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As he stepped from the high-speed express elevator, surrounded by people who were easily distinguishable as visitors to the Big Apple rather than residents, it occurred to him that he had never before made this vertical journey. In the descending twilight, the skyline of New York City, as seen from the windswept, open-air observatory on the eighty-sixth floor of the Empire State Building, was an awe-inspiring sight. Despite the urgency of his purpose, Kismet flowed with the human current toward the iron bars that lined the edge of the observation deck and let his eyes rove over the cityscape. Only then did he turn away to see if anyone in the crowd found him more interesting than the view.

Two people immediately caught his attention. They were not standing together but curiously enough seemed to have the same tailor. Both were burly men, looking like nightclub bouncers in sport coats and conspicuous in their choice of semi-formal clothing in such a casual environment. Kismet self-consciously realized that he too looked rather out of place in his charcoal gray two-piece suit. Despite their incongruous appearance, neither of the men were doing anything particularly suspicious. Their eyes periodically wandered from the skyline to glance at the crowd but their curious appraisal fell short of scrutiny.

After a few minutes the tide of spectators began to ebb and most of the tourists lined up to catch the next elevator down. When Kismet looked again, he found that the two men had moved, changed position, but were still there, still making unobtrusive surveys of the group.

They’re not interested in me. Who are they watching?

He looked more closely, following their line of sight to determine what the men were really doing. When he finally spied her, Kismet wondered why he hadn’t noticed the woman earlier. Like the two watchers, her choice of attire was at odds with the standard uniform of most visitors to the landmark edifice but that was by no means her most noteworthy attribute. A shapely form in a maroon Armani suit, with glistening black ringlets that would have stretched down to the middle of her back if not for the constant winds that buffeted the eighty-sixth floor, she stood peering through one of the coin-operated stationary binoculars positioned at intervals along the edge of the observation area. Below the hem of her dark, mid-thigh length skirt, her sculpted legs were clad in matching fishnet stockings that eventually disappeared into pumps with impossibly thin leather bands and three-inch stiletto heels. Yet it wasn’t until she straightened, then turned to look in his direction, that Kismet knew he was looking at the author of the anonymous invitation.

With a wry smile he walked toward her. “I hope you won’t think this too forward, miss, but that’s an extraordinary shade of lipstick you’re wearing.”

* * *

Up close, the woman who introduced herself as Capri Martelli, was no less a feast for the eyes. Kismet found himself regretting the circumstances that had brought them together; now that the meeting had commenced, he would have to maintain a wary posture.

“You chose an interesting place for this little meeting,” he commented after halting pleasantries were exchanged. “Very melodramatic. As was your invitation.”

If she took offense at the veiled jab, Capri gave no indication. “Given the sensitivity of the subject at hand, I thought a clandestine approach was called for. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you.”

“Not yet.” He smiled humorlessly and waited for her to make the first move. The silence that followed was almost uncomfortable, but Kismet did not relent.

Her crimson smile finally faltered and she pursed her lips briefly before speaking again. “I know you must eager to hear what I have to say about Prometheus.”

He shrugged. “Like I said, your invitation was hard to resist. I’ll reserve judgment on everything else.”

“Where should I start?”

She’s fishing. “Maybe you should start by telling me who you really are.”

“I told you my name, Mr. Kismet. But I don’t think that’s what you meant. The truth is, I’m a journalist.” She grimaced, as if the admission was a source of shame.

Sure you are. Kismet thought about the two men now unobtrusively observing them from a distance. “And why did you contact me?”

“I thought that was obvious. Prometheus.”

He folded his arms and leaned against the upright bars, which bordered the perimeter. “Pretend I don’t know what that means.”

For the first time, her eyes betrayed her. The surprise evident in her expression confirmed that she had expected a very different progression of events. After another awkward silence, Kismet decided to put her out of her misery. “Let me tell you what I think. You heard somebody mention my name and something called ‘Prometheus’ in the same sentence and thought I’d be eager to tell all. That’s not going to happen, Capri.”

His decision to use her first name was methodical; it would either put her at ease, as with a familiar, or elevate his status in her eyes to that of an authority figure, a parent or teacher. It was an old interrogator’s trick; a skill he had first learned in Army Intelligence. He wasn’t completely sure of his stated conclusions but knew that the accusation would force her hand. To reinforce his position, he pushed away from the barrier and began walking toward the elevator lobby.

“Wait!”

The panic in her voice told Kismet he had won. He paused but did not turn to face her. “I’m listening.”

She hastened to stand in front of him, and kept her voice low. “I got a tip…an anonymous tip…that said you knew something about Prometheus. I was warned to be very discreet.”

“This is your idea of discreet?”

“I didn’t think I should just walk into you office. And the phones could be tapped.”

He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “So you don’t really know anything about this… this Prometheus, whatever that is?”

“I know a little.” Her eyes darted past him, then swept suspiciously around the observation deck. “Enough to know that Prometheus makes the Illuminati sound like the Boy Scouts.”

“A secret society?” Kismet affected skepticism. “Conspiracy theories? What news service did you say you work for?”

“I didn’t, Mr. Kismet. I’m employed at the Clarion—”

He stiffened apprehensively. The Clarion was a daily tabloid, owned by a media mega-corporations, that catered to the lowest of lowbrow readers with sensational stories, lurid photographs and inflammatory editorials. Reporters for the Clarion were often accused of impersonating journalists.

Capri cringed at his obvious reaction. “This isn’t for the paper. I’m doing a… a research project on secret fraternities. It’s a family matter.”

Something about the way she had used the word led him to believe that Capri’s ‘family’ was more than just her close blood relatives. He glanced involuntarily at the two suited men; they had changed positions again but remained at a distance, still futilely attempting to blend in with the diminishing crowd. Kismet felt a chill creep over his back that had nothing to do with the relentless wind. A connection between the mysterious group he sought and organized crime was something he had never considered.

“Okay. So how did that lead you to this Prometheus? I’ve heard about some of these secret societies, but I’ve never seen a Prometheus mentioned anywhere.” It wasn’t a lie. More than a decade of searching libraries and archived documents had not yielded a single mention of the organization.

She looked around, as if expecting to find someone eavesdropping, then reached out to take his arm. He did not resist as she guided him back to the perimeter of the observatory and turned him so that they were both facing out into the night. The sky had darkened considerably in stark contrast to the illuminated forest of skyscrapers all around. Three distinct dots of light-helicopters-were moving in a tight formation out over the East River. Kismet almost commented on this, but a moment later Capri surreptitiously pressed something into his hands. It was a cell phone. “Listen to it,” she implored.