Suddenly there was a figure standing directly in his path. Kismet fell to his knees and croaked: “Help me!” But even as the words escaped his lips, he knew that this shadowy presence was not there to offer aid.
He wore the cassock of a monk, with a cowl that completely hid his face. In different circumstances, Kismet would have thought the costume ostentatious, even laughable, but there was something strangely authentic-and deeply malefic-about the vestments. As the figure began to approach, Kismet noticed a length of black rope tied around his waist like a sash, and depending from one of the ends was a crucifix of carved wood, but for some reason, the short end of the vertical post was pointing toward the ground; the cross was inverted.
Kismet’s blood ran cold. He tried to get up, to lift Capri and resume their flight to freedom, but she had grown impossibly heavy. The dark monk glided closer, as if his unseen feet were floating above the ground. Kismet laid his charge aside as gently as possible, and then struggled to his feet.
He’s just a man; just an ordinary flesh and blood human, who happens to believe that he’s got help from below. Well, I know better.
He struck a fighter’s stance and waited for the malevolent figure to get within range. Although the man was almost in reach, his face remained a blank shadow beneath his hood, the same lightless hue as the cord around his waist. Kismet took a swing.
A robed arm shot out to block the punch, and as the gnarled fingers brushed his hand aside, Kismet felt something like an electrical shock course through his entire body. When he raised his head a moment later, he found that he had been knocked backward a dozen steps. In the periphery of his vision, he saw a pair of figures-two of the men that had first kidnapped Capri-approaching her motionless form, but then his attention was consumed by the baleful entity steadily advancing toward him. Before he could rise or retreat, his foe was upon him.
Frail ancient fingers, impossibly strong, closed around his throat and began to squeeze. Kismet fought the killing grip and directed impotent blows against the monk’s head and body, all to no avail. He caught a glimpse of Capri, dragged by her captors back to the surviving helicopter, but then his world was consumed by darkness… except for a single piercing beam of light, shining like the sun, and drawing him closer.
Then the dark monk was gone.
Nick Kismet lay spread-eagled across the parallel tracks of the Long Island Railroad, illuminated by the headlights of an onrushing train.
3
They smoke cigars in heaven?
It was an odd thought, since Kismet didn’t particularly believe in the afterlife. Nevertheless, the air was heavy with the sweet but acrid scent of burning tobacco. He started to open his eyes, but then a railroad spike of pain shot through his skull and he retreated into unconsciousness again.
“Cuban?” he muttered abruptly. He had no idea how much time had passed, but this time he wisely kept his eyes shut. It didn’t help much.
A dry chuckle rattled inside his head. “Why, Lieutenant Kismet, that would be illegal.”
Despite the incessant hammers ringing against the anvil of his skull, Kismet opened his eyes to investigate. He was in a small, relatively dark place, sprawled out on a couch upholstered in soft leather; it was, he realized, the interior of a limousine. Three men were sitting on a matching divan directly across from where he lay, surrounded by a halo of smoke, which issued from the phallic cigar jutting from the mouth of the man in the center. Of the trio, he was the most distinguished; his suit was a dark three-piece Saville Row, and a diamond studded Rolex encircled his wrist, but even if his adornments were discounted, the man still looked impressive, with chiseled features and a magnificent mane of silver hair. “Well, I guess you aren’t God,” Kismet said, at length. “He would know that I resigned my commission years ago. Which means I’m still alive, right?”
The man with the cigar laughed again then spoke in a deep basso profundo. “My apologies, Mr. Kismet. I wish I could say that my information about you was just outdated, but the truth is that I was hoping to appeal to your sense of esprit de corp.”
Something about the man was familiar, but Kismet’s mental energies were taxed to their limits just to stay conscious. He couldn’t help but notice the underlying accent, and the faint trace of a New Jersey accent, which was all the more incongruous when spoken in a voice so low as to be almost a growl. “I don’t follow you.”
“I was a soldier, too. A different war, but I fought for my country all the same.”
Kismet was beginning to feel like Alice, waking up in someone else’s dream. He forced himself to sit up. “What country was that?”
The man ignored his question, but seemed impressed at his resilience. “We thought you were dead-”
”So did I.”
“—but Sally just managed to pull you off the tracks before that train sliced you up for fish bait.”
It was the first thing he’d heard that made any kind of sense. “Tell Sally I said thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” grunted the man on the right, an imposing figure cut from the same cloth as the two men that had been shadowing Capri on the observation deck.
Comprehension washed over Kismet like the waves of a rising tide. “Okay, that was almost an introduction. What should I call you? Godfather?”
The two men on his flank bristled warily, but their leader raised a hand. “That’s not necessary. I am Giovanni Turino; most of my friends just call me Joe.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not real keen on getting into your social network Giovanni.” If Turino was rankled by his answer he gave no indication, but Sal and the other bodyguard seemed to turn purple in the low light. He ignored their ire and continued. “And while I appreciate you guys pulling my bacon out of the fire back there, something tells me your appearance on the scene wasn’t a coincidence.”
“You’re very astute, Mr. Kismet. Capri is my granddaughter.”
“Ah, well that almost explains everything.” He already suspected as much, based on the girl’s earlier reference. No doubt the mob boss had the resources to check up on all of his granddaughter’s social engagements. But as soon as he allowed that thought to sink in, a new can of worms was opened. He thought about the dark monk with the Satanic cross: Was that real? And what does any of this have to do with Prometheus? “So is this some kind of turf war?”
A corner of Turino’s mouth twitched, but rather than answer, he turned to Sal. “Get our guest something to drink. Something for the pain, eh?”
Sal twisted in his seat and opened the cabinet doors to reveal a well-stocked bar. “What’s your pleasure?”
Kismet almost demurred then reconsidered when he spied a sixteen-year-old single malt. Eager to show his independence, he took hold of the bottle and decanted a double portion for himself. There was a bucket of ice in the bar, but he took it neat and drained the glass in a long gulp.
Sal passed his employer a tumbler with equal parts of the amber liquor and water. Turino took a sip and smiled approvingly. “A good choice, but if you’re going to swill it down like that, you might want to stick with vodka. Less chance of a hangover.”
Kismet spent a moment enjoying the warm glow that spread from his chest to his extremities, before replying. “Thanks for the tip. Now, unless you’re going to tell me what’s going on, I’d appreciate if you could just drop me…” He glanced out the window, but saw nothing familiar in the endless urban landscape. “Just let me out at the next light.”