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He caught up to the straggler a few minutes later. The young skier was huffing through the flats, making too much noise to hear the muffled thumping of hoof-beats in the snow. Kismet pulled alongside him, and as the soldier became aware of his presence and looked up at him, Kismet planted his boot in the man's face. For a second time, the unlucky ski trooper went tumbling, this time to lie in a senseless heap. Kismet pulled back on the reins, causing the massive animal to rear up. When its hooves came down, they smashed one of the soldier's skis, snapping it in two.

Only moments later Kismet caught a glimpse of the sleigh, and the three soldiers chasing it. The trail led out onto the face of the mountain, gradually descending at first, but an ominous hairpin turn lay directly ahead. Kicking the horse's sides with his heels, he charged after them. As he neared the rearmost skier, he saw Peter Kerns climbing out onto the draft animal, and knew what they were attempting. A desperate measure, he reflected, but possibly their only chance at evading the commandos and surviving the switchback in the path ahead. Swinging the rifle by the barrel, he clouted the skier in the back of the head with the rifle butt and hurried onward.

As he pulled within striking distance of the second soldier, Kismet saw the leader of the pack make a courageous attempt to thwart the Kerns' escape. With an all out effort, the commando caught the back end of the sleigh and pulled himself aboard unnoticed by Irene. He kicked his skis off, and leaped forward to wrap his arms around the young woman.

Swinging the rifle like a club, Kismet downed another skier and charged after the doomed sleigh.

At that instant, Peter Kerns lost his hold on the harness. The rig slipped down, burrowing into the snow like a vaulting pole, and the entire sleigh jack-knifed, catapulting into the air and flipping over in a deadly arc. The bench seat struck the horse's hindquarters, knocking it and Kerns to the ground. Irene and her captor separated in mid-air and flew out ahead of the sleigh, which in turn hit the snow behind them and bounced up and over the edge of the trail. Irene and the soldier rolled uncontrollably toward the precipice, and then vanished from sight. Kismet reached the edge in an instant that seemed to stretch out into an eternity, a sickening certainty forming in his throat.

Miraculously, the falling soldier had found a tenuous handhold; the ice shelf was solid enough — for the moment at least — to bear his weight. His gloved fingers dug in with almost superhuman determination. As he depended from the precipice, Kismet saw another shape directly below him.

With equal tenacity, Irene clung to the soldier's boot. Kismet felt weak-kneed with relief. Peter Kerns was at his side a moment later, hesitant to look over, knowing that his daughter was surely dead three hundred feet below.

Though Irene's grip was unbreakable, Kismet knew that the soldier's hold on the ice might fail at any moment. He drew his kukri and sliced off a long section of leather from the reins of his horse, then looped the stiff line around his fist and knelt at the edge to lower it down. Kerns saw what he was attempting, and moved to secure Kismet's legs, allowing him to extend his reach out over the precipice.

The soldier chattered in German, begging for Kismet to simply pull them both to safety, but he ignored the young man. Irene's safety was the priority; saving the commando would depend upon how charitable he was feeling afterward.

"Irene. Grab it."

She looked up, into his eyes, and was magically transformed. Her fear vanished, melted by the revealed glow of his appearance. Kismet had survived, against all odds, and charged in like the prince in a fairy tale to rescue her from the jaws of the dragon. Without hesitation she released one of her clinging hands and grasped the strap. Wrapping the leather around her palm, she hugged it to her breast, and then grabbed hold with the other hand. As she swung away from the soldier's feet, Kismet began pulling on the line, reeling her in. With Kerns' help, Irene was drawn to safety in a matter of seconds.

Almost as an afterthought, Kismet reached down and grabbed the soldier by the back of his collar. "What the hell," he muttered through clenched teeth, pulling the man to safety. "I'm feeling generous."

Irene appeared in front of him and wrapped her arms around him. He grimaced involuntarily as her embrace aggravated bruises on his torso too numerous to count, but it was only when the soldier was lying face down in the snow, hands behind his head, that Kismet relaxed and allowed himself a contented sigh of relief.

PART THREE:

INTO THE BLACK

ELEVEN

Kismet contemplated the burning match in his fingers for a moment then waved it in the air until its flame was extinguished. Although there were yet a few hours of daylight remaining, the mildewed confines of Anatoly Grishakov's cellar saw none of it, forcing Kismet to once more make use of the old kerosene lamp with the missing chimney.

The lamp was actually the second flame he had lit; the first was in the dusty hearth, where a fire now crackled, warming the exhausted pair, father and daughter, that were stretched out before it on a bed of blankets.

Their journey down the mountain had taken several more hours, and the path they followed had brought them to the coastline a couple miles north of the city. None of them had really slept in over twenty-four hours, and exhaustion was beginning to take a toll, especially on the Kerns. Practically sleepwalking, Irene and her father had allowed Kismet to tuck them in front of the fireplace in Irene‘s room. Kismet too had fought a battle with heavy eyelids and muscle aches for much of the descent, but as they neared the city, his mind came fully awake. His fatigue evaporated as he began to contemplate the next step in the quest for the Fleece.

He already had a notion of where he would find it; it would fall to Kerns to supply the details that would make searching unnecessary. He spread one of Kerns' old survey maps out on the tabletop, and studied it in the flickering glow of the lamp. The paper had gotten damp during the course of their adventure on the mountain, but it was intact and the ink markings had not blurred.

His forefinger moved lightly across the paper, first settling on the site of the mountain camp where Harcourt was conducting his futile search. He then followed the line identifying the old riverbed that cut a meandering path down to the sea, a couple miles north of the inlet. There were no further markings along that line, but Kismet didn't need any. The map showed him where to find the Fleece, as effectively as if Kerns had engraved it with the traditional "X" to mark the spot.

He checked his watch; dusk would soon arrive. He knew he should force himself to get some sleep, but his mind would not turn off. His new knowledge had created an entirely different set of problems; getting to the Fleece would require specialized skills that he did not have. Moreover, the equipment he would have to use was antiquated and there was no guarantee that it would work. He would literally be staking his life on its reliability.

Because he could not sleep, he chose instead to search for something to eat or drink. Anatoly and his wife were nowhere to be found, but in their pantry, he found a supply of coffee, and set about brewing a pot. As he savored the first cup, he became conscious of the darkening sky. It would soon be time for his rendezvous with Lyse. Before that, he needed to ask the old man a few questions; tough inquiries of which Irene might disapprove. He decided not to awaken her as he knelt down and shook the engineer.

Peter Kerns was practically stove-up from the ordeal of his imprisonment and the brutal trip down the mountain. Kismet nevertheless roused him with a mug full of coffee and planted him at the table in front of the map. Kerns stopped in mid-sip, suddenly aware of the paper spread before him. "Ah."