Grimes nodded to one of his men. Kismet realized it was Rudy the behemoth from the hall of the Teutonic Knights in New York. The hulking figure moved toward him with surprising swiftness, but before Kismet could so much as take a step back, Rudy took hold of Irene and yanked her away.
"I want you to show me," Grimes clarified. "I think Miss Chereneyev has already demonstrated her usefulness as leverage in getting what I want. I have no compunction about letting Rudy toss her overboard—" He looked at the giant and shrugged—"or whatever else he feels like doing. He can be a little vindictive, you know."
"Save your threats, Grimes. I'll open it for you." He stalked aft, followed by the others, then circled around to the sternward end of the enclosure and pulled open the hatch, revealing the darkness that lay beyond the golden columns. He then looked back to Grimes, who nodded for him to step inside. With a shrug, he complied.
"No booby traps? I'm almost disappointed."
"I wasn't expecting you," replied Kismet. "Good idea, though. Wish I'd thought of it.". He stared straight ahead into the darkness of the enclosure, wondering if the Fleece would be able to save him this time.
"Kismet?" The whisper from the shadows startled him.
"Anatoly?"
"You must distract them. I have a plan, but there is no other way for me to get out of here."
"Kismet?" Grimes called, sticking his head through the opening. "Who are you talking to?"
"Just praying to Zeus for a miracle." He reached out to the Fleece and lifted it in his arms, and then muttered under his breath: "I think he might have been listening this time."
Harcourt pushed past the stout traitor and attempted to snatched the gold-laden sheepskin from Kismet. He was unprepared for its heaviness; the transfer threw him off balance and he teetered backwards. Only Kismet was near enough to prevent the British archaeologist from toppling over, but he merely watched his rival fall with a grin.
The indignity of his clumsiness did not seem to register with Harcourt. He struggled to his knees on the deck, gripping the Fleece with both hands. "I can feel its power," he crooned. "Tingling in my fingertips. This truly is the Golden Fleece."
"Yeah? Well, congratulations Sir Andrew. It's another feather in your cap. I'm sure Oxford will be buzzing with talk of your triumphant act of piracy. You'll finally get the respect you really deserve."
"My goodness," Grimes clucked. "Kismet, you sound like a child who's lost his toy."
Kismet grinned again. "As for you, Grimes, I'm surprised you can be so calm, when there's an FSB agent hiding just inside the hold."
Grimes' expression instantly turned severe. "Explain."
"The owner of the fishing boat, Anatoly Grishakov, works for Russian intelligence. He's probably already informed his superiors that we're out here. I expect they'll be showing up any time."
"You're bluffing," Harcourt spouted, struggling to lift the Fleece off the deck.
Kismet shrugged. "Ask him yourself."
Grimes nodded to his subordinates and two of the soldiers swung their rifles around, and advanced on the dark hold. Before they could enter, a muffled voice issued from beyond the colonnade. "Don't shoot. I will come out."
Anatoly stepped through the hatchway, hands raised, flashing a betrayed look toward Kismet, who spread his hands in an apologetic gesture.
"Are you a spy?" Grimes demanded.
"Of course not. Kismet is lying, though I can't imagine what he hopes to gain."
A faint grin crossed Grimes' expression. "You are speaking English. But the other night, you pretended not to understand. Isn't learning English a requirement of the FSB?"
"I told you," Anatoly spluttered, his accent noticeably thickening. "I do not work for that agency."
"I know that he's sent several messages," supplied Kismet. "He sent one as soon as he saw you guys." He glanced over to Irene. She was listening intently, but he could not tell if she approved of what he was doing. "He's been in contact with a Russian destroyer. Two days ago, he tried to kill me to keep the discovery of Fleece secret. If you think he's going to let you just sail away with it, you're in for a big disappointment."
Anatoly glowered. "This is the act of a coward, Nikolai Kristanovich. I expected better of you."
Kismet faced the big fisherman. "You were pretty convincing. What I can't figure out is why you let Petr escape in the first place. That must have gotten you in hot water."
The big fisherman continued to glare, but his frown changed from a look of betrayal to one of contempt. "You understand nothing. Petr Ilyich Chereneyev was — is — my friend. Always. I would die myself, before allowing harm to come to him. Or his daughter. Even from them."
"Anatoly?" Irene's tone was soft, almost inaudible in the fury of the storm, and full of confused sympathy. “Is it true? Are you FSB? Were you, even then, with the KGB?"
"If he defied the order to have your father killed," Kismet suggested, "and didn't end up dead himself, I'd say he must be pretty important in the organization."
"There are those who are in my debt." The Russian's statement indicated that his denials were finished. "In turn, I owe a debt to my country. Thieves and grave robbers must not be allowed to steal a great treasure."
"I am afraid you can do little to prevent that," intoned Grimes. "You've lost."
"I do not need to act. This storm will sink the galley before you can loot its gold. If we do not leave this ship quickly, we will all sail it to the bottom."
"Perhaps you are right about that. Sir Andrew, please get up off the deck. It's unbecoming of you to grovel like that." Harcourt did manage to stand, with the Fleece weighing heavily over his left shoulder. Grimes began passing along orders to his men. He ordered them to continue pumping the bilge water, while another group made fast a second tow line; this one leading to the gun ship. "With two boats towing, we can beat this storm."
"Aren't you listening?" Anatoly hissed. "If we do not leave, right now, we will all die!"
The urgency in the Russian's voice seemed out of place. He had spent the night towing the ship through the storm and Kismet couldn't understand why he was suddenly so eager to get off the galley. He gazed at the fisherman, looking for an explanation, and saw in Anatoly's eyes a desperation that frightened him. Acting on an impulse, he moved closer to Irene. Rudy-Grimes’ pet behemoth-still held her in his grip, and threw Kismet a threatening stare.
"What's the rush, Anatoly?" Kismet spoke in order to distract both the giant and the Russian. He managed another step toward Irene, almost close enough to touch her. "She's not going to sink, not after riding out the storm all night."
Anatoly seemed to draw into himself, like a snake coiling before a strike. "If the storm does not sink her, then my bomb will."
Irene mouthed the word "bomb" as if unable to comprehend, but Kismet understood all too well. Anatoly suddenly launched into motion, pushing away from the soldiers who guarded him.
In a heartbeat, chaos broke out. Kismet hurled himself at Rudy, gouging at the giant's eyes. In the same instant, Anatoly dove from the galley, leaping out into the storm tossed sea. His escape commanded the attention of the soldiers who, as one, rushed to the gunwale.
Rudy's reflexes proved faster than Kismet would have believed. He swatted Kismet's hands away, delivering a follow-through punch that dumped Kismet onto the gangway, sending him sliding backwards on his tail bone.
Four semi-automatic rifles spoke, splitting the howl of the wind with their deafening report. Bullets sprayed the water where Anatoly had splashed a moment before, but he did not resurface. The commandos stopped firing and waited to see if he ever would.