She took a deep breath. "On January 21, we located the wreckage of the fishing vessel Kismet used in his initial survey and recovery. The debris was scattered in an area roughly one kilometer in diameter and only three kilometers from the GPS coordinates of the boat's last known location, indicating only a slight degree of subsurface drift. Using these figures, we were able to create a computer model of where our target vessel might have settled.
"Unfortunately, a thorough search of the area did not lead us to the target. For two weeks thereafter, we continued to broaden the search, but without success."
"You found nothing?" It was the section chief that spoke, but she sensed the question was being asked collectively.
"Actually, we found thirteen wrecks dating back as far as the seventeenth century. The comparatively low salinity of the Black Sea and the cold at those depths preserved—"
"You know that's not what I meant," he snapped.
Lyse bit her lip. The other faces in the room remained unreadable. "We were unable to locate the target vessel."
"Maybe we should get someone else to look for it," suggested the Deputy Director, Intelligence. "From what I understand, this fellow—" He named the former US Air Force Colonel with a derisive snort, as if referring to a hole in the ground. " — is something of a maverick."
"Nonsense," retorted DDO. "I've worked with him in the past. If he can't find it, it can't be found."
Lyse saw her opening. "On that subject…" She took another breath, gathering her courage to drop the other shoe. "We think we may have been too late. He…We believe that someone got there first."
The uproar that followed was about what she expected. DDI was the loudest voice. "Preposterous. The Russians don't have the resources for that kind of work. Hell, they couldn't even bring up the Kursk from four hundred feet, and they knew exactly where it was. And they sure as hell couldn't have pulled it off without our birds snapping their picture."
"We have satellites tasked to monitor the Black Sea?" inquired DCI skeptically.
"Well…."
"Ms. Lyon?" The voice was strangely familiar and though spoken in a low tone, it instantly silenced everyone else. Lyse glanced around to identify the speaker; it was the man at the window.
"Ms. Lyon," he repeated, still gazing through the glass. "Did you at any time see this supposed Greek galley with your own eyes?"
She frowned. "No, but Nick—"
"I understand why you would want to put implicit trust in Mr. Kismet's word, both for professional and personal reasons, but leaving that aside, can you or anyone else corroborate his claim?"
"Irene Kerns was with him." She sensed that he was chuckling, but his face remained indistinct in the reflection. "No. When we surfaced to rescue them, it had already gone down. We did however track the vessels on sonar. There was a larger craft being towed by the fishing boat."
"But there is no way to verify its origins or any of the other qualities Mr. Kismet attributed to it. Would you agree with that characterization?"
Lyse's heart began to pound. She had anticipated a degree of reproof for having failed to recover the golden ship, but nothing like this. She cursed herself for not having seen it coming. This sort of scapegoating was common practice in the political environment that pervaded the Company; they even had an acronym for it: CYA — Cover Your Ass.
"Christ," scowled the section chief. "What a circus. We're a hundred million in the red on this and absolutely nothing to show for it."
"Oh, it's not all bad." The man at the window slowly turned as he spoke, affording Lyse a chance to glimpse her accuser. She barely held back an audible gasp; it was him — the man that had recruited her all those years ago. His appearance had changed little, save for one distinct feature; where his left eye ought to have been, there was only a square of black cloth.
"Hindsight is rarely perfect," he continued. "Mr. Kismet seemed a credible source, and Ms. Lyon cannot be faulted for acting on the information he provided. It was after all his tip that helped you expose Admiral Grimes as an agent of foreign influence. Perhaps this business with the Greek galley was merely a practical joke on his part; payback for your having involved him in the espionage business."
Lyse opened her mouth to defend Kismet, but thought better of it. The man was giving her an exit.
"A damned expensive joke," muttered the DCI. "Someone is going to have to pay for this screw-up."
His declaration seemed to signal the end of the meeting. The section chief shifted in his chair, but did not rise. "Field Officer Lyon, pending the outcome of an internal investigation into this matter, you are suspended." Then, as if to soften the blow, he added: "Paid, of course. Go home, get some rest."
She could barely hear him through the rushing noise in her ears, and it required an effort of will for her not to run from the room. As she closed the door and crossed the reception area, she had to fight back tears. Without being consciously aware of her movements, she walked to the elevator and summoned the car. It was only when a hand slipped into the gap between the closing doors and arresting their movement, that she looked up to acknowledge her surroundings.
The doors slid silently back to reveal the man with the eye patch. He stepped inside the small enclosure and turned his back so that he was standing beside her, facing the doors. As they slid into place a second time, he spoke: "I'm sorry I had to do that Lyse."
"Sorry?" she echoed.
"I've followed your career with great interest. You've exceeded my expectations. But this latest matter… Perhaps your feelings for him got in the way of the mission. It's understandable really; after all, that's where all of this began."
"I was telling the truth in there and you know it. You threw me under the bus."
The man sighed. "I may have been hasty in debunking the premise upon which your recent efforts were based, so I thought it only fair to give you an opportunity to acquit yourself."
She glanced sidelong at him and noted that he was still staring straight ahead. Because she was on his left, it was impossible for him to see her at all, but she nevertheless felt his scrutiny.
"It occurred to me," he continued, "that there might be some physical evidence to support Kismet's claims; some sort of object or artifact that would validate his assertion that he had recovered an authentic Bronze Age sailing vessel. Something he may have kept as a souvenir, perhaps. "
Lyse's heart leaped into her throat. He knows.
It was such a small thing that she had thought nothing of the omission. And Kismet had deserved something for his troubles. At the time, she hadn't been able to think of a single reason to deny his request — no, his demand — that he be allowed to keep the soggy sheep's hide he claimed to have recovered from the doomed galley. Yet, to avoid possible recriminations, she had elected not to include any reference to that Fleece in her reports. Now, she would have to expose Kismet and admit the indiscretion in order to save herself.
Except it wasn't really a big deal. She didn't owe Kismet that much after all, and since the Company was more concerned about validating the expense of the search effort, she wasn't likely to be in too much hot water for having let Kismet keep his Fleece. She turned completely to look at the man who still faced straight ahead.
Although the admission was on her lips, something forestalled her. She pursed her lips and looked away. "I'm sorry," she began, choosing her words carefully. "I know that you must be cleared for this since you were in that conference room, but we're not there anymore and to be frank, I have no idea who you really are."
A dry chuckle shook the other man's chest as he at last turned to face her. "It's no secret, Ms. Lyon. I'm Rich Houseman. I work under the President's national security advisor."