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Leading from the top of the snowdrift, directly to where he stood, was a succession of enormous black spots — his footprints. Each step he had taken had left a depression in the snow, which in turn cast a shadow in the harsh glow of the artificial lights.

I couldn't have been more obvious, he thought, if I had come down blowing a trumpet. It would be virtually impossible for the sentry not to see his tracks; the only question was how would he react? If he sent up an alarm, then Kismet was as good as dead.

Kismet's hand dropped to his belt, gripping the haft of the kukri, ready for the inevitable. The crunch of the watchman's boots grew louder. Kismet heard the drawn out sound of the man turning ninety degrees on his heel, and could almost visualize each step that brought him closer to where Kismet was hiding. He began counting the paces, dreading the instant when the steps would grind to a halt, the sentry suddenly aware of an intruder in the camp. His hand tightened on the wooden grip of the knife.

The guard marched by without breaking stride.

Kismet nearly collapsed in relief. The watchman had passed right by the telltale footprints without even stopping to scratch his head. Kismet wondered if the man had been miraculously struck blind. Rather than waste the reprieve, he kept listening until he heard the heel grind of a right turn, and then signaled for Irene to join him.

As she darted across the snowfield, creating a second set of incriminating prints, Kismet wondered again at the guard's failure to notice. The shadows were so glaringly evident from where he waited, standing out in stark contrast to the pale snow. After a moment's contemplation, he figured it out. From his position, staring up the hill with the klieg lights shining from behind him, the shadows were perfectly visible, but from the guard's perspective, walking perpendicular to the light source, the shadows would look irregular, masked by the uneven contours of the snow. The sentry's night vision was also likely diminished by the glare, making it even less probable that their intrusion would be detected. Once Irene reached his side, they remained motionless until the guard completed another pass without noticing their tracks.

The nearby tent was the largest of the camp. Its olive drab canvas clothed a surface area comparable to a circus big top or a backwoods revival tent. The overwhelming size of it piqued Kismet's curiosity. There was only one reason he could imagine for such an enormous covering. Using his folding Balisong knife, he sliced through the fabric and peeked inside.

His suspicions were confirmed. Beneath the great tent, Harcourt had begun an epic archaeological excavation. All of the snow had been cleared away and tons of dirt had been loosened and moved into heaps around the tent's perimeter. Near the north edge Harcourt had exposed a cave entrance, possibly where an underground river had issued from the mountainside. Kismet knew intuitively that this was the location marked on Kerns' survey map.

A handful of incandescent bulbs were strung throughout the tent, providing enough light for Kismet to conclude that no one was in the enclosure. "Let's go in."

"What about my father?"

"Once we find him, we're not going to have the luxury of time. I'd like to have some answers before I leave here. And I want to make sure that Harcourt doesn't get his hands on the Golden Fleece."

"I thought getting my father out was our first priority." The implicit accusation in her caustic tone stung.

He turned and took her shoulders in his hands. "It has always been my first priority. But the Fleece is something I can't ignore."

"Sure. If you find the Golden Fleece, you'll be rich and famous." She struggled free of his grasp. "I can't believe I ever thought you cared."

Fearful that she was going to blunder off in her rage and expose them to Harcourt's guards, he gripped her arm, causing her to wince. "Damn it, Irene, you've got it all wrong."

If the Fleece did exist — if it was composed of the strange reactive element that could be turned into a weapon — then it was more than just an important archaeological find. More importantly, it was exactly the sort of thing that might lure the agents of the Prometheus group into the light. But how was he to explain that to Irene before she betrayed their presence with an emotional outburst?

"It's not about fame or wealth," he continued. "It's about a relic of enormous historic value, and possibly incredible power, falling into the wrong hands. And I don't mean Harcourt. He's just a puppet, working for evil men who will use the Fleece in terrible ways. We can prevent that. We have to."

She shook her arm, trying to break his hold. "Let go of me. So help me, I'll scream."

"Five minutes," he pleaded, relaxing his grip, but unsure of how she would decide. "If we stick together, there's a chance we might pull this off. But if you go off on your own…"

Her eyes did not lose their hard edge but she relented. "All right. Five minutes."

He let go of her arm, nodded and commenced inserting himself through the rent in the canvas. Irene however, wasn't finished. "Nick. This changes everything."

He didn't know how to respond. Damn her for not understanding, for not realizing that his motives weren't selfish and for complicating his decision with emotional blackmail. But there was no way, given the urgency of the moment, to make her comprehend that his decision to find out the truth about the Golden Fleece in no way eclipsed his commitment to helping her. And valuable time was being lost as he wrestled with the problem. Unable to explain, he turned away and threaded himself into the tent.

After climbing over a heap of dirt, he found himself standing above a trench, six feet deep and terminating at the tunnel mouth. He squatted down at the edge then lowered himself in. A shadow fell over him and he looked up to see Irene, arms folded across her chest, watching him. He decided to ignore her.

Harcourt had been exceedingly professional in his excavation. Kismet could see the attention to detail; the careful laying out of reference grids with string lines and markers to indicate when and where something of importance was located. Chalk marks differentiated the soil horizons and rock strata on the trench walls, highlighting approximations of how the sediment had built up over the course of several millennia.

Kismet wished that he could have been more than just a hasty spy making a cursory inspection of the dig. Instead, he had to settle for making a few quick mental notes before hurrying toward the cave entrance.

Harcourt had been more successful there. A number of markers highlighted his discoveries: the petrified remains of a fire-pit, possibly used as a forge; animal bones in such a concentration as to indicate a refuse heap; even one wall of a wooden structure embedded in the embankment. Kismet pushed on and entered the tunnel.

It was darker here, and he paused to take the MagLite from his pack A red filter muted the intensity of the light, but provided enough illumination for him to survey the smooth rock walls, examining the marks left by the passage of time. The history of the place spoke to him. He lingered for only a moment, then shut off the light and hurried back to Irene.

When she saw him return empty-handed, she registered a puzzled expression. "Are you satisfied?"

"More than you can know." He scrambled up the side of the trench and brushed himself off. "Come on. Let's go find your father."

The next tent they looked into turned out to be a supply depot, piled with fuel cans, foodstuffs and other crates of unknown purpose. "They're being supplied by air drops," he deduced aloud. "There's no way they could have brought all this stuff up in a single truck."

"Supplied by whom?"