The anchor was completely drawn in, yet Kismet remained there, clinging with one hand to the metal crosspiece, almost completely submerged. He stared up at the peeling paint on the hull of Anatoly's boat and cursed his ill fortune.
He tried to pull himself up, flexing his right arm, but relented when he felt his grip start to fail. A rushing noise, muffled by the insulation of his helmet, signaled that the engine was turning over. The water around him started to move then he realized that it was not the water, but rather he and the boat moving through the sea.
Anatoly wasted no time driving the boat's engine to maximum thrust. Soon, the trawler was churning toward shore at fifteen knots. The drag of water flowing past Kismet was not as great as if the trawler had been a speedboat or even a craft like the Russian destroyer which still shadowed the fishing vessel, but it was taking its toll. He threw his left hand up, seizing the anchor but losing the remnant of the air hose in the process. The severed rubber line trailed along behind him, partially filling with water.
With his left arm now added to the struggle, he was able to heave himself nearly two feet above the surface. He released the hold of his fatigued right hand and thrust it up to grip the gunwale. With a second stretch and reach of his left arm, he managed to pull his head and shoulders above the agitated surface.
Immediately, he began screaming for Irene or Anatoly to help him up, but his words merely bounced back at him, trapped in the metal globe. He tried to pull himself up farther, but there was nothing else to grab onto, and the weight of the dive suit was too great. He even attempted kicking the side of the trawler with his heavy boots, but nothing could get the attention of the two persons on board.
Even though he had reached the surface, he was still in danger of suffocating. The hose was blocked, and the air supply he had stored from the hold of the golden ship was already stale. The helmet, his salvation against drowning while beneath the sea, now prevented him from breathing the life-giving atmosphere above the water. He could not hope to manipulate the clamps and nuts, which locked the portholes shut, not while hanging from the moving trawler.
His right arm was burning from the ordeal of hanging onto the anchor and Kismet knew he couldn't trust that solitary limb to keep him from slipping back into the sea. Instead, he put his faith in the grip of his left hand and released the right. The boat's forward motion caused him to twist, straining his good arm, and banging his back against the hull, but he ignored the pain and focused his attention on seizing the air line with his free hand. After a moment of fumbling, he fished it from the water and held it upright to restore the flow of air.
A splash of cold seawater drained into his suit as the hose cleared, then cool salty air filled the helmet and subsequently his lungs. With the rubber tube tucked between his thumb and hand, he twisted back around and reached for the gunwale. There was nothing to do but hang on. For almost an hour he remained suspended there, unable to move. His arms began to ache with fatigue, but letting go would mean certain death.
The Boyevoy had broken off and headed west shortly after Anatoly had gotten underway. Not long after the destroyer disappeared over the horizon, the sun began to follow. Anatoly piloted the trawler into the harbor in the gray of twilight. No one at the dock seemed to notice the strange figure clinging to the bow of the craft. Even when a young dockhand cinched the belays, firmly mooring the boat in its berth, Kismet went unseen.
He watched in impotent frustration as his companions disembarked, Anatoly sheltering the younger woman in an avuncular embrace, both of them deaf to his cries, then sagged in defeat as the pair vanished into the growing darkness.
There was nothing left for him to do. He knew he couldn't hang on forever, certainly not until morning, when someone might happen to notice him. With no other options available, Kismet decided to simply let go. He slipped from the bow of the trawler and vanished into the water without a splash.
Irene drank from the glass Anatoly set before her — vodka — but its fire could not cauterize the wound in her heart. The big Russian and his wife looked on, unsure of how to comfort the girl. Finally, Anatoly spoke. "Irina, I know how you must grieve. But think. Your father is safe. You must join him. Go back to your life."
Irene coughed, trying to choke back a sob. "I don't even know how to find him. Nick…I don't know where my father went."
"Kismet said he would make his way home, did he not?"
She shook her head. "Nick met with someone, a friend of his, a woman. My father went with her. But I don't know how to reach them. I'm stuck here. And Nick's gone. What difference does it make?"
Anatoly tried to speak again, but his wife forestalled him, touching her husband's forearm in a gesture that said: 'Leave her be.' The Russian nodded to his spouse and they left Irene alone with her tears.
"A bad day," said Anatoly, when they were out of Irene's earshot. "Kismet did something that was either very brave, or very foolish. He did not come back—"
A loud knock interrupted him. After the events of the previous night, Anatoly was apprehensive about opening the door. "Go to the girl. Hide her."
Irene was numb. The trepidation that gripped Anatoly and his wife ought to have triggered in her a sympathetic release of adrenaline, but she felt nothing at all as she was pushed toward the hearth. They thrust her into a shadowy niche behind the firewood bin. Sealed into a dark, claustrophobic space, still she felt no fear. Through her hollow grief, she had heard the disturbance at the door, and knew that either Severin or Grimes — it didn't matter which — was waiting on the threshold to take her away and subject her to unimaginable torments in order to learn the truth about Kismet's fate, but the realization was meaningless.
There was a metallic click as Anatoly breached his shotgun, and another as he snapped it closed on two loaded barrels. In her mind's eye, Irene saw him warily approach the door, opening it with one hand, while the other remained poised on the triggers. She waited for the sound of a shot, but instead heard only a long silence, broken by the impossible.
"It's about time," complained a familiar voice. "Now can you help me get out of this thing?"
Irene exploded out of her hiding place and gracelessly tripped over the scattering of cordwood in her haste to reach him. She knew, even as she ran, that she must have fallen asleep and was dreaming this moment. Fearful that the ghostly figure might evaporate if she lingered too long with her incredulity, she threw her arms around him and held on with all her might.
Nick Kismet had returned.
FOURTEEN
"So the Golden Fleece is real? It saved your life?"
Kismet smiled. It was not the first time he had heard the incredulous questions. Irene's joy at seeing him had left her virtually paralyzed for several minutes. After being relieved of the burden of the bulky diving suit, Kismet found himself once more submerged, only this time it was a sea of difficult questions in which he foundered.
"Yeah, I guess you could say that. It created a supply of oxygen which I was able to breathe after the compressor was shut off."
Irene looked chastened, as if she were to blame for that act, which at the time she had believed to be a deadly one. Anatoly now spoke. "Then the Fleece is a… a magical thing?"
Kismet shrugged. "In the legend, it has supernatural origins."