Unlike many of his peers, Leeds seemed to honestly believe in paranormal phenomena, and even as he played psychic adviser to movie stars and politicians, he formalized his studies of comparative religion and the occult, earning a PhD and his preferential title.
But the reviews and biographical articles didn’t tell the whole story. Leeds had enemies, and in the darker corners of the Internet, Kismet found accounts of the man’s involvement in black magic, renegade Masonic rites, and devil worship. Some of the conspiratorial rumors were laughable, but Kismet saw a grain of truth in many of them, particularly those which characterized the occult scholar as a rabid white supremacist, and possible a neo-Nazi. Some reports linked him to unexplained acts of violence, even the unsolved murders of some of Leeds’ rivals and harshest critics.
If even half of what was said about the man was true, Leeds was not someone to be trifled with.
By late afternoon, the long hours of physical idleness had left him feeling drowsy. He considered heading to the salon for a drink, but then decided instead to have a sip from his personal supply which he kept in a stainless steel hip flask. The container, adorned with a distinctive red star, was a memento from his recent trip to the former Soviet Republic of Georgia. After freeing some Russian sailors from captivity, one of them had given him the container as a gesture of gratitude.
He hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but looking back, it was a hell of a lot more useful than flowers and a Hallmark Card, especially since he’d replaced the flavorless vodka with some smooth, 127 proof Booker’s Bourbon whiskey.
The spirits compounded his drowsiness and he was just starting to nod off when he felt an unexpected draft on his cheek.
Through the veil of his barely parted eyelashes, he saw someone creeping through the doorway. The figure was indistinct; he could not hope to see the person clearly without opening his eyes and turning to face the intruder. He intuited that it was not Higgins. He did not believe the big man could move as stealthily as the person now closing the door and moving toward him.
Was this another wave of bounty hunting assassins, taking revenge for his part in Elisabeth Neuell's defection from her husband? Was it Dr. Leeds taking preemptive action against a rival Fountain hunter?
Kismet resisted the impulse to hold his breath. The only way to turn the tables on the intruder was to lull him into believing that his entry had gone unnoticed. He measured the person's footsteps with his inhalations. Each breath seemed to bring the intruder closer.
The approaching steps halted right beside him. In his mind's eye, Kismet could see the shadowy form hovering above him, a knife or cudgel gripped loosely in one hand. He concentrated on the barely audible sounds of the person moving, trying to anticipate when the unseen weapon would be raised for use, all the while keeping a steady rhythm of breathing. Inhale…Exhale…Inhale…
Kismet blew out his breath in a burst of motion. Twisting his body, he propelled himself off the bed, striking the intruder in the abdomen. His right hand flew to the nightstand, fingers brushing but failing to grip the butt of the Glock resting there, while his left sought the other person’s throat.
Both Kismet and the intruder hit the floor together an instant later. Kismet heard the breath driven from the other's lungs as his full weight came down. He tried to identify the face, looking for some similarity to the syphilitic assassins that had attacked the previous night, but a stream of fiery light from the afternoon sun struck his sensitive pupils, momentarily blinding him.
He felt the intruder's hands, first trying to pry loose Kismet’s choke hold, then beating ineffectively against Kismet's chest. The blows gave no evidence of superior physical strength, but their determination made up for the lack of raw power. Kismet added his right hand to the stranglehold. “You lose.”
“What the hell?”
Kismet heard the exclamation from behind him — Higgins’ voice — and turned to look. His eyes, still flashing with burned-in retinal fireworks, gradually focused on the big Kiwi, standing in the doorway of the stateroom. Kismet did not relax as his grip one bit as he spoke, “Looks like we've got an unexpected visitor.”
Higgins seemed to ignore him, focusing instead on the intruder. “What on earth are you doing here?”
Kismet looked down for a moment, and then felt the figure beneath him shift. Suddenly, his left arm gave out as the other person struck directly at a pressure point in his elbow. Kismet toppled forward, and the intruder squirmed from beneath him, flipping him over, and straddling his chest.
Instinctively, Kismet fought back. The weight on his torso was hardly enough to pin him down; it was as if the intruder was a mere child. He drew back a fist, ready to pound his attacker senseless. Then his burning eyes focused on the stranger's face, and he understood why Higgins had reacted as he had.
The face of the intruder staring down at him belonged to a young woman. Her short hair and elfin features could not hide the obvious family resemblance. Kismet’s assailant looked enough like Higgins to be his—
“Daughter?”
The waif grinned down at him. “Want to try for best two out of three?”
PART TWO
Audience with the Dead
SIX
“What are you doing here?” repeated Higgins, a hint of anger creeping into his tone.
The girl straddling Kismet fixed him with a disdainful look, then gracefully dismounted and faced him with her hands on her hips. “Good to see you too, Dad.”
Higgins extended a hand to Kismet and helped him up. “I see you’ve met my daughter.”
“I’m afraid we skipped past the introduction and went right to ground-fighting.” He turned to the girl and sized her up.
She looked to be in her mid-twenties. Taller than he had first realized, her willowy frame — thin, but more like a marathon runner rather than a fashion model — was clad in designer blue jeans and a long-sleeved striped t-shirt. Her short dark hair — the same color as Higgins’—was pulled back in a stub of a pony-tail. She wore soft pink lipstick, but no other makeup that Kismet could see; Higgins’ daughter was obviously a tomboy. He extended a hand. “Nick Kismet.”
“Yes, I know.” There was no mistaking the twang of her New Zealand accent.
Realization dawned and he pulled his hand back abruptly. “You never answered his question. What the hell are you doing in my room? Why did you attack me?”
“As I recall, you attacked me.” A defiant smile curled the corners of her mouth, and then she stuck out her own hand. “The name’s Annie, by the way. Annie Crane.”
Higgins pushed between them. “Damn it, girl. I told you to get your arse back to Auckland.”
“Don’t have a hissy fit, dad. The Sultan called off his dogs. He’s already got more bad publicity than he can handle right now.”
Kismet threw a questioning look at Higgins, and the latter rubbed the bridge of his nose as if he was getting a headache. “Annie is my…call her my administrative assistant.”
The girl laughed, but did not interrupt.
“She was at my office in the palace when the shite hit the fan. I told her to get out quick. Obviously, she listens to me about as well as her mother ever did.”