"For Christ's sake—" Before Kismet could complete the invective, a dark shape appeared in the air right in front of him. He jerked back instinctively, but not before being struck in the jaw.
He turned as he fell, landing face down on the pitching deck, and slid toward the starboard gunwale, which was just dipping under the surface. He was unable to arrest his fall in time to keep from splashing into the swirling waters, but as he went in, he heard Irene gasp the name of his assailant:
"Anatoly!"
The Russian fisherman looked like the walking dead. Blood streamed from his forehead and from ragged wounds in his torso; the gunshots of the soldiers had found their mark but had failed to kill the Russian agent. He had survived by diving deep beneath the galley and clinging to the nets which had earlier been draped over its sides for camouflage, waiting for a chance to exact his retribution on the man he held most responsible for the situation: Nick Kismet.
Hurtling over the side of the galley, Anatoly plunged past Irene. Kismet raised his head from beneath the water in time to see the Russian's boots moving on a collision course with his face. He tried to twist away, but was too late. The tread on Anatoly's boot sole glanced along his cheek and smashed into his right shoulder, burying him once more in the turbulent water. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Kismet braced himself against the side of the ship and stood up underneath Anatoly, catapulting him away. As the Russian splashed down, Kismet waded toward him.
Anatoly recovered quickly, whirling in the knee-deep accumulation, with one foot on the sloping deck and the other against the gunwale. A bitter smile creased his bearded visage as he raised his hands. Kismet took a step toward him, brandishing his own fists. When Anatoly's gaze seemed to lock onto his hands however, Kismet lashed out with his foot, planting it in the larger man's crotch.
The big Russian grunted and his intimidating smile fell. He cupped a hand to his bruised groin and staggered backward a step, but that was the limit of his reaction. He recovered quickly and advanced to deliver a roundhouse punch that split Kismet's cheek open. The force of the blow spun him around again, dropping him to his hands and knees.
"Why doesn't that ever work?" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head to clear away the fireworks. Then his head went underwater as Anatoly landed on his back. Kismet thrashed, but Anatoly's knees were on his shoulder blades and his arms were pinned so that he could do little more than turn his head.
After a few seconds of futile struggle, Kismet felt the burden on his back grow even heavier, forcing the last gasp from his lungs. Then the weight suddenly vanished. He squirmed free and hastily crawled forward, sucking fresh air in desperate gasps, then turned to face his assailant.
Irene was on Anatoly's back, clawing at his eyes. Despite his professed fondness for her, the Russian grabbed her wrists, lifted her over his head and hurled her toward Kismet. She crashed into him, driving both of them into the water. Kismet felt Irene bounce off of him, then saw her splash into the open sea. She flailed in the water, her soaked clothing weighing her down.
Forgetting Anatoly, Kismet reached out to her, but she was too far away. He quickly shed his leather jacket, holding onto one sleeve while flinging the other toward her. She caught it, but then vanished beneath a wave. When he hauled her in, she came up choking on seawater but tenaciously clinging to the jacket sleeve. Another pull brought her close enough to grasp the inundated starboard gunwale.
The big Russian chose that moment to renew his attack. Another stunning roundhouse blasted Kismet toward the bow. There was no way he could hope to overpower the fisherman. Anatoly not only outweighed him by a good fifty pounds, but was also in the grip of a primal anger that Kismet's own desperation could never equal. He would have to outwit the Russian, not outfight him — a difficult prospect since Anatoly was knocking his wits out with each blow.
Anatoly stalked past the still submerged form of his best friend's daughter, ignoring her life and death struggle. Without his help she managed to pull herself from the sea and got to her feet, sagging against the deck, which now rose to a forty-five degree angle beside her.
Kismet did not attempt to make a stand against the Russian. Instead, he retreated along the bow, climbing onto the tilted bowsprit. Anatoly was literally at his heels, grasping at his boots in an effort to trip him as he attempted to climb up to the spar protruding from the bow.
Below him, Harcourt had succeeded in cutting the mooring lines that had tightly secured the trawler to the ancient sailing vessel. The fishing boat popped upright with a suddenness that surprised the archaeologist, causing him to topple over. The trawler then bobbed away from the galley, taking with it Kismet's best plan for escape.
Anatoly's fingers snared the cuff of Kismet's right trouser leg. He was yanked back, stretched between the Russian's grip on his leg and his own desperate hold on the ladder to the bowsprit. He slipped his left foot off of the rung and drove it repeatedly toward Anatoly's face.
At first, the Russian seemed impervious to the blows, but the insistent pounding of Kismet's boot savaged his face, tearing skin and smashing cartilage and bone. Kismet felt the grip on his leg weakening and yanked himself away, scrambling to the top of the spar.
Normally, the bowsprit would have been the highest point on the galley, save for its mast when the ship was whole. But now the deck leaned over drunkenly, borne down by the weight of the water that was inundating the galley. Kismet crawled out onto the exterior of the bowsprit, along the port side edge that now faced skyward, clinging to the foremast. Anatoly's bloodied face rose alongside him.
Kismet took a swing at the Russian, hoping to knock his foe into the sea, but the impact of the blow rebounded, causing him to lose his own grip. He slid along the smooth surface of the hull, his feet flopping out into empty space. He managed to grasp the foremast, his fingers finding a purchase in the intricate whorls of the design. The carved hair of the image, layered with gold, was the only thing that prevented him from tumbling into the storm tossed waves. It was as if Medea had once more intervened to rescue her champion.
Anatoly now pulled himself erect and loomed over Kismet like an executioner. He stood with his feet apart, bracing himself against the inexorable roll of the galley. Blood streamed from his shattered nose and dripped down onto the shining gold, where the rain and spray washed it away. "We die together, Nikolai Kristanovich Kismet." The trauma to his face distorted his words even more than his accent, but Kismet understood all too well. "You will not steal this treasure from my people."
"What about Irene?"
His remark had the desired effect of causing Anatoly to hesitate, but the pause benefited him little. He was stuck, dangling from the bowsprit, unable to pull himself up or to get a foothold. The big Russian looked away, staring down at the place where Irene now struggled to get above the rising water. "Forgive me, Petr Ilyich," he whispered apologetically then returned his attention to Kismet. "I cannot save those who join with the enemies of the Rodina."
Kismet started to reply, but was overcome by an unusual sensation. A preternatural stillness enshrouded the bow of the galley, a faint hum and tingle pervading the void in the fury of the storm. Later, he would swear that everything began to glow with blue light in the moment before he let go. Heeding the premonition, he surrendered himself to gravity. He opened his hands, released the foremast, and dropped two stories into the frothing Black Sea. When he hit the water, he stabbed nearly as deep into it, before his own buoyancy arrested his plunge. He did not bob back to the surface however, but was bogged down by his sodden clothing and boots.