Kismet gripped the stern railing and gazed into the distance. The wake churned up by the small chartered boat marked a turbulent pathway on the surface of the water; thick and distinct as it bubbled up from the spinning screw beneath the waterline but quickly spreading out until its message was no longer discernible.
Beyond the point where even the ripples of their passage could no longer be seen, the narrow Strait of Bosporus — the passage from the Aegean Sea into the Black — was still ominously visible. In the legend of Jason and the Argonauts, Kismet recalled, a pair of massive rocks called the Symplegades, had wandered about the sea in pursuit of the swift Argo in an attempt to smash it into timbers. Although Jason's ship had survived the passage, hundreds of other mariners through the centuries had fallen victim to the treacherous narrows of the Bosporus which, although lacking the power of movement, was nevertheless a mighty anvil upon which the stormy seas might hammer unfortunate vessels. Kismet was not overly concerned. The strait was becalmed, with only the merest whisper wind blowing out of the Black Sea.
Irene made her away across the deck and stood beside him. "I don't like that man," she grumbled. "It gives me the creeps when he leers at me like that."
Kismet glanced over at her. They were the only passengers on a small freight hauling vessel owned and captained by a Turk named Achmet. He couldn't fault the boat's skipper for staring. She really looked that good.
Irene had blossomed before his eyes over the past few days. As fierce determination supplanted desperation, she had begun to glow with an inner fire. Of course, replacing the work clothes that he had supplied on the night of their escape from Grimes' clutches, with garments more suitable to her form and gender had accomplished wonders.
Irene may have called it 'leering' and perhaps it was, for Achmet made no effort to temper his lecherous grin, but Kismet preferred to think of it as gazing in admiration. The dress that she now wore, a gown of hand dyed silks, tailored for her in the marketplaces of Istanbul, accentuated her beauty in a way that left him breathless.
"Achmet's all right," he replied, unable to suppress a grin. "He might not win a personality contest, but he won't sell us into slavery either."
"Easy for you to say," she retorted. "He isn't looking at you like you were a piece of meat."
Kismet nodded, ceding the point. He was, in truth, not overly concerned about the operator of their present means of conveyance. Achmet was indeed repulsive, a male chauvinist by the most liberal of standards and every inch the stereotypical sailor. But Kismet had learned over the course of many years to trust his own instincts when judging people, and the Turkish skipper had yet to trigger any intuitive alarm bells. He seemed to be a simple, reliable man who just happened to be, as Irene had so succinctly stated, creepy.
Achmet's boat was only the latest in a series of planes, trains and ships that had taken the two of them across one hundred and five degrees of longitude; from the snowy streets of New York to the somewhat milder climate of the Black Sea, off the Turkish coast. The journey had gone well and speedily, at least to the extent that any globetrotter could hope for, but Kismet was growing anxious. He fidgeted with the zipper of his heavy leather bomber jacket and turned back to his traveling companion.
Irene had focused attention on a single location frequented by her father prior to their flight, a place not far from Poti, the coastal city she and her father had called home for many years. Their goal was on a mountainside in the Caucasus, a remote range straddling the border between Russia and the former Soviet Republic of Georgia. Petr Chereneyev had surveyed this region in search of petroleum for the Soviet Union during the height of the Cold War. While the land where Jason the Argonaut had found the Golden Fleece still had a reputation for yielding up occasional nuggets of yellow gold, it was the quest for black gold that now drove men to comb its remote reaches. However, Chereneyev had found something else in the course of his survey up in those distant mountains; a cache of Greek relics that had financed their escape from KGB assassins.
Peter Kerns had likely returned to that place, now in the role of guide for Sir Andrew Harcourt. When the British archaeologist had dropped in on New Year's Eve, Kismet had not expected to become his rival, much less imagined that the man would become a kidnapping menace. But a menace he was, coercing Kerns into revealing the site where he had unearthed the relics. Kismet's growing anxiety stemmed from the fact that every step closer to their goal was a step closer to what would undoubtedly be a violent confrontation with Harcourt. Moreover, if Halverson Grimes was involved with foreign espionage as he suspected, or perhaps something even more sinister — the same group that had menaced him in the desert years before — then their foes would probably have powerful allies at their beck and call. And as if things couldn't get any more complicated, Poti had been virtually annexed by Russian armed forces following the end of the South Ossetia conflict. At every turn, he and Irene would face dangerous enemies and would almost certainly be outnumbered.
Typical, Kismet thought darkly.
"Why the long face?"
Kismet turned and feigned a smile to conceal his apprehension, and then saw by her silent laughter that she was poking fun at him. He returned his gaze to the sea.
"Just thinking about the Clashing Rocks," he lied. "In the legend of the Argonauts—"
"I know all about the Clashing Rocks, Nick. I can quote you chapter and verse about Jason and the Argonauts. I grew up with it."
"Really?"
"To Americans, Greek myths are just that, fanciful fairy tales from an ancient but ultimately dead civilization. But on the Black coast, they view the legend as true history."
"You're kidding." The shaking of her head was answer enough. "I mean, from an academic standpoint, it's reasonable that the Jason legend might have been inspired by an actual historical figure who traveled along the Black Sea coast, but I had no idea that the people living there today were even aware of it."
"It's a part of their heritage. Why is that so hard to understand?"
Kismet shrugged. "Most Americans are oblivious to the rich heritage of their own native legends. They think American history begins with Columbus. Most don't know, or even care to know, of recent historic events in their own back yard. I guess I just assumed that sort of thinking was universal."
"I suppose it's getting to be that way," Irene conceded. "Everyone is too interested in what's going on right now to worry about the past. As a result, they lose out on valuable lessons that the past can teach them."
The significance of her comments finally clicked into place and he saw a connection that had previously eluded him. "Irene, if you know all about the legend, then wouldn't your father as well?"
"Sure. He explained most of it to me. I was quite young at the time."
"Have the locals ever found any artifacts, besides the ones your father discovered?"