Fortune Favors (13 page)

Higgins gaped, struggling to process what he was hearing.

Elisabeth seemed not to notice. “Dr. Leeds is looking for something unbelievable, and he has asked me to be a part of it.”

Higgins recalled that Kismet had mentioned that other people might be looking for the cavern—looking for the Fountain of Youth. Was this who he had been talking about? This psychic?

“You must hear all about it. It is wonderful. It could change the world.” She loosened her hold on his arm. “I have to go now, but I will arrange for you to join us tonight for dinner.”

“Beth, I—” Before Higgins could even begin to articulate what he was thinking, the actress slipped away. He watched her until she turned a corner and disappeared from view.

Her presence was too much to digest. After losing her once, he could not believe his good fortune at finding her once again. But had anything really changed?

As Higgins reached the door of Kismet’s stateroom, he tried to figure out how he would broach the subject of his encounter with Elisabeth, and her apparent alliance with the psychic Dr. Leeds. His instincts told him that Kismet would not be pleased by the news, and Higgins wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He was about to knock when he saw that the door was slightly ajar.

A loud thump and the sound of a struggle issued from inside, and his troubled thoughts evaporated in a flash of adrenaline. He burst through the door, ready to join whatever battle was being fought within.

* * *

It hadn’t taken long for Kismet to exhaust all legitimate avenues of research. There was plenty of information available about the Fountain of Youth legend, but all of it was either from a historical perspective, written with a view to debunking even the notion that Ponce de Leon had been looking for it in the first place, or so ridiculously fantastic as to further underscore the foolishness of the quest. His thoughts had eventually turned to Dr. Leeds.

He had been surprised to learn that Leeds was almost as much of a celebrity as Elisabeth. He came from old money in the American South and was by all reports comfortably wealthy, though not perhaps beyond dreams of avarice. From a very young age, he had been interested in the supernatural. Eschewing a place in the family business, he apprenticed to a well-known stage magician, and soon was a headlining performer. While best known for mind-reading and hypnotism acts, he was quite adept at illusions on a grand scale.

Unlike many of his peers, Leeds seemed to honestly believe in paranormal phenomena, and even as he played psychic adviser to movie stars and politicians, he formalized his studies of comparative religion and the occult, earning a PhD and his preferential title.

But the reviews and biographical articles didn’t tell the whole story. Leeds had enemies, and in the darker corners of the Internet, Kismet found accounts of the man’s involvement in black magic, renegade Masonic rites, and devil worship. Some of the conspiratorial rumors were laughable, but Kismet saw a grain of truth in many of them, particularly those which characterized the occult scholar as a rabid white supremacist, and possible a neo-Nazi. Some reports linked him to unexplained acts of violence, even the unsolved murders of some of Leeds’ rivals and harshest critics.

If even half of what was said about the man was true, Leeds was not someone to be trifled with.

By late afternoon, the long hours of physical idleness had left him feeling drowsy. He considered heading to the salon for a drink, but then decided instead to have a sip from his personal supply which he kept in a stainless steel hip flask. The container, adorned with a distinctive red star, was a memento from his recent trip to the former Soviet Republic of Georgia. After freeing some Russian sailors from captivity, one of them had given him the container as a gesture of gratitude.

He hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but looking back, it was a hell of a lot more useful than flowers and a Hallmark Card, especially since he’d replaced the flavorless vodka with some smooth, 127 proof Booker’s Bourbon whiskey.

The spirits compounded his drowsiness and he was just starting to nod off when he felt an unexpected draft on his cheek.

Through the veil of his barely parted eyelashes, he saw someone creeping through the doorway. The figure was indistinct; he could not hope to see the person clearly without opening his eyes and turning to face the intruder. He intuited that it was not Higgins. He did not believe the big man could move as stealthily as the person now closing the door and moving toward him.

Was this another wave of bounty hunting assassins, taking revenge for his part in Elisabeth Neuell's defection from her husband? Was it Dr. Leeds taking preemptive action against a rival Fountain hunter?

Kismet resisted the impulse to hold his breath. The only way to turn the tables on the intruder was to lull him into believing that his entry had gone unnoticed. He measured the person's footsteps with his inhalations. Each breath seemed to bring the intruder closer.

