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"Oh, really? My mistake." He picked up the case and strolled toward the door. "Consider my offer, Nick. You have a chance to be a part of history. Be seeing you."

Kismet did not move, struggling to keep his balance; the inside of his head was roaring with the sudden rush of adrenaline. He strove to remain imperturbable as Harcourt exited, but the moment he heard the Englishman's footsteps in the hall, he jumped up, retrieved his knife and ran to the door. He opened it a crack and peered after his departing guest.

Harcourt strode purposefully for the exit. A moment later, someone else appeared and headed down the vacant hallway toward him; a shapely feminine figure in a remarkable strapless black cocktail dress that seemed, like Harcourt's helmet shard, to defy the laws of physics.

Kismet groaned; beautiful as she was, at just this moment Lysette Lyon was the last person on earth he wanted to see. As the taller man passed by, Lyse paused and looked over her shoulder at him. Kismet waited until Harcourt turned the corner leading to the elevator foyer before bursting into the corridor.

"Nick." She flashed her lethal smile. "Sorry I'm late, but this weather has slowed things down and parking was a nightmare."

Kismet pushed past her. He could hear the sound of the elevator in the shaft. If Harcourt was taking it up from the lower level, it stood to reason that he would be leaving through the front entrance facing Central Park.

"Bad timing, Lyse. I'm sorry, but our night on the town will have to wait." As soon as the elevator doors thumped shut, Kismet sprinted past the foyer and down the hallway to a flight of stairs at north end of the building. He could hear Lyse's heels tapping a quick staccato rhythm in his wake.

Rounding the banister, Kismet flashed a wave to the guard posted at the seldom-used 81st Street entrance and pushed through the door. He hastened along the perimeter of the castle-like structure, ducking low alongside the massive stone walls, and paused at the corner where he could surreptitiously observe the stairs that faced the park. Harcourt was descending the stone steps, moving purposefully toward an idling black Lincoln Towne Car. As he approached, the driver of the vehicle got out and opened the back door.

"Care to fill me in?"

Kismet turned to find Lyse peering over his shoulder. She looked somewhat ridiculous as she stretched on her tip-toes in the high-heeled shoes. He noted that she had at least managed to pull a lightweight raincoat over her cocktail dress. A thought occurred to him. "You said you had trouble parking. You drove?"

"Mmhhmm. And what a drive. I'm famished."

"Fine. You go get something to eat. I need to borrow your car."

"What? Not a chance. We may be old friends, but you're too old, and we're not that friendly."

Kismet frowned. "I need to follow that man."

Lyse stared back, her face uncharacteristically serious. "Is it really important?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Okay. I'll drive you. I owe you one."

"You owe me plenty. But thanks."

The black Towne Car pulled into the moderately light traffic moving along Central Park West, and then signaled for a turn onto 81stStreet. Lyse led Kismet back along the north side of the museum, across the lawn toward Columbus Avenue. Traffic was heavier there, but they crossed against the light and jogged down West 81st until Kismet spied an all too familiar shape.

"Oh, God. Not the Bug."

Lyse affected a hurt expression. "Nick, I thought you loved the Bug."

"Jesus, Lyse. That car's older than I am. And it's not exactly inconspicuous."

The last point was difficult to argue. Though he knew from experience that Lyse always kept the candy-apple red 1965 Volkswagen Super Beetle in superb condition, it was nevertheless something of a modern relic.

"Beggars can't be choosers, Nick. Would you'd rather try following him on foot?"

Kismet growled, but conceded her point and squirmed into the cramped interior. With any luck, the scattered snow showers would afford them a degree of concealment as they tailed Harcourt to his next destination. Lyse turned the key and the Volkswagen engine rattled to life. Kismet reconsidered walking, but as Harcourt's Lincoln turned left onto Columbus Avenue only a block away, Kismet knew their window of opportunity would not stay open for long. "Try not to lose them."

"Please Nick," she said, sounding wounded. "It's me."

The Super Beetle slipped easily from its parking space and puttered toward the intersection. Lyse executed a rolling stop, and then darted across two lanes, to the annoyance of a Yellow Cab that had to fan its brakes imperceptibly to let her in. Kismet scanned the road ahead, spying the ornate taillights of Harcourt's car about a hundred yards ahead.

"There he is," observed Lyse, easing back on the accelerator to maintain the distance. "He's staying to the inside. I'd say they're heading downtown. So who is this guy?"

Kismet rubbed his eyes as if he had a headache. Harcourt’s bombshell was still ringing in his ears. There seemed but one explanation: the mysterious Prometheus group had resurfaced. But he was not about to trust Lyse with that supposition. Instead, he answered her query with a simple, if incomplete statement of fact. "Sir Andrew Harcourt. He's an archaeologist from London."

"Yeah? From your tone, I take it he didn't get a Christmas card from you this year?"

"We butted heads a couple years back. Harcourt is a sensationalist. Most archaeologists focus on a particular area of study and pretty much devote their career to it. Harcourt is one of those guys who likes to develop flashy theories and make a big production out of his digs; live television coverage and so forth.

