black Sea, this time with an upgrade.  Using a state of the art deep sea submersible, they scoured the lowest reaches of the Black Sea in hopes of locating the golden ship for further study and possibly retrieval.

She took a deep breath.  "On January 21, we located the wreckage of the fishing vessel Kismet used in his initial survey and recovery.  The debris was scattered in an area roughly one kilometer in diameter and only three kilometers from the GPS coordinates of the boat's last known location, indicating only a slight degree of subsurface drift.  Using these figures, we were able to create a computer model of where our target vessel might have settled.

"Unfortunately, a thorough search of the area did not lead us to the target.  For two weeks thereafter, we continued to broaden the search, but without success."

"You found nothing?"  It was the section chief that spoke, but she sensed the question was being asked collectively.

"Actually, we found thirteen wrecks dating back as far as the seventeenth century.  The comparatively low salinity of the Black Sea and the cold at those depths preserved—"

"You know that's not what I meant," he snapped.

Lyse bit her lip.  The other faces in the room remained unreadable.  "We were unable to locate the target vessel."

"Maybe we should get someone else to look for it," suggested the Deputy Director, Intelligence.  "From what I understand, this fellow—" He named the former US Air Force Colonel with a derisive snort, as if referring to a hole in the ground.  "—is something of a maverick."

"Nonsense," retorted DDO.  "I've worked with him in the past.  If he can't find it, it can't be found."

Lyse saw her opening.  "On that subject..." She took another breath, gathering her courage to drop the other shoe.  "We think we may have been too late.  He...We believe that someone got there first."

The uproar that followed was about what she expected.  DDI was the loudest voice.  "Preposterous.  The Russians don't have the resources for that kind of work.  Hell, they couldn't even bring up the Kursk from four hundred feet, and they knew exactly where it was.  And they sure as hell couldn't have pulled it off without our birds snapping their picture."

"We have satellites tasked to monitor the Black Sea?" inquired DCI skeptically.

"Well...."

"Ms. Lyon?"  The voice was strangely familiar and though spoken in a low tone, it instantly silenced everyone else.  Lyse glanced around to identify the speaker; it was the man at the window.

"Ms. Lyon," he repeated, still gazing through the glass.  "Did you at any time see this supposed Greek galley with your own eyes?"

She frowned.  "No, but Nick—"

"I understand why you would want to put implicit trust in Mr. Kismet's word, both for professional and personal reasons, but leaving that aside, can you or anyone else corroborate his claim?"

"Irene Kerns was with him."  She sensed that he was chuckling, but his face remained indistinct in the reflection.  "No.  When we surfaced to rescue them, it had already gone down.  We did however track the vessels on sonar.  There was a larger craft being towed by the fishing boat."

"But there is no way to verify its origins or any of the other qualities Mr. Kismet attributed to it.  Would you agree with that characterization?"

Lyse's heart began to pound.  She had anticipated a degree of reproof for having failed to recover the golden ship, but nothing like this.  She cursed herself for not having seen it coming. This sort of scapegoating was common practice in the political environment that pervaded the Company; they even had an acronym for it: CYA—Cover Your Ass.

"Christ," scowled the section chief.  "What a circus.  We're a hundred million in the red on this and absolutely nothing to show for it."

"Oh, it's not all bad."  The man at the window slowly turned as he spoke, affording Lyse a chance to glimpse her accuser.  She barely held back an audible gasp; it was him—the man that had recruited her all those years ago.  His appearance had changed little, save for one distinct feature; where his left eye ought to have been, there was only a square of black cloth.

"Hindsight is rarely perfect," he continued.  "Mr. Kismet seemed a credible source, and Ms. Lyon cannot be faulted for acting on the information he provided.  It was after all his tip that helped you expose Admiral Grimes as an agent of foreign influence.  Perhaps this business with the Greek galley was merely a practical joke on his part; payback for your having involved him in the espionage business."