The scene above was a patchwork of modern technology and the traditional art of piracy. The crewmen streaming from the junk with crates of booty in their hands would have been right at home in the seventeenth century, but the four-wheeled all-terrain vehicles towing utility carts onto the rickety pier ruined the image. In minutes, the captured treasures were heaped onto the wagons and towed back toward the beach. A group of pirates followed on foot, barely visible to Kismet in his hiding place, but one figure stood out distinctly from the others.
The scarlet fabric of her evening gown served to accentuate rather than conceal the woman’s figure and the mane of blonde ringlets that cascaded to the middle of her back revealed not only her gender, but also her identity. The woman being escorted from the pirate ship was none other than Elisabeth Neuell, former A-list movie star and currently the Sultana of Muara.
What Kismet knew about the actress’ career and her marriage into one of the richest families in Southeast Asia, was solely the product of half-glimpsed supermarket tabloid headlines. He had seen her in one or two film roles — just enough to agree with the general complaint of critics that her talent was mostly underutilized by directors — but aside from that, he knew only that she was a lovely woman who had run away from one fairy tale kingdom — Hollywood — and into another, marrying her prince charming. There had been inevitable comparisons to the life of Grace Kelly, and indeed, in another age, Elisabeth Neuell might easily have launched her career as one of Alfred Hitchcock’s blonde bombshells. In any event, once she had taken the hand of the young Sultan, her interest in making movies had waned, this in spite of the rumored infidelities of both she and her husband. Her questionable moral character did not presently concern Kismet. She was a hostage, a captive of the pirate raiders, and as such demanded his attention.
Her captors were either guilty of very poor judgment, or had effectively trumped a military response; Kismet couldn’t decide which. Either the Sultan would move heaven and earth to recover his bride, or he would leave the pirates alone for fear that harm might come to the Sultana. Kismet decided to remove that wild card from the table.
There was no hesitation on his part. Attempting to rescue the hostage was a natural extension of the same immediacy of response that had prompted him to leave the cruise ship behind in the first place. That she was a beautiful woman did not matter one bit to Kismet; he would have done the same for anyone held captive by the pirates.
He caught a last glimpse of her crossing the beach toward the narrow jungle trail, of her shapely figure and blonde curls limned in moonlight.
Well, maybe it matters a little.
The tropical sea was a warm soup that sapped his energy as he lingered beneath the pier. He waited until all activity on the junk ceased and the last flicker of light from the shore party disappeared into the jungle before crawling stealthily onto the beach.
Despite its imposing shadow, the cliff reaching up to the fortress was not sheer. Foliage clung to its steep slopes, highlighting the protrusions of rock that formed a veritable stairway up the face. Moving with a confidence born of urgency, Kismet deftly picked his way up the cliff, slowing his pace only when the upper reaches of his climb were in sight. He paused just below the lip, listening for the telltale sounds of conversation or footsteps but heard only the noise of the breakers, rushing softly over the reef beyond the lagoon.
The last part of the climb required a dynamic exertion; Kismet could touch the lip of the precipice with his outstretched fingers, but in order to complete his ascent he had to simultaneously jump and heave himself up onto the edge in a single movement. If the sentinels of the fortress' night watch were looking his way when he did, things would get ugly. He exhaled softly as he immediately dropped low and rolled away from the edge, seeking cover.
The walls of the fortress were precariously near to the edge. Kismet cleared the distance to the base of the stone barrier in a few steps, and flattened himself there, trying to pick out the sentries on the battlement above. For thirty seconds he watched, fighting to keep his breathing soft and shallow despite the exertion of climbing in the thick tropical humidity. Then he saw it, the faint glow of a cigarette ember high above, to his left.
The smoldering red point of light hovered motionless for a long time, then flared brightly. A moment later, it soared out over Kismet's head and vanished into the jungle carpet. A barely audible thumping noise indicated that the sentry had resumed a walking tour of the battlement. Kismet counted twenty footsteps before going to work.
He stripped out of his tuxedo jacket and the dress shirt underneath. The latter garment he wrapped tightly around the hooks of the grapnel he had seized before departing the cruise ship. He played out two arm lengths of rope and began whirling the hook and line in a broad circle. When the hook had achieved sufficient momentum, he released it, stepping away as he did, lest it fall back on his unprotected skull.
It did not. The hook sailed over the parapet and landed with a muted thud. The thin layer of fabric wrapped around the metal prongs had effectively muffled the noise of impact. He pulled in the line until the hook caught, giving it a final tug to make sure it was set, then wrapped the line around his body. Almost as an afterthought, he donned the jacket over his naked torso.
His biceps screamed in protest as he began ascending the vertical surface. His stocking-feet slipped uncertainly against the damp upright poles that formed the perimeter of the fortress. Nevertheless, three minutes later, he was atop the palisade, peering up and down the length of the battlement for any sign that he had been noticed.
The only sentry, the man he had spied before, was poised with his back to Kismet on an adjacent wall. His posture suggested that he was urinating out into the jungle canopy. As quietly as he could, Kismet heaved himself over the wall. His landing was light, though to his ears the noise was certainly enough to arouse suspicion. He loosened the hook from where it had bitten into the wood, and drew in the line, coiling it once more over his shoulder.
The pirates had done a great deal of work in order to reclaim the old fort from the jungle, fully restoring several buildings and evidently erecting the three pre-fabricated huts that looked completely out of place in the setting. Kismet nevertheless got the impression that this was a temporary base of operations; a transition point where they could lay low and gradually filter back into the civilized world with their newly acquired wealth.
He moved quickly and quietly, keeping an eye on the less than vigilant sentry who still roamed the battlement, and dropped down into the compound. When he was certain that no eyes would see him, he darted toward one of the nearby structures, taking shelter beneath a large window, covered by a gauzy veil of mosquito netting. There was a light burning from within, but Kismet heard no indication that the room beyond the window was occupied. He cautiously raised his head and peered over the sill.
Elisabeth Neuell sat with her back to the window, gazing into a streaked vanity mirror as she patiently brushed her hair. She now wore only a flimsy negligee, which seemed to be made of the same stuff as the mosquito netting. There was no one else in the room.
Odd attire for a hostage, Kismet thought absently. He savored the role of peeping tom for a brief moment, and then cautiously pulled the veil aside.
“Your Highness,” he whispered.
The Sultana’s eyes found him in the mirror, and her hand froze in mid-stroke, but otherwise she did not react to his presence.