He raised his eyebrows knowingly, but did not answer her question. "I'd say they're planning on being here awhile. That could work to our advantage."
"What are you talking about?" He was intentionally evasive, more to annoy her than anything else. If she wasn't going to trust him, why should he be cooperative? He knew it was petty, but she had put him in a vindictive mood. He simply grinned and led her from the enclosure.
The next tent was the smallest of the camp. They did not go in, but Kismet cut a peephole, which revealed it to belong solely to Harcourt. Given the austere conditions, the interior was furnished like an upscale luxury hotel room, replete with a glowing space heater at its center. Repressing mischievous desires, Kismet led the way to the next structure.
"This is interesting," he whispered. "It looks like the main bivouac for the troops."
"Troops? Anatoly said there were only a few soldiers."
Kismet looked again. "Well, now there are a few dozen. Probably paratroopers who dropped in with the supplies."
Irene shook her head in confusion. "I don't get it. I thought this was just about Harcourt and Grimes trying to get the Fleece. Now they have an army on their side? Did they make a deal with the Russian government?"
"These aren't Russian soldiers. Could be mercenaries, or…” He thought about the computer file he had helped Lyse smuggle into the U.S. “Or KSK — German Special Forces."
Irene's stunned silence indicated that their earlier argument was all but forgotten. "German soldiers have invaded Georgia?"
"Hard to believe, isn't it? I suspected that Grimes was working with German intelligence agents when I found you in New York. One of the dominating tapestries in that underground hall belonged to an old papal order called the Teutonic Knights; that's what got me thinking there might be a connection. Then a few other things happened." He did not elaborate with mention of the file on the SD card or the spy that had accosted him at his brownstone. "But I really didn't expect them to make such a big production out of this. It looks like they're willing to risk an international incident, maybe even war with Russia, if that's what it takes to find the Fleece."
"Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"
"I wasn't sure. You didn't need to know. What difference does it make?"
"What difference?" Her stage whisper could barely contain the strident tone of her rising anxiety. "There's no way we can get my father out of here, much less the Fleece."
"Irene, I swear to you that we'll get your father out."
"And the Fleece?"
"Since when does that matter to you?"
"Since I found out that the people are willing to go to war over it."
"Fortunately, that won't happen." He eased away from the bivouac then walked over to the remaining tent.
"How do you know that?" Irene persisted, her whispers growing uncomfortably loud.
"Because the Fleece isn't here." He raised a finger to his lips to silence any further discussion, and then cut a tiny slit in the fabric wall of the shelter. After peering inside, he pulled her close and whispered into her ear. "Pay dirt. There's one guard, and I count five prisoners tied on the floor. One of them is your father."
Irene drew in a breath, suddenly overcome with emotion. "Is he all right?"
"They all look a little thin. My guess is that Harcourt's been using them for slave labor." He looked over and saw tears welling up in her eyes. Impulsively, he reached out to her, hugging her to offer consolation. "Hey, it's going to be all right. We'll have him out of there in no time."
Together they crept around to the opposite side of the tent, to the place Kismet approximated to be directly behind the guard. A second incision revealed his estimate to be correct, and he noiselessly sliced apart the canvas. The guard was standing at attention with his back to them, less than three feet away. After a moment of preparation, Kismet reached in and wrapped his arm around the man's neck.
Rather than raise an alarm by firing the rifle in his hands, the guard instinctively dropped his firearm and tried to pry loose the stranglehold. Kismet yanked him backward through the rent, maintaining constant pressure. After a brief struggle, the man went limp in Kismet's arms.
Like the sentry roaming the perimeter, this man also wore snow camouflage fatigues. The white nylon shell offered no indication that the man belonged to any nation's armed forces. Similarly, his weapon, the AK-47 Kalashnikov semi-automatic rifle — was an anonymous choice, easily obtained by anyone with the right connections and ready cash. That way, if anyone from the expedition was discovered or captured, the German government could simply claim that it was a mercenary force working for private interests. Kismet confirmed that the man was unconscious then dragged him through the hole, back into the tent.
The struggle had awakened some of the prisoners. Except for Kerns, who was still sleeping, the prisoners were all young men, dressed only in trousers and undershirts, with close-cropped hair. It was evident that the body they had found on the trail had once belonged to their number. Kismet gestured for silence and the young men nodded eagerly, understanding that liberation was near.
Irene pushed past him and rushed to her father's side. Kerns awoke gradually, and when his eyes focused and recognition dawned, grief twisted his countenance. "Oh my daughter, they have brought you here, too."
She laughed and pushed away the tears that had were beading at the corner of her eyes. "No, papa. Nick and I are here to rescue you."
Kerns' expression changed to confusion. He looked over to Kismet, who was busy cutting the young laborers free. "Nick?"
"Nick Kismet. It's true, sir. Your daughter and I are going to get you out of here." He extended his hand to the other prisoners. "All of you."
The other young men responded with looks of incomprehension. It was obvious that they did not speak English. "They are Russian sailors," supplied Kerns. "The Germans captured their patrol boat and took their uniforms. Then they forced them to dig."
Kismet nodded. He would have preferred to keep his knowledge of the Russian language a secret, but time did not allow him that luxury. "Which of you is the leader?"
One of the young men raised his hand and started to speak, but Kismet cut him off. "Listen, I can set you free, but this place is crawling with soldiers. If you go to the supply tent, you can get enough food and clothing to make the trip down the mountains."
The young sailor nodded. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You'll have to go through hell to get out of here alive."
He bent over to Kerns, cutting his bonds and helping him to his feet. Kerns looked thinner than when Kismet had seen him in the hall of the Teutonic Knights. His face was bruised and cut, and when he stood he seemed frail, but after a moment he straightened, addressing Kismet in deeply accented English. "They've already been through hell. Getting off this mountain will be easy by comparison."
"I hope you're right." He saw one of the men stooping over the fallen guard, fishing in the man's jacket pocket. A moment later he drew out a silver flask stamped with the insignia of the old Soviet military, a five-pointed red star. The sailor took a long drink from the flask then passed it around to his comrades. A few moments later, the de facto leader of the group offered it to Kismet.
After taking an obligatory sip of the vodka, a somewhat superior distillation than what Severin had served aboard the Boyevoy, Kismet proffered the flask.
The Russian sailor shook his head, indicating that Kismet should keep the container, and then bent over the guard to commandeer his firearm. Kismet frowned. "I recommend you shoot only as a last resort. The sound will awaken the camp."