He pushed through the throng, crossing the wide avenue toward the corner of 42nd and Broadway. Once his feet touched the sidewalk, he spied his next destination: a green globe, like a lamppost, standing above a stairway that descended into the bowels of the city. "There," he said, steering Irene toward the subway entrance.
Pedestrian traffic on the stairs was heavy with people commuting to the celebration, but they managed to force their way through the rising mass into the warmer, more spacious interior of the station. Kismet stripped off his ruined jacket to ease the impact of his appearance and minimize the curious stares of onlookers.
Following the signs on the wall, Kismet guided Irene through the underground maze, down a long escalator to the platform that serviced the numbers one, two and three trains to lower Manhattan and beyond. While traffic out of the station was heavy, there were only a handful of people waiting on the southbound platform.
They hastened down the concrete island, ducking behind one of the enormous supporting columns. After so much frantic action, it was difficult to simply stand still and wait. Irene leaned against the pillar, but the stale air and heat sent a wave of vertigo crashing over her. "I think I'm going to be sick."
Kismet gripped her shoulder reassuringly and eased her to the floor. "It's all right. You've been through a lot today. Just try to breathe deeply, steadily."
She reached up weakly to take his hand in her own. "Thank you, Nick. For everything."
He knelt beside her. "So, do you know what all this is about?"
She pressed her forehead to her knees and breathed in and out slowly several times before answering. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its quaver. "Actually, I'm more confused now than when those men first grabbed me."
"Why is that?"
"I'm feeling better. Help me up." With a measure of her dignity restored, she began self-consciously smoothing out her skirt, ignoring the permanent stains from their earlier misadventure. "When those men took me, I immediately assumed that they were Mafiya — the Russian gangsters that run Brighton Beach."
"You also mentioned FSB—Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti—back at the church. Why would you have anything to fear from Russian state security?"
"Not so many years ago, FSB was known as KGB; you know this, I am sure. My father escaped from the Soviet Union when I was just a child. We have always lived with the fear that they would one day catch up to us."
"Why? The Soviet Union is ancient history."
"Russians have long memories, Nick. And not all of the people exiled to Siberian gulags were guilty of ideological differences; sometimes it was personal. Nor did all of those KGB agents lose their jobs when the letters changed."
"So it's an old grudge." Kismet maintained a neutral expression. He was still fishing to see how much Irene knew, and what she might reveal. "You said you assumed they were mobsters or FSB; you now believe otherwise?"
She nodded. "They were not Russians at all. I heard only some of their conversations. They must have captured my father sometime earlier in the week. When he saw that they had me also, he immediately agreed to cooperate, so long as my safety was guaranteed."
Kismet held back his questions. He pressed his fingers together, trying to gauge how much he should share with the young woman in an effort to draw her out and win her trust. Before he could reach a decision, a subtle change in air pressure followed by the squeal of metal on metal, signaled the approach of a subway train. He leaned out from behind their place of concealment and checked the platform for any sign of their pursuers. No one appeared to be paying them any special attention.
"Looks like our ride's here. Are you feeling all right?"
"Yes." She stepped in front of him, fixing her dark eyes on his. "Nick, do you know what those men wanted from my father?"
"I have a vague idea." Something about the way she asked the question convinced him of her sincerity, but trust was a different issue altogether. The arrival of the southbound number two train spared him the burden of answering, or worse, deceiving her. The train disgorged another crowd of partygoers, leaving an almost completely empty car. They darted inside just as the doors closed.
Following an unintelligible announcement from the overhead speaker, the subway lurched forward. Kismet stayed low inside the carriage until they passed into the darkened tunnel beyond the station.
"Where to now?"
Kismet sank wearily into the molded plastic seat beside Irene. "My place first, but just long enough to clean up and grab a few things. If Grimes—"
"The big man?"
"Yes. I don't know how he knows me, but he does. Anyway, if he's done his homework, and I'm sure he has, then that's the first place he'll look. Hopefully, we'll be long gone before he comes calling."
She nodded then leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. Almost without thinking, he gently brushed a sliver of glass from her hair. There were still more answers he needed from her, but before he could phrase the questions, he realized that she had already left him; Irene Kerns had fallen asleep. With an affectionate chuckle he leaned back, gazed out into the darkness of the subterranean transit system, and fought the urge to join her.
SIX
Kismet carefully surveyed the front of his brownstone residence looking for anything out place. They had already made a complete circuit of the surrounding block. If Grimes and his bunch had somehow leapfrogged ahead to the Brooklyn Heights neighborhood where Kismet lived, they would have had to park somewhere, but there were no unfamiliar cars on the surrounding streets. From what he could tell, the coast was clear.
Irene followed him up the brick steps, into the warmth of the interior hallway and up to the second floor. She waited until they were securely inside the apartment before demanding an explanation.
"Keep it down," Kismet urged, ignoring her protest. He left the lights off, motioning for her to stay by the door as he quickly swept the rooms for signs of an intrusion. In the diffused light from the street lamps trickling in through the windows, she got a look at the personal abode of the man who had rescued her. She was strangely pleased at the total absence of feminine influence in the decor of the front sitting room. Kismet reappeared a moment later. "I think we're okay. Come on in."
She followed his lead, passing through the front room with its large window overlooking the street and down a long hallway into a bedroom with a perfectly made queen-sized mattress. Her brow furrowed slightly at this, but when Kismet flipped on the lights, she saw that the room looked almost unused. Remembering her earlier unanswered question, she turned to him. "All right, it's your turn Nick. There's more to this than you've let on. What's really going on?"
He jerked a thumb toward a door across the hall. "Bathroom's in there. You can clean up, but don't get too comfortable. We won't be here long. As to what's going on…I don't have a clue."
"You do know something. I heard what that man Grimes said to you. Those men weren’t just after me. They wanted you too. You're involved in this…" Her eyes widened in sudden comprehension. "You know where they're taking my father, don't you?"
"That's where you're wrong. If anyone knows where your father is going, it's you."
Kismet turned to leave the room, but she raced after him. "Just what is that supposed to mean?" she demanded.
"It means that those men took your father because he knows where to find what they want. I was just supposed to be the hired help."
"But I don't know what it is they want to find."
His expression hardened and he took a step closer, staring into her eyes, as if attempting to discern there the sincerity of her statement. "Grimes and Harcourt are looking for the Golden Fleece."