Irene leaned against the bulkhead. "Well, you've brought us this far. What's next?"
"The compass is pretty much useless with this much electrical activity, so it's tough to say exactly where we are right now. But the coast of Turkey occupies all points to the south. If the storm breaks even a little, we'll turn and make a beeline in that direction."
"That's not exactly what I meant."
He raised an eyebrow. "Then I don't follow you."
"I have no doubt that you'll be able to get us safely to Turkey. For you, the impossible is routine."
"Thanks. Or was that not a compliment?"
"I mean, what will you do once you've succeeded? Once you've told the world about the Fleece?"
"If things work out as they usually do, the ship and everything on it will become a political bargaining chip. I might get a little credit for discovering it, but it will eventually be taken away from me. Since it was discovered off the coast of Georgia, they will have the most binding claim. But if it can be authenticated as a Greek artifact, then the Greek government will want it."
"And of course, if you take it to Turkey, they will want a piece of the action."
He laughed. "I think you're beginning to understand how the game of international antiquities is played."
"So why do you do it? Why chase all over the world for things that you'll never get to keep, or even get credit for?"
"I could give you my standard answer; insatiable curiosity and a thirst for knowledge of the ancient past."
"But we both know that's not really it."
"No." He unconsciously chewed his lip. The purpose that fired him, linked to that fateful night in the desert so many years before, was something he rarely revealed to anyone. He was not oblivious to the overtures Irene had made — not simply the mutual physical attraction, but something much deeper. Along with the kind of commitment she yearned for, there was a degree of trust, which he remained unwilling to share.
His personal quest was a jealous mistress, yielding precious little space in his heart for romance and even less time to pursue it. It had destroyed his relationship with Lyse, and God only knew how many other opportunities had been missed through the years. Yet, Irene deserved some kind of answer. "This is just something I have to do."
Even as he said it, the foolishness, not only of his words but of the very argument that generated them, rang in his head. Why indeed did he remain on a path he had chosen more than a decade previously, when years of searching had failed to yield a single clue? How many chances for happiness had he passed up because of his vendetta against an unknown and perhaps unknowable enemy? How many more chances would he get? He tried to meet her eyes; to make some small token to indicate that perhaps with just a little more coaxing, he might be persuaded to accept her implicit offer.
"Sounds like a lonely way to live." Her tone was solemn.
He couldn't match her stare. Deep down, he knew that, were he to attempt to lay aside his quest, the hunger for answers would consume him. There could be no rest, no ordinary life, not while those questions remained unresolved. He might not find those answers in the Golden Fleece, but recovering that mythic artifact was simply a facet of what he had become. As a tangible link to events shrouded in mystery, that gilt lambskin held answers to a different set of questions, but answers nonetheless. His eyes quickly returned to the rain-drenched windscreen. "I guess I've gotten used to it."
Somehow Irene must have sensed that she had lost him, for she made no further inquiries. After a few moments of silence, Kismet tried again to look at her, but discovered that she had already gone.
Dawn soon broke but the sky did not brighten noticeably. The thunder and lightning stayed with them, as did the wind, rain and occasional outpourings of hail. Kismet had not been able to turn south as hoped. Rather, the storm had chosen the next course change, and it was due north.
Though it flew in the face of reason, Kismet was beginning to accept that the storm and the salvage of the golden ship were indeed linked. He would not go so far as to accept that a supernatural intelligence was behind the weather — it was not mighty Zeus hurling thunderbolts down at them — but several undeniable facts were pointing to a similarly improbable conclusion. The weather system had definitely risen as soon as the galley and its spectacular cargo had been lifted from the depths, and the center of the storm had been chasing them for hours. An ordinary tempest would have eventually passed them by, but this phenomenal front seemed to match their pace, driving them ahead even as it tried to close the gap, not unlike a donkey chasing a carrot held out by its rider. He further surmised that the cyclic nature of the disturbance, due to the Coriolis effect, was responsible for what was pushing them in a gradual curve that would eventually bring them full circle. It was like being caught in a whirlpool. If the Golden Fleece was the shackle that bound them to the vortex, their only hope of survival might be to surrender their prize once more to the depths. It was a decision that would have to be made soon. Trying to ride out the storm was like playing Russian roulette; every wave that crashed over the bow might be the one that would capsize or crush the trawler.
Anatoly came up to the wheelhouse, confessing to them that he had finally nodded off for a while. Kismet turned the wheel over to the Russian, but did not leave the cabin. He was too keyed up to even think about sleep. The rational man that he was kept telling him to hang on just a little longer; that the weather would eventually pass and the Golden Fleece, as well as he and Irene, would be safe. However, his travels had taught him that there were a great many things that science and rationale could not explain. It was getting harder to deny that the events they were experiencing fell into that category.
"I'm going to go out on the deck and check the tow line!" He had to shout to be heard over the howling wind, but Anatoly did hear and nodded affirmatively. Kismet stole a glance at the radio, wondering if he should trust the Russian, but his momentary suspicion passed; there were more pressing matters to attend to.
Irene followed him out into the storm. If the hours under cover had allowed their clothes to dry out a little, the torrential downpour quickly reversed that condition. The driving wind tore at his jacket, dumping rivers of chilly water down his collar. He pulled the lapels of the jacket tight at his neck, but the damage was already done.
A night spent enduring the constant pitching had given him sea legs and he was able to make the traverse to the stern without falling. A quick inspection of the tow winch showed some wear, but he felt confident that the cable would hold at least a little while longer. He then peered through the rain and spray to see how the golden ship was holding up.
The galley had not been designed for prolonged journeys under harsh conditions; it had been built by seafarers who never sailed beyond sight of the shore. When seas were rough, they drove their ship onto the beach rather than attempt to ride out the storms. Notwithstanding the intentions of her shipwrights, the vessel was holding up remarkably well. It was both light enough to ride over the swells and broad enough to avoid being rolled over.
"Nick!" He turned to see what she wanted and found her pointing urgently in the general direction of the galley. He tried to follow the line of her finger, but for a moment saw nothing.
"What is it?"
"Just watch. There it is again."
This time he too saw the flash of orange light; not lightning, but something artificial. "There's someone else out here. But no one in their right mind would be out in this storm. That means they must be looking for us."