Silver Tooth just grinned.
Kismet saw the blow coming, but could do nothing to protect himself. The man's fist burrowed into the pit of his stomach, and his body curled around the impact like a worm on a fishhook. A wave of nausea racked his body.
“To answer your earlier question, the name’s Ian MacKay.” A second blow hammered into Kismet’s gut, and then he felt the papers torn from his hand. “And this is what I was looking for. Thanks ever so much.”
A third punch took his breath away and brought him to the brink of unconsciousness. When the darkness receded, he found himself lying supine on the steps, surrounded by a throng of people who were only just beginning to wonder why he was writhing in agony.
“Prometheus,” Leeds began, “is quite simply a cabal of intellectuals intent upon remaking the destiny of our planet.”
Annie rolled her eyes again, but their host ignored her open incredulity.
“They took their name, rather hypocritically, from the Titan in Greek mythology — a figure renowned for his wisdom and his love of mankind. It was Prometheus who stole fire from the gods of Olympus and gave it to man, and it was he who made sure that Pandora’s Box also contained hope. But this modern Prometheus obscenity is more like Zeus, intent on locking the mysteries of our world away, hoarding the secret knowledge for their own schemes. And like the gods of Olympus, they delight in playing games with people’s lives, controlling them as a puppet master works the strings of a marionette. They are playing just such a game with your friend Nick Kismet. He is, unknowingly I believe, their greatest experiment.”
“Experiment?” asked Higgins. “What kind of experiment?”
Leeds brought his fingers together in a steeple beneath his chin. “I’m not sure they even know. They unleashed him on the world, and then sat back to see what sort of havoc he would wreak. And they have been protecting him. I believe you have witnessed their interference first hand, Mr. Higgins. How else would you explain your miraculous escape from the Republican Guard in Nasiriyah?”
“This is ridiculous,” scoffed Annie.
“It is the truth,” Leeds answered, unperturbed. “And without his even realizing it, Kismet has become their bloodhound, tracking down the world’s last remaining mysteries — mysteries like the Seed of the Tree of Life — so that Prometheus can hide them away…or perhaps use them for some nefarious purpose.”
Annie leaned close to her father, and sotto voce said: “What’s ‘nefarious’ mean?”
Higgins ignored her. “How do you know all this?”
“I have given my life to searching for the very mysteries Prometheus wishes to conceal. One cannot wade too deep into those waters without hearing whispers of the conspiracy…or of the Nick Kismet experiment.”
Higgins glanced at Elisabeth, who seemed to be hanging on Leeds’ every word. “Why are you telling us? What are we supposed to do about it?”
“Kismet must not be allowed to uncover Hernando Fontaneda’s secret. I do not wish any harm to come to him, but if he finds the Seed, then Prometheus finds it, and they will not share its magnificent power with the world. They most certainly won’t share it with us.”
Leeds smiled again. “So, what I want from you, put simply, is this: join me in my quest. Abandon Kismet, for his own good, and help me find the Seed before Kismet or Prometheus.”
Annie bit back a caustic reply and instead watched her father’s reaction. She felt a surge of disappointment when she realized that he wasn’t going to reject Leeds’ offer out of hand. “He won’t stop looking, you know,” the former Gurkha said, after a long pause.
“No, I don’t imagine he will. That is the very reason that I seek a partnership with you. Time is of the essence. I have resources which can expedite our search, but you…you possess the information that can point me directly to the goal.”
“You already pumped us for that information,” Annie retorted. “What else do you think we know that you didn’t get from that phony séance?”
Leeds inclined his head in a conciliatory gesture. “It may be that you have some crucial piece of knowledge, the importance of which none of us realizes. And it may also be that your contribution to the endeavor will arise, not from what you know, but from what you will do.”
Annie stabbed an angry finger at Leeds. “You know what? You can go fu—“
Higgins cut her off, gripping her knee in his left hand. “I need to discuss this with my daughter. Privately.”
Leeds’ smile returned. “I know just the place.”
Kismet rolled over onto hands and knees. His gut seemed twisted around the bruises forming in his abdomen. Nevertheless, he climbed to his feet and began pushing through the crowd toward the street.
He scanned the boulevard in both directions, and then looked over at the park entrance. The men who had accosted him were gone. He couldn’t fathom how MacKay had managed to reach New York ahead of them in order to lay an ambush, but his aching insides told him that the silver-toothed thug had not made the trip alone.
He charged down the steps, dodging traffic, in a beeline for the 81st street intersection with the Transverse Road. It hadn’t been five minutes since he parted company with Higgins and Annie, but MacKay and his team had evidently been watching all along, and might have already made a move on his friends.
One of Central Park’s famous carriages — a red and yellow Vis-a-Vis, drawn by a single chestnut gelding — was parked just beyond the entrance. The driver, wearing a formal jacket and an old-fashioned top hat, nodded in his direction as he passed, prompting Kismet to pull up short. “I think my friends may have come through here a few minutes ago; a big guy with dark hair, and a tall, skinny girl with short brown hair.”
The driver nodded. “Saw ‘em. They caught a ride with my buddy, Jack.”
“A ride? A carriage ride?” Kismet frowned. “Just the two of them?”
“Not sure. But I know Jack’s route if you want to follow ‘em.”
“Do it.” Kismet swung into the coach, settling into the front facing seat. “There's a big tip for you if you can catch them.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” answered the driver with a grin and he climbed up onto his seat, perched about the front wheel. He gave the reins a shake, and horse and carriage lurched into motion together.
Kismet drummed his fingers impatiently on the carved wooden sides of the coach. The animal's hooves and the clatter of the metal rimmed wheels on the paving stones started a low tremor, which passed through every molecule in the cab. Kismet gritted his teeth against the annoying sound, absently wondering how the starry-eyed lovers that frequently made use of the carriages could endure the din.
The horse drew the cab along the gradually curving Transverse Avenue. Children played on the edge of the pond off to the left, oblivious to the anxiety he was experiencing. Unable to simply sit idle, Kismet leaned forward, peering over the driver's shoulder to catch a glimpse of the other carriage.
“Can you push it a little,” he shouted over the rumbling, trying not to sound rude.
The driver shrugged and cracked his buggy whip over the horse, urging the gelding into a trot. The clatter of hooves and wheels on the asphalt was like a blaring siren ahead of the carriage, warning pedestrians to get clear. They did so grudgingly, voicing their opinions with characteristic New York politeness.