"About three years ago, he stumbled onto what looked like a Norse burial mound upstate. He excavated it and evidently found some impressive stuff; it looked good on camera at least. As I recall, he tried to link the burial mound with the legend of Beowulf; an epic poem, written in old English, a fairy tale, about a brave warrior who went on a quest, slew a dragon and got killed for his trouble."

"Saw the movie. Kind of a downer."

Kismet continued with a nod. "Harcourt tried to draw on similarities between the legend and his discovery, suggesting that the poem might have been the story of an ancient warrior who actually traveled to America centuries before Columbus. I don't know if he actually believed that he had found the burial place of the real Beowulf, but when they edited the footage for the Discovery Channel, it sure sounded that way."

"Where's the crime in that?"

"Pop science is great for getting kids interested, but when you try to build on a foundation of mythology — folk tales and superstition — you just cloud the issue."

She threw him a sidelong glance. "Why? I mean, sometimes those legends are based on real events, right?"

"Harcourt's methods tend to blur the distinction. When you try that hard to reconcile fairy tales with established historical facts, you only obscure the truth. Just imagine if I came forward and claimed to have discovered the golden coffin of Snow White. I might get a lot of attention, but the truth of the matter is, Snow White is just a fairy tale. It didn't really happen. So even if I really had found an empty golden coffin, by saying that it belonged to a character from a fairy tale, I would be misdirecting people away from the facts about whose coffin it really was."

Lyse looked unconvinced but Kismet didn't know how to illustrate the problem more simply. "Well anyway, there's more to the story. In addition to the Norse artifacts there were quite a few Native American pieces at the site. Naturally it turned into a pissing contest, and because his theories were so wild, Harcourt ended up getting pushed out. I'm afraid that was mostly my doing."

"Ah, so that's why you two are best pals."

Before he could answer, the black car ahead of them angled left onto Broadway. Lyse peered intently through the drizzle, then downshifted for a surge of power. The Volkswagen shot forward and rapidly closed the gap between the two cars. "They're heading downtown, all right. I'm going to pass them."

"What? I don't want them to see me."

"They're a lot less likely to realize that we are following them if we're ahead of them. Just look away as we go by."

Before he could argue, Lyse swung the Super Beetle into the left lane and drew alongside the Lincoln. Kismet hastily folded himself over, pressing his torso against his knees below the level of the window. He gave her a scorching glance as she looked over to the other driver and smiled mischievously.

"Damn it, Lyse!"

She laughed and floored the accelerator pedal. The rear-mounted engine whined in protest as the smaller car pulled ahead of the considerably more powerful Lincoln. When they had pulled back into the right lane, Kismet sat up and risked a look through the back window. The Towne Car's headlights were twin spots of brilliance, perhaps a hundred yards behind them. "Don't worry. In a few minutes I'll let them pass us again. They'll never figure it out."

Kismet sighed. It was probably a good plan; he was just irked that she hadn't consulted him first. Typical Lyse.

"I hate to bring this up," she continued. "But I came to see you for a reason."

"I know, I know. That fake statue. You'll get it tonight. I promise."

She seemed satisfied with his assurance. "Good enough. Now, finish the story. You got him kicked off the dig. Then what?"

Kismet shrugged. "I lost track of him. It’s not like it was some kind of grudge match. Anyway, he's got a new pet project: he just walked into my office claiming to have found an historical link to the legendary Golden Fleece."

"Another fairy tale?"

"Exactly. In fact, the legend of Jason and the Argonauts is just about the original fairy tale."

"I've heard of it."

Kismet nodded. "The legend tells of an adventurer named Jason who was sent on a quest to find the hide of a golden ram."

"Real gold? It was worth a lot then?"

"Maybe. Some versions of the legend ascribe various supernatural powers to the Golden Fleece; control over the elements, healing, and so forth. In the legend, Jason got together a crew of heroes, including Hercules, to sail a ship called the Argo to the land of Colchis. They had the usual adventures along the way, monsters and so forth. When they reached Colchis, Jason tried to negotiate for the Fleece, but ended up stealing it with the help of the king's daughter Medea. She was a priestess of the temple where the Fleece was kept and used her witchcraft to help Jason defeat the Fleece's guardians. They left Colchis with the prize and returned to Jason's homeland, Iolcos, where he eventually became king."

"And they all lived happily ever after?"

"Hardly. Jason divorced Medea and married someone else. Medea murdered Jason's new wife, her own children, and just about everyone else he loved. He died a bitter failure. He was resting in the shadow of the Argo when a loose beam collapsed on him and shattered his skull." Kismet sighed thoughtfully, gazing out at the passing buildings. "It's the sort of ironic end that comes to people who spend their whole lives searching for treasure and glory."

"And the Golden Fleece? Harcourt is looking for it, and you want to beat him to it?"

Kismet looked over with a stern expression. "The Golden Fleece is just a fairy tale."

"Then why are we following him?"

"Because he knows something," replied Kismet gravely. "Something that no one is supposed to know."