The galley held yet another surprise. Situated aft, but extending forward to dominate roughly a third of the craft, was an enclosed superstructure. He had been expecting an open craft; essentially a big rowboat. The ancient Greeks, despite their mythic reputation for adventurous wanderings, had never perfected the art of sailing on the open sea. They had preferred to row, assisted by a single square sail, within sight of the shore by day, and would beach their vessels at the onset of night. Their ships, much like Viking longboats, had little in the way of creature comforts. Even the description of the Argo in legend suggested an open craft, not a ship with a superstructure. Kismet found himself wondering if Kerns' discovery perhaps had nothing do with the legend of Jason and the Golden Fleece. The answer, he reasoned, must lie within the enclosure.
The open decks of the ship were empty. Nothing of the crew or their belongings remained. The oarlocks held only water, even the rudder oars were gone, and the stump of a mast protruded from the center of the craft, just aft of the enclosure. Likely, the event that had sent the ship to the bottom had also washed overboard anything that wasn't secured. Kismet did not pause to inspect the gilt beams or the benches where the oarsmen had labored centuries before, but continued purposefully toward his goal.
The enclosure had been designed for more than just shelter. A colonnade of ornamental pillars, suggesting that it might have been used for worship, ringed the solid walls. The columns were spaced far enough apart to allow for easy passage, and Kismet could see that something had been erected between the colonnade and the interior structure. He moved closer to get a better look.
As he peered through the pillars, leaning sideways, he immediately recognized the foundation of a small altar. The base, set into the floor of the shrine, was overlaid in glowing metal. Kismet glanced down and saw one of the altar stones resting on a pillar. Behind his glass porthole, his brows drew together in contemplation. The displaced stone was also gilt, whereas the altar stone recovered by Kerns and shown in the photographs Harcourt had displayed was of white marble.
Curious, Kismet reached down and shifted the stone. Where the relic had been in contact with the pillar, idle for millennia, the underlying white marble was visible in a thin stripe. The clean stone seemed dark against the luminescent metal. Likewise on the pillar, a smudge of shadow revealed the resting-place of the stone. He could draw but one impossible conclusion: the gold that covered nearly every inch of the ship had accreted after the wreck, after the craft had rolled over onto the bottom.
Kismet released the stone and returned his attention to the enclosure just behind the base of the altar. A thin seam revealed the presence of a door, sealed for ages by the accumulated coating of shining gold. He traced along the seam with the tip of his knife. The plating was thinner than beaten foil and split apart without resistance. Minute bubbles of trapped gas trickled out of the cut. Kismet sheathed the knife then placed both hands on the featureless portal and pushed.
The door opened a couple inches and released a gasp of bubbles that momentarily obscured his view. Then the tingling in his palms suddenly blossomed into a pulse of pain that jolted up his arms and through his torso. He jerked back in surprise and looked at his hands.
Dark shapes swarmed over his arms; moving shapes that he could not shake loose. Kismet did not know their taxonomic nomenclature—Torpedindae torpedo—but he recognized them easily nevertheless. Electric rays.
More of the flat speckled fish wriggled out of the colonnade to join in the assault. Kismet staggered back, brushing at the creatures, which continued to send surges of pain up his arms.
In an instant, the torpedo rays enveloped him; a cloud of writhing forms blanketed his head and chest. He flailed at them blindly, his muscles seizing every time they released their potent charges.
He knew that the rubber of his diving suit should have insulated him from the shock, but the electricity seemed to pass right through. Gritting his teeth, he took hold of a ray in either hand and started pulling them away from his helmet.
Blinded, he took another step back…and fell into nothingness.
Irene was in a state of panic.
Her anxiety had begun the moment Kismet disappeared into the still water. It was inconceivable to her that her own father had made repeated forays into the underwater realm, utilizing his antiquated equipment, without her ever knowing. Stranger still that he had used the gains of that enterprise to finance a venture of even greater risk, namely their flight to the United States. But her father's success did not necessarily translate into confidence in Kismet's ability to survive the peril into which he had so willingly plunged.
She had looked to Anatoly for encouragement, but the big Russian had simply shrugged. "He'll make it," he had assured her, in a less than inspirational tone. "You watch the compressor. Make sure it doesn't run out of fuel. I'll radio for a weather report. Storms on the Black — well, you know how quickly they can rise. We might be out here a long time."
The comment, delivered in Russian, was a veritable oration from Anatoly, who was not generally loquacious. He had turned away however, leaving her to watch the chugging compressor, the slow unspooling of the cable and the calm surface of the water.
Her uneasiness did not abate during his long absence. When he returned, some fifteen minutes later, he inquired briefly about Kismet's status. Irene had nothing to report; Kismet could be dead for all she knew.
Ten minutes later, the panic set in.
Irene saw it first, a barely perceptible speck creeping over the western horizon and trailing a plume of white vapor. She knew instantly what it was. "That's the Boyevoy. It's the ship that brought Nick and I here."
Anatoly did not seem concerned. "I'm sure it's a coincidence."
"You don't understand. Captain Severin doesn't trust us. He thinks Nick's a grave robber, trying to steal national treasures."
Anatoly's bushy eyebrows went up. "Is he not?"
"That's not the point. It won't take him long to figure out that Nick is down there. Once he does…" She couldn't put her fears into words that conveyed the panic she felt.
"What should we do?" asked Anatoly.
Irene wanted to scream at the big Russian; to tell him to think of something, but it was evident that he did not share her urgency. She would have to be the one to come up with a solution.
Severin's destroyer was chugging steadily toward them, grinding out its maximum speed of thirty-two knots. “He'll be here in a few minutes," grated Irene. "We've got to do something."
She ran to the edge of the boat and started pulling at the fishing nets, trying to camouflage Kismet's air hose and lifeline beneath the old twine webs. Anatoly helped her complete the illusion, but it was obvious to both of them that, if they were boarded, even a casual search would pierce their veil of deception. One thing they could not hide was the compressor; its motor chugged loudly, exhaling a cloud of blue exhaust smoke. Irene stared at the rickety machine, well aware that Kismet's life depended on its continued operation.
"We could shut it off," suggested Anatoly, as if reading her mind. "He probably has a few minutes of air in his helmet."
She cringed at the thought. "Only if it becomes obvious that we're going to be boarded. And we don't turn it off until we absolutely have to."
Anatoly nodded gravely. "If we are boarded, it may not matter. We cannot hide this."
Irene turned away, unable to answer him. She didn't know what else to do.
All too soon, the Boyevoy grew large with its approach. There could be no questioning its intention to intercept the trawler. The Sovremenny class warship cut a path straight toward them, reversing its screws only when it seemed that a collision with the idle boat was unavoidable, and even as the ship was still coasting forward, the efficient crew lowered the motor launch into the water.