Some of the squares were marked with numbers and Cyrillic letters; a private code detailing Petr Chereneyev's geological survey of the region. Irene pointed to one area marked by a broad circle near the eastern edge of the map, A dotted line trailed away from it following a narrow gully that wound a vague course toward the coast.
"That's a dry riverbed, probably the original course of the Rioni River. My father discovered it shortly after we came here. One theory holds that the name Poti comes from an ancient word for 'gold river.' I'll bet that is where he found the artifacts."
Kismet leaned forward, placing his palms at the lower corners of the representation. He counted off the squares separating Poti from the site in the mountains. "The roads will get us most of the way, but it looks like we'll have to go about twenty-five miles overland."
"As the crow flies," Irene countered. "But you've got the change in elevation to contend with. And it's virtually impossible to travel in a straight line up there."
Kismet nodded. The contour lines illustrating relative elevation showed the site to be more than a thousand meters up — well above the snow line. "Well, I suppose it could be worse."
Before he could opine further on the trials that lay ahead, a booming sound rolled through the cellar. It was unmistakably the voice of Anatoly Grishakov, calling out to Irene. Kismet hastily gathered up the maps and rolled them into a tight tube, which he folded over and slipped into the side pocket of his jacket.
Irene frowned. "We need his help, Nick. To get up that mountain, if for no other reason."
"Are you down there, Irina?"
"All right," Kismet whispered. "But not a word about the Fleece. I still don't trust him."
The Russian's voice grew louder as he tramped down the steps. He poked his head out from the stairway, catching sight of them. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
Irene turned to face him. "Anatoly, old friend, we need your help."
Kismet pulled his heavy leather bomber jacket tight across his chest, trying in vain to shut out the permeating chill. While the landscape around him was blanketed in snow, it was the altitude that made the air so unbearably frigid. He found himself wishing that he had worn an extra shirt, but his duffel was back at Anatoly's house, now several kilometers away. His black waist pack held only his kukri and a few other utilitarian items, nothing that would fend off the cold.
Anatoly's assistance had proved to be more than worth the risk of trusting him. The big Russian had in fact closed his ears to the details of their quest, staunchly proclaiming that it was better for him not to know. As matters stood, Anatoly knew only that Irene and Kismet needed to trek into the mountains. To that end, he had supplied them first with a hearty meal and a good night's sleep; and secondly, with transportation into the foothills. At dawn, the big man had awakened them, stuffing yet another feast into them before loading them into his truck. Although the vehicle was lacking in creature comforts, the brief ride on the primitive roads that carved up toward the mountains cut their trip in half and Anatoly delivered them to a snow-covered farm at the base of the Caucasus in time for lunch.
The farmer, one of Anatoly's wife's many relatives, required even less convincing than Anatoly before volunteering his help. After dining, Kismet and Irene were taken to the barn where the farmer stabled his horses.
Kismet was duly impressed by the draft animals. Although he had done his share of riding as a youth, he had little experience with these enormous equines. Their hindquarters were nearly as tall as he was, supported on thick legs that rippled with muscle. Before he could inquire as to their purpose, the farmer selected two of the horses and led them to another part of the barn. It was there that Kismet finally began to understand.
Resting on a layer of straw, alongside a wheeled cart and various plowing implements was a sturdy sleigh. The horse drawn sled was almost exactly as Kismet had envisioned every time he heard Christmas carolers sing 'Jingle Bells.' While they watched, the old farmer strapped the horses into a yoke harness and hitched them to the sleigh.
"Can you drive this, Kristanovich?" Anatoly asked.
"I'll manage." Kismet climbed up into the bench seat and took the reins from the farmer. Irene hopped in beside him. Her colorful dress had been replaced by less elegant but more practical clothes; heavy trousers, a flannel shirt and a cable knit sweater. The farmer's wife appeared at the door, her arms piled high with hand-woven blankets of wool and even a few crudely sewn animal pelts. Kismet accepted these, grateful for the supplemental warmth.
Anatoly pulled Kismet aside for a final conference. "Kristanovich, the farmer tells me that three days ago, a group of men went up into the mountains."
Kismet forgot about the cold. "How many men?"
Anatoly repeated the question to the farmer in a tongue Kismet did not recognize. The farmer began to babble forth information, which Anatoly passed on to Kismet. "A dozen men. Six of them were soldiers — no, that's not right." His craggy brow furrowed, and then he shrugged. "He said 'sailors.' They wore naval uniforms. The others looked like laborers. He thinks they are prospecting for gold. Foolish of them to venture into the mountains in winter."
"Did he recognize any of the men?"
Anatoly gave Kismet an odd look, but passed the question along to the farmer and similarly relayed the answer. "No, but they were wearing heavy coats and mufflers."
"How were they traveling?"
"A truck. It is doubtful that they got very far. The snow is deep and hides much. There are many ravines and cliffs concealed by the drifts."
Kismet nodded. "That's very helpful. Thank you."
"I thought it might be. The farmer says you should watch out for them. He doesn't trust them. The search for gold makes men do wicked things." He looked Kismet in the eye. "Are you looking for gold also, Nikolai Kristanovich?"
"No, but if I see any, I'll definitely pick it up."
Anatoly laughed, stepping back and swatting the lead horse on the rump. The animal whinnied, then leaned into its yoke and strained to draw the sleigh forward. In minutes, the powerful team had pulled the sleigh out of the barn and into the snow. The farmer and his wife made a second trip out with supplies, this time in the form of dried foodstuffs, much more than Kismet anticipated needing. Nevertheless, he nodded his head to the farmer in gratitude.
They quickly found the tracks left by the vehicle the farmer had seen three days previously. The snow had partially filled in the ruts, but the long, perfectly parallel lines made them easily identifiable.
"Do you think my father is with them?" asked Irene.
"I'd say it's a good bet. Harcourt wouldn't attempt trying to find the site based on someone's directions alone. The fact that he took your father out of the United States in the first place suggests that he'll hold on to him until he has what he wants."
"It's been three days. Do you think they've found it already?"
Kismet sensed the unasked question in her voice. "I'm sure your father is fine. If the farmer was right, their progress will be slow. The trucks could only take them so far. They might have even had to finish the trek on foot. They may have reached the site, but I doubt they've excavated much. Harcourt is a fool to try doing this in the dead of winter. Either that, or he’s desperate."
Kismet's words had been meant to reassure her, but he noted right away that they had the opposite effect. "Irene, we'll get him back. Don't worry."