"As you have also surely surmised, the shadow government has a vested interest in the secrets of the ancient world. Even I do not fully grasp the extent to which they have hidden the true history of mankind, but my new allies are aware of many such discoveries, secreted away in the name of protecting mankind from itself. The Golden Fleece is just such a secret, and you can be sure that even now the shadow government is preparing to strike to prevent its power from coming into the light. I would think you of all people would appreciate that this must not be allowed to happen. We must find it first and take it to a place of safety."
Kismet's eyes darted toward Anatoly at the mention of the Fleece, but the Russian had chosen that moment to drain his vodka glass, hiding his reaction behind a mouthful of liquor. Grimes appeared not to notice and continued speaking. "Sir Andrew is capable enough, but you — when you decide to find something, nothing can prevent you. I want you working for me, Mr. Kismet. And I want you to receive the recognition you deserve. I can't change what was done during the war, but the Golden Fleece is another matter. The German government won't hide it away. The man who finds that treasure will be greatly honored. More importantly, I believe that the discovery will draw our mutual enemies into the light."
Kismet weighed Grimes' arguments quickly, trusting his gut reaction as a litmus test. The man he now thought of as a traitor had once been a flag officer in the US Navy and an expert in espionage. Intelligence operations weren't just about gaining information, but also had the goal of winning hearts and minds, using whatever means — and whatever lies — necessary. But why was Grimes trying so hard to convince him? He splashed more liquor into the glasses. "Nice try. But I'm not interested in proving Harcourt's pet theories. If the Golden Fleece really does exist, you're welcome to it. I'm going home."
Grimes disdained the final toast, pushing away from the table in preparation to depart. "Then may I at least have your assurance that you will not continue to interfere?"
"If you stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours."
Grimes inclined his head and pushed away from the table. "Please thank our host for his courtesy. I wish that you and I could have been allies."
Alarm bells were going off in Kismet's head. After making such an impassioned plea to swing his loyalty, why had the traitor capitulated so quickly? Something was wrong — dreadfully wrong. As Grimes grasped the door handle, Kismet sprang erect and brandished the rifle. "I think you forgot something."
Grimes stared at the firearm as if he did not understand its purpose. "Already breaking the terms of our truce, Kismet?"
He wouldn't just give up. That's not his way. Kismet's mind flashed through what he did know about the way Grimes operated. He suddenly realized he had given Grimes too much credit; the portly spy had shown a preference for brute force over subtlety and sophistication. A sick feeling began to creep across his gut; the certainty that Grimes' call for a truce had merely been a diversion to conceal something more treacherous. Irene!
He hid his anxiety behind a fierce mask. "What's your hurry? The night is young."
"This has grown tiresome, Kismet. Stay out of my way, or you'll regret it." Grimes turned again to the door.
Kismet answered by pulling the bolt on the weapon, advancing a round into the firing chamber.
Grimes stopped dead in his tracks. "All right, Kismet. What now?"
"Come back to the table. There's one more thing we need to discuss. It's simple really. You can leave here alive, when your men release Irene."
"What on earth are you ranting about?"
Kismet jabbed the gun toward Grimes. "Nothing's ever what it seems with you. Sure, you want my help looking for the Fleece. Peter Kerns might have told me something that he didn't tell you. Or he might have told his daughter. This meeting was just a diversion, so that you could try to kidnap her again."
"You're paranoid, Kismet."
"And you're dead if Irene Kerns isn't standing here in front of me in five minutes. Shall we go up to her room and take a look? Or will you save yourself a few precious minutes and make the call?"
Grimes stared defiantly, impassively blinking in the face of Kismet's threat. Anatoly stood mutely to one side, still feigning incomprehension, but clearly ready for action should the need arise. Finally, Grimes relented, reaching slowly into the folds of his coat. Kismet stepped closer, ready to take action in the event that Grimes was drawing a weapon, but the traitor produced only a small walkie-talkie.
Kismet darted across the room, taking a station directly behind Grimes as the latter spoke to his unseen comrades. Grimes spoke in English, and received only a curt affirmative in reply. A few minutes later, the door opened to reveal a haggard looking Irene, who ran into Kismet's embrace.
"Satisfied, Kismet?" growled Grimes. "I could have my soldiers burn this house to the ground with all of you inside, but what would that accomplish? There is no need for us to continue as enemies."
"Go to hell, Grimes."
The large man inclined his head. "Pray that our paths never again cross."
With that, he ducked through the door and escaped into the night. As soon as he was gone, Irene poured out the story of her abduction by the commandos, told how they had scaled the outer wall of the residence, stealthily gaining entry and taking her hostage while Kismet and Grimes talked.
Kismet tried to listen but found that his nerves were too jangled to make sense of her tale. Part of him was still wondering if he had made the correct decision in shutting Grimes out; what if the man truly did have insight into the events that had changed his life that night in the desert? With almost trembling hands, he set the rifle on the table and downed another shot of vodka.
Anatoly joined him, gulping down a similarly copious dose of the spirit. "Kristanovich. Was there something you wanted to ask of me tonight?"
Kismet laughed in spite of himself. "I honestly don't remember."
TWELVE
Despite his fatigue, Kismet's sleep was troubled. His mind would not let go of the things Grimes had revealed, but continued churning them over and over, looking for some bit of information he might have missed that would supply the necessary confirmation. It would have been almost too easy to accept the traitor's statements as fact; indeed, Grimes' assertions fit perfectly in many respects. And if Grimes was telling the truth, then he was standing on the brink of a replay of those events. Even now, Lysette Lyon was poised with a team of CIA operatives, ostensibly to capture Grimes, but what if they were receiving orders from the so-called ‘shadow government' to seize the Golden Fleece as soon as Kismet located it? Had he unwittingly played, once again, into the hands of that conspiracy by trusting Lyse?
On the other hand, Grimes could just as easily have cooked up a deception after reading Kismet's own after-action report from that doomed mission into the desert. If Hauser and his team had indeed been American Special Forces soldiers, then why had they conversed in a language that, more than a decade later, Kismet still could not identify? Furthermore, why had Hauser spoken of Kismet's mother as though he knew her personally?
In the end, he could not make Grimes' statements gel with the facts as he saw them. Grimes remained the enemy, and one of the most basic rules of warfare was to ignore enemy propaganda, even when it sounded plausible.
Anatoly kept watch throughout the night, an old shotgun resting on his lap. Over breakfast the following morning, the big Russian listened patiently as Kismet attempted to explain the events of the preceding night.