The approaching steps halted right beside him. In his mind's eye, Kismet could see the shadowy form hovering above him, a knife or cudgel gripped loosely in one hand. He concentrated on the barely audible sounds of the person moving, trying to anticipate when the unseen weapon would be raised for use, all the while keeping a steady rhythm of breathing. Inhale...Exhale...Inhale...

Kismet blew out his breath in a burst of motion. Twisting his body, he propelled himself off the bed, striking the intruder in the abdomen. His right hand flew to the nightstand, fingers brushing but failing to grip the butt of the Glock resting there, while his left sought the other person’s throat.

Both Kismet and the intruder hit the floor together an instant later. Kismet heard the breath driven from the other's lungs as his full weight came down. He tried to identify the face, looking for some similarity to the syphilitic assassins that had attacked the previous night, but a stream of fiery light from the afternoon sun struck his sensitive pupils, momentarily blinding him.

He felt the intruder's hands, first trying to pry loose Kismet’s choke hold, then beating ineffectively against Kismet's chest. The blows gave no evidence of superior physical strength, but their determination made up for the lack of raw power. Kismet added his right hand to the stranglehold. “You lose.”

“What the hell?”

Kismet heard the exclamation from behind him—Higgins’ voice—and turned to look. His eyes, still flashing with burned-in retinal fireworks, gradually focused on the big Kiwi, standing in the doorway of the stateroom. Kismet did not relax as his grip one bit as he spoke, “Looks like we've got an unexpected visitor.”

Higgins seemed to ignore him, focusing instead on the intruder. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Kismet looked down for a moment, and then felt the figure beneath him shift. Suddenly, his left arm gave out as the other person struck directly at a pressure point in his elbow. Kismet toppled forward, and the intruder squirmed from beneath him, flipping him over, and straddling his chest.

Instinctively, Kismet fought back. The weight on his torso was hardly enough to pin him down; it was as if the intruder was a mere child. He drew back a fist, ready to pound his attacker senseless. Then his burning eyes focused on the stranger's face, and he understood why Higgins had reacted as he had.

The face of the intruder staring down at him belonged to a young woman. Her short hair and elfin features could not hide the obvious family resemblance. Kismet’s assailant looked enough like Higgins to be his—

“Daughter?”

The waif grinned down at him. “Want to try for best two out of three?”

PART TWO

Audience with the Dead

SIX

“What are you doing here?” repeated Higgins, a hint of anger creeping into his tone.

The girl straddling Kismet fixed him with a disdainful look, then gracefully dismounted and faced him with her hands on her hips. “Good to see you too, Dad.”

Higgins extended a hand to Kismet and helped him up. “I see you’ve met my daughter.”

“I’m afraid we skipped past the introduction and went right to ground-fighting.” He turned to the girl and sized her up.

She looked to be in her mid-twenties. Taller than he had first realized, her willowy frame—thin, but more like a marathon runner rather than a fashion model—was clad in designer blue jeans and a long-sleeved striped t-shirt. Her short dark hair—the same color as Higgins’—was pulled back in a stub of a pony-tail. She wore soft pink lipstick, but no other makeup that Kismet could see; Higgins’ daughter was obviously a tomboy. He extended a hand. “Nick Kismet.”

“Yes, I know.” There was no mistaking the twang of her New Zealand accent.

Realization dawned and he pulled his hand back abruptly. “You never answered his question. What the hell are you doing in my room? Why did you attack me?”

 “As I recall, you attacked me.” A defiant smile curled the corners of her mouth, and then she stuck out her own hand. “The name’s Annie, by the way. Annie Crane.”

Higgins pushed between them. “Damn it, girl. I told you to get your arse back to Auckland.”

“Don’t have a hissy fit, dad. The Sultan called off his dogs. He’s already got more bad publicity than he can handle right now.”

Kismet threw a questioning look at Higgins, and the latter rubbed the bridge of his nose as if he was getting a headache. “Annie is my...call her my administrative assistant.”

The girl laughed, but did not interrupt.

“She was at my office in the palace when the shite hit the fan. I told her to get out quick. Obviously, she listens to me about as well as her mother ever did.”

Kismet turned to Annie again. “So why are you here? In my room?”

“Dad told me he was going to be working with you. He’s mentioned you a time or two over the years. Always figured you’d look younger somehow.” The smile again, eyes full of mischief. “Anyway, I thought I’d come see what all the fuss was about.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Kismet replied stonily.

“Who says you did?” she retorted, but Kismet had already returned his attention to Higgins.

“Look, if you have to deal with this, and can’t help me out, I’ll understand.”

The former Gurkha’s brow furrowed. “Actually, I think I may have some new information about our—” He glanced at Annie—“Our project. I ran into Elisabeth. She’s hooked up with someone who I think may be looking for it as well.”

Kismet’s breath caught in his throat. “Dr. Leeds?”

“Figured you might know about him. Anyway, she invited me to dinner tonight...to meet this bloke. I thought you might want to tag along.”

“Dinner?” chirped Annie. “Fabulous. I’ll need to buy a dress though.”

Kismet sighed. Elisabeth Neuell and Dr. Leeds together. Wonderful. But his curiosity was more powerful than his disdain. “I suppose I’ll have to go shopping as well. I need a new tux.”

* * *

Despite his apprehension about what the evening would bring, Kismet felt a little more centered as the appointed hour drew near. Part of that was due to Annie’s revelation that the storm originating from the Sultan’s palace had more or less blown out. The knowledge that the death mark had been rescinded relieved him of one source of stress; he just hoped the surviving assassin lurking somewhere on the ship had gotten the message.

The main dining hall of
The Star of Muara
was resplendent, and as Kismet entered he realized that it was the first time he was experiencing what most of the passengers had come for in the first place. Formal dining wasn’t something he typically went out of his way for, but at just that moment, he understood the appeal. He turned to Annie, who was bookended between him and her father, and smiled.

The tomboy was gone, or at the very least, sublimated. Higgins’ daughter looked extraordinary in an oriental-style gown of jade green silk. Her rather plain hairstyle had been transformed into a crown of wavy curls, laying bare her finely sculpted neck, adorned with a string of pearls. She bore little resemblance to the waif that had sneaked into Kismet’s stateroom and nearly gotten herself killed.

Kismet had learned quite a bit about the girl over the course of the afternoon. Although she was the offspring of a relationship that had never quite gotten off the ground, Higgins doted on his daughter, and she in turn was fascinated by his world of travel and adventure. When he had called her his “administrative assistant,” he had been downplaying her role. Higgins had taught her everything about his trade, and while her own education supplied her with the skills to manage his business affairs, she had also done a fair amount of hands-on work. She proved as much when she had tracked down Kismet’s location on the ship and thwarted the electronic lock on his stateroom. She also evidently knew a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat.

Though he carried his dazzling daughter on his right arm, Higgins could not have looked more uncomfortable in his formal wear. The ship's tailor had gotten his proportions exactly right, but Higgins acted as if the suit were choking the life from him. Kismet resolved to get a drink into his friend before dinner, and asked the maître-d' to send two Macallans to their table. Annie asked for a cosmopolitan. The man nodded, and then gestured to the seats they were to have for the night. Kismet’s smile fell when he saw who was waiting at the table.

Elisabeth looked stunning. During the course of their time together, Kismet had not exactly seen her at her best, but tonight she looked ready for an Academy Awards red carpet walk. A strapless evening gown of black velvet clung to her enticing figure, accentuating every curve and displaying every asset. Her long blonde hair cascaded in waves down her bare shoulders and back. Her full lips were seductively painted and her smile was, as ever, hypnotic. And yet, while her beauty was almost enough to make him forget about her mercurial nature, it was not sufficient to distract him from the other person seated at the table.

Kismet almost did a double take. Unlike nearly every other man in the room, Leeds had disdained formal attire, and was instead wearing what looked to Kismet like the black cassock of a Catholic priest, though instead of a clerical collar, the garment continued up, almost to the underside of his jaw. Stranger still was the black skullcap that completely hid his steely gray hair.