Suddenly, a whirring noise caught Irene's attention. The cable that connected Kismet to the boat was spinning out of control. Thirty yards of twisted wire snaked out in a matter of seconds. Similarly, the rubber air hose was jumping out of its coil on the deck at an alarming rate. While the lifeline had over a hundred yards of reserve, the air hose was about to run out. Panicked, she rushed to the winch and engaged the ratchet. The cable seized instantly and snapped taut. The remainder of the air hose lay in a loop on the deck; a mere six feet in length.
Something disastrous had occurred below; something had happened to him and there was nothing she could do about it. She raised her eyes to the approaching launch and knew that she had one more task to perform; a duty that might well spell the end for Kismet. Gathering her courage, she stepped to the compressor and pulled the choke lever. The engine roared for a moment, then sputtered into silence.
Anatoly placed a protective hand on her shoulder, offering no assistance to the Russian seamen that swarmed onto the deck of his boat. For Irene, it was like a replay of the events a few days previously, when Severin had accosted them aboard the boat of the Turkish smuggler. The cocky Russian captain addressed her with the overly familiar patronymic.
"Greetings, Petrovna. How pleasant to see you again."
"What do you want?" she croaked, surprised to find her voice thick with fear and anger. She blinked away tears, trying to keep the emotion off her face.
Severin ignored her question as he gazed curiously around the boat. "Where are you hiding the dubious Nick Kismet?"
Irene sensed that he was toying with her. "He stayed behind. He wasn't feeling well."
"Ah! But you thought you would help your father's old friend with his fishing. How kind of you." He swiveled his gaze to face the unbowed fisherman. "I am curious, Anatoly Sergeievich Grishakov. How will your nets catch any fish if you are at anchor? Is this some new technique?"
"Why are you bothering us?" Anatoly snapped. "We aren't doing anything wrong. Go pester someone else."
Severin spat out derisive laugh. "State security has not forgotten you, Sergeievich. Your name is on a list of known troublemakers. You would do yourself a favor by cooperating."
"I am cooperating, fool. I've let you come aboard my boat, even though your warship has driven all the fish away and ruined my catch."
Severin smiled and turned away, walking to the stern gunwale and peering into the water. "Apparently you are the only fisher in your city who believes there are fish to be caught here." He faced Anatoly once more. "There is an FSB informant in the city who overheard your call for a weather report. He thought it curious that you would fish here, where no one ever goes. He also told me how you and Kismet spent the morning loading equipment onto your boat. So you will understand if I tell you that your answers thus far have not impressed me."
He took a step closer, his smile drawing into a menacing sneer. "You will cooperate."
"I have grown weary of threats," sighed Anatoly, unmoved. "If you wish to torture me, do so. I have nothing to say that I have not already said."
"Perhaps I will — torture? — ha! Perhaps Irina Petrovna will be more cooperative. Or perhaps, for her sake, you will leave off your posturing, and tell me where I can find Nick Kismet."
As he spoke, Severin moved closer, increasing his pitch and volume. His last words were shouted, though he was less than a hand's breadth from her face. She tried to shrink deeper into Anatoly's embrace.
"She told you!" the fisherman roared, equally stentorian. "Kismet isn't here."
The Russian captain turned away once more, walking in a slow circle around them. "Indeed. My men have searched your vessel and Kismet quite obviously is not here. But that does not answer the question of why you are here, in these waters where no one ever fishes."
He paused, standing directly behind Irene and Anatoly so that they could not see him. "What is this?" Severin's tone was mockingly inquisitive. "It looks like an engine, but there is hose of some sort that goes into the water. Is this also part of your unusual fishing technique?"
The Russian naval officer did not wait for an answer. He barked an order to one of the seamen, who strode forward and started reeling in the cable with the winch. At least seventy-five yards of the twisted metal line had been played out and it took the burly sailor almost five minutes to wind it in. Severin leaned over the stern, eyeing the cable hungrily, eager to see what he had caught.
Abruptly, without any disturbance of the surface, the end of the cable popped up. A gated carabiner was secured to a loop at its end, but nothing was connected to that hook.
"Nyet!" raged Severin. He pushed the sailor away and snatched the air line off the deck. Furious, he began pulling it in. As the rubber hose piled up around his knees, two of the sailors, acting on a cue from the XO, stepped in and took over for their superior.
Irene gazed at the empty carabiner in mute terror. That cable was Kismet's only lifeline. The hose connection wasn't strong enough to lift Kismet and his heavy suit off the bottom. The rubber tubing might withstand the strain, but the brass fittings of the helmet would surely crack before he could be brought up. Even if they didn't break off altogether, the rupture would certainly fill the protective suit with seawater, drowning him before he could be lifted to the surface. In his rage Severin either failed to conceive this possibility, or simply didn't care.
Then the sailors stopped pulling in the hose, and Irene turned to see why. She couldn't hold back a low cry when she saw the ragged end of the hose in their hands. Severin's face twisted with rage, then slowly relaxed. After a long silence, he began laughing.
Kismet was in a cold, dark place.
Immediately after his fall, the torpedo rays had relented. Perhaps satisfied with having repelled the intruder, they retreated to their defensive perimeter. It was also possible that the colder water and harsher extreme of pressure at the depth where Kismet now found himself was disagreeable to the electric fish.
He couldn't see anything. The golden illumination from the wreck was gone. Gone also was the ground beneath his feet. He was hanging in the water suspended by the cable leading to the surface. Why that line had suddenly gone taut was a mystery, but he knew that the interruption had probably saved him. He had no idea how far he had descended, but was certain that the atmospheres weighing upon him had more than doubled. He sucked greedily at the air that was being pumped down from the surface, trying to calm his racing heart.
He fumbled in the dark to find the net bag tied to his belt, intent on sending up one of the orange floats. One ball was the signal to begin the gradual ascent, allowing for decompression at certain intervals. Releasing all three of the floats would indicate an extreme emergency, dire enough to supersede the risk of the bends. Terrifying though it had been, he didn't think his encounter with the electric rays or the subsequent tumble into darkness justified such a drastic measure.
It was clear now what had happened. Blinded by the attack, he had wandered off of the submerged shelf that formed a perimeter along the coast of the Black Sea. The Caucasus didn't really stop at the water's edge, but plunged more than a mile below sea level. No diving or exploration, at least not with the antiquated equipment he was using, was possible in that dark beyond where the combined mass of water would crush his diving helmet like an eggshell. That the ancient ship had sunk so close to that shelf without going over was a coincidence that verged on miraculous; had it gone down just fifty yards further to the west, the secret of the Golden Fleece would have been lost forever.