Kismet picked up his glass and took a meaningful step backward. “I would say you have a lifetime of searching ahead of you.”
“Perhaps an eternal lifetime,” replied Leeds without a trace of a smile.
“Well good luck to you. Thank you for a stimulating conversation. I hope you find what you seek.”
Leeds inclined his head, and then returned to copying the prism as if the exchange had never occurred. Grateful for the tacit dismissal, Kismet hastened back to lounge where a plate of food and the key card to his room waited. Strangely however, hunger and fatigue had fled away, replaced by a poorly defined memory of a name that was uncomfortably similar to that of the ‘drunken’ braggart in Leeds’ letter.
The taciturn occult scholar watched Kismet go without saying a word, but as the other man departed, a new arrival to the exhibit hall came over to join Leeds. Without preamble that latter spoke: “I just had a conversation with Nick Kismet.”
The man's jaw dropped, revealing a single silver incisor in an uneven row of natural, but yellowed teeth. “Kismet,” he rasped, as though the name were an oath.
“Patience, Ian. I doubt he suspects what we know.” Leeds caught a final glimpse of Kismet collecting his dinner from the bartender. “But he knows something about the Fountain; I’m sure of it. And I think he will lead us to it.”
Kismet exited the lounge and moved onto an open-air balcony overlooking the starboard flank of the ship. He clutched the deck railing and closed his eyes, as if in the grip of vertigo.
He kicked himself for having visibly reacted to the letter Leeds had showed him; the mention of the cavern had caught him totally by surprise. He racked his brain to remember where he had heard the name Henry Fortune, and if it had been in connection with a cavern featuring some extraordinary natural phenomenon. He couldn’t think of anything specific, but the feeling that there was something more going on persisted.
The deck and number of his stateroom had been handwritten on the paper sleeve which contained his key card, and a consultation of the escape route map helped him navigate to his lodgings where, with a little luck, his luggage would be waiting. Nestled inside one suitcase was a rugged laptop computer with a satellite telephone modem that would enable him to access the GHC archives; if Fortune’s name had appeared in any document received by his agency, it would be revealed through the miracle of modern technology.
He moved through the ship on auto-pilot, his mind still turning over the bizarre encounter with Dr. John Leeds. He instinctively disliked the man; perhaps that was the driving force behind his sudden compulsion to trump Leeds in his search. But beneath that lay a lingering suspicion that Leeds’ admitted obsession with the legend recorded on the cuneiform prism was a little too coincidental when viewed in the light of recent events. The connection was too tenuous to even be considered circumstantial evidence, but it was enough to fuel Kismet’s suspicions. As he slid the key card into the electronic lock and entered the stateroom, he decided he was going to have to do a little research on Dr. Leeds as well.
Abruptly his consciousness was jerked like a yoyo back into the moment. Someone was in the room. A figure shrouded in shadow sat opposite the open door and a haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air between them.
“Pardon me,” he said quickly, retreating backward. “Must have the wrong room.”
He knew better of course; the key cards made such an error virtually impossible. There could be only one explanation: the trap he had feared had finally sprung. The Sultan’s security forces had caught up to him. Before he could escape however, the table lamp near the seated figure flicked on, illuminating the grinning visitor. “Took your sweet time getting here, mate.”
Kismet nearly dropped his untouched dinner plate as he recognized the speaker. He had only gotten a glimpse of the man the night previously, and in the intervening hours had not really considered the possibility of a further reunion. “Sergeant Higgins?”
Then his voice fell as he caught sight of the other person in the room. He worked his mouth, trying to articulate his thoughts, but nothing came out. He gaped a moment longer as Higgins’ companion drew closer.
“Hello again, Nick Kismet.”
“Elisabeth.” It was all he could say. Bile rose in his throat, choking off his utterance. He opened his mouth to speak again, but no curse he could muster seemed adequate to the moment. Failing that, he turned and stalked away.
FOUR
Higgins caught up to him a few steps from the door, leaving the treacherous actress alone in the stateroom. “Wait. You don't understand—”
“What the hell is she doing here?” Kismet rasped. He turned to face the former Gurkha, getting his first real look at the man who had once stood with him in a battle they both thought would be their last. The burly Kiwi was a couple inches taller than he and built like a rugby player. His curly brown mop was longer now than when he had been in the regiment. Kismet saw no gray hairs, but the leathery creases in his countenance betrayed his age. Even under the best of circumstances, he would have avoided this reunion; he had no desire to relive the events of that night with his one time comrade in arms.
“You don't understand. She wasn't trying to betray you. If you would let her—”
“I can't even look at her. She nearly got me killed. Twice.”
“Would you just listen to me?” Higgins grabbed hold of Kismet's shoulders, shaking him as one might a wayward child. Though the Kiwi outweighed him by at least a good thirty pounds, Kismet tensed as if preparing to defend himself. Higgins dropped his hands and took a step back. “Just listen,” he continued, his tone more subdued. “There’s a lot more going on here than you realize. The Sultan believes Elisabeth betrayed him. He’s publicly divorced her — you know how easy that is to do in a Muslim country — and secretly put a price on her head. She’s on the run, mate.”
“Good.”
“Will you let me finish? You don't know what really happened. Not in Jin's fortress and not with the Sultan.”
Kismet leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay. I'm listening, but this had better be good. I've already had a double helping of fantasy tonight.”
“It would be better if you let her tell you.”
“Humor me, Sergeant. And while you’re at it, maybe you’d like to explain how you got mixed up this mess.”
“All right.” He drew in a breath. “I’ll answer the last bit first. And it’s just Al now; I gave up being Sergeant Higgins as soon as my hitch was up. Went into business for myself.”
“You’re a mercenary?”
Higgins shrugged. “We prefer the term ‘independent contractor.’ It’s a dangerous world, especially hereabouts. A wealthy bloke like the Sultan needs a lot of security. It’s been a decent paycheck. I’ve been working for the family for close to six years.”
“And Elisabeth?”
“Among other things, I was her bodyguard.”
“‘Among other things,’ Al? Is that a polite way of saying that you’re screwing her?”
The Gurkha’s intent expression cracked. “Don’t I wish? I’m a bit unrefined for her tastes, but all the same, I’ve been looking out for her for a while now.”