Her features were classically Russian: broad cheekbones framing a triangular face, marred only by a strip of silver tape that covered her mouth. Her eyes were liquid black, almost haunting against her delicate white skin. He risked a quick smile before reaching out to take hold of the empty chair beside her.
Rudy was standing over his unmoving companion. "Get up Frank. Quit screwing around."
Kismet quietly stood up, lifting the sturdy chair over his head. Rising onto his toes, he brought the chair down on Rudy's cranium with such force that the wooden seat shattered and drove the big man to his knees. Kismet triumphantly tossed aside the fragments of his makeshift bludgeon, but in the corner of his eye he saw the giant climbing to his feet. Rudy turned slowly, breathing heavily like an enraged bull. Incredulous, Kismet found himself staring, first at Rudy's sternum, which was at eye level, then up into a pair of crimson-rimmed eyes. The giant's fingers were flexing, curling into fists that resembled sledgehammers.
"That could have gone better," muttered Kismet, glancing around for some other weapon to use against the moving mountain that now advanced on him. There was nothing, certainly nothing that could make a dent in such a formidable adversary. With a grim expression Kismet raised his own fists, aware of how pathetic his defense must have seemed to the other man.
Rudy glanced at Kismet's fists, laughing. Nevertheless, the big man appeared wary, refusing to let his own overwhelming size lead him into the trap of overconfidence. If Rudy was in most ways mentally deficient, in matters of combat he excelled. Fortunately for Kismet, he failed to see what his foe was really up to. Following the lead of Kismet's fists, Rudy edged closer. Kismet feinted, and as Rudy moved to block the punch, Kismet kicked him hard in the crotch.
The giant grunted but shook off the effects of the kick. Kismet on the other hand felt a stab of pain in his injured ankle and hopped back a step, shaking his head. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"
Rudy was in agony, but pain affected him differently than most men; it was like fuel in the engine of his fighting machine. Intent upon dismembering his opponent, he took a step closer but suddenly pitched forward. Surprised, Kismet watched him plummet like a felled tree. As Rudy had passed the bound girl in the chair, ignoring her as she posed no immediate threat, she had stuck her foot out, snaring his ankle to trip him up. Kismet pounced on the giant's back, raining blows with fists and elbows at the base of Rudy's neck.
He knew, even as he struck, that his strength was insufficient to overpower the giant. He could feel Rudy's muscles bunching beneath him, building up like a volcano for a titanic eruption of destructive power. Rudy roared to life, pitching his assailant aside like a rag doll. Kismet rolled away and came to rest against Frank's motionless form.
Rudy rose to his full height a second time, casting a scornful glance at the woman who had felled him. With palpable disdain he lashed a foot against the leg of her chair, causing it to tip. Unable to catch herself, she fell backward, and the chair hit the stone floor with a sickening crack.
Kismet thrust his hand into Frank's jacket, and then turned to face Rudy. The giant stopped the instant he found himself staring into the barrel of a Smith & Wesson .44 Special revolver. Kismet thumbed the action back and jammed the weapon into the Rudy's chest.
"Tougher than her, but are you tougher than this?" Kismet snarled, surprised at his own ferocity. The brutal attack on the helpless girl had ignited his fury. "Down on the floor, hands behind your head."
The glowering behemoth grudgingly complied, sinking first to his knees then lying flat on the stone surface. Kismet kept the pistol ready for use, fully intending to shoot upon the slightest sign of aggression.
He transferred the gun to his left hand and slipped the Benchmade from his pocket, flipping it open one-handed. The blade easily sliced through the knots that held the girl fast. She flexed her fingers to restore circulation then ripped the tape strip from her lips with an unrestrained curse. "Dermo!"
"Are you hurt?" Kismet asked in Russian, his eyes never leaving Rudy.
"Nyet," she replied.
"Will you take the gun so that I may bind this man?"
She nodded, extending an open palm.
"Are you able to shoot to kill if necessary?" pressed Kismet, not quite ready to surrender the weapon.
"I might shoot this dog even if it is not necessary," she snapped, directing her venom toward the prone giant.
Kismet found her rage reassuring. "Please do not shoot unless you must. The sound might raise the alarm and bring his companions."
"I would like to shoot them also, but there are not enough bullets. Do not worry. I will not shoot unless he moves."
That was good enough for Kismet. He passed the revolver over to the young woman then knelt beside Rudy. He stripped the giant of his sidearm and slid it toward the girl. He then indelicately grabbed Rudy's wrists and shackled them with the ropes that had bound Peter Kerns only minutes before. Kismet pulled the knots hard enough to cause the giant to wince. He resisted an impulse to kick Rudy, choosing instead to properly greet his new companion.
He found himself staring into the muzzle of the gun. He frowned, wondering if this was her idea of a joke. "That is not a wise thing to do. Please lower the gun."
"I don't know if you are Mafiya or FSB — I do not really care. But I will not permit you to hold me captive any more than I would surrender myself again to these men."
"You don't understand," replied Kismet. "I am not either. My name is Nick Kismet. I am trying to help you."
"Kismet?" Comprehension dawned in her eyes and she smiled wryly, switching fluidly into English with only a hint of accent. "An unusual name. Doesn't that mean something?"
Kismet raised an eyebrow then broke into laughter. "Yes, it does. I wish I had known you spoke English."
"You weren't doing so badly in Russian." She lowered the gun and offered it to him. "Irina. But I've always gone by Irene; Irene Kerns."
Kismet took the revolver and eased the action down. "A pleasure to meet you, Irine. Now, I suggest we get out of here while we still can."
He glanced around, noticing for the first time an enormous tapestry that dominated the end of the hall. The tapestry was weighted at the bottom, hanging all the way to the floor, and its ornate center rippled and pulsated, as though the wall was a living creature. The coat of arms emblazoned there — a white shield quartered by a rough black cross — was oddly familiar, and after a brief scrutiny he remembered that he had seen it in a book detailing an incident of Vatican complicity with Nazi Germany; it was the crest of the Teutonic Knights.
"And should I call you Mr. Kismet?" Irene intoned.
He took her hand and led her back toward the ladder. "Nick is fine."
Despite his outward confidence, he felt a sudden sense of foreboding creeping over him, and he unconsciously tightened his grip on the revolver. Everything that had happened from the moment Harcourt walked into his office pointed to a larger conspiracy. The tapestry seemed like yet another link in a diabolical chain. Perhaps he had been too quick to dismiss the possibility that his old nemeses had returned; perhaps the Prometheus reference all those years ago, had been a smokescreen to divert his attention from this, a reportedly defunct feudal brotherhood with ties to Germany. He was beginning to get the feeling that he was in over his head, and wondered for the first time if Lyse had gotten away safely. Approaching the ladder, he peered upwards. The dark aperture above revealed nothing. He jammed the revolver into his belt. "Wait